Tove: Father, you will not believe what I’ve done. Ser Knut has promised to wed me if I earn 500 gold. I would be married to a noble man, we would be so well cared for and not scraping by anymore as we have been. Finally there is an end in site, a goal I can achieve, are you proud?

Trygve: Gods needn’t waste their time with mortal concerns such as gold or marriage, daughter. You were born to inherit so much more than being a simple noble could ever offer you. What would your grandmother think of this mortal behavior, Tove. You need to be living your life in her footsteps, spreading her wrath, embracing the cold that is to befall all these men.

Tove sighs: Here we go again. For the last time, da, you are not the son of Sveas nor am I her granddaughter. How I wish for a moment of clarity from you just this once.

Trygve stares at the woman, eyes wide: I have never seen more clearly in my entire life, Tove. Death is coming, the nights are growing longer, the earth is frozen, our time to thrive nears.

Tove kicks her bag across the floor: old man, you’ll be the death of us both if you don’t button your lips for 20 minutes. There is a reason I don’t bring you into town with me, can’t you see? You’re absolutely mad. Disgraceful. Besides, have you even eaten today?

Trygve: Gods needn’t nourishment in the form of food to stay strong…

Tove: For fucks sake, eat your soup while I run you a bath. Just because you’re the son of Sveas doesn’t mean you need to have the stench of death wafting around you.

Tove rolled her eyes, warming water to bathe the senile old man. He was right, the cold is coming, the food will become scarce, winters are terrifying for us mortals.