Colonel Metternich sat in his tent, behind a table covered in maps and papers, and listened to the anxious young scout give his report. "The Arendellers know we're coming, sir. There's a military encampment at Baldur's Pass, at least two hundred tents. And they've settled in for a long haul."

Metternich steepled his fingers. "So, you interviewed them?" The scout looked baffled. "You do not interpret, you observe. I interpret. How do you know they're 'settled in,' then? What did you observe?"

"There were supply wagons, sir. Several cooking fires, even though it wasn't dawn yet. And laundry."

Metternich grinned. "Laundry?"

"At least a dozen clotheslines full of clothes, sir," said the scout, relieved to have something concrete to report.

Metternich turned to Franz, his second in command. "The boy has a point. A man on the move can't wait for his pants to dry."

"Or they are reserves, and have no discipline," said Franz, stone-faced.

"Nonetheless, Baldur's Pass seems to be reasonably well-defended. Good thing we're not going through there, then." Metternich's eyes sparkled with amusement. If he wasn't in the business of killing, he could've passed for someone's witty, cynical uncle. He pointed to the map on his table. "This valley. Anything to report."

"Um, that may be a problem, sir. I'm afraid it's occupied."

"Boy, what did I say? You report, I interpret. Let me decide if it's a problem. So, how many troops?"

"Not really any troops, sir, as such. More like…" The scout stood rigid, but his eyes darted, looking for an escape.

"Yes?"

"…a wedding party, sir."

The colonel laughed delightedly. "A wedding party? So early?"

"They were setting up, sir. Tables, lots of food, some musicians," said the scout.

Metternich smiled up at Franz. "Must be a hell of a party. We shouldn't miss that, should we, Franz?"

"And eliminate them, sir?"

"Oh, Franz, where's your sense of fun? We've already lost the element of surprise. Let's replace it with the element of intimidation. We march through the valley, word passes to those farmboys playing soldier at Baldur's Pass, and they'll think twice about facing actual military men." He turned to the scout. "You're still here? Go. And next time, more observation, less trying to think, eh?" He shooed the young man away.

He tented his fingers again. The boy thought this was an exciting adventure. Franz was eager to get into battle. But Metternich knew the only good reason to fight: money. No excitement, no bloodlust. Just a paycheque. That was why he was alive and whole and still doing business, because he had his priorities in order. Take the castle, capture the princess, and get paid. Leave the honour to the "real" Metterniches and the adventure to the cannonfodder. "Well, let's get going, Franz. Round up the troops. We have a party to attend."

As the line of mercenaries crested the ridge, it occurred to Metternich that the scene would've made a lovely bucolic painting. The morning sun spreading red-gold over the valley. Two rows of wooden tables, already festive with embroidered tablecloths and piles of food. Men and women in what passed for finery in rural Arendelle, bustling happily. Dew evaporating off the brilliant green grass. In the distance, at the far end of this natural corridor, four outbuildings, two to each side. And now a long line of battle-trained mercenaries come to spoil the mood. He smiled faintly, shook his head. Good thing I'm not one of them.

Someone screamed as he and a dozen of his men on horseback led a long line of infantry into the valley. They rode between the two rows of rough-hewn banquet tables, horsemen going slowly to keep pace with the footsoldiers. The locals in their Sunday clothes, the women in their dresses and bonnets, scampered to put those tables between themselves and the soldiers, for all the good that would do them. There were a lot of tables. The half-dozen musicians hid behind their instrument cases. After that first scream, there was nothing but sullen silence.

"What do you say, Franz? Shall we stop and help ourselves to the food? The pastries, at least?" Metternich grinned at him.

Immune to humour, if used to it, Franz replied, "I don't think we have time, sir."

"Quite right, Franz. We have an appointment at the castle. I suppose we'll have to settle for the royal larder, eh?" There was nothing Metternich enjoyed more than a really lopsided fight. Not because he was a bully, simply because it made his job easier. He could relax and have fun.

"Gentlemen!" A clear female voice rang across the valley. As one, the vanguard of the invaders looked up to the west. A figure astride a white horse was bathed in morning sun. Reddish braids framed her stern face. She wore shining chain mail, gilded with the Royal Crocus of Arendelle. She held a flag, waving in the morning breeze, wide as she was high; the purple, green, and gold of her standard. Her other hand rested on the hilt of her sword.

The mercenaries looked down again, and saw that the valley had transformed. The thick wooden tables had been tipped up, making barricades to either side of them, bristling with the pointed ends of arrows and crossbow bolts. The "women" shed their bonnets, and joined the rest of the men at their weapons. More arms were retrieved from the musician's instrument cases. Swords had been drawn from baguettes, and serving trays returned to their original jobs as shields.

That female voice drew their attention back to the hilltop. "We are Her Gracious Highness, Princess Anna of Arendelle, Regent of Arendelle! This is our land! You are not welcome!" To either side of her, and on the opposite hilltop, more archers and crossbowmen appeared. "Retreat, and in our mercy we will not follow. Surrender, and you will be treated well. Fight, and the soil of Arendelle will be soaked with your blood. What say you?"

Franz sat up on his horse, grinning. Metternich sighed, and thought, Well, this is what we get paid for. "Attack!" His horsemen wheeled to face the enemy, his footsoldiers drew their swords for the melee. The Arendellans, peeking between the thick planks of the tables, fired crossbows at point-blank range. Invaders who tried to get around or over the barricades met the Arendelle Guard, swords drawn.

From the hilltop came the Princess' command, cutting through the noise of shouting men and clashing swords. "Unleash the first snowman!" Her order was repeated down the hillside, and four of her men at the far end of the valley ran to the first of the barnlike outbuildings. They opened the doors and released a giant snow-golem. It bent its head to get through the doorway, straightened up, and bellowed, "Go 'way!" It suddenly bristled with spikes of clear ice, and came lumbering towards the invaders. The men were focused on the fighting at hand, but the horses saw the colossal monster towering over them. The animals had been trained to face battle, even cannon, without flinching, but not a snow-monster four times the height of a man. They threw off their riders or tried to, and churned through the soldiers they were supposed to serve. Bug-eyed and foaming, they tried to escape, heedless of who they kicked or stepped on. Trapped between the wooden barriers, they flushed the mercenaries back the way they came. A horse that had been trapped at the front was lifted and hurled by the snow-giant, knocking over mercenaries like bowling pins.

Thrown from his horse, enraged by this unsportsmanlike battle, Franz drew his sword and prepared to show his men how to fight. A stray crossbow bolt, deflected off some reservist's shield, pierced his throat. His last thoughts were, Dammit, they weren't even aiming at me!

Metternich looked around him at the chaos. The Arendellan forces were supposed to be miles away at Baldur's Pass. He had been so cocky that he'd led his troops himself instead of staying sensibly far from the front. It was supposed to be a walk in the park.

Instead, he had been boxed in, in a valley! A dunderheaded mistake, ambushed like the stupidest army cadet. He heard that female voice once more. Arrows whizzing to either side of her, screaming "For Arendelle!" at the top of her lungs, the princess was charging down the hill, sword drawn and flag held high. A ragged cheer rose from the Arendellers.

The first thought he has was, This isn't how you fight a war! These people are insane! The second was, Dead men don't get paid. He dropped his weapon and threw his arms in the air. "Surrender!" he shouted in Prussian, and again in Arendellan. "Surrender!"

Frantically, the rest of the men trapped in the valley dropped their weapons and raised their hands in surrender. The rest retreated as fast as they could. The battle was over.

Anna sheathed her sword and handed the flag to one of the soldiers. She smiled and waved as the men cheered her. First things first. She rode up to Marshmallow.

"Uh?"

"Hi. It's me, Anna. Remember? Elsa's sister? Remember?" She waved awkwardly.

"Anna."

"Yes, Anna. Thank you. You did a wonderful job. Thank you. Elsa would be very proud of you."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. The men who were going to bother her have gone away, thanks to you. Elsa is fine. And now, we're going to take you back to your home, okay? Would you like that?"

Marshmallow considered. "Yes."

Over her shoulder Anna shouted, "Olaf! Where's Olaf?"

He toddled up cheerfully. "Hi, Aunt Princess. Hey, Marshmallow! Look at you! Who's a big scary sweetie, huh? Who's a gigantic terrifying big ol' sweetie, huh?" Marshmallow tentatively pointed a talon at itself. "Yes! That's right, you are!"

Anna bent down as best she could from horseback to talk to him. "Olaf, would you get him into the wagon and go with him back to the ice castle, please?"

"Her."

Anna blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Get her into the wagon." He leaned towards her and stage-whispered, "She's a girl."

"Oh." Anna looked up at the walking avalanche, down at Olaf, and back to Marshmallow. "O-kay then." To Marshmallow she said, "Sorry," and to Olaf, "Would you take her home, please?"

"You bet! Come on, Marsha." Olaf led her to the giant wagon that was already being filled with straw and ice for the trip back to the North Mountain.

As Anna turned back she spotted Kristoff. "Hey! Are you okay?"

He half-ran up to her. "Are you okay? That was a crazy thing you did."

She smirked down at him. "Crazy like a fox."

He grinned crookedly back. "Crazy like a warrior-princess."

As he reached her, she hissed, "Shu shu shu shu shu! Stop it!" She put a fingertip to one of the spots on her "white" charger that had been touched up, and looked at it. "Okay, she's dry. You can help me down now." She swung a leg over and he lifted her off the horse. He wrapped her in a big hug.

"Oh, thank God you're okay. I was worried." He held her by the shoulders at arm's length and looked her over. "You are okay, right?"

"Up until you squeezed the juice out of me. Next time I'm wearing plate armor, not chain-mail." She looked down at her shiny metal shin-guards and pointy-toed metal shoes. "I like the boots though. I think these could be a thing." She pecked him on the cheek and handed him the reins. "Would you mind? I have to review the troops."

"Sure." He smiled goofily at her as she walked away. The horse snorted. "Aw, what are you looking at?"

She strode up to a stocky military man with short salt-and-pepper hair and beard. There was a bare stripe of scar tissue through one side of his beard. "Lieutenant, report."

"Excellent news, Your Highness. A few nasty injuries but no fatalities on our side. We have about a quarter of their forces, including their commander, and the rest are scarpering for the border. Awaiting orders to hunt them down."

"No, we want them to get away. If we tell people, 'Any one of us might be a soldier, plus we have at least four giant battle-snowmen,' they'll think we're exaggerating. But if they say it, folks'll believe it."

"Especially since we only have one battle-snowman."

"On second thought, send a few men to chase the stragglers. Not catch them, just let them know we care."

"Your next orders, ma'am?"

"Do what you do best. Round up some troops, guard the border. Leave all the empty tents standing at Baldur's Pass. It fooled them once, it might keep working. Couldn't hurt. Oh, and have the local constable fetch all the poachers he can, in or out of jail. We need people who know these woods and how to sneak through them. Swear 'em in, make them, um, special anti-scout scouts."

"I am the local constable. Part-time, when I'm not soldiering. And I have to tell you a couple of the poachers are pretty old."

"Do you shoot at them?"

"In the course of my duties."

"Then if they're old and still alive, they must be good. But get someone else to do that. I saved the most important job for you."

He stood at attention. "Ma'am?"

"You're in charge of marching the prisoners back to the royal prison."

"What?"

She reached up to pat his shoulder, and pulled him in closer. Quietly, she said, "We need to know everything we can about them. Who hired them? What do they want? How many more men are out there? Now, soldiers will talk to soldiers, not to reservists. So, march them slow, give them some beer, and plenty of rest breaks to trade old war stories. Also, I need someone who knows which secrets to keep. Don't want word to get out that three of the four ice-houses were fake, for instance."

He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Carry on."

As he marched off to organize his men, he overheard one of the reservists say, "I'm glad to see the bastards go, but it was over too soon. It wasn't a very good battle, was it?"

The lieutenant's voice boomed. "Not a good battle? Lads, this six-week wonder thinks it wasn't a very good battle." The reservists looked up in curiosity, the regular troops in anticipation. "Do you know what a good battle is? Do you? A good battle is one you win. A great battle is one you survive. An excellent battle, you come out with all the bits you went in with." The thump of his wooden leg as he walked made his point for him. "And a glorious battle? There's good food after!" To the laughter of the men, he picked up wedding pastries in one hand and two bottles in the other. "To a glorious battle! Spoils of war!" He glanced back at the princess just long enough to give her a surreptitious nod.

Kristoff had caught up to her by then. "Anna."

"Not in front of the troops," she said, behind her hand.

"Oh, sorry." He stood up straight. "Your Highness, a word?"

"Of course," she said clearly, and then they huddled their heads together.

He said, "I was going to ask you if it was really necessary. That bit with the flag, and the horse, and charging into battle. You kind of scared me. A lot. But I think I know what it is."

She looked up expectantly. "Yes?"

"That's your 'queen face'. Everyone looked up at you, and they were just…yeah! You were totally leading them. And I think it made a difference."

"You think so?"

"Yep. You, Princess Anna of Arendelle, are a world-class loomer."