With a creak resonating through the roar of pounding surf, the RSS Vengance mounts a crest and dips through the waves. The heaviest ship of the line in all of Northern Europe, she's flanked by no less than five dozen other frigates and cutters from the Southern Isles, brimming with troops and guns in anticipation of the largest amphibious invasion ever assembled. Clutching onto the bulwark, Admiral Josef Eisenhardt of the Southern Isles clenches his teeth and rechecks the meteorological calculations for the day.
"A strong westward wind is due later," he comments to the ship's captain with a smirk, "these should fan the fires well enough that there won't be much left for us to conquer."
The captain peers through his telescope at the sight of Arendelle's capital approaching, "Westward, sir? The Arendelle lumber mills lie in that direction. Perhaps we should-"
"Oh, to hell with the lumber," he mutters, "there won't be anyone to cut the trees after we're done with this place."
The ship lists as two other hulking battleships pull up alongside the Vengance with crewmen rolling out pieces of naval artillery and stacking barrels of gunpowder on the upper deck. Their sails balloon and hold steady in the wind as they tear through the waves with the tenacity of raging bull. A veteran of numerous sea battles in the North Sea, the admiral puts down his sextant and draws another series of firing arcs on a map soaked in spray. His wrinkled face creases into a grin as the last lines slice across Arendelle's capital.
"Any time now," he sneers, tightening his grasp on a pencil and elevating his gaze to the azure sky. The clang of a bell rings across the deck, "Arendelle, ho!" the watchmen cry out.
"Very well then, Captain," the admiral says, "commence the invasion."
"Drop sail to steerageway speed, right full rudder," the captain hollers across the deck, inspiring a flurry of activity from sailors racing to adjust the sails, "ready the cannons!"
Webbings of ropes groan under their strain as the vessel lurches towards the right; beneath the deck, rows upon rows of wooden panels retract from the hull, revealing the entire broadside complement of cannons trained upon Arendelle. Crews load 32-pounder guns with clockwork discipline, awaiting the order to open fire, while their officers make last minute calculations to land the barrage directly on the bastions of Elsa's monarchical power: the church, the palace, and the city where the bulk of the population resides, still unaware of the hell looming over them.
A flag is raised on the main mast and the other ships around the Vengance make similar manoeuvres, opening their gun hatches and awaiting the flagship's salvo. Hidden away in compartments unseen by the winds, battalions of soldiers wait in silence, clutching onto swords and crossbows and steeling their mettle for another round of war.
"Prepare to fire!" the captain shouts across the deck, and crewmen hover torches over their cannons' breeches as the ship completes its turn. He raises his hand, "F-"
"Wait!" the admiral interjects, sniffing at the air. He snaps his gaze to the flags on the main mast, and raises an eyebrow.
"The wind has changed," he observes, picking up the meteorological chart and studying it again, "this is an unexpected turn of events."
"Unexpected indeed," the captain comments, clasping his hands and rubbing them together.
"Chilly for August too, don't you think?" the admiral scowls without looking up.
"But winter's not due until-"
The realisation dawns upon them and they stare at each other with the blood drained from their faces. Despite wearing thick leather gloves, the Admiral's hands begin to tremble, and before long the veteran of forty years quakes in his boots.
"You don't think-" the captain starts, before a faint rumble resonates in the distance, and an ominous crackle shudders through the ship.
"Sir! Sir!" a lieutenant on deck yells, pointing at the water with a shaking finger, "the Fjord is freezing over!"
With the Captain frozen in place from the fate that has sunk into his mind, the Admiral marches over to the bulwark and recoils from the sight of ice skirting around the Vengance and bringing her to a dead halt beneath the autumn sun. The frost creeps up the other ships' hulls, stopping the invasion fleet from completing their manoeuvres.
The sound of men shouting resonates across the deck, and the thudding of scampering boots shakes the foundations of the ship. "Oh my god," he whispers, staring at the floor and unsure of whether he wants to turn and greet the sight which has thrown the crew into panic. With decades of naval service flashing across his mind, he bites his lip and slowly swivels around.
A deafening roar rips through the air as a snow dragon slams into the Vengance's bow, sending men retreating from the icy spikes sprouting through the wood. With fear crushing their spirits, the crew reach for spears and crossbows, only to drop them in terror as the dragon ravages through the deck, ripping up planks and tearing through sails with its icy claws.
The beast comes to a halt before the helm, snorting breaths of icy fog at the Admiral and the Captain frozen in place from the sight of utter death before them. It lowers its wings and perches itself against the bulwarks, revealing Queen Elsa sitting astride; her clothes of captivity discarded and replaced with a shimmering ice-gown. The wind whips through her hair, fanning it out in a shimmering trail of gold gleaming beneath the sun.
"Ranking Officer!" Elsa demands, looking down at the two men; her piercing blue eyes glistening in the swirling snow.
"He is I," the Admiral says with quivering lips, pressing his back against the bulwark.
"I am Queen Elsa of Arendelle," Elsa says, her voice a clear blade of sound slicing through the billowing sleet, "and I demand your fleet's surrender!"
"You shall have it," he says without hesitation, "but I…I request safe passage for my men."
Elsa tightens her grip on the reins, snapping her head to the thousands of people lined up on the shore. She returns her gaze to the men cowering on the decks of the Southern Isle's fleet: fear-stricken, with eyes glued to the sight of the Queen astride her dragon. Elsa shuts her eyes and grits her teeth as the sound of Adolphus's sweat hissing on her searing gauntlets rips through her ears; she clenches her jaw and the perspiration on her knuckles freezes over.
"Lower your boats and retreat across the ice to the edge of the Fjord," Elsa says, looking away from the Admiral, "there, you will be free to plot a course back to the Southern Isles. But the ships are to remain here, do we have terms?"
The Admiral bows and gasps, unable to believe his ears, "We have terms, your…your Majesty." He raises his head, but Elsa's dragon has already leapt into the winds, blotting out the morning sun with the spread of its wings.
"Didn't the princes promise us they'll get rid of her?" the Captain asks, brushing the sleet from his shoulders.
"The nobility will always give promises they can't fulfil; if they did – I'd be King by now."
"Well, what do we do now?"
"I guess- I guess we're free to go," the Admiral replies with tears brimming in his eyes, "abandon the fleet."
The Captain's voice shakes as he raises his hand one last time, "S-sound horns, a-abandon ships!"