He hadn't even harnessed the goats to the cart to make the trip. He'd simply stormed his way across Folkvangr on foot, each step getting progressively heavier, each rumble of thunder getting progressively louder, and his temper getting progressively more foul. How dare she? How dare she not even ask his permission? It was rude! It was disrespectful! It was infuriating! Freyja had a lot to answer for!
And he was going to get those answers. He was going to pound on that door until somebody opened it. And then he was going to stomp inside, no matter who tried to stop him. And then he was going to yell until Freyja showed up. And if she didn't show up? Then he was going to level her hall with his hammer!
He was prepared to start that whole process by bashing in the door if necessary, so when he arrived at Sessrumnir to find the door wide open and Freyja standing there waiting, it took some of the wind out of his sails. Not enough to keep him from stalking right up to her, but he didn't break the door down. And he didn't yell. He might have been a little loud, but he didn't yell.
"Just what do you think you're doing?" he demanded, his brow lowered over his eyes in an unadulterated glower. "My daughter is not gonna be leered at and pawed by a bunch a' drunk assholes just so she can get a pretty flying horsie. I'll get her a flying horse. Gimme a flying horse, Freyja, and tell my daughter to stay home where she belongs."