It was a good wedding. Good mead. Good music. Good wenches (kidding). A little. Freyr, king of Alheim and God of Stuff and Thangs, had joined in with the band to play a few tunes after taking part in some rousing Midgardian dances. When the king and queen stood, however, so did Freyr, and that's when he noticed her. It was Bridget made over. A tingle ran over his chest and up his neck and his hands let loose the instrument he'd been holding. His red hair stood on end.
Some moments later, after converting Asgardian time to Midgard time, and a little math, the ginger deity couldn't deny who he was looking at. His... daughter. She was amongst the Midgardians, and Pétr, son of Volstagg. "Excuse me," he told the slender siblings he'd been 'jamming' with, making himself the third royal to flee a scene in the past few moments.
He shouldered his way through the crowd, weaving only to avoid smacking into women and children, then stopped abruptly behind the non-Warrior Three. "Pétr," he said, gruffly.
The younger redhead turned and his head snapped downward immediately. "Your highness." Freyr was absolutely benevolent, but he was also unpredictable and odd, so Volstaggson had no idea why he'd been approached by the ruler.
"Move please." Freyr stepped partially through the boy and stood almost toe-to-toe with the girl he'd sought out.
Oh, the Asgardian thought, somewhat relieved, but he still stood by steadfastly, because Freyr had targeted Rhia.
"You look like your mother," the bearded one informed his child.