Sleeping Dragon you married an icarus, he has flown too close to the sun

“Good,” Gyda spoke to Snacha, offering the girl a warm smile. She had once held a high ambition to study the art of healing as her mother had mastered it, once upon a time infatuated with the idea of patching up rough, war torn warriors like Ragnar had been. Yet as the shield-maiden had grown older she realized that such a desire had been fleeting. She held the trade in high esteem — just as she always would — but it no longer fit in with who she'd became. She was not that innocent little girl playing hide and seek with her brothers. She was a shield-maiden. She was a warrior and a queen. She had killed. It was only one and only to liberate the wolves of the Cove yet it counted. Her aspirations had changed, had grown with her. “My mother was is a celebrated healer. I hold the trade in the highest of esteems.” They were all important, and she respected the warrior and guardian just as much. 

Her attention turned from Snacha then to Thuringwethil where it rested for the time being. “Was the introduction the reason for the call? Or was there something more?” Gyda inquired, wanting to make sure that Thuringwethil's reason for calling her did not go by the way side in their conversation, or if the introduction had been it (in which case their conversation could continue).