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Chapter Text

Her mother had complained every day since stepping on the boat that the salt soaked into her dress would never come out. Eir had to admit, she too was ready to be on land again, though she does not voice her complaints as loudly as her mother. The warriors rowing look as though they will gladly trade positions with the Queen of Sweden, whose hands are void of any calluses, and the jewels dripping off her head and neck would fetch enough coin to feed them and their families for three years. The men grimace, and grunt as Eir’s mother whines, thinking instead of the glory and the gold they will obtain when they finally sail to the Mediterranean.

The first stop will be Kattegat, where Eir’s father, King Anund of Sweden, will begrudgingly pay tribute to the man responsible for the voyage. Eir asks her father if she too can sail to the Mediterranean, only to receive a wide-eyed look of wonder in return. King Anund will take her younger brothers, yes, but no, Eir will stay with her mother, Sif, waiting patiently in Kattegat, until they return. 

Her parents are hiding something from her. Eir knows by the way her mother stares at her longingly as if she will never see her again. As if she will blink her eyes and Eir will disappear. Sif offers each night to brush Eir’s hair, even though she had not done such a thing since Eir was ten years old.

Anund has lovingly squeezed Eir’s shoulder so frequently that Eir is sure there will be an indentation where his fingers have pressed against her skin. Each evening Anund finds Eir at the bow of the ship, opens his mouth as if to say something wise, stands like a gaping fish and promptly walks away. 

When Eir asks if something is wrong her parents shrug their shoulders, frown, and look off into the distance, the orange glow of the sun blinding their eyes, as if Eir should look for answers there. 

It would be of no surprise to any of her handmaids that Eir slips away the moment the boat docks on the shores of Kattegat. It is possible that they even look the other way when she silently holds herself back before timidly heading down the shoreline. 

The cliffs that stand like silent sentries over the fjord have been calling to Eir since they sailed in, two days earlier. Leaning against the prowl of the ship she had stared up at their glory wondering what it must be like to stand on top of them. 

The hollow in the hillside seems the most obvious route, but as she struggles over the rubble, her fine leather boots slipping against the rugged rocks, the journey becomes almost impossible. 

She turns around in search of a better route, not yet willing to be deterred. There is a game-trail down the way that she eyes but it is a steep climb and in her dress she does not think she has the mobility to make it. She will try anyway, she has to make it to the top. There is something waiting for her there, only waiting to be discovered. 

A man she had not noticed before is at the base of the path she wants to take. He is off his horse, fiddling with the straps of his saddle, a large black dog circling his heels impatiently. Cautiously, she freezes in place. The way he had slid into view without a sound, is unsettling. With no one around to see he can easily attack her. Eir does not have the skill or strength of a shieldmaiden or even a country girl bred to carry bags of wheat twice their size. She is a princess untrained in the art of war, instead she gapes, shifting on her feet unsteadily, unsure what to do next.  

With as much courage as she can muster, she acknowledges him. “Who are you?”  

Silently, the man gazes at her in acute interest, a whisper of a smile on his lips as he takes her in. His dirty blonde hair is wind swept and wild atop his head. His face is clean of dirt but she cannot place his station, much to her annoyance. He could be a local or a warrior traveling to Kattegat to sail with Bjorn Ironside. She does not know, making her even more cautious. 

The black dog, more a wolf, steps in closer, long nose sniffing at the air. Not able to steady her nerves she takes half a step back. The man snaps his fingers twice, causing Eir to jump in surprise and the wolf to sit back on his haunches. The wolf-dog looks at her with the same watchful eyes as the man.  

“Are you the kennel master?” Eir demands. Her gaze travels to the two rabbits hanging off of his shoulder. “The gamekeep?” She asks again, her nerves causing her to ramble.

This makes him laugh, a throaty chuckle that creases the corners of his eyes. A kind smile greets her and she can not help but warm to it. She has never thought of herself as a funny person but she wishes she knew a few jokes just to make him laugh that way again. 

“Do you always demand someone’s profession before their name?” He inquires with a tilt of his head. 

A blush creeps along Eir’s throat. Embarrassed, she looks anywhere but his face, to the horse that stands patiently beside him or the hillside she still desires to climb, even as he tries vainly to find her gaze once more.

“I am Ubbe,” he finally announces, and Eir can no longer ignore him. His voice is soft, there is no hint of haughtiness as if she should know who he is. Most men she meets in her father’s great halls wear their pride heavy on their shoulders and chest, demanding an abundance of attention just for being. This man does not and Eir frowns, not used to such modest demure.  

“I am not the kennel master or the gamekeep.” His mouth holds a humor hidden in the corners as he speaks. “Though my brothers probably think otherwise.” He shrugs his shoulders, as if this is the way of the world. Ubbe laughs under his breath, shaking his head when Eir frowns in discontent. 

“I want to go up there,” Eir says when Ubbe does not offer to explain himself. To deflect his attention she flicks her chin in the direction of the cliffs.  

Ubbe’s face is somber as he follows her gaze, allowing Eir’s disposition to settle away from his searching eyes. “Yes. I can take you,” he says, reaching out for her, fingers slipping around her waist. 

With a gasp of surprise she twists out of his grip. Never in her life has she been grabbed at so rudely. This man is clearly some boy from the country, not trained in the ways to treat a lady of her stature. 

“What are you doing?” She shrieks. 

Again Ubbe laughs at her. “Helping you on my horse. You cannot think to walk.” 

“I don’t ride horses.” Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth. She does not have to explain herself like this back home. Her hands find her hips, eyes narrowing in an attempt to show that her mind will not easily be swayed.

“It is fine if you have never ridden before. Skadi is a good girl.” Ubbe pats the snowy rump of the draft horse and the mare flicks her head in silent agreement, white mane flashing in the sun. 

Eir shakes her head, taking half a step back. 

“Come,” Ubbe goads with a wave of his hand. Eir chews her lip in apprehension. She should not trust this man but a wild sense of curiosity bubbles in her belly, pushing her forward. She is desperate to go to the top, something is calling her there. 

“Here, I will show you.” Ubbe is on the horse in one fluid twist, holding out his hand in offering when he has settled. His eyes spark with mischief. Curious, Eir takes another step towards Ubbe and his horse. She has never been one to dabble in the unknown but here she is scrambling on top of a horse she does not know with a man she had never met. Her mother would faint at the sight of her. 

Gripping onto the leather of the saddle, Eir mumbles, “this is wrong.” 

Cool breath tickles her ear. “That is what makes it fun.” He is laughing at her again but she does not get the chance to glare at him over her shoulder. He spurs the horse forward, startling Eir, and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from letting out a shriek of terror. 

Ubbe is right about not wanting to walk this hillside on foot. Eir can hear the horse’s labored breathing, its first strides quick then she slows as muscles strained to push on. This is why Eir refuses to ride horses. It is not right. To abuse an animal, to force them to carry their weight just to make their lives easier, she wants nothing to do with it. 

She opens her mouth to protest. She would walk the rest of the way. 

“Here,” Ubbe says, halting the horse, his fingers on her waist nudging her down. With shaking arms she slides to the ground. 

Letting out a sigh of relief, she remembers to pat the horse’s neck in thanks, whispering promises of a treat. It will not be enough for her conscience but the sight before her pulls her away from her guilt. 

From here she can see the entire world. The fjord long and endless, Kattegat small and bustling, plumes of smoke rising from tiny houses, and up the valley, to the mountains and beyond. At the mouth of the fjord boats sailed in, tiny dots on the vast landscape. They come from all over, places Eir had never been and would probably never go. 

“I think my father means to marry me off,” Eir blurts, words tumbling out of her mouth without consent. 

Ubbe is relaxed on a large lichen covered boulder, his wolf perched on a patch of snow next to him. They share a mirrored thoughtful look but neither offer an opinion on the matter. She rolls her eyes. She should not expect so much from a kennel master. It is better this way. She does not need his opinion. She knows what she really wants. 

“I want to scream.” 

“Scream.” Ubbe’s subtle nod of permission allows Eir to open her lungs. She screams, loud and hard, until her throat hurts and her ears ring, until she feels right again. 

“Better,” she says with a heavy sigh, brushing over her skirts, straightening out the wrinkles and her temporary embarrassment. She would never see this man again. It does not matter how he views her. “You can take me back now.” 

This time Ubbe does not laugh at her, instead he helps her on his horse and silently they make their way back to the shore. 

Her mother, Sif, is there, frantically calling her name, as she paces the sandy shoreline. Ubbe's steady hands help Eir off the horse, making sure she has her feet under her before he steps away. Mirth is once again lit in his eyes as he watches Sif, rushing toward her. 

Eir wants to say something, thank him for his help or scold him for laughing at her mother’s nature but she does not get the opportunity instead Sif’s crushing hug leaves Eir swaying on her feet. 

“I was only gone a moment,” Eir mumbles against her mother’s shoulder. 

“Don’t do that!” Sif replies, already turning back down the shore, towards town where her maids and a few king’s guards wait patiently for their queen’s return. Eir’s elbow is clenched tightly in Sif’s hand as her mother directs Eir back to the bustle of town. With one last fleeting glance over her shoulder, Eir plans to call out her thanks to Ubbe but she finds that his eyes are still full of mirth. He is laughing at her, at her mother. His mouth is alive with humor though he tries vainly to damper it with a slip of his tongue against his lips. Eir scowls at him. She is happy to never have to see that man again.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Ylva knew it wasn’t right, sneaking away before everyone had woken for the day, not sharing her whereabouts. Her mother would be asking for her, wanting to go over the details of the feast that evening. She had promised Sigurd she could cut his hair and Hvitserk had asked her to go fishing after breaking their fast. 

And then there was Ubbe, her twin brother, who she hated lying to most of all. He had asked her to be by his side as he greeted each visitor who planned to sail with Bjorn to their Great Hall. Many had never been to Kattegat before. It had been chaotic trying to find enough suitable lodgings for each man who sported the title jarl and king. Ubbe appreciated her ease of mind when dealing with so many moving pieces and boisterous egos, and Ylva wanted to be there for him, to help him figure it all out but for now, all her chores, and her duties, and loyalties to her brothers would have to wait.    

She had sent word to Haakon to meet her here, on the outskirts of Kattegat. Haakon’s older half-brother, Eric Bloodaxe, would not approve of their relationship, and neither would her own brothers, for that matter, so she has to be careful which channels she uses to communicate with Haakon as they are not always reliable. She wasn’t even sure if he had received the message in time, she just knew had to see him. 

Her fur lined boots crunch loudly in the icy snow underfoot, followed by the soft padding of her large wolf-dog, Hati, that trots happily at her heels. Their footfalls are the only sound in the frosted forest. Puffs of warm breath pillow out before her, leaving a dewy mist on her cheeks. She pushes back the wool hood of her cloak, scanning the area before her. 

A nightingale chirps noisily in the birch tree above, calling for a mate but no reply comes. Lazily, the sun pushes above the skyline catching in Yvla’s eyes when she looks eastward. Spring is here but winter’s icy grip clings to everything it touches. 

The long body of a pine marten scurries across the base of an oak tree catching the attention of the dog at her side. Hati’s ears prick, half raising off her haunches, ready to attack her prey. 

A quick snap of Ylva’s fingers has Hati sitting back, a pathetic whimper from the dog’s throat lets her master know her disappointment. Ylva eyes the pine marten until she was certain it was safely away before she releases the dog from her side. Hati rarely obeys commands that involve prey and for a moment Ylva’s ego sings her praise when the dog listens. She does not wish for the small rodent to be the subject of her poor training. Ubbe had done what he could to help Ylva with Hati but it is her tender heart towards the dog that allows her to get away with so many bad habits. 

The crunch of icy snow alerts both dog and woman away from the pine marten. Hackles raised, Hati growls a deep throaty noise out of her chest in warning. Ylva’s leather mittens smooth over the milky fur of Hati’s head, trying to ease her aggression as Haakon appears from behind a large pine tree. 

“She does not approve of me,” Haakon acknowledges, eyeing the dog warily.  

Ylva chuckles, releasing the dog from her side. “She knows what my brothers would say.” 

Hati bounds up to Haakon in a playful lope that ends with her paws resting on his shoulders. A long pink tongue rolls across Haakon’s face and when she sits back down on her haunches a piece of dried meat appears in his palm. Greedily, the animal devours the treat in one bite. 

Crouching low to his heels, Haakon’s blue eyes meet Hati’s golden ones, he leans to the dog, whispering in her large white ear, loud enough for Ylva to hear. “You know I would never hurt her.” 

A playful smile tugs on Ylva’s bow shaped lips as the dog gives Haakon another satisfied lick to face. 

Haakon stands to embrace Ylva, circling her waist as he brings her in for a kiss of his own. His hand is cold on her neck as his fingers intertwine in her hair. His mouth molds onto hers as his hand travels the length of her bound hair, tugging at the ends until the ties set free. 

“Haakon,” Ylva whines with feigned annoyance, her mittens smooth over her wild hair, blonde curls springing into her eyes. 

“A maiden such as yourself shouldn’t wear her hair up. People will think you are married.” Haakon jests, brushing a stray strand from her cheek. 

“Let them think.” Ylva replies haughtily, her chin jutting out defiantly. “I am taken, no one else matters.” 

A smile softens her angular features and Haakon finds himself leaning in for another kiss before adding, “Besides your brothers.”

Ylva scoffs against his mouth, mitten-hands bracing against his chest. “My brothers would do best to mind their own.” She gives him a quick peck, and then glances down at Hati to divert her blushing cheeks. “Only this morning some woman was sneaking out of Ubbe’s room.” 

“At least she was there willingly,” Haakon replies, reaching over to pet Hati’s head lovingly. “I had to offer a hefty sum to the kitchen wench after I caught Eric harassing her near the root cellar.” Haakon grimaces, turning his head to look anywhere but at Ylva, embarrassed by his brother’s actions.  

“Your brother was not always this way,” Ylva says, squeezing his hand in reassurance. She does not judge Haakon for the deeds of his half-brother or his father and uncle, for that matter, who have been lusting after Ragnar’s throne for as long as she has known the family. She hopes that Haakon extends the same grace to her own not-so-perfect ancestry. 

“After Ragnhild died -” Haakon shrugs his shoulders as if there is nothing more to say on the matter of Eric’s famed-mother, and Harald Finehair’s most beloved wife. Taking Ylva’s hand tight in his, he walks down the snow covered path. “Let us speak on happier matters.” Haakon smiles, turning to take in Ylva fully. 

“What is there to say?” Ylva pouts, the same fake pout she used to use on her youngest brother, Ivar, when he did not want to play with her or on Hvitserk when he would not share a sweet treat that he had stolen from the kitchen. “In little time, you are leaving me to sail with my brothers to a place that might not even exist.” 

Haakon’s fingers slip around her chin, tilting her head back till he is able to look her in the eyes. “That is why -” he presses his lips against hers - “must not waste a single moment on trivial matters.” 

Ylva giggles against his mouth. “You mean you don’t want to talk about Sigurd? How he put a frog in Ivar’s boot. It made the worst squishing sound. For the rest of the day Sigurd called him -”

“You can talk,” Haakon grins, his lips a whisper against her cheek. “But I won’t hear any of it, I will be too busy kissing you,” he finishes pressing his lips firmly to her’s.      

Ylva’s fingers feel as if they might fall off if she does not warm them near the fire at once. Rubbing her mittened hands together she skirts around the practice yard without so much as a hello to her brothers. A thin layer of ice prevents them from practicing swordplay but it does not stop them from attending to dulled blades or broken arrow shafts, anything to get them outside and into the fresh air, tired of being cooped up all winter long. 

Hvitserk stands next to Ivar as they absentmindedly watch Sigurd throw his ax at a target across the yard. They are disputing the finer points of an ax versus a short sword in one-on-one combat, kept warm by the brass stove next to them, when Hati bounds up happily to the men. 

“Where have you been?” Hvitserk asks, his voice casual and low, as he strokes Hati’s snow white head lovingly, not bothering to lift his gaze to his sister, but Ylva knows there is some ulterior motive behind his question. With a wide wagging tail, Hati scoots closer between the two brothers, hoping for more attention. Knowing better than to jump on the youngest son of Ragnar, Hati turns soft pleading eyes on Ivar instead, hoping for double the amount of attention. 

“Does it matter?” Ylva taunts, only a few steps away from the stairs that lead up to the entrance of the Great Hall. She quietly curses her dog for giving away her arrival. Ylva is a bad liar, she always has been, and she is not interested in explaining why she missed breakfast. 

Hvitserk guffaws at her attitude. The serious expression of an older brother distorts his boyish features. He prowls around her, much like Skoll when he is trying to assert dominance over Hati. Hvitserk’s eyes narrow as he observes Ylva, trying to sniff out her lies. 

“No,” he finally quips, having fully stalked her. He looks down at her, mouth twisting in humor at her suddenly stoic face. “You look as though you're hiding something,” he half jests. 

Her wind-burned cheeks pale at his accusation and his green eyes light up with excitement. 

“She snuck out early this morning,” Ivar casually announces from his seat, thick furs covering his legs. Hati’s muzzle is buried in his lap as he affectionately strokes her head. 

“Mind your own, Ivar,” Ylva hisses through gritted teeth. Hvitserk’s mouth is alive with humor now, twisting in uncontained excitement at the thought of tattling on his sister. 

“Oh leave me be, Hvitserk,” Ylva half whines in annoyance. 

Hvitserk throws up his hands in defense of his honor, then pressing his hand over his heart he bows his head. “I would never, sweet sister.” 

“But you do every time,” Ivar mumbles out Ylva’s exact thoughts. 

“What,” Hvitserk blurts out feign innocence. “Sigurd is worse!” He quickly exclaims when Ylva offers him a knowing look. 

“Not as bad as you,” Sigurd retorts as he warms his hands near the stove fire. “Not as bad when it comes to Ylva.” 

An impish smile curls onto Ylva’s lips as Hvitserk gives each of his siblings a disbelieving look. 

“You just want to be Ubbe’s loyal dog. We should’ve named you Skoll and his wolf Hvitserk,” Ylva says, laughing when the humor he had held so proudly in the corner of his mouth drops in annoyance. He shakes his head, stepping away from Ylva without another word. Ivar lets out a barking laughter from his seat and Ylva knows she has gone too far. 

She calls out for Hati to heel, knowing the dog won’t judge her for her harsh words and turns to walk up the steps to the Great Hall. 

“Ubbe is looking for you,” Sigurd calls out to her on her last step. 

“What for?” 

Sigurd shrugs his shoulders in indifference as he reaches for his ax, fingers sufficiently warmed. Hvitserk pulls the hood of his cloak over his head as he glares in her direction, trying to ignore Ivar’s poking attempt to insult him further. Ylva, muttering a thanks of appreciation to Sigurd, disappears into the Great Hall, no longer interested in sibling banter.

It is mostly empty inside the Great Hall and Ylva breathes out a sigh of relief. The moment the fjord had started cracking free of the ice that had enthralled it all winter, ships had started to arrive daily, both for trade and travel. Bjorn’s plans to sail to the Mediterranean had spread far and many jarls and petty kings had flocked to Kattegat’s shores in hopes of accompanying him on his grand adventure. 

Men boasted their large coffers, plentiful ships, and the honorable warriors who would accompany them if Bjorn accepted their oath. Not one to deny a man of adventure, Bjorn allowed any king or jarl who pledged their allegiance to sail with him. 

The nightly overcrowded hall had derailed Ylva’s sensitive nerves after a winter spent peacefully near her family and while she flourished as the center of attention at any gathering she relished the moment’s peace. 

Hati’s wet nose brushes her hand, bumping the leather pouch on her belt. The ivory trinkets inside tap against one another, reminding Ylva of the gift Haakon gave her in the forest. His grandmother had carved the runes herself, blessing them with powerful magic. Knowing Ylva’s long held interest in runes, Haakon had presented the gift alongside a soft kiss to her cheek. 

Pulling one out at random, her fingers run over the grooves surface of the ivory piece. She can imagine the rune carved on the ivory in her mind. Othila. Heritage. Her family. Her brothers whose presence gave her peace and her mother who kept the warmth glowing inside her.  

Inherited estate. The thought flutters through her mind though she tries vainly to push it aside. She would inherit nothing that was her father’s, forced instead to marry into her own prosperity. 

If Ragnar was around would she already be married to some king or high ranking jarl? She scowls at the thought. It had been almost ten years since she had seen her father. She wants to believe he would never force her into a loveless marriage but anymore she does not know what he would have done. 

“Ylva,” her name is a soft whisper on a foreign tongue. She turns to greet whoever calls out to her, smiling graciously at the man before her. He is long legged and angular, his name floats around in her mind before she grabs on to it. 

“Víkar,” she says smoothly. “My brother and my mother are away this morning. You’ll have to come back later -” 

“I could not wait to see you,” Víkar interrupts with a soft bow, the openings of his collar showing off the markings of dark tattoos hidden on his chest. He pushes away the blonde curls that have fallen in his face in a practiced gesture.  

“Me? What for?” Ylva frowns, not understanding his intention, they had only just met a few days prior.

“I have a gift for you.” He motions to the basket at his feet. Removing a thick wool blanket he reveals a soft purring cat and her four kittens who rut around in search of nourishment. Ylva’s finger jams through the wicker walls, rubbing the white head of the feline. Hati’s wet nose nudges the cage in irritation, wanting to inspect the creatures closer. 

“But -” Ylva frowns further, lifting her gaze to the blonde haired man before her - “why would you want to give me such a gift?” 

A sense of dread fills her belly, and spreads across her chest. The dreamy state of Víkar’s face is that of a man just afforded all the riches of the world. 

“I know your brother doesn't want word to get out until the announcement but I couldn’t wait,” Vikar smiles. 

Ylva curses Ubbe’s name under her breath. 

Unblinking, Vikar continues, “you can keep the cats here, of course. When I return from the Mediterranean we will go back to Lade, to my father’s home.” 

White noise fills Ylva’s ears as Vikar rambles on about his plans for the future. They are full of new estates and tithes, tenants and suitable farming land with many animals and babies. 

Ylva’s breath catches in her throat. Babies. Who was this man to tell her she will bear his children? Her future does not lie with him. No. She refuses. It is Haakon who is her everything. The one she has loved since young children. They had promised themselves to one other long before they knew the meaning of a chaste life. Haakon is the man to give her a home and children, not this - 

“Ylva where are you going?” Vikar stutters as Ylva turns her back on his rambling. “I was talking -” His fingers reach out, brushing against her arm but Hati’s snapping jaws withdraw his touch before he can get a grip on her.

Chapter Text

Ubbe sits heavy in his chair, the edges digging painfully in his body as he imagines confronting Ylva. His brothers surround him near the burning hearth in the center of the room. He tries to draw comfort from their attendance though their counsel is a mix of criticism and slander. What he would give to have Ragnar in his seat instead. 

“He’s too pretty,” Sigurd says, with a wave of his hand, perched on the edge of the oversized bed. 

“Only you would notice something like that Sigurd,” Ivar spits out accusatively, from his own seat near the fire. 

“All I’m saying,” Sigurd articulates through gritted teeth. “Ylva will never agree to marry someone like him. If you can not see it, you’re all more daft than I thought.”

Hvitserk hums in agreement. “Sigurd’s right.” 

Hvitserk is more solemn here than he had been at breakfast where he boasted about his lay with a blonde haired thrall the night before. Ubbe can’t help but frown in his direction hoping for more insight, instead his only response is his gaze dropping to the drink at hand. 

Ivar beams at Hvitserk’s sulking form. “Ylva insulted him. Called him your” - Hvitserk hand presses against Ivar’s flapping lips. 

“- shut up,” Hvitserk warns and Ivar takes heed though it does not stop his chortling as he wipes the offending grim of Hvitserk’s touch off his face. 

Exasperated, Ubbe stands, pacing the length of the room. Skoll lifts his head in worry, golden eyes following his every move but he does not leave the warm spot next to the hearth. 

The oak doors to the room suddenly crash open, drawing everyone's eye. Skoll scrambles hurriedly to his feet and Ylva appears, wet boots leaving a muddy mess in her wake. Hati follows close at her heels and Skoll, happy to see his litter mate, bounds up to her side. 

“Ubbe,” Ylva’s honeyed tone causes Ubbe to turn fully to her, greeting his sister with a grim smile. Here it is, the moment to come to terms with his truth. Aslaug, with Ubbe’s approval, has promised Ylva’s hand in marriage. 

Arms stretched out to bring her in, Ubbe starts what will be a difficult conversation. 

“Ylva, I’ve been looking -” Hati nips at Skoll’s face, canines bared, causing Ubbe to frown. The last time Hati had been aggressive toward her litter mate Ylva had verbally assaulted Ubbe for kissing her serving girl. 

“She doesn’t have a choice,” she had shouted. Her face had been red, finger jabbing in his chest, as she reprimand him. At the time, Ubbe had not understood, everyone had a choice. “Not women, we don’t get one, and especially not a slave.” 

They had only been sixteen when he kissed that girl, Jessa. She had giggled, shyly darting away when he went in for one more. It was so long ago that he barely remembered if it was a good kiss. Probably not. Skoll still bared the mark of Hati’s aggression, a split ear that was only found when he thumbed the tip idly as he woke first thing in the morning, Skoll’s long snout resting on his chest, golden eyes watching as he patiently waited for Ubbe to take him outside.  

Ubbe should have known by the way Hati nipped at Skoll’s face that something is not right but it takes Ylva’s stinging slap across his face to bring him fully to any misgivings between him and his sister. 

His jaw works itself, a feeling of rage boiling in his chest. Tenderly, he caresses the offended cheek, trying to tame his ire. He can see the outlines of Ivar’s shocked face, hear Sigurd softly laughing to himself, feel the smug grin of Hvitserk burning on his back. Ylva’s chest is heaving, her hands shaking at her sides but she does not offer an apology. Hati has pinned Skoll down by the scruff of his neck, throaty growls rumbling out of both of their chests as they struggle for dominance. 

“You offered my hand without so much as speaking to me!” Ylva screeches. Ubbe’s lip twitches in agitation of her tone. They rarely meet one another in such a tense state, preferring barbed statements that dissolve into smoke over time than a heated verbal battle. He kisses his teeth, daring to meet her gaze, worried his ire will vanquish completely when he sees what is so clearly written on her face. Betrayal. 

Her eyes are wet and rimmed red, anger crackling in the depth of blue, like an incoming storm. Her pouting lips hold her scorn, and her jutted jaw her defiance. 

“Víkar Sveinnesson is a good match,” Ubbe tries to reason. 

“He’s not my choice,” she snarls. 

“What does that matter?” Ivar snaps from his seat. 

Ylva’s fury lashes towards her little brother and Ubbe has to steady her before she advances on him. 

“Ivar,” Ubbe growles his name in warning. 

Hati’s and Skoll’s altercation is also becoming more violent and Ubbe latches onto opposing white and black scruff of their necks, flinging them away from one another. 

“No.” He commands through gritted teeth when Hati attempts to lunge in Skoll’s direction. 

“Get control of your dog, Ylva,” Ubbe hisses. Her nose is tinted pink, she will cry again but not before she has her word. Crouching low, Ylva wraps her arms around Hati’s snowy neck in an attempt to soothe her. 

“You cannot do this to me, Ubbe,” Ylva pleads, calm now but with a lip that quivers in despair. 

Ubbe contemplates his sister's pouting lips, his heart clenching with affection before he answers her. “I am sorry Ylva but you are not alone. Mother has me to marry some Swedish princess -” 

Hvitserk, in his sour mood, retorts to Ubbe’s plea for pity in a half mumble, “she is beautiful.” 

Fury fills Ylva’s wet eyes, blowing hot steam out of her nose, she turns on her heels, a final cry of rage echoing in the room before she disappears out the same door she had entered. 

Sigurd barks out a loud laugh. “That went better than expected.” 

Ubbe’s eyes narrow on his younger brother, swiping him across the head as he passes by. 

“What? Don’t take your bruised ego out on me!” Sigurd calls out in humor as Ubbe makes his way to his own quarters. 

Did you see the way she hit him, is the last of his brother’s goading Ubbe hears as he rounds the corner.

The approaching storm marks the sky in a pale blue, painting the clouds with streaks of pinks. The wind at Ubbe’s back pushes him towards his sister as he steadily makes his way across the beach, boots sinking heavily into the sand. Skoll leads the way though Ubbe knows where to find his sister when she is upset. She had never been hard to find if one knew where to look. Her blonde hair blends in with the dead sea grass twisting in the wind but her light blue dress and the jewels sparkling in her hair give her away. 

Skoll’s running feet kick up a spray of sand when he catches the scent of Hati. Ylva shoots her own wolf a half-hearted look of betrayal as the dog races to meet its litter mate, nipping and licking at his face when he nears. Ylva’s narrowed eyes shine wet with tears. She makes no attempt to hide her anger as Ubbe sits down next to her. 

Shoulder leaning into her he resists the urge to hold her close. He waits, listening to her breath, the way she scratches at the seams of her bodice, feeling the heat radiating off of her until finally she sobs, a defeated cry that wrenches out of her chest. No longer able to hold herself upright she falls into Ubbe. Tenderly, he wraps his arm around her frame, drawing her in closer, trying to soothe her pain. 

“Why are you doing this to me?” She chokes out, wet face pressed against his chest. 

His tongue rolls against his lips trying to formulate the words he wants to say. 

I don’t know how else to protect you anymore. 

“Father would have never done this to me,” Ylva accuses. Heavy silence fills the space between them, the lapping waves and winds pushing against their faces is the only sound. 

Ubbe suddenly snorts, a choking laughter that he cannot contain. Wild eyes met him in return. He shakes his head. “You do not know what he would have done, Ylva.”  

Ylva chews at her lip, trying to conjure up the image of her father. With each passing year the clear lines of her father’s face blur a little more until she is unsure what is real and what is imaginary. 

Ubbe sighs. “Mother will announce the engagement in a week's time. Just -” Ubbe hesitates. Ylva’s stubbornness is unmatched - “Try,” he pleads. “Try to get to know him. If it does not work out, I will find someone else.” 

Ylva’s eyes brighten at the prospect. “There is someone else.” 

She is giddy, sitting up a little straighter. She clings to his bicep as she speaks, hoping he will hear her. “Haakon,” Ylva proposes, her tone hopeful, a tinge of desperation seeping in. Ubbe frowns, his sister is rarely desperate, for anything, especially from him. He shakes his head as he tries to go through all the men with the name Haakon. He does not think he has heard it before. 

Ylva wastes no time delving deeper. “Haakon Haraldsson.” 

An amused smile creases the corner of Ubbe’s eyes. “You can not be serious,” he laughs. His smile drops when her expression does not change. “Harald Finehair’s son?” He asks in disbelief. 

Ylva nods, she is suddenly a reserved version of herself as she awaits his answer, making herself small and insignificant, as if she does not want to take up too much room as he makes his decision.  

Ubbe chokes on the scoff rumbling out of his throat. “No.” He is on his feet before Ylva can latch on to him, drag him down in her pleas of grandeur. 

“But I love him -” 

“No.” He can not hear it. He can not hear that she has fallen for the one man Ubbe will not allow her to be with. 

He shakes his head, trying to calm his temper. These marriage contracts are not about what either of them want. They were more than the two of them. It was about protecting Kattegat. Doing what was best for the safety of their home. Everything Ragnar had dreamed of. He would not be the reason it failed. 

Víkar Sveinnesson could give their family ships. His marriage to Ylva would be a promise of protection against those who would see them fail. Haakon would be no better than his father, Harald Finehair, who had been lusting after Kattegat for as long as Ubbe can remember. If Haakon was allowed to marry Ylva then it would be just another stake in Harald’s claim to be king of Norway. Ubbe would not be a catalyst to Harald’s fame, not after everything his father fought for. 

A heavy sigh releases the heat of his anger, giving way to softening to her quivering lip. “I’m sorry, but there are sacrifices to be made.”  

Grimacing, he turns on his heel, not able to handle the sight of defeat crumbling on his sister’s face.

The moon shines bright between the dark clouds overhead and the hard packed sand, formed after the falling tide, holds Ubbe steady though his whole body shakes. Skoll is thankfully anchored at his heels, and he feels comforted by his presence when as of late his entire family seems to be set against him. A single howl echoes in the night, long and lonely. Hati, calling out for her brother. Skoll whimpers, his trotting pace slowing, turning to look behind but Ubbe refuses to be deterred. Skoll quickly steps up in pace. 

His mind is as wild as the storm threatening to come to shore. The waves crashing out in the distance are a companion to the consuming thoughts that buzz in his head. His fists clench at his side. Anger blurs his vision. He was so upset he could - 

“Who’s there?” A voice squeaks, startling Ubbe. She is a silhouette against the glow of town but the hostility forced on her soft voice gives away her identity. Eir. 

Silently, Ubbe approaches, he should not scare her like this, he knows better, even now he is reminded of his sister lecturing tone. A man’s greatest fear is to be made a fool by a woman but her's is man itself. 

Eir’s eyes are wide saucers, all white in the darkness until he is close enough to see her irises. 

“Ubbe,” she breathes in relief. 

He has the urge to grab hold of her, instead he withholds himself, nodding his head in greeting, fists still clenched at his sides lest he reach out and touch her. 

“Eir,” he says in greeting, stepping around her. He has to walk on, get away from her. 

“My father tells me I am to marry you,” her voice is a whisper against the crashing waves. He stops, rocking back on his heels, kissing at his teeth in an attempt to hide his annoyance. Now is not the time. His mother had told him of the contract she and Anund had agreed to, the joining of two families after the raiding season was finished, but he has not been in the mood to face the realities of such a deal. 

“I’ve never been in control of my future,” Eir continues, her gaze cast out to the waters beyond, unseeing. “I don’t know why I’m surprised but still -” she drifts off, unsure what to say. He waits, not wanting to push his ideas on their predicament to her, though he has many thoughts on the contract. 

After a moment she stirs from her trance, turning to him, looking for reassurance, hoping that the man her father has bound her to might, at the very least, be kind. 

“I am sorry,” he says, dipping his gaze to the side, to where his dog sits obediently. He rarely finds himself unsure but he does not think he can handle her gaze at this very moment. 

“Are you?” She demands. The once timid girl rises up taller, stepping into his space and he is forced to look at her. “You have just gained the world with one flick of the wrist, while I -” she falters, the trembling in her voice taking over her speech - “I will lose everything.” 

It was true, everything Eir owned was her father’s and now she would be given to Ubbe on a silver platter, forced to take his name but never inheriting anything that would become her own. Ylva’s destiny would be no different, and all the more reason he had to see her married to a good family. Víkar, had land and ships, and titles to pass down to his children. Haakon, a second-born son, bastard no less, had nothing to give Ylva. Ubbe at least knew that Víkar was a good man, he could not say the same for Haakon. 

Ubbe scowls, he knows deep in his heart, he too could be a good man, a good husband to the right woman, though his anger wants him to act otherwise. “You hate me but you do not know me.” His tone is harsh and Eir winces at his claim. 

He grimaces at his flash of temper. This is not how he wanted to start out their relationship. He wants to opt for kindness, to be the man his mother has raised him to be, though it is difficult to find that side of himself after such a long day of fighting with his sister. He sighs heavily. 

“Sorry. I did not mean -” he reaches out for her hand but she quickly hides them behind her back, eyeing him with skeptical criticism. “I don’t blame you,” he mumbles, mostly to himself. They barely know one another and already he is demanding her touch. “I hope one day you might trust me, until then you have my loyalty. At the very least I will give you all within my power.” 

Her skepticism does not waver, she knows nothing of the loyalty of men, she rarely sees it in her day to day life, but Ubbe wants show her, with time, what it could mean for them.

Hesitantly, she nods her head. She has heard him, that can not be said for most, if not all, of his siblings. 

“Can I walk you back?” Ubbe asks, nodding his head towards the sleepy town of Kattegat. Smoke curls through the chimneys and whispers of cooked food permeate their noses. His stomach rumbles as if on cue. 

Skoll’s tongue laps against Eir’s hand, eager to return for supper, his wet nose nudging her finger tips. A frightened squeal escapes Eir’s mouth. Embarrassed, she hides her face in her hands before mumbling her regrets. She will continue to walk on her own. 

He nods his head, trying to respect her answer. Had he possessed Skoll’s ability to sneak around he might have followed her, instead he watches as she walks away, waiting until she disappears in the inky darkness of the night to go back to his own home.

Eir’s feet are aching. The slippers she wears are not meant for grand adventures trekking across oceans fronts and so she is happy when she finds her way back. She hadn’t gotten lost, merely she had taken the long way around, that ended up back where she started, and eventually to the encampment her family was calling home for the next week. The walk had been a distraction from her impending betrothal, to say the least. 

Their home, for the time being, though her mother bitterly disagrees at the name, is a cluster of canvas tents situated on the outskirts of the city. A king subjected to the harsh nature of the outdoors, her mother had fussed at length, but Eir did not mind, she enjoys the way the cold breeze sneaks through the cracks at the floor while she lays hidden under the heavy weight of her furs, the hanging braziers leaving the room in a smoky haze. In the morning, when it is still chilly, she snuggles down, deeper in her bed until she is just a small mass in a heap of furs, certain that if she stays quiet enough her family will forget she is even there. Then they might finally leave her alone and she will be free to do as she pleases. Her plan have not worked so far and each day her mother drags her out of bed, topics of shopping and clothes and food tumbling out of her mouth before Eir can even blink her eyes free of sleep. 

Eir approaches her family’s refuge with apprehension. Her mother will be worried over her whereabouts again and Eir is too tired to fight. Her maids hopefully haven’t taken the brunt of her mother’s ire. Eir already owed them dearly for her first escape, any more she would be eternally in their debt and she does not know how much more gold she can offer then before they completely scorned her all together. 

A few of the warriors who followed her father from Sweden hover around a fire outside the main tent. No one speaks or greets her as she nears. She frowns, that is unlike them. The men loyal to Anund have always sought her favor, knowing how the king bent to her will. 

The guard at the door stops her with a shake of his head. “No one’s to enter,” he announces, though rather meekly. Eir’s scowl deepens further. “King’s orders,” he adds, this time with more force. 

“I am tired,” Eir all but whines. She can feel the start of a blister on her heel and her face and neck are grimy with dirt. “Where am I to go?” She asks with a cock of her head. “Would you like to give up your bed for the night?” 

The guard shifts on his feet, eyeing his comrades near the fire. No one had said what to do if the princess feigned exhaustion. “My father won’t mind.” She smiles, the same sickly sweet smile she offers any man who questions her authority. “Now, let me through.” 

The guard barely nods his head before Eir is stepping around him. Her father may not want to be disturbed but anything happening in private was hers to hear too. She is his eldest child, his heir until she married. 

“Eir what are you -” King Anund exclaims at her sudden appearance. Standing near the oak table in the middle of the room, an array of candles lighting his red face, he looks as angry as the time she had stolen the goose they were going to have for dinner out of the kitchen and buried it in the garden. The next night he had forced her to eat the entire bird even though she cried with each bite. She had never understood her family’s fascination with eating animals.  

Her mother is sitting nearby, the meek expression weighing heavy on her face, making her look small and timid. She does not greet her or even scold her like Eir expects, instead her eyes are downcast to her hands, folded neatly in her lap. 

A voice hisses at her side, causing Eir to jump in fright. “Oh, she’s as pretty as they say.” 

The man smiles, leering at her. He had been hiding in the shadows of the tent where her younger brothers slept peacefully, not roused by the fact that a stranger lurked in their midst. 

“You gave me a fright,” she squeaks, hand pressed to her thumping heart. Good breeding forces her to greet him with a bowed head, though her heart races at the sight of him. “I don’t think we’ve met.” 

“Just leaving,” the man replies. “Sorry to be so rude, Princess Eir. I would love to stay for a drink but I think your father -” the man’s eyes dart to Anund, whose face and neck have become so red Eir is sure he will burst - “would prefer I leave. Goodnight.” 

He slips through the tent door so quickly that Eir blinks in surprise. Had the man been real? She turns towards her father but he ignores her pointed stare, trailing after the man with determination. 

“Mother,” Eir starts but she will not be roused, instead she stares blankly at her hands. “Mother!” She bellows. “What did that man want?” 

“What - uh -” Sif is at her sons’ side, soothing down each head of full blonde hair though they do not stir at Eir’s outburst - “Your father has a great debt,” she finally admits. 

Owl-eyed, Eir blinks at her mother in astonishment. Debt? But her father was the king. Of Sweden. How could he be in debt? 

“He has always had a problem,” her mother whispers, leaving the boys’ side, satisfied that they have not woken. “Eric was here to collect.” 

“Did father pay him?” The words feel heavy on Eir’s tongue. Her mother would not be acting so strangely if money had not been an issue. 

“He wants the boats.” 

“So, give it to him.” 

“And then what, dear?” Sif demands, turning a sharp eyed glare in her direction. “A king without ships is not much of a king.” 

“What else -”

“All the gold is tied up in your dowry.” 

“I’m sorry,” Eir says, exasperated. She isn’t really sorry, she is confused. She rubs her temples. The weight of her world is wearing heavy on her shoulders but it becomes even more crushing at the next words that fall out of her mother’s mouth. 

“We just finished negotiations,” Sif continues, pulling at her discarded spindle of wool, spinning without thought. “Hopefully Queen Aslaug does not have a fit. I know how important it was for her -” 

“I am to marry Ubbe,” Eir says weakly, though earlier that day she had scorned the idea. The prince of Kattegat was starting to seem like not a bad option. He at least did not cause her to cower at the sight of him.  

Sif shakes her head. “Not anymore, dear.”  

“Who was that?” Eir demands, finger pointing in the direction of the long-gone stranger, unsure if she wants to know the answer. She can still picture his dark blue eyes drinking her in and the silvery scar running along the length of his jaw. 

“That my dear, was Eric Bloodaxe, King Harald Finehair’s heir, and your soon-to-be betrothed.”

Chapter Text

Ubbe sighed not for the thousandth time that day, observing the men in the yard below the Great Hall. The area is filled with warriors led by King Harald, the Jarl of Lade and King Anund of Sweden. The men loiter about uselessly, either drunk with boredom or fighting in drunkenness. The state of Kattegat is slowly unraveling before Ubbe’s eyes and while many of the older men had found work with the local farming families until the full thaw, the young boys, who were away from their homes for the first time, were the heart of the offenders. 

“The men need something to do,” Aslaug's cool voice resonates into the rim of the cup she presses to her lips as she approaches her son. Ubbe grunts in agreement, leaning against the railing of the deck. 

“They need a distraction,” Aslaug acknowledges, pulling the furs on her shoulders closer to her face. She acts uncaring, as if the chaos these warriors are creating are no concern of hers but Ubbe knows better, his mother has always hidden her emotions easily.  

“What do you suggest?” He inquires, eyeing a man who is poking another in the chest, ale sloshing out of his cup and onto his boots. 

Aslaug purses her lips at the ensuing fight that erupts, fist flying. “My father used to host a tournament every spring before the full thaw. A chance for the men to prove themselves before the real battle began.” 

“A distraction.” Ubbe nods his head. “And the winner, what does he get?” 

Aslaug shrugs her shoulders. Cold bitter winds are blowing harshly against her cheeks, and she turns to head back to the warmth of the long hall. “Something worth fighting for.”

Hvitserk hovers in the doorway of Ylva’s room, sweet cake crumbling in his fist as he watches his sister mourn the loss of something she never really had. There is still a pang of resentment that lives in the pit of his belly at her for calling him Ubbe’s dog. He had not let that go but he can not ignore the fact that she had not shown up for breakfast that morning or lunch and now it is getting late and the sun is setting and the Great Hall is filling with empty bellies, and Hvitserk cannot stand the thought of his sister so wrecked in heartache that she cannot even eat. 

Hati’s golden eyes watch him from her spot curled next to Ylva’s side. The dog does not lift her head, instead she offers a soft whimper to invite him in. He flicks a chunk of cake Hati’s way and she inhales the treat in one lick. He finds a spot on the bed, near Ylva’s feet, the feather mattress sinks under his weight. 

Ylva is curled into a tight ball, an old stuffed doll clutched to her chest in comfort and for a moment Hvitserk is 9 years old again and their father had not been seen for a month. That was the first time he had recognized Ylva as different from Ubbe. She was something “other”, as she cried endless tears to their mother. Ylva’s eyes had been so swollen and red she could hardly make out Hvitserk’s face as he tried to make her feel better with corny jokes and silly games that had no purpose. 

He had helped her then, and he would try again today. 

Slowly waking up from a long forced sleep, Ylva’s blue eyes meet his. She flings herself wholeheartedly toward him, arms wrapping around his neck. “Oh, Hvitserk, please, help me. Talk sense to him. I cannot marry Víkar.” 

Hivtserk struggles to find the words to comfort her, pressing the sticky cake into her fingers hoping to distract her. She smiles at the gift, taking a large bite, crumbs fall in her lap that Hati happily scoops up. 

“He says you want to marry Haakon Haraldsson,” Hvitserk muses, he can’t understand her reasoning anymore than Ubbe. Harald Finehair had never been a friend of their family. His son would be no different. He knew Haakon, had practiced swordplay in years past, he was a worthy opponent but a match for his sister - Hvitserk, thought it was unlikely. 

“Why?” He asks, stroking Hati’s head. Why him of all people? 

“I love him,” Ylva replies, nonplused. A smile tickles the corners of his face. He had expected a long drawn out explanation as to why Haakon was the man of her choosing. 

He shakes his head at the bewilderment of women. He did not think he would ever understand them fully. “I will see what I can do,” he says, just so he can see his sister happy, even for a moment. 

The squeal of excitement from Ylva startles Hati and causes Hvitserk to laugh in earnest. 

“No promises,” he says, hopping to his feet. He holds out his hand expectantly. “Come, the festivities are starting in the Great Hall. Let’s go dance, like we used to.” He smiles cheekily at her, reminded of all the times they had danced together, stepping on each other's toes, both on purpose and by accident. “And I will talk to Ubbe later tonight.” 

She beams happily at him, setting aside her old doll to latch onto his hand. 

“I’d love to dance with you,” she says, hopping off the bed.

The grounds between the Sleeping Hall and the Great Feasting Hall are muddy. The warm spring air had melted away the ice on the roads leaving a thick slop that sucks at the soles of Ylva’s boots. She giggles as she almost loses her shoe to the mud. Clinging tightly to Hvitserk’s arm they pick their way through the well worn path. The grounds would all be ice again come nightfall, a whole new kind of adventure when they went back to their beds.  

For now, Ylva keeps her focus on staying up right. She is determined not to ruin such a fine dress to a thick layer of muck. She has full faith in the laundress but there was no telling if the damage would be long lasting. Hvitserk had somehow managed to convince her to wear her dark navy dress and yellow overcoat. It was one of her nicest pieces of clothing and as she stood before him she worried she would stand out in the crowds too much. 

“It’s too nice,” she had fretted as she smoothed down the fabric across her hips. 

“It’s spring.” Hvitserk had waved a hand in dismissal as he snacked on a handful of nuts. “You should wear nice things.”

Ylva had frowned. Since when did her brother have any opinions on when she should and should not wear nice clothing? 

“This better not be a trick,” she had hissed, eyes narrowing in his direction.  

“No tricks,” he had said defensively, eyes impressively wide and innocent. 

Ylva had smiled despite herself, ready to let go of the weight of her duty and fully enjoy the night. She could not let every comment that came out of her siblings mouths’ discourage her. Hvitserk had always been her closest confidant. She could, at the very least, trust him.

The hall is overflowing with warriors, local women who smile sweetly in their direction, and the thralls who scurry back and forth trying to keep cups and trenchers full. Kings and jarls gather around high tables or in dark corners, shooting each other conspiratorial glances, talking in hushed tones. A few men, to the entertainment of others, wrestle in the middle of the hall. Haakon grips the base of his cup, watching as Ylva skirts out of their way at the last moment. Hvitserk holds her steady, smiling with her when she giggles, hiding her humor against his shoulder. 

Haakon wants to go to her, greet her, take her into his arms and dance the night away but she will not appreciate that. Or rather, her brothers will not. Hvitserk might not mind, he thinks. More than once this year alone, after he had landed in Kattegat with his father and brother, Haakon had leveled his sword with Hvitserk in an attempt to pass the hours, sometimes Hvitserk would beat him but not always. It was on those days when he bested the lithe son of Ragnar Lothbrok that Hvitserk would force Haakon to delve on matters of forum. Hours later and too many cups of ale drowned they had shifted off the finer points of the sword and on to other matters, women. 

Hvitserk had had his fair share of women, of all shapes and sizes. Hvitserk loved women. Surely he could see that Haakon’s love was no different. Except it was, because Haakon was in love with Hvitserk’s sister. 

The pride of Kattegat. 

The only daughter of the Great Ragnar Lothbrok.

The only daughter of Aslaug Sigurdsdottir, Ylva liked to remind him. 

Either way, Haakon would not leave her after one bedding. If he had it his way he would never leave her side again. 

Her hair is a bright mixture of brown, gold and red that glimmers against the chandelier’s candles overhead. Her hair would turn a soft blonde by summer’s end, her nose freckled by the sun. He wants to go to her, just to wrap his fingers around a curl of her hair, pulling it to its end and watching as it bounces back to life. She hated it when he did that but he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t keep his hands off of her. He would trail the curves of her cheeks with his knuckles, tracing each section with care, searing her features into his memory so that when he inevitably had to leave he could close his eyes and conjure up her face. 

He will go to her now, even if it is just his hands brushing the lines of her back as he passes by. He stands decidedly, only to be yanked back down to his seat. His brother, Eric, sliding in next to him, pulling Haakon back to reality and onto the hard edges of the wooden bench. 

“They say she is to marry some prince of Sweden,” Eric says, eyes following Haakon’s longing gaze. 

Haakon shakes his head in dismissal. He will not hear it. Ylva had promised she would speak to her family on their behalf. 

“Nobility,” Eric mocks, the corners of his mouth turning in humor. His older brother had been taunting Haakon since Yul when their father had invited them both to sail to Kattegat in the spring and every year before that, since they were ten and twelve years old and had first stepped on to the shores of the famed town. Back then it had only been a large farming town, Ragnar only barely a king but Haakon still remembers it as it was, when he had fallen in love with Ylva before he knew what it meant to be in love. 

Her springy curls bounced as she stomped in his direction, cat-like eyes narrowed. “Bestemor.” 

Haakon had frowned, both scared and awed by this girl who carried herself like a queen but wore no crown. He shook his head when no words conjured in his mouth. 

“Bestemor. Take me to her,” she demanded. 

Grandmother. Haakon understood, nodding his head dumbly. She had wanted to speak with his famed grandmother who knew the language of runes and could predict one's future better than anyone in Norway. Ylva’s cold skinny fingers had slipped into his and silently he led her to the tents where his family slept. 

Every day and until the day he returned to Kattegat at the age of thirteen he had spoken about Ylva, and when she stood, waiting on the dock, blonde curls flying in the breeze he knew she had thought of him too. 

“She can’t marry the likes of you, bastard,” Eric sneers. Haakon ignores his brother. Bastards can be kings too, his mother had told him. You have to be good to be a king.

Eric isn’t good, though he will one day be king.

Haakon doesn’t want to be king. He had fought the last few years, by his father’s side, helping him gain new land and property. He had found, during that time, that it was not difficult to shed blood or instill fear, it was imploring loyalty that was all by impossible. He did not want to fight that battle the rest of his life. 

“Should take her for myself,” Eric tries again for Haakon’s attention but still he does not receive it. Eric Bloodaxe may be a feared name, whispered along the coastline of Norway but his older brother would never dare provoke the sons of Ragnar, who had been whelped with swords in their hands, whose destinies were often spoken in wild tales.  

“Like to see you try,” Haakon says bitterly. “She’ll swallow you whole.” 

He opens his mouth to say more, how Eric does not even deserve to breathe the same air as her, much less look her in the eyes when a hush settles over the crowd, cooling Haakon’s temper slightly. 

Bjorn Ironside has pulled every man and women's attention. The hall becomes quiet in his soothing, all eyes on him. Would he announce their departure? 

“It is too early to sail out yet,” Bjorn begins. He is standing tall on the dais, his many siblings gathered near him, watching him with humor hidden in the depth of their eyes and the corners of their mouths, waiting, hoping, he will make a fool of himself. “The women are finishing up the last of our sails. They work tirelessly,” Bjorn’s booming voice travels evenly throughout the hall. 

The men grumble in agreement, nodding their heads, and squeezing the hands and shoulders of their partners and mothers and friends. 

“I have decided,” Bjorn smiles haughtily as he speaks, as if he is the king of Kattegat, slowly drinking in the crowd’s enchantment of him. “To keep the women entertained, we will have a tournament!” Bjorn bellows the last few words causing a storm of excitement. 

“It shall be three parts,” Bjorn continues when silence follows the ruckus. “Axe throwing, wrestling, and a foot race. Whoever is the best at all three wins!” 

Haakon recognizes his father’s raspy voice calling out from one corner of the room. “What does the winner get?” 

Bjorn’s mouth gapes like a fish. He clearly hadn’t thought of a prize. 

“Ylva!” A clear voice rings out, hidden from view. 

“Her hand in marriage!” Another echoes. 

Bjorn laughs quietly before directing a taunting grin toward Ubbe, who until that moment, had been watching his eldest brother in rapt amusement at the announcement. Ubbe scowls suddenly at the suggestion, then regards the dark liquid in his cup with acute interest, trying to hide the irritation that tickles the corner of his mouth. He gives one final shake of his head at the ridiculous notion, still refusing to meet Bjorn’s mocking gaze.

Bjorn laughs, waving a dismissing hand in Ubbe’s direction, he turns to the crowd for more suggestions. 

“A chest full of gold!” Someone calls out. 

“A ship!” 

“King for a day!” This one is undoubtedly Harald. Haakon’s wide eyes shoot to his father in disbelief of his boldness, everyone knew of his lust for Kattegat’s throne. 

“To be king for one day.” Harald doubles down in his statement. 

Bjorn, amused by the idea, nods his head in agreement, he sees no threat in the idea of a faux crown. “Whoever wins the tournament will be crowned king of Kattegat for the day.” 

A loud roar goes up through the crowd followed by a wild wave of excited conversations breaking out at the thought of being king for the day. Haakon watches with interest, half hearing Eric who jabbers to a friend that has sauntered over after the announcement. 

Haakon’s gaze is unintentionally drawn back to Ylva, as if he has no control over his body. Her yellow overcoat is like a bright ray of sunshine and he is, as always, drawn to her. 

She is poking Hvitserk in the chest with her finger, a slew of angry words hot on her tongue. Sigurd is nearby, laughing at her while simultaneously tugging at her shoulder trying to pull her off. She whips on her heels, snapping at her younger brother once before turning back to Hvitserk. Sigurd, annoyed, rolls his eyes, before walking away. 

“You lied to me.” Haakon can hear Ylva in between the voices that float around him. Hvitserk’s mouth is tight at the accusation, eyes sharp on Ylva as he takes in her petite stature. He is a good head taller than her, even with his broad shoulders and long torso he seems to be no match for her anger. He says nothing in return, he does not even try to move her aside, he doesn't truly have to listen to her ranting. 

Ubbe approaches, having already sensed their tension, ready to sow peace but Ylva will not hear him, instead she continues to poke Hvitserk in the chest. With a roll of his eyes, her not-so-little brother throws his hands in the air as he finally walks away even as she continues to yell at him. Ubbe's attempt to calm Ylva with a soft hand on her shoulder is ignored as she brushes him off, walking away from him as if she does not see him. She sees Bjorn as he approaches, a goofy grin lopsided on his face. She opens her mouth to let him know what is on her mind but before she can say a single word he has her thrown over his shoulder like a sack of flour, hooting and hollering when Ylva cries out to be put down. 

Ivar is laughing from his chair, hands clapping in amusement as Hvitserk takes a seat next to him. Hvitserk and Ivar’s heads turn into one another, quietly sharing words that Haakon cannot make out. Eric’s snide laughter at Haakon’s back pulls his attention away from the interdependence he longs for, a sibling he can rely on. Instead he has been given one of the most feared pirates in all of Norway, Eric Bloodaxe. 

Eric is a terror to those who cannot defend themselves and their father is no better, taking each unsuspecting kingdom within his reach until even Haakon is not trusted by extension. 

Harald is grinning like a cat who has caught a mouse, his arms spread out wide as he approaches his sons, their uncle a dark shadow that follows. Haakon sees his future mirrored before him and he swallows the dread that fills his belly at the idea. He does not follow his own brother with unquestioning loyalty and that is the only thing that quells the nausea. 

“King for a day,” Harald purrs as he sits across from them both. Eric’s friend has slipped away with one pointed look from Halfdan. 

Haakon bows his head in greeting. Eric is only half interested in their father, scanning the room in distracted interest. He may be Harald’s heir but he has always been keen on making a name for himself outside of their father’s fame.

“I know my sons will make me proud,” Harald says, reaching across the table to jar Haakon’s shoulder in a warm delight at the prospect of winning. Halfdan, acutely aware of Eric's distraction, sits down next to his nephew, in a decided plop. Eric scowls at his uncle, turning to look at Harald with annoyance dripping off his dark features. 

“We shall see,” Eric agrees with a dejected sniff of his nose. Halfdan rolls his eyes, smacking Eric against the side of his head. 

“Listen to your father,” Halfdan all but growls, teeth bared as he tries to find Eric’s gaze, to make him submit like some shivering pup. 

Eric is almost chomping at the bit at the insult, he turns his gaze first to his uncle, dark pools mirroring one another, before lazily turning toward his father. 

“I will do what I can but those sons of Ragnar are apt to cheat -” Eric sneers, pointing in the direction of the men in question. Bjorn has set down Ylva, but she is still giving him an earful, much to her older brother’s amusement - “You cannot trust them.” 

“You will be better,” Halfdan hisses through gritted teeth. He is not impressed with excuses, especially not from his own blood. 

Harald is laughing, his eyes crinkling in humor but Haakon knows better. This is the laugh of a man who knows when he is being watched. A calculated chuckle. And Haakon has seen it before, attaching a healthy sense of fear to it. 

“We will make you proud, father,” Haakon replies with a nod of his head, and forces a smile on his face.

Chapter Text

Ubbe wakes for the first time that morning when the sun has just barely crested the horizon, to the pale light that slips through the curtains and onto his eyes and to the sound of Skoll’s feet padding across the floor as a servant whispers to the dog. He is woken again, for the second time, to Skoll barking and the frantic clatter of nails scraping across the wooden floors of the main hall. 

Running a hand along the length of his face, trying to wake up, he slowly sits up. The commotion in the main hall is steadily getting louder. Sigurd, or was it Ivar, is groaning in annoyance. Soon there will be yelling which will inevitably lead to fighting, physical or otherwise. Pulling on a pair of pants, he quickly splashes water on his face in a final attempt to rouse himself for whatever waits for him on the other side of the door. 

“You’re going to send him into a conniption,” Sigurd complains through gritted teeth. “You’ll give me a conniption,” he mumbles half to himself, half to whoever is listening. Ubbe squints one eye as he enters the room, adjusting to the bright light that comes in from the wide open doors of the hall. 

“No I won’t,” Hvitserk says, reaching his hand up and Skoll jumps in the air. 

Sigurd’s head lazily rolls in his palm, watching as his brother bounds back and forth across the room, Skoll scrambling to keep up. Ivar, considering his options, contributing to the banter or leaving the room, chose the latter. Ubbe sighs heavily through his nose, rustling his hair in annoyance, trying once more to wake his foggy mind. Skoll will be a hyper mess once Hvitserk is done with him. 

“Do you have to?” Ubbe ponders, sitting with a heavy plop in the chair across from Sigurd. A plate full of food and pitcher of watered down ale appears before him like magic, not that he will eat it. The thralls should know better by now, he never eats in the mornings, especially not after staying up all night drinking with his brothers. 

Sigurd looks worse for the wear, eyes heavy and swollen, he has given up on commenting on how loud Hvitserk is, instead offering the occasional grunt of annoyance any time Skoll barks.

“Just give it to him,” Ubbe commands through gritted teeth. He is unsure what Hvitserk is keeping from the dog but he cannot stand the sound of Skoll whining anymore. 

Hvitserk laughs, dropping his hands, palms facing upward. “I don’t have anything.” 

Skoll excitedly sniffs at Hvitserk’s hands, golden eyes darting up to Hvitserk’s face in confusion when he finds nothing. Two snaps of Ubbe’s fingers and his dog is at his side, exasperatedly flopping his dark head in his lap, letting out a soft whine of disappointment that he ignores, briefly closing his eyes in the silence. 

“Have you seen my knife?” Hvitserk asks, tearing off a chunk of bread from the plate beside Ubbe. 

The silence that follows has Hvitserk frowning. He flips over the pillows covering the nearest chair, desperate to find his knife. 

“Which one?” Ubbe asks slowly, his palm smoothing over Skoll’s head in a practiced motion.  

“Black handle with the curved -” 

Sigurd chuckles quietly to himself, eyes closed as he leans back in his chair. Hvitserk is on him like a hound who has picked up a scent. His hands scramble over Sigurd’s tunic and belt searching for the knife. 

“Where is it?” Hvitserk demands. 

“Get off of me, you crazy man.” Sigurd barks, shoving at Hvitserk’s chest. “Ylva has it.” He scowls, wiping the spittle that has collected on the corners of his mouth. “I saw it on her hip when she left this morning.” 

“Where did she go?” 

Two sets of eyes float in Ubbe’s direction. He shrugs. Rarely does he know of Ylva’s comings and goings. He had a few good guesses if pushed, but he shakes his head, not in the mood to ponder her whereabouts. 

“She’s gone to the hörgr .” Ivar says from his spot in the threshold of the hallway. He has reluctantly come back to the main hall now that there is less commotion. Ubbe and Hvitserk share a questioning look, unsure of the exact location their youngest brother is referring to. 

“The what?” Sigurd questions with a furrowed brow. He is the least religious of them all. It is possible, Ubbe thinks, that his little brother is unaware that there are shrines dedicated to the gods on the outskirts of town. If Ubbe knows his sister, she will have gone to Freya’s, though he hardly would even be able to guess where to start to find such a location. Typically such places only display a few gathered stones stacked on top of one another or a simple figurine carved in wood. 

“Will you find her?” Ubbe asks, sitting deeper in his seat as he remembers his promise to their mother that he would show his face at the tournament, though at the moment he would rather stay hidden in the darkness of his room. He can feel Ivar glaring at him, annoyed at being singled out for a task.

“I would not go anywhere near her seiðr ,” Sigurd says with a shake of his head. 

Ivar scowls in his direction. “Are you scared of some magic, Sigurd?” 

“I am not -”

“Ivar, please.” Ubbe interrupts Sigurd. He is the only one who knows where Ylva might be. She is bound to the duties as the daughter of a king to be a good hostess. She too is required to show her face at the tournament just as much as he is but he does not have the time, nor the patience, to chase her around Kattegat all day. 

The answer to his pleading comes in the form of a short huff as Ivar lowers himself to the ground, crawling out the hall without another word.

Her lips are moving though no sound comes out of her mouth. Her fingers are tying a series of knots but she does not see the string before her. Her half closed eyes see nothing in her trance, not even Ivar who is nearby though he stays outside of the threshold of this open space that is Freya’s shrine. He refuses to enter, not before he has been invited in. This is a place of great magic. He had felt it as he neared: the way the air had turned thick with fog, drowning out the sounds of birds chirping in the trees, of the small animals rustling in the distance, the breeze that had once pushed against his face stilled until it was only the sound dead leaves crunching under him as he moved. 

“I can see you, Ivar.” Ylva’s voice is frighteningly low. “Don’t you want to see?” 

His lips part, he is sure his surprise is written all over his features. Ylva was born with the same magical prowess as their mother. He knows as much, he has known since he was a small child. Floki had taught him the stories of their gods along with the magic of the Völvur . 

“Aslaug is a great seeress,” Floki had said, forearms straining as he carved the plank of wood before him. Even now he can still smell the scent of the raw wood as it bent to Floki’s will. “And -” he paused, thinking for a moment as he searched for a different tool. Floki never seemed to be in a rush when telling his tales, confident enough to keep his listener trapped in the unknown. “Your sister too. Ylva has the same sight.” 

That was why Floki had gifted her Hati, a real-life fylgja , a spirit that walked this land, protecting its keeper. Ivar had always been jealous of the two wolf-dogs, though Skoll had only been given to appease Ubbe’s childish need to have everything that was his twin’s. 

Ubbe had never possessed the same skill, it was not meant for him. 

But, Ylva, she could see parts of the future, though distant and hazy, they could be pieced together through interpretation. 

Ivar can not help but be curious. Would his fate be greater than their legendary father? Would he someday conquer distant lands or command great armies? 

His lip twitches in anticipation. He inhales sharply, poised to ask his sister what she sees for him. Hati’s long pink tongue surprises him, having appeared out of thin air. He growls in irritation, the moment lost, wiping away the slobber coating his cheek. 

Ylva shutters out a long labored breath and slowly comes back to the present world. 

“Ivar,” she smiles lazily in his direction, standing from her spot. “I had not expected you here.” 

Forcing a grin on his face, he smiles bashfully at her, rubbing the back of his neck. It is strange to witness his sister in such a raw form then suddenly back to normal as if nothing has happened, as if she had not been hovering in between two worlds. 

Ivar shakes his head, pushing at Hati’s chest now that she is furiously licking his face, her tail wagging happily. “Get control of your beast,” he says irritatedly. 

Ylva calls the dog to her side, holding tight to the spindle she has been tying the knots around. It is a spindle made for a child, small, only the length of Ylva’s hand. There is a pinch of hair intertwined and Ivar is unsure if the hair belonged to a human or animal. 

“Should we go?” Ylva chirps happily, as if she has not spent half the morning chanting incantations that only the gods know the meanings to. 

Ivar eyes her suspiciously before nodding his head, turning back down the path towards town.

Ubbe is only half awake when he is finally dressed for the day. His stomach lurches to his throat from the concoction one of the thralls forces him to swallow to help with the dregs of last night's drinking. It’s a mixture of egg and a slurry of unknown spices that makes him gag when first presented with the cup but he drinks it anyway, in the hopes that it would at least aid in him feeling slightly better. 

Hvitserk is sharpening his ax with a whetstone when he enters the main hall. The slow steady sound of metal against stone is a remembrance to the peaceful winter they had spent indoors as a family. 

“Are you coming?” Ubbe asks, adjusting his cloak around his shoulders. Hvitserk grunts in response, taking one last look over his ax before tucking it away in his belt. 

The market is busier than usual. The stalls are all filled, and many merchants have their wares displayed on blankets strewn across the ground. A man hawking his selection of spices with vigor is too loud in his ear but next to him is a variety of cages sporting colorful birds, small songbirds and large feathered beasts that he had never seen before. Hvitserk smiles in his direction just as fascinated by the creatures as he is. 

“There is your princess,” Hvitserk says, nodding down the road. He is only able to catch the tail end of Eir as a large cart carrying hefty bags of grain rolls out in front of them.

Two more carts roll by as they wait patiently to continue down the road. Eir will not have seen them, not with a market this busy, and he is not sure, but he thinks there are two young boys taking all of her attention. 

Hvitserk picks up a bright looking vegetable as they wait for the carts to pass by, offering a coin in exchange and then says to Ubbe’s surprise, “You’re a fool if you think you can tell Ylva what to do.” 

He laughs quietly to himself, rolling his eyes as he takes in the sheep skin displayed to his left. Hvitserk must be feeling some kind of guilt after Ylva berated him the evening before, something about promises and being tricked . He can hardly keep up with all the grudges his sister held. 

He turns to his brother, having finally found the words to hopefully explain his situation. “I don’t expect Ylva to be glad that I am choosing a husband for her. I have few other choices.” His mouth pulls in a tight grimace, still able to visualize Ylva after she had heard the news of her betrothal. “I only want to see her safe.”

Hvitserk offers him a weak, half-smile. “Haakon is not as bad as he seems.” 

“He is whelped by Harald,” Ubbe tries not to growl. He catches sight of Eir once more, out of the corner of his eye, and he softens slightly, just enough to not verbally lash out at Hvitserk. She is attempting to wrangle the two young boys, who have to be her brothers with their matching pale blonde hair and round wide eyes. “There can be no good in him. Not for that family.” 

“I’ve met him,” Hvitserk says distractedly as he offers a cheeky grin to two of their mother’s thralls who pass by, heading to the yard to watch the tournament. “He’s not ambitious like his father.” Hvitserk is only half with Ubbe now, instead taken by the beauty of thralls who giggle and smile back at him. 

Ubbe waits. Waits for Hvitserk to come back from whatever fantasy he has transported himself to. It is possible that Hvitserk is just as invested in Ylva’s future as he but his brother’s mind travels from thought to thought like a hummingbird in the spring, elated by each flower it comes across. He has long since mastered the art of patience in the presence of his younger brother. 

He can see Eir down the road, handing off a skewer full of fatty meat to each of the boys at her side. She seems happy to be rid of the food, hands brushing against one another, to try to dust off the tiny particles of residual meat that might have touched her skin. 

Hvitserk nudges Ubbe's shoulder, motioning for them to cross the road now that it is clear of passing carts. Hvitserk’s thumb crosses over his smiling mouth as he glances at Ubbe, then back at the disappearing thralls. “That is without a doubt one of mother’s prettiest thralls. I’d like to-” 

Ubbe stops dead in his tracks, rolling his eyes. “Harald Finehair knows to hide his ambition here. As does this -” Bastard, he wants to say, he waves his hand in the air instead, unwilling to say the boy’s name. “He is the same as his father, no doubt.”  

“Give Ylva some credit,” Hvitserk says, shaking his head in disbelief at Ubbe’s stubborn nature, though it should be of no surprise to him at this point. As the oldest, Ubbe has never been easily swayed. “She is not a child.” 

Ubbe laughs silently to himself, looking up to the sky to keep from openly mocking his brother. Every decision his siblings have made up until this point have been childish. They were not forced to run a kingdom that was not their own. He was the one to take up the burden after Ragnar disappearance, though Aslaug had tried to shield him from it at first but as Bjorn was gone more often than not, she had no choice but to have him at her side. 

By the time he turned fifteen he had sat in at every ting , settled numerous disputes between squabbling landowners and led many of the blόt feasts with his mother. His siblings knew nothing of decision making that came from the head, they all led themselves listlessly with their heart. Desperately he wishes he could have the same luxury but Ragnar's disappearance had left him no choice but to pick up the crown in his stead. 

“Ylva deserves a chance at happiness,” Hvitserk tries again when Ubbe’s reply is delayed. He is either ignoring Ubbe’s mocking gaze or ignorant of it, impatient to finally make it down to the yard where the tournament is taking place. “She is a freewoman,” Hvitserk says, eyes bright at the idea. No one can argue Ylva’s social status. There is no denying the fact. “The daughter of a king.”

“What do you think will happen if Ylva and Haakon marry, have a son?” Ubbe sneers at the idea. “Harald will be there, pushing the child’s lineage to his advantage.” He wipes his hand across his mouth, trying to damper his rising anger. Eir is heading their way, though she seems to be still oblivious to their presence, too invested in trying to keep control of the young boys running circles around her. 

With more tranquility than he thinks he possesses, Ubbe continues, “Harald will raise an army in his name. Come to our shores with many ships, and many men. We will have no choice but to fight. I can not have it. I will not let our family be divided in such a way.” 

Hvitserk shakes his head in disbelief but Ubbe does not care, his gaze caught on Eir’s two brothers who dart forward, heedless of Eir shouting for them to stop. They are trying to race, see who is the faster of the two, oblivious to the rest of the world, barely missing the clattering hooves of a horse trotting past. They run straight for the busy intersecting roads that Ubbe and Hvitserk have just crossed, ignoring a woman who yells in anger when the larger of the two boys races through a puddle of mudd. They do not care that they will be crushed by the incoming cart that barrels down the road, their only care is to be faster than the other sibling. 

Ubbe knows this look well, he has seen it cross Sigurd’s face, and strike like lightning in Ivar’s eyes when he is up to no good, and he swiftly snatches the quicker of the two by the collar of his shirt before he can race past him. Hvitserk lunges forward, scoping the other boy by his belly to stop him, once again in step with his thought process. He lets out a sigh of relief. 

Hvitserk crouches low, asking his captive quietly, laughter playing across his mouth, “what are you doing?” and then laughs loudly when the boy, barely seven years of age, replies with an inconsolable giggle, one that does not stop even as Eir approaches, vehemently scolding her brothers.

“Brynjar!” Eir exclaims, skirts clutched in her hand as she nears. “Arkyn!” She pulls the youngest out of Hvitserk’s grip, shaking him lightly by the shoulders. “You will get yourself killed.” 

“It was Brynjar’s idea,” Arkyn whines, clutched in his sister’s grip. 

Eir sighs heavily, then turns to Hvitserk. “Thank you,” she says with a nod of her head. Slowly, hesitantly, she lifts her face to Ubbe. She opens her mouth to offer her thanks but when no words appear he smiles. There is an awkward tension that has formed between the two of them, one he had not expected, not from her, not after their first few meetings where she had glared at him so unabashedly. 

He lets go of his grip on Brynjar’s shirt, nodding in Eir’s direction. “You are welcome.” 

Eir busies herself with Brynjar, grabbing him first by the face to scold him then by glancing over his clothes, smoothing them out as she goes, much to the annoyance of the boy. 

“Can we go?” Brynjar asks, pushing away his sister’s hands. “I want to see the ax-throwing.”  

“We are headed that way,” Hvitserk says, motioning at Ubbe. “I’m entering the tournament.” 

“Do you know how to throw an ax?” Arkyn asks to Hvitserk’s amusement. “Who are you? What is your name? I might know of your tales. My father has told me many stories of his travels and the famous men he has fought beside.” 

Hvitserk offers his name when the boy finally stops babbling. Eir leans forward to catch her little brother’s ear. “These are King Ragnar’s sons.” 

Arkyn’s eyes grow so large that Ubbe swears they will pop out of his head. Brynjar bounces excitedly between Ubbe and Eir. “You know Ragnar Lothbrok?” Brynjar asks. 

Hvitserk barks out a loud laugh and Ubbe smiles, nodding his head at the boy. “Yes. Hvitserk and I sailed to Frankia with him.” 

“Our father fought in Frankia,” Arkyn replies excitedly, looking up at Hvitserk who is only half listening, eyes focused on the path ahead of them and to that of the tournament. “It was before we were born. He always said -” Arkyn continues to talk, listless to the fact that no one tries to carry on a conversation with him, content to let his words flow without reprimand. 

“Did you sail with your father?” Ubbe asks Eir over Brynjar’s head. The boy is taking a few hurried steps to keep up with Arkyn, not wanting to be left out. 

Eir laughs quietly to herself, shaking her head. “No, he would never allow such a thing.” 

He smiles at her blushing cheeks. “I would have remembered someone like you,” he says, hoping it will deepen the color. 

“I was eleven!” 

Ubbe smiles, shrugging his shoulders. “As was I.”

Skoll is the first to alert Ubbe to Ylva’s presence when the dog stops ahead of Hvitserk and turns to back track. The dog tends to not leave his side unless Hati is nearby. He ignores Skoll as he passes by but Eir, unsteady by the large animal’s presence, sidesteps as Skoll’s dark coat brushes against her skirts. 

Eir steadies her breath once Skoll has passed, falling back in step with Ubbe’s strides. “I have always wondered what it must be like to see so much bloodshed at such a young age?” 

There is a crooked curiosity behind her eyes, one that Ubbe is surprised to see in her. He smiles, leaning over to let her know his secrets though he will surely not tell her the truth. He will not tell her how he watched his father strangle a servant with his bare hands or about the smell of dead bodies as they are being burned. He will tell her none of this, instead resolved to speak of something kinder, possibly even made up. 

He licks his lips, a cheeky response on the tip of his tongue. 

“Hvitserk, I bought you sweet bread,” Ylva interrupts, floating between Ubbe and Eir as if she does not see them. Hvitserk takes a bite of the bread straight from Ylva’s hand. She giggles falling against his chest. 

Hati, excited by each new person in Ylva’s general vicinity, sniffs every foot and toe with care, ignoring Skoll who is nipping at her face eager to play. 

“Where is Ivar?” Ubbe asks Ylva who has fallen into conversation with Hvitserk as if she has not seen him in years. 

“Took a shortcut.” Ylva waves her hand dismissively in Ubbe’s direction. “We will meet him there.” 

Ubbe rolls his eyes, shaking his head at Ylva’s terse reply. He is tempted to offer a clipped response of his own but Eir is watching him so closely he does not trust his words at the moment, not in front of a stranger, not while Ylva is around to goad him.  

“I’ll walk you down to the practice yard,” Ubbe offers to Eir with a nod of his head to the open field at the bottom of the hillside. Eir smiles, a soft thing that turns the corners of her mouth ever so slightly and Ubbe cannot help but smile back at her. 

He wants to stay there, with her smile, ignoring the feeling of Ylva’s pointed stare as it drills tiny holes into the side of his head but he knows she has something to say, whether it is important or not is the least of her worries, she will speak whatever is on her mind. He only hopes it is brief. 

He turns his gaze suddenly to Ylva, catching her off guard. “What?” 

Ylva latches onto Eir’s wrist. “You are beautiful.” Her eyes are dark pools, she is seeing something beyond what Ubbe can, a part of the seiðr in her that he does not understand.

“You’ll need this more than me.” Ylva reveals a spindle small enough to rest in the palm of Eir’s hand. Promptly, Ylva closes Eir’s fingers over the spindle. “Do not go without this.” 

Eir is clearly confused, her brows furrow as she shakes her head. 

Ubbe waves Ylva’s hands from covering Eir’s, getting a closer look at the spindle. His eyes close briefly in annoyance. “A talisman, Ylva?” 

“I made it for myself,” Ylva says, finally meeting Ubbe’s gaze for the first time in days. “To protect myself.” She glances back at Hvitserk who is only half interested in their conservation, instead busying himself with Eir’s two brothers, pulling out his ax for them to inspect. Ylva is also trying to avoid an uncomfortable topic. She shifts unsteadily on her feet. She has never enjoyed speaking of seiðr . 

“I made it to protect myself -” she says again, licking her lips, she hesitates to continue. “Against men,” she finishes, catching Ubbe’s eye pointedly, as if to say: I would not have gone to such extremes if it were not for you . “But I feel that she” - Ylva flicks her chin in Eir’s direction. “- may need it more.” Ylva’s gaze slides across his face once more - you are what she needs protecting from - her fiery visage says. 

Eir inspects the gift for a moment longer before offering her thanks, though she hardly knows what Ylva has offered her. “I’ll keep it with me.” 

Ubbe gives a grunt of approval, though it comes out as half a laugh. His sister is so fickle he cannot decide if he trusts her or not. For a moment he wishes Aslaug would send her away, to their grandparents or some other relative to be their ward for at least a year so that he might not have to deal with her but Ylva has refused to travel without at least one of them by her side since Ragnar disappearance. 

Even now he remembers the first summer after Ragnar left. His plans to visit Bjorn in Hedeby, a time meant to be training with his eldest brother and Lagertha and her famous shieldmaidens, instead thwarted by Ylva who had cried so vehemently that Ubbe was certain she would dissolve into a puddle. She had pleaded to come along, tears streaming down her face, though she was twelve years of age, same as him, far too old to be acting so childish. Ubbe had long since given up crying over the things he wanted, having been cuffed over the ear a few too many times by Ragnar at only the ripe old age of seven. 

She had ended up being such a nuisance to him that summer, teaming up with Bjorn to play a litany of pranks on him and Hvitserk, even though he had taken pity on her tear filled eyes. Ubbe had sworn to never trust women again. That particular sentiment had changed, he still did not trust Ylva not to try to trick him.  

He reaches for her shoulder. He had just as many tricks up his sleeves. “Stay with us,” he smiles, flicking his chin over to the yard where their mother is waiting for them, seated on a grand chair surrounded by many thralls and shieldmaidens. She is glowing in the rising sun, swathed in a dark blue cloak with the fur pelt Ubbe had purchased from one of the emissaries from Finland. Aslaug seems to sense him and turns her head to her two eldest children, smiling. A smile that says she knows all, both as a mother, and a völva. A smile that silently tells Ylva to behave. “There are many jarls you have not met.”

“Oh, yes.” Eir, smiles, glancing between the two siblings, oblivious to the tension rising. “It is so many responsibilities hosting such a crowd. My family’s home is near Uppsala, we have a great celebration for Sígrblót. There is so much feasting and many many people always coming, wanting to talk.” 

Ubbe’s fingers press into Ylva’s shoulder. See how well-bred a woman can be. He smiles to himself, Ylva will never be well behaved. She desperately wants to shrug off his touch, he can feel it through the fire she directs at him but she smiles at Eir, nodding her head respectfully. 

“I’ll walk with you, brother,” Ylva says sweetly between gritted teeth.

Eir is trying to avoid Hati and Skoll who are wrestling before her. Ylva calls out to Hati, trying to get the dog under control, but is ignored, and Ubbe has to snap a command at Skoll before any peace will be found. 

“What happened to you?” Ubbe hears Hvitserk ask. His tone is lazy and uninterested in the answer. Ylva briefly glances at Hvitserk and then cries out in surprise. “Sigurd!” 

Completely forgetting about controlling Hati she is at Sigurd’s side, cradling his face in her hands.  

“He’s fucking crazy,” Sigurd articulates between clenched teeth. Ylva pulls a handkerchief from the folds of her skirt, dabbing it against Sigurd’s bloody nose. Irritatedly he pushes her hand away. “He attacked me out of nowhere.”  

Ylva is motioning to Hvitserk, she knows he has a flask tucked away at his belt and he offers it over reluctantly. She dabs the soaked handkerchief once again to Sigurd’s nose. He hisses in pain, swiping the cloth from her hand and applying it himself. 

“Must have really pissed him off,” Hvitserk says, touching the bloody piece of Sigurd’s ear that is split. 

“I did nothing,” Sigurd growls in response. “I called him a twat but that -”

“Sigurd,” Ylva scolds. “He’s your brother, you cannot.”

Sigurd rolls his eyes, waving between Ubbe and Ylva. “You cannot say anything.”  

Ubbe pushes Sigurd’s flapping hand away, grabbing his chin to closer inspecting his swelling nose. “You’ll have a crooked nose now,” he muses knowingly, then raises an eyebrow at Hvitserk who laughs in agreement. 

“I’m going home.” Sigurd shakes his head, pushing past Ubbe. “This is stupid.” 

“No,” Ylva says, latching onto his wrist. “Stay, it will be more fun with you.” 

“I won’t deal with him,” Sigurd says, motioning to Ivar who has found a spot next to their mother. 

“Ignore him,” Ubbe suggests with a shrug of his shoulders. Hvitserks offers Sigurd a swig from his flask. 

“Easy for you to say,” Sigurd bites out between the sting of the alcohol coating his mouth and throat. 

“Sigurd, please.” Ylva tugs on his sleeve and Hvitserk wraps his arm around his little brother’s neck leading him towards the yard. 

“I want to practice against you,” Hvitserk smiles at Sigurd. “It will give me confidence, hm?” 

Sigurd shoves at Hvitserk’s chest and Ylva opens her mouth as if to stop them but is cut off by someone calling her name.

“Ylva.” Her name is like honey on Vikar’s lips, causing Ylva’s back to straighten like a board, to forget her brothers, and her duty and the talisman she has just given away to some stranger. Vikar is so happy to see her, and Ubbe has to keep a laugh from lunging out of his mouth. 

“You look terrified, sister.” Ubbe nods at Vikar who is approaching. He is dressed neatly in his white shirt and polished boots. There is a twig sticking out of Ylva’s braid and the sleeves of her dress are dirty from seiðr. “Not afraid of your fate, are you?” 

“I’ll not endure your baiting, brother,” Ylva bites back. “Don’t forget I used to best you.”

“I’m a bit larger than when we were seven,” Ubbe says with a nod of his head. “You think you will wrestle me to the ground now?” 

“Possibly,” Ylva huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. 

Ubbe’s brow raises in her direction. “You told me you would try,” he quietly reminds her of her promise to him but she seems reluctant to bend to his will so easily. He thinks that she might walk away, ignore Vikar completely. “Don’t try me,” he says even quieter than before. Ylva might have played her fair of tricks on him growing up but he has no qualms against embarrassing in front of the whole of the crowds surrounding them.

She shakes her head of the little fantasies that are building inside and turns on her heel to greet Vikar, to Ubbe’s surprise, kindly.

There was a time in Ylva’s life, before Ragnar disappearance, not long after her brothers sailed to Frankia for the last time, that she wanted nothing more than to leave Kattegat, explore the unknown world like Bjorn or raid the English countryside with Ubbe. She had always imagined her life far away from her homeland full of rich beautiful scenery and people of all shapes and sizes, each one more different than the last. 

She realizes as Vikar drones on about his home that it is not much different from her own. Situated at the mouth of a fjord, their ports are larger than Kattegat, with more ships than she can even fathom. A place parallel to her own, so similar yet so different. A place without her family. Without her brothers who drive her absolutely insane, Floki and Helga who helped raise her, and her friends who have become like sisters to her. 

She realizes as Vikar asks her about her own interests that she has always imagined leaving Kattegat surrounded by the ones she loves the most. 

Ubbe will laugh at her, as he did when noticed the small look of terror clear on her features as Vikar called out her name. He will laugh even harder when she tells him that she cannot leave her family behind, that she loves them each too dearly to ever depart from them. He is too caught up in the beauty that is Eir to recognize her pointed looks of despair she tries to direct at him. Too distracted by Hvitserk’s ax-throwing or their mother’s subtle comments about a certain king whose gregarious nature easily attracts any within his vicinity. 

“How are the kittens faring?” Vikar asks. Hati is perched next to Ylva, long pink tongue panting in the heat of the day. Ylva looks at her for a moment. Where were the cats? Possibly her maid had taken them, to the kitchen perhaps, where there was no end to the mice that terrorized the cellars. 

“They are happy,” Ylva finally replies, stroking Hati’s head so that she does not have to look Vikar in the eyes as she lies. She steps towards her mother and Vikar follows, hands clasped behind his back as he speaks of the summer home his father gifted him the year before, maybe the cats could live there when the time came . Ylva nods her head, sitting next to Ivar who hardly acknowledges either of their presence, though Ylva has a few choice words stored away about the bruise blossoming across his cheek bone. 

“Are you going to participate?” Aslaug asks Vikar from across Ivar, who is quietly sulking in his seat, glaring conspiratorially towards Sigurd. Their brother, ignoring Ivar completely, has moved into his drinks with Hvitserk who is laughing at something he said before throwing his ax at the target. They clash their cups together when Hvitserk’s ax lands in the middle. 

“Yes,” Vikar says with a nod, pulling out his ax to show off the handle. “I bought it new only today.” He smiles happily as Aslaug fawns over the intricate carvings along the wood. 

“That was stupid.” Ivar all but growls under his breath. “You won’t know the weight of it,” Ivar explains with a roll of his eyes when Vikar does not catch on to his meaning. One of his throwing knives is clutched between his fingers, twirling it twice before tucking it away in his pocket. 

“I am sure you are desperate to participate,” Vikar says with a sad smile, eyes full of pity for the cripple seated before him. “Of course you could do the axe throwing, the wrestling maybe.” He shrugs his shoulders noncommittally, uncertain of Ivar’s potential. “But the foot -”  

The thud of an ax lodging into the ground next to Vikar’s feet halts him. 

“Sorry!” Sigurd calls out, jogging over as he apologies. “Should watch where I’m throwing next time,” he says to Vikar, his eyes are dark as he searches Vikar’s face, pulling the blade from the hard packed ground with a solid tug. “Wouldn’t want to accidentally maim someone.” 

Ylva refuses to look any of her siblings in the eyes, knowing if she even peeks at any one of their expressions she will burst into a fit of laughter, knowing full well that Sigurd never misses his target.

Chapter Text

The sons of Ragnar seem to surround him. Everywhere he turns he sees another, standing next to him, watching him, looking at him with disgust. Haakon does not know if it is the mushrooms Eric had shoved into his mouth earlier that evening or the recent events that makes him so acutely aware of the brothers but in all the years he has spent in Kattegat he has never felt their presence weigh so heavily. 

The crowds pulse as Haakon makes his way through, searching out Eric. The bonfire blazes bright at the center drawing everyone’s eyes but Haakon turns away, the flames lick too intensely at his face. 

The blόt that evening is the first in a series to be performed, one for each day of the tournament plus another larger more grand ceremony before sailing to the Mediterranean. 

The lust for blood is high, an innate desire to prove their worthiness to the gods. Haakon can taste it on his tongue as he moves through the crowds; they way they seem to vibrate with anticipation for a single drop of spilled blood, the ache to fight, the need to raid tight in each of their chests and bellies, it grows, all winter long, until it almost becomes too unbearable to contain. Haakon tries to ignore the sensation but even he does not know if he can withhold the deep seeding feeling much longer. 

The last of the sails to be finished flutters in the wind, catching Haakon’s eye. The threads that make up the sail seem to glow in the light of the bonfire, like flames licking at the night sky, ready to be unleashed. It is a reminder of what needs to be completed before their journey is to begin, though already he feels as if he has started and finished a thousand journeys as he searches for his brother. 

Haakon finds Eric at the front of the crowd gathered before the sacrifice, his gaze drawn to the sharp edges of the blade as it slices through the lamb’s neck, though he nods in acknowledgment of Haakon. 

Subsequently the youngest son of Ragnar appears out of thin air, like some kind of curse, Haakon cannot escape their presence. Ivar seats himself next to Haakon during the blόt ceremony, ignoring Haakon altogether. Not that he would be able to find words to speak, especially not Ylva’s youngest brother, who seems to covet the mind above all.

There was a time, many many summers ago, before sailing to Frankia with his father, before the blood and constant death had changed him, he had played with Ylva and Ivar in the streets of Kattegat. Haakon frowned, glancing briefly at the young man seated beside him. Ivar would have only been six years of age, still small enough to be carried around. The rain the night before left the roads thick with puddles of mud. Ylva had tirelessly worked to pull her youngest brother in his cart. Ivar wanted to play outside and his sister was always willing to give into his every wish. Haakon had helped, seeing a chance to spend the day with a girl who was enchanting him more and more with each passing moment. He pushed behind the cart until Ylva could no longer muster the strength to pull. They had switched, back and forth, all day long, laughing and giggling, all the while Ivar yelled to go faster. 

The memory comes to him in an unbidden surprise. He smiles, glancing down at Ivar but he does not recognize him or pretends not to, like most, the years that followed after the battle of Frankia had changed them. Ivar had fought no battles but he had struggled through boyhood without a father, wrought with a pain no one could fix. 

Haakon focuses his gaze on the gothi who chants to the gods, his counterpart splashing blood on the gathered crowds.The gothi stops for Eric and Haakon, a gesture of respect to King Harald Finehair’s heir and son, allowing them to dip their fingers in the bowl, a chance to become closer to the gods. The blood is thick and warm on the tips of his fingers, and as he drags it across his lips, he has a sense of heightened awareness of all around him. 

Haakon stops the gothi nodding to Ivar, seated on the crate next to him. The gothi , surprised to see Ivar, bows low, offering the bowl without a word. 

Ivar waits, irritation clear on his dark features, letting the gothi hover in this extended position for a moment longer before dipping his hands in the bowl, flicking blood across his neck and chest, dragging a thumb across his lips, then flicks the final droplets back to the gothi , dismissing him. 

The gothi stays bent even at the insult and as he moves away, never quite making eye contact with Ivar. He trips over his own two feet, barely catching himself at the last moment. Laughter cracks out of Haakon’s mouth, either out of terror of the youngest son of Ragnar or amusement, he does not know but Ivar is gone from Haakon's view before he can make heads or tail of his mood. 

A tingling sensation spreads across Haakon’s hands and the tips of his fingers. He glances at them briefly but when he looks up again the crowds have shifted away, moving instead to fill their bellies with the meat of the slaughtered lamb and dark ale. 

Eric is nearby, Haakon finds him by his laughter that seems to sing to him, drawing him near until he sees his brother’s smiling face, offering him a cup of ale. 

“The gods are here tonight,” Eric says in greeting, tapping his cup to Haakon’s. 

“Yes,” Haakon says slowly, nodding his head. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, trying to find use of his words again. He may have been looking at his hands longer than he anticipated. “They are,” he says slowly. 

Eric laughs, wide mouth pointing to the sky and then he loops his arm across Haakon’s shoulders pulling him in. “You and I will rule these lands together one day,” Eric whispers into his ear. 

Haakon frowns, peering at Eric’s face in question. Surely he could not be speaking the truth. 

“The gods have shown it to me.” Eric smiles, showing off his canines. “Eric Bloodaxe. Haakon the Good. We will do what father could not. Unite Norway.” 

Haakon cannot keep his eyes from fluttering in their father’s direction. Harald catches sight of his only sons’ heads turned in together, like when they were young boys, up to no good. Their father holds a secret smile in the corner of his mouth for Haakon, nodding appreciatively in his direction. 

Haakon scratches at his beard, uncertain if he should fall for his brother’s slick words. “Yes, that is the hope.” 

“Promise,” Eric says, nodding to the pyre full of sacrifices to the gods. “Nothing will come between us.” 

Haakon searches Eric’s face, trying to find a hint of the incursion of drugs they had consumed earlier together. His brother’s eyes are bright, clear, as if he truly is seeing the makings of the gods. 

“If we don’t have each other’s back we have nothing.” Eric levels his gaze with him. “You will be my advisor. You may be-” he searches the crowds around him, briefly glancing at his warriors who are never far from his side - “the only one I can trust.” 

Haakon nods his head. “Yes,” his voice a breathy whisper in the cool night air. 

Eric grins, tapping Haakon’s cheek appreciatively. Haakon drowns the rest of his cup in one deep draught, gesturing for more before he has finished swallowing.

Ubbe does not know how it happens, how he finds Eir in a sea of blonde and gold. He is certain the Norns have tied their threads together when he sees her standing alone at the ceremony. 

He has a gift for her but she scowls upon seeing him, as if he has invited himself into a space that is wholly her own. He raises a brow in her direction, asking for permission in. She waits a moment, considering her options before slowly nodding her head. 

“I have something for you,” he says, offering a wrapped bundle for her to take. 

Eir frowns. “What is it?” 

Ubbe can not help but laugh at her skepticism. He unwraps the small package, showing her the contents inside. She picks up what looks like dried meat, holding it up to the light of the bonfire, inspecting it closer. 

“I would not trick you,” he says sincerely. 

Timidly, she takes a small bite of the end, letting it sit in her mouth a moment before she chews. Her eyes grew wide with wonder. 

“It's some kind of mushroom,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders. He has no idea how the kitchen made it. A smile spreads across his face, happy to see that she likes it. Hvitserk had tried it earlier in the day but his brother had always enjoyed any food he put in his mouth so he was unsure if it was truly good. “I had one of the kitchen girls make it for you.” 

“I love it,” Eir says, taking another larger bite. “She will have to give the recipe to my maid so that she can take it home.”

“Yes,” Ubbe says, crossing his arms across his chest. “Or you could have it here.”

He is slowly realizing that this will not be the last meal they share together. That this is the start of a long list of recipes that will have to be created for her. That he will have to find a way to satiate his desire for hunting and her love of animals. That his house will become hers, where she can eat whatever it is that she pleases. 

The winds shift, blowing blonde strands against her face. Ubbe moves to brush them aside so that he can see her face clearly. She is frowning, her nose scrunched in disgust, she turns downwind to be away from the breeze. 

He flicks his chin in her direction, hums out a questioning note, thumb brushing across her ear. 

“The smell,” she shakes her head, not quite meeting his eye. “I cannot stand it.” 

Ubbe glances at the fire blazing bright and beyond that to the pig carcass roasting on a spit. “Do you want to go elsewhere?”

“No,” she says, nose still wrinkled. “It is fine.” 

Ubbe laughs, motioning to the alleyway to her left and beyond that the street that leads to the shore, where they could be alone. “I know a spot where no one will bother us.” 

Eir bites her lip, considering his offer before nodding her head. 

“I have to tell you something first.” Her hand rests tenderly on his wrist, holding him arrested. He turns to her so that she might have his full attention. “My father, he made -'' Eir stops. Jaw gone slack. Eyes wide in terror. She screams suddenly, a terrible sound. He reaches out, grabbing hold of her, to comfort her from whatever pain is causing her such terror but she shakes her head, pointing behind him.

Eric Bloodaxe is two sides of a coin. Which face will bear its teeth today? Haakon hardly knows moment to moment. He wonders if Eric even remembers his promise earlier in the evening. 

“If you look at her one more time,” Eric sneers. “I will cut your eyes out myself.” He smiles when one of his warriors laughs in amusement. “Or I’ll have Herleif do it. You have nothing better to do.” Eric flicks the shell of the nut he has been picking at in Herleif's direction. 

Haakon shoots a look of contempt in Eric’s direction before biting out through clenched teeth, “How many gifts can one man afford?” 

His fists curl at his side, trying not to blatantly point in Víkar’s direction. The boy is placing a large pelt of fur around Ylva’s shoulders, over the fox pelts Ubbe gifted her that Yule, the same gift she cherished over any other piece of clothing she owned but Víkar would not know this, not the way Haakon does. “He wears finer clothes than us all. His father is only a jarl.” 

“A jarl who wants his grandson to be king,” Eric says, knowingly. 

Haakon’s mouth twitches in irritation, wishing Ylva would allow him to talk to his father. Harald would have no qualms in marrying them, regardless of Ubbe’s wishes. He might even encourage it. 

“What will you do, hm?” Eric asks mockingly, “Kill him?” His hand has traveled to his belt, fingers almost touching the knife tucked away there, as if Haakon only needs to give the signal and he will slice open Víkar’s throat for him.  Haakon can feel the gazes of Eric’s men as they watch him, mocking him with their sparkling eyes and twisting mouths, though they say nothing. 

“I have killed before.” Haakon’s eyes drift to their father who is talking with Bjorn and Halfdan. 

“Killed to appease father.” Eric is not impressed, wiping the ale off of his mouth, as he peers at Harald. “Sail with me. I will show you death.” 

“I will sail with father to the Mediterranean.” Haakon does not meet Eric’s gaze at his declaration. 

Eric barks out a harsh laugh, sitting back in his seat. He motions to Herleif to hand over the pitcher of ale he has been hoarding. “There is no act of greatness you can accomplish to keep his gaze away from Bjorn.” Haakon scowls, whipping back to glare at Eric but he is too busy filling his cup to care. Quietly, head bent, as if their father is listening, as if the gods are listening and will make Eric’s statement even more true. “He wishes Bjorn was his.” 

“Bjorn has seen many battles with father,” Haakon says knowingly, as if he has repeated this mantra a million times in his head. 

“I sailed to Frankia,” Eric says angrily in the rim of his cup. “I fought with him.” 

Haakon shrugs his shoulders at Eric’s claim. “They have shed more blood together than you and he ever will.” 

“It is only because he is Ragnar’s. Wants anything that is Ragnar’s.” Eric's mouth twists in a sneer. He waves a careless hand in Harald’s direction. “Go ahead, fuck him already.” 

“Or Lothbrok fucks him,” Herleif jests coyly by Eric’s side.  

Eric spits in Herleif’s direction, lip curling in agitation. “Say it again.” 

Herleif turns his cheek, not daring to repeat himself. Eric is annoyed now, and his men, knowing better than to push him, sit in silence as they take in the festivities. 

“I heard he was Rollo’s,” Herleif tries again, flicking his chin in Bjorn’s direction. Bjorn has pulled Ylva into half a hug, kissing the side of her head, before motioning lewdly to Víkar. 

These sons of Ragnar seem to be encroaching on Haakon’s space with each passing moment, though it is their town and their ceremony and their father’s crown all to call their own, he feels the sense of it is suffocating him, keeping him from being with the one person he was destined to be with. 

Eric laughs loudly at Herleif’s statement. “Probably,” he agrees, taking a long sip of his ale, eyes scanning the crowds around them. “Your little jarl is going to steal your wife,” Eric sings mockingly, nodding in Ylva and Víkar’s direction. 

Víkar is pushing a strand of hair off of Ylva’s cheek, a smile twisting on his mouth, a sense of fondness spreading across his face. Haakon cannot stand the sight of it any longer. He drowns the last of his drink, tossing the cup away without care. 

Haakon approaches Ylva, either out of drunkenness or stupidity, he does not know. Vaguely, he can sense Eric following him at a distance but he does not care. He only needs to be near Ylva, tell her how much he loves her and when she whispers it back, as she always had, he will feel better. He will be able to make it through one more night without her by his side. 

“Ylva.” Her name does not so much as slip off of his tongue as he hears Eric’s man laugh loudly. 

“Look at this cripple crawling!”

Eric barks out a laugh, leaning over to mock Ivar in his face. Herleif cackles like a coyote, sharp, and harsh, edged on to entertain Eric, to show off to the men around him. Haakon almost cannot look away from the scene they are creating with their loud crowing. It is only Ylva's pleading voice that tears him away.

“Haakon,” Ylva whispers. She does not touch him though she reaches out for his forearm, the space between them is a growing ocean. All he wanted to do was tell her that he loved her.

He will kill him - Ylva's eyes are full of fear. Haakon hisses between clenched teeth. The last thing he needs is his brother dying at the hands of a son of Ragnar, not after he had promised to rule their father's kingdom together. He turns on his heels, looping an arm around Eric’s waist to pull him two steps aside. 

“Look at this cripple,” Herleif hollers in amusement. “Can you believe, they let this thing -” 

Live? Leave the house? Haakon does not get the chance to hear whatever idiotic statement Herleif has to say, the knife plunged between shoulder and neck kills him almost instantaneously, falling to the ground with a heavy thud. Ivar does not even look surprised to have killed him though he is barely out of boyhood. His mouth twitches in amusement as blood soaks into the hard packed earth.  

Haakon is at a loss for words, his throat seizing up. Eric stills under his grip, as tight as a bow string and Haakon worries that he will snap.  

A flash of glossy fur shoots past them, pulling them both out of their daze. Heavy jaws rip into the tender flesh of Herleif’s bloodied neck. Ubbe does not attempt to stop Skoll from leaving his side, from tearing apart the flesh of their friend. Haakon shoots Ubbe a look of contempt. They had known Herleif since they were children, playing together with wooden swords in the streets of Vestfold. 

Haakon can hear Hati’s whining and Ylva as she whispers her commands to the dog to behave, crouching low, arms wrapped around her neck. He can see the faint outlines in the corner of his eye as Víkar places a hesitant hand on Ylva’s shoulder. 

He swallows the heavy lead still stuck in his throat, turning his gaze instead to focus on his brother. 

Haakon grips Eric’s shirt, searching his face. Herleif had sworn an oath to Eric, and in return Eric had seared his emblem on his chest, won him more gold than he had been born to, promised more glory than a simple whaler could ever obtain, as he had done with all his warriors. Eric could be cruel but he had always protected those who followed him. 

His brother's laughter is the blithe reminder of that cruelty. It strikes like lightning in Haakon’s belly, turning his blood cold. 

Eric is laughing at Ivar, eyes locked. Laughing at the unpredictability of the world, at Ivar’s cheap trick of a kill. Haakon worries, even more so, that Eric is laughing at the thought of revenge, of killing Ivar when he least expects it, the same way he did to his childhood friend. The thought brightens up his eyes, deepens his laughter before he directs it at the moon, howling at it manically. Haakon can feel the gaze of each son of Ragnar as he grips on to his brother, tugging him away from Ivar, away from the crowds that watch them in horror. 

He can see Bjorn’s frowning face, hands resting on his belt as he looks cautiously at their father, wondering if insanity runs deep in their blood. Out of the corner of his eyes he can glimpse Hvitserk who is sharing a look of confusion with Sigurd, and almost hear Ivar as he breathes out bouts of angry fire, sweat dripping from his brow. Above all the glances of pity and horror and confusion is that of Ubbe Ragnarsson, arms crossed over his chest, mouth pulled into a tight grimace. He need not say anything. His dog is still ripping into the flesh of their childhood friend, jaws dripping with blood, even as tears run down the face of Princess Eir.

Haakon knows, in that moment, that whatever small sliver of a chance he had with Ylva is slowly dissolving into thin air.  

Chapter Text

Eir had never been good at spinning wool, nor weaving for that matter, but as the daughter of a king she has to keep up appearances, or at least, her mother thinks so. 

She had tried to learn, every winter, after the last of the harvest had been gathered and all there was left to do was spin and tell stories and daydream about spring. It is something about the way the wool rubs against the pads of her fingers until they are puffy and red, or how her knuckles swell from twisting awkwardly all day that she does not enjoy.

Her mother told her she would never be able to find herself a suitable husband if she did not learn to spin. Yet, here she was, two engagements in three days, and none of them are based on her spinning skills. 

Her maid, Ellie, starts her first spool, handing it off to Eir once she has it going. It does not take long for Eir to become frustrated, the once smooth fabric becoming bunched and rough under her touch. 

“Silk suits me better,” Eir declares to no one in particular. 

“I would dress you in the finest silks,” a voice leers from behind, startling her.

Eric Bloodaxe. King Harald Finehair’s heir. The man her father is indebted to. Trading her instead of his beloved ships to make up for his debt. He is her betrothed now. She tries not to openly grimace at the idea. She takes one decided step back, checking over her shoulder, as if to see if someone will magically appear to save her from this man. 

No one seems to care. 

It is a beautiful day, one meant to be spent outside. Queen Aslaug has gathered the women in the courtyard, just beyond the shadows of the Great Hall to spin wool and collectively work on the final touches of the sails her step-son needs for his voyage. Ellie whispered tales of Eric Bloodaxe as they walked from their camp to the courtyard that morning. Stories that sent a chill up Eir’s spine. Hall burning. She did not even want to imagine the suffering the inhabitants had to endure because of Eric’s cruelty. 

His laughter from the night before still echoes in her head. 

Eir takes pains to look anywhere but at him as he moves half a step in. Beyond the courtyard a man is selling some kind of broiled meat, the smell wafts in her direction, curling in her nostrils and unsettling her stomach. What do humans smell like as they are burning? Eric would know. 

“I am hunting tomorrow,” he says, tapping the hilt of his sword as he eyes her appreciatively. “I’d like you to accompany me.” He does not seem to mind that Eir is ignoring him. He smiles down at her, not waiting for her reply. “I’ll be at your tent in the morning to collect you.” 

Eir’s stomach drops. The last thing she wants to do is go hunting. She dares to meet Eric’s gaze, defiance rolling across her features but he does not strike her as someone who cares to hear her thoughts on the morality of hunting animals. He will have his way whether she likes it or not. She bobs her head, hoping to find an excuse to not join him before the following day.

An excuse does not come. Eir is not certain she even knows how to openly lie. So badly she wants to be brave, like the shield maidens in the tales told around the hearth fire or at the grand feasts her father holds in honor of such women but she doesn't think she will ever hold such a power. She can feel Ylva’s talisman, tucked away in her belt. It digs into her hip bone as she follows the single-track trail along the creek.

Even as she glances at Eric in the shade of the pine trees she does not think she can muster any courage to speak her mind. 

She wants to tell him that she hates this. Stalking animals for sport. Killing for nourishment. There are other ways she wants to scream. But she does not know how to voice such opinions without dissolving into dust under Eric’s critical gaze. Ylva would never let a man boss her around like this. 

He is not all that scary; Eir tries to convince herself as she walks next to him. He has his father’s eyes, she notes, boyish and bright, sparking with amusement even when she frets over doe across the clearing. 

“What if she has a babe nearby?” She doesn’t mean to reach out for him but he seems endeared by her grip at the crook of his elbow as he raises his bow. Or worse, one still in her belly? 

“You are sweet,” he quips. Sweet is not the same as brave , she muses darkly. 

He taps her chin lovingly, a soft smile hiding under the dark whiskers of his mustache as he gazes at her appreciatively. His facial hair is darker than the mousy blonde hair tied back from his face, it falls in long thick strands down his back. He would style it before he left for the raid, like the other men, prime and ready to meet the Aesir in the halls of Valhalla if they died in battle.

He is tall, broad shouldered, like his mother’s people he tells her as they walk the well worn path of the forest. His mother was brave, Eir knows this. Ragnhild the Mighty . No one doubted her bravery on the battlefield and in the bed. She had forced Harald to reject all his other wives and concubines for her. Eric is the result of such bravery, of her boldness.  

Eir cannot help but find the tales of his mother enduring. He speaks of her as though she was a goddess, walking among their people, trapped in a human form.

"She was the epitome of kindness, with wisdom beyond her years," he says tenderly, thumb strumming against the string of his bow. 

"Your father was a lucky man to have found her," Eir says, glancing briefly at his face as she speaks. Had she not been so recently informed of his history of hall burning she might have found him attractive, instead she tries not to shake at the mere sight of him. 

He laughs, "you are sweet."

He does not know how sweet she truly is until he takes down the stag later in the day. The animal had taken three brave steps after the arrow struck, before falling with a heavy thud to the ground, large antlers shaking the brush around its head. 

His kohl rimmed eyes stare at her in question as tears leak unbidden down her cheeks. 

“Start a fire,” he states brusquely, nodding to the fallen branches behind her. He seems annoyed with her when only moments ago was weakened by her soft nature. “You’ll cook while I work.” 

She manages to make a fire, with shaky hands and the help of a piece of flint tossed her way when Eric notices her struggle. The talisman is digging into her belly as she crouches. The moisture in the ground soaking into her dress. The cold seeps past her wool stockings and deep into her bones causing a chill to take over. 

“Good,” Eric acknowledges, standing from his work at the sternum of the stag, where he has been carefully cracking open the carcass, letting its slippery entrails spill across the forest floor. “You can cook this,” he says, offering over a bloody organ the size of his fist. 

Eir can feel the bile rise in her throat. In an attempt to drown out the sound of him gutting the stag she hums the tune of an old nursery rhyme but now faced with the sight of animal blood dripping between his fingers and onto the leaf strewn ground she feels as if she might pass out. She inhales deeply through her mouth, trying to bypass the smell, hoping to receive enough oxygen to her brain to let her think. Think about how she will diplomatically reply to Eric’s demand. His patience with her is running thin and his added hunger is not aiding in his tolerance for her behavior. 

“I-I,” she stammers, hoping words will come faster than the vile threatening to heave from her throat.  

“Eric!” A voice calls from a distance, surprising them both. 

“Haakon,” Eric purrs happily, the same boyish grin that had brightened his face earlier shines through at the sight of his younger brother approaching. “I knew you’d find us. How was the tournament?” 

“Good,” Haakon smiles pleasantly at his older brother before eyeing Eir suspiciously. She is attempting to hide her shivering frame, extending her hands to warm by the fire but Haakon’s curious gaze is all seeing and he frowns as he takes in the scene before him. 

Eric claps his brother’s back with his free hand. “I knew it would go well for you, always the fastest in Vestfold,” he says, while extending the bloody organ in Eir’s direction. “Princess Eir was just about to cook the liver for us.” 

The smile on Haakon’s mouth is a tight line as he acknowledges Eir, bowing slightly to her. “Princess,” he greets her tersely. 

Eir cannot force a smile in return. Had she possessed enough of her mind she might have stood, asked him more about the tournament, about his health or his father, anything to distract her from the blood but she cannot form a single word without also spilling the contents of her breakfast. She has never officially met the bastard son of King Harald Finehair. She heard his name whispered that morning among the women as they gushed over who would win the tournament. Haakon and Ubbe’s younger brother, Hvitserk, had been the top two, their agility and good looks among the few reasons for their success. Forced to face the drying blood of a dead animal is enough to make her forget all good breeding. 

“Eric.” Haakon is not concerned with her manners, scowling at his older brother he says between gritted teeth, “you are scaring the princess.” 

Haakon is unlike his older half brother, with brown curling locks pushed back from his face. His dark beard is a shadow across his jaw and cheeks but as he glances with concern for Eir she sees that they have the same matching blue eyes and dark long lashes. 

“If she is to be my wife,” Eric growls. “She will cook the things I kill.”

Haakon ignores his brother’s proclamation, tugging his cloak off his shoulders to wrap around Eir. Too shocked to offer her thanks, she pulls greedily at the cloak's edges till they wrap tightly across her chest. Eric is all but seething, glancing between Eir and Haakon with an accusatory glare.  

“You’ll make her weak,” Eric bites out, pushing the liver to Eir. She holds it tenderly, unsure what to do next. Eric reaches for Haakon’s forearm as he passes by, attempting to address the fallen stag. It would be nightfall before long and he did not want to be dressing an animal in the dark.  

“She does not like the blood,” Haakon says, nodding to the liver clutched in her open palm. “Don’t you see?” Haakon asks a little quieter this time, motioning to Eir’s frozen state. He does not truly expect his brother to sympathize but hopes that he may be able to tap into the tenderness that is trapped somewhere deep in his brother, a piece that had gone missing some time after his mother’s death, that he may be able to find it for the shivering girl who kneels before them. 

“Is this about Herleif?” Haakon demands, turning his back on Eir. Eric sneers at the mention of their friend’s name. “She has nothing to do with -” Haakon hurriedly defends but is cut off by a snarling Eric. 

“I did not want to watch my friend be murdered before my eyes,” Eric growls between clenched teeth. He motions to Eir, a fresh set of tears are running down her face, hands shaking and suddenly without a word she drops the liver.

Chapter Text

It is quieter out here, on the outskirts of town, and quieter still as he enters the pine forest, leaving him secluded to his mind that as of late seems to yell at him in contempt. The dark needles of the pine trees block most of the morning sun, and it is cooler in the shade. He picks up his pace trying to warm his body and out race his thoughts. 

With Hvitserk gone from his side, competing in the foot race of the tournament, the silence seems even louder than usual. He had contemplated asking Ylva to join him but she will not even bother herself with lifting her gaze to him. He does not know what is worse, the silence or her fiery visage?

Hvitserk, he begrudgingly admits, would not be any better company than their sour-faced sister. More protective of Ylva than usual, he had chastised Ubbe for forcing her hand in marriage. 

At least consider Haakon. He’s a good man. He is not like his brother. 

Ubbe frowns. What did Hvitserk know about Harald Finehair’s bastard son? Harald all but salivated anytime he looked upon Kattegat’s throne. Any child whelped by such an ambitious man could be no different. 

There is a twinge of betrayal that sits between the spaces of his rib cage, heavy and burdensome. Hvitserk, out of all his siblings, has always seen eye to eye with him. Yet, Ylva, cunning as a fox, knew how to work over her brothers with one tearful-eyed look. If she hadn’t trapped Hvitserk in her scheming then she would have just as soon turned Bjorn or Ivar against him. 

He kneels, checking a trap he had set a week earlier. Most of the snow had melted among the pine trees but the moisture trapped in the fallen needles at its base soaked through his pants.

He had to be careful. If Ylva was determined she would turn half of his family against him by the day’s end. Ivar could be relentless when he set his mind to something, and if on the off chance he somehow manages to involve Sigurd - the two would have Víkar dead in his own bed before the next full moon. 

The trap is empty, though he isn’t surprised. Most of the hares this time of year are buried in their homes, nursing their young until the weather is warm enough to venture out. The tracks of a bear amble near his trap. More than likely the bear had headed to the river, where the fish swim freely, one of the first places in the spring to find a meal. His plans to only check the traps and head back to town are deterred when a flock of geese fly overhead. He takes the shot almost without thought, bow in his hand before he knows it, successfully taking down two geese. 

The root cellars are getting low, his mother mentions this to him earlier in the day, as he is breaking his fast. He almost doesn’t hear her over Hvitserk slurping his porridge or Ivar and Sigurd’s bickering. She says it so casually, as if the spirits living in the hearth will magically refill the store. He knows better. No spirits or gods will see their bellies full. There is a place by the creek under the spruce pines where some edible mushrooms grow. If he could harvest enough of those - 

He stops. There are two sets of tracks running along the creek, one smaller than the other. 

He finds himself following the tracks without thought. If Skoll was by his side he might have already sniffed out their location. He hopes to only accidentally stumble across two lovers caught up in the moment but his gut tells him otherwise. 

Why had he not seen Eir with his mother’s people that morning? Aslaug had mentioned, as she turned in for the night, a slight smile hidden in her mouth, Princess Eir would return in the morning to help finish the last sail but he had not seen her among the women gathered in the courtyard. 

He can sense more than hear where the faux-lovers have disappeared. It is mostly quiet among the birch trees. Only the first of the song birds returning from their winter travels make an discernable noise. They sing their tunes nearby but beyond the cluster of trees the birds are all but silent. He tugs at the knife resting at his low back, not quite pulling it free of its sheath, just enough so that he is ready. 

Ready for what? He is unsure as he steps around the last tree that stands between him and the mystery lovers. A snarl snaps out of his throat at the sight before him. 

Eric Bloodaxe. 

He had stormed into the Great Hall the evening before, demanding blood money for the warrior Ivar had foolishly murdered. Ivar’s patience ran thin and even more so with all the drunken fools who swarmed Kattegat as of late, anxious to finally sail to the unknown. Ubbe could not blame Ivar. He too was at wit’s end for the men crowding the streets of their home, but his little brother’s rashness had only caused a deeper divide between the two families. 

Eric demanded more gold than Ubbe thought reasonable for a simple whaler-turned-warrior but his mother submitted, much to Ubbe’s chagrin. Away with Hvitserk visiting Bjorn and Torvi at their home, his mother, defenseless and alone without the protection of her sons, found herself at a disadvantage. Eric, wild-eyed and drunk, blade pointing in her direction, had taken her for all it was worth. 

Skoll was left in her care that morning. Ubbe admonished the warriors sworn to protect her, reluctantly leaving to make certain his family had food on the table that evening. 

Eric, kneeling over the carcass of a stag, its entrails spilling on the forest floor, the smile he wears on his face is enough to send a hot wave of animosity swelling in Ubbe’s chest. His hand leaves his knife, moving to his axe instead. 

The sleeves of Eric’s shirt are rolled up to his elbows, hands and forearms dripping with blood. He is singularly focused on the wet organ he cradles so gently between his palms. 

“- cook the liver for us,” Eric grunts, offering the red mass in an outstretched hand. 

“Princess,” a voice says warmly from beyond his line of sight, then turns sour. “Eric,” it warns lowly. Ubbe frowns, he had only spotted two sets of tracks. 

“If she is to be my wife,” Eric growls. Ubbe can hear him scramble to his feet, the dead underbrush slick beneath his boots. He holds his breath, listening closer. “- You’ll make her weak.” 

“Is this about Herleif?”

Ubbe cannot wait any longer, stepping around the tree. 

Eir sucks in a sharp breath at the sight of him, letting the bloody mass she has been cradling fall to the ground. It plops loudly, fresh blood soaking into the leaves. He tries to hide any surprise that he feels at the sight of her here in the woods from his face. He had been looking for her that morning and to know instead that she was here with Eric all along is a hard feeling to swallow.  

He turns to Eric, dragging his gaze along his tense form.

“What’s this?” Ubbe asks, nodding to the carcass and Eric’s bloodied hands. 

Eric scowls, first at the wasted organ on the ground then at Ubbe. The two have not met since he was twelve and Eric sixteen, in the camps outside of Frankia. He wonders if Eric even remembers him. Even now he can still hear the dull roar of Eric’s voice raging, demanding for the army to attack the fortress again. Ragnar had been injured, gravely, and no one, not even Harald Finehair, in his eternal quest for glory, would hear Eric’s demand to stay. 

Eric had left his father’s side not long after, taking up piracy along the shores of Norway and later Ireland and most of England, destroying anything he set his sights on. It seems he is determined to do the same here in the woods over the carcass of a slaughtered animal, dragging Eir alongside. 

His lip twitches. He will not allow it. 

Pulling free his axe from his belt, Ubbe has already decided he will not kill him. He just wants to knock Bloodaxe to the ground. Force him to beg for his life, just like he has done to so many innocent people along the shores of Norway, to Eir, trembling in her thin dress. Heir to King Harald Finehair but is not worthy to lick the scum off his boots. 

Ubbe lunges forward but to his left metal sings, slicing through the air, causing him to divert. The weight behind the sword attacking him is soft and Ubbe pushes it away with one swipe. This is not a fight, yet the counter attack comes again, up from the right and Ubbe has to step back before the blade slices open his chest. It is a slow, weak attempt, more annoying than anything. 

Ubbe scowls, lowering his axe to take in the swordsman. 

Haakon. 

A good man. Ubbe snarls, shaking his head. Hvitserk had been wrong on this one. Ylva too. That he would be caught here torturing a young woman who wants nothing to do with the slaughtering of any animal. He can feel his chest boiling with rage, it wants to spill forth and Ubbe lets it, turning to attack Haakon. 

He swings out his axe, attempting to catch Haakon’s shoulder but he parries, stepping back, short sword now drawn as well. Ubbe cannot help the smile that curls on his face. If it is a fight Haakon wants, it is a fight he will get. 

He lunges forward, slicing through the air, knife drawn and ready to pierce Haakon’s side. He might have wished for his sword if he had a chance to think. The blade of his axe barely nicks Haakon’s jaw before he slips away, knocking Ubbe’s shoulder with the butt of his sword. His arm spasms in pain but he grips tight to his knife, raising his arm to distract Haakon from his axe but he is a better fighter than Ubbe imagines. He catches Haakon's sword with his axe attempting to pull it out of his hand but his grip is steady, undeterred by his attack. Side exposed, Haakon lands a punch on the side of Ubbe’s face, the force of Haakon’s knuckles wrapped around the hilt of his short sword throwing him off his feet. 

The ground catches the weight of him, knocking the air out of his chest. On his hands and knees before he has fully caught his breath, he pushes to stand. The tug at the back of his collar jerks him up. Eric’s fist lands against the back of his stomach and Ubbe falls to his knees, swaying to stay up right. The tight grip on his shirt is the only thing keeping him steady. 

Eric’s blade presses against his throat and out of the corner of his eye Ubbe can see Haakon looking down on him, his expression unreadable. He takes a few shallow breaths trying to steady his swimming mind. 

“Only I get to hurt my little brother,” Eric whispers into his ear and then laughs when Haakon frowns in his direction. 

Ubbe rolls his eyes, shaking his head slightly at Eric’s sarcasm to which Eric smacks him across the shaved part of his head. He hisses through clenched teeth, struggling not to throw his head back against Eric’s but this fight is a losing battle, even he can see that through his blood rage. 

“Who are you?” Eric demands, blade pressing a tighter against his neck, drawing fresh blood. 

A thousand answers form against his tongue. Your enemy. Everything your father wishes you would be. The man who will see a knife through your heart before you look at Eir - 

“The kennel master!” Three sets of eyes turn towards Eir in question. “He is no one, just the kennel master. I saw him wandering around the Great Hall with his dogs only yesterday.”

Eric frowns, glancing between Eir and Ubbe. He pulls the blade lightly across the tender flesh of Ubbe’s neck, drawing a thin line of blood, then presses the tip of the knife against the junction of Ubbe’s ear and neck. “Where are your dogs then, boy?”  

“He left them-” Eir starts to ramble but one pointed look from Eric stops her. 

“I asked the boy,” Eric states plainly. Ubbe's jaw tightens under the moniker, though he tries vainly not to show any emotion. Eric is only a few years older than him. His experience in battle is greater, he still does not appreciate the way he refers to him. It is a reminder of the men over the years who arrived in his father’s hall sneering at him as he sat by his mother’s side, by Bjorn on the rare occasion he was present, laughing when he voiced his opinion on matters of State. 

He tries not to choke on his pride as he swallows it. He does not doubt that Eric will kill him. That he will jam his knife into his neck in retaliation for Ivar killing his friend if he finds out his true identity. 

His mouth presses into a tight grimace before he finally bites out his answers. “Wanted to hunt alone today.” 

Eric’s eyes scan the horizon before finally landing on the two discarded geese he had taken down earlier. He laughs under his breath before pushing Ubbe away. “Not very good without your dogs.”  

Ubbe tries not to snarl as he catches himself before he falls. Eric is not wrong but he will not let him know that if Skoll had been by his side, gods, even Sigurd or Hvitserk they might have scavenged the whole hillside and then swooped back around to tear Eric limb by limb before taking care of Haakon as well. 

Ubbe lifts his gaze to Haakon but he is watching his brother who is latching onto Eir, his bloody hands cupping her face, pulling her in closer. Ubbe curls a hand around the handle of his fallen axe and is on his feet once again. The rumbling in his chest moves to his head in a dull roar. He lifts his axe to rest on his shoulder. 

Eric’s head snaps in his direction. “Shouldn’t you be gone?” He demands. “Hunting?” 

“He’s dull in the head,” Eir says, her voice shrill in her proclamation. Eric’s gaze turns to her, brows furrowed. “And a tad rabid after a bite from one of the dogs.” 

Eric glances briefly at Ubbe, gaze dragging along his form in question. The axe resting on his shoulder, the wild look bright in his eyes. 

“Let me take him back to town,” Eir says, pointing in Ubbe’s direction. He can see the slight tremor in her hand, small, almost not noticeable, but there all the same. His fingers tap against the handle of his axe, teeth grinding down. He hates Eric even more for making Eir frightened enough to shake so visibly. 

Eric reaches out for her face, thumb brushing her jaw. “You’re to help me dress this stag.” 

A heavy ball of lead drops in Ubbe's belly as he watches the interaction. His brow creases, he feels as dull as Eir claims him to be. He shakes his head, not understanding the events unfolding before him. 

“The blood.” She turns her face away from him. “The smell is too much.” 

Eric's laughter is cruel, the same as the night before, and then he says, voice laced with honey. “You will make the sweetest wife for me.” He leans in, pressing a whiskered mouth against her round cheek. “Go,” Eric says dismissing them both and Ubbe is certain he can be more rabid than any bite from an animal can induce. Eir's hand brushes against his, a whisper of a fingertips across his palm and he follows her down the forest's path. 

The last of the day’s light is dying, only a pale pink reflected in the skyline beyond the trees. Ubbe can hear Kattegat in the distance, mostly the rustling of people ending their day, animals crying to be fed. He feels at once steady and calm in the presence of his hometown. 

“Are you okay?” He ponders quietly, stepping in front of Eir’s path. She had been silent on their long walk out of the forest. “There is nothing wrong with being scared. Eric is -”

Eir turns on him, violently and suddenly attacking him. Slapping his chest and hitting his face. A small house cat transforming into a feral feline. He hardly knows how to stop her, letting her take all her anger out on him one smack at a time.

Exasperated, he eventually reaches for her hands.

“Am I afraid of Eric?” She hisses, ripping out of his grip. Her hands ball into small fists at her sides. He can see Ylva’s talisman tucked away at her belt. “I am scared of you Ubbe,” she says his name with such contempt that he is taken back. “I am alway afraid of the men who surround me, especially the ones like Eric Bloodaxe.” She points in the direction they have just come. The dark pines looming in the distance. “I know to be scared of him and his hall burning. His merciless killing. But you Ubbe Ragnarsson -” she crosses her arms underneath her oversized cloak - “I did not expect to be frightened of.” 

His brows furrow and she continues on. “You allowed those dogs to eat his friend. No remorse. Nothing. They devoured his flesh right before his eyes. You didn’t even care as I cried.” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, realizing his mistake. 

“You promised me the world but mine is not one where such cruelty is allowed.” 

Ubbe can see his father’s hands wrapped around Yidu's throat. It rushes through his mind's eye, suddenly and vividly, though he has tried many times over the years to forget such images. There are others too, worse than Yidu, things done to people he does not even know the name to. Cruelty that would turn Eir away. He tries hard to keep those hidden. 

“Yes.” His mouth twitches in a sad attempt at a smile. “That was wrong.” 

“I do not want to be frightened of you,” she states plainly. She is no longer the blushing girl from earlier that week. She is something different. 

“You’re brave,” he says softly, the words falling out of his mouth without permission. His hand finds her shoulder, squeezing it gently. “Whose is this?” He frowns, plucking at the rough fabric. 

“Haakon,” Eir says to his surprise. “I forgot to give it back.” 

“No,” Ubbe says, quieting her movements as she tries to take the cloak off. “Keep it. Be warm. I’ll make certain it gets back to him.”

She bobs her head in thanks, moving around him to make her way down the path, her shoulder grazing against his upper arm. "What is wrong with you, Ubbe?" She asks quietly. She catches his gaze briefly. “That you don't know how to apologize,” she muses, reaching up to the bruise blooming across his cheek. "Maybe one day you will learn."

He searches her face as she examines the bruise. He does not think he will ever understand women but he follows her nonetheless back into town. 

Chapter Text

Their mother’s room has always been a sanctuary. A place Ylva feels safe. It is not that nothing bad has ever occurred here. Plenty of horrible things have happened here. 

Tasked to watch Sigurd, only four years of age, Ylva eight, dragged him into the room to play, and when she was not looking he had tripped, falling face first into the bed frame, splitting open his chin. He had cried so loudly and painfully that she too started to cry, only Ubbe’s soft whispering had soothed her. Sigurd still bore that mark along his chin to this day. 

She had gotten her first blood while curled up next to her mother in that giant bed, not long after Ragnar disappeared, staining her mother’s silk bed covers and her nightgown. The following year was spent alternating between Aslaug’s bed and Ubbe’s, squished between his and Hvitserk’s gangly legs, holding on tight to her family members, scared that if she closed her eyes, even for a moment they would disappear, same as Ragnar, gone without a word.

Despite all the bad she is somehow always drawn to this room. The lush pillows inviting her to curl up and daydream, wrapping herself in the warmest wool blankets, eyes becoming trapped on the threads of imported tapestries that hang on the walls, telling the stories of their people. The ledges littered with offerings; sprigs of rosemary that scented the room, salt and chunks of torn bread, gifts for the gods and to the spirits that lived in the hearths. The finest oils and ointments filling the vanity, placed next to whale bone combs, and strings of beaded jewelry. Ylva was always at home here. 

Njord had blown his mighty winds that day, in from the sea to their shore, almost sweeping Ylva away with it. Exhausted from fighting the wind, attempting to keep out of Vikar’s line of sight, trying to evade her brother and mother and any servant of her father’s house, she hides beneath the sheets of their mother’s bed, hoping for a moment’s peace, of quiet, but Hvitserk finds her, leather hair ties scattered in his palm, asking her to braid his hair. 

“Is it washed?” She demands, clutching the bedding to her chin, hiding for half a moment longer, though she knows the answer by the way his hair lays limp around his shoulders. He mumbles out a reply but she is already leading him to the edge of the bed, nudging him to the floor. She cannot say no to her brothers. 

She pushes and prods the damp mess till his neck is bent, forced to look at the floor. Her fingers slid across the shaved area around his ear. There is a knick of blood dried. 

“Ivar,” he murmurs, touching the fraying ends of his pant legs. 

“This needs a touch-up,” she replies, smoothing the overgrown hairs. “Get a blade, I’ll do it.”

Aslaug is not surprised to see Hvitserk dart out of her room offering her a sheepish grin or to find Ylva perched on the edge of her bed, Hati happily sprawled out at her feet. She had the foresight earlier in the day to send a servant to this exact spot to find her daughter but she let it pass, knowing that there would be no victor in that battle that unfurled from that command. 

“You were not at the tournament today,” Aslaug notes as she sits down in front of her vanity. The annoyed look that passes over her daughter’s face mirrors her father. Worried Ragnar will come to life before her eyes, Aslaug forces herself to look away in search of her comb.  

“I will not be found anywhere near Ubbe,” Ylva snaps. “I hate him.”

“He lives here,” Hvitserk says as he reenters the room, blade in hand, he offers it over to Ylva. “What will you do about that?” 

“You do not hate your brother,” Aslaug interrupts before Ylva can reply. She watches Ylva in the reflection of the mirror, untangling the gold beads intertwined in her hair. “He is not the one who initiated the betrothal.”

Ylva’s jaw clenches, fingers tightening around the handle of the blade. Her voice is eerily calm as she says, “then it is you who I hate.” 

Aslaug reaches for her cup of wine to hide her own annoyance. Had Ragnar been here Ylva would be in no better position. He would have married her off the moment a strategic relationship presented itself to him but Aslaug will say none of this to her daughter and instead is forced to drink her wine in order to hold her tongue. 

Aslaug will not inform Ylva that life is not fair, not as a daughter to a king. That the moment Ylva had slipped out of the womb after Ubbe she had obtained the status of pawn. The Norns did not care about love or lust, only that she existed. But Aslaug keeps these thoughts to herself as well, turning to fill her cup once more. 

Skoll’s whining in the main room announces Ubbe’s arrival before his presence. He is always excited to see his master after a long day apart. She can hear the thralls fussing over Ubbe in the main hall, the heavy thud of a dead animal on the table and his gruff appreciation as they take over. Aslaug glances at Ylva, who pretends to ignore Skoll’s wide wagging tail brushing her knee. 

Skoll happily licks Hvitserk’s face, the easiest victim, circles the room twice, bumping his nose against Hati’s, then settles down at Aslaug’s feet. 

“Were you going to tell me the betrothal was off?” Ubbe demands as he enters the room. His hand runs across his face in exasperation when Aslaug raises a quizzical brow. Her mind is abuzz. As far as she knows the negotiations were complete between her and King Anund. 

“Now you want to marry her,” Ylva mumbles in a half whisper. Hvitserk’s brows shoot to his hairline. Tentatively, he raises his head to take in his brother’s expression and is met with a sharp tug to his hair by Ylva but it is enough time for Hvitserk to see the marks on Ubbe’s face. 

Hvitserk jumps to his feet, cradling his brother’s face between his hands, inspecting each cut and bruise carefully. There are promises hot on Hvitserk’s tongue that Aslaug cannot hear but has heard before. Promises her two eldest boys do not take lightly. Had Ubbe not been so intent on getting answers from Aslaug they might have left the house right then, disappearing into the night to find whoever had hurt him. 

“- Ivar will help.” Aslaug can hear the tail-end of Hvitserk’s promise, can see the mischievous smile that curls on Hvitserk’s mouth as Ivar silently makes his way into the room. Feel the pride swell in her chest and settle between her rib cage. 

Hvitserk pats Ubbe’s face in a loving gesture, turning to take in the rest of the room as if he has forgotten that there are others watching them. 

Ubbe sways on his heels, still tangled in Hvitserk’s embrace to take in Ylva. She has moved from her spot on top of the bed to be near Hati on the floor, meticulously tugging at the tufts of winter fur shedding in thick clumps along the dog’s belly. 

“Why is it,” Ubbe draws out slowly, waiting until Ylva’s gaze reaches his. “That where Eric Bloodaxe is involved'' - his mouth twitches in disgust - “your little lover is there?” 

Aslaug can feel Ragnar radiating out of her oldest son. It is some kind of curse Aslaug must endure though her husband has been missing for so many years. She does not know how his seed is so potent in these two. It is not as clear in Hvitserk or Sigurd who are so clearly their own. Ivar only occasionally when his gaze cut across her in contempt. 

She steps away to the threshold of the door, checking on thralls who are overseeing the proceedings of the two geese on the table. She needs a moment to gather her thoughts before she can handle her squabbling children, these sons and daughter of Ragnar. 

Ylva does not lift her gaze from her work, eyes visibly rolling. “Haakon does not associate with his brother.” 

“Seemed comfortable today,” Ubbe scoffs, turning towards Aslaug, who hovers in the doorway. “When I found him and Eric torturing Eir.” 

“Torture how?” Ylva demands, eyes narrowed at her brother as though she can will him to say that none of it was Haakon’s fault. 

“Where?” Hvitserk asks, face once again searching Ubbe, as if his gaze is enough to heal each mark on his brother’s face.

“I was checking traps.” Ubbe sits down in the chair once occupied by Aslaug. His shoulders are tight, brow furrowed as he asks, “is the betrothal ended?” 

Aslaug inhales deeply before answering, she had not heard otherwise. “No,” she says, reaching out for his hand. “I will talk to King Anund tomorrow and find out the truth of it.” 

“Should we take care of him?” Sigurd materializes in the threshold of the door, nodding to Ubbe’s knuckles that are split and caked with blood. 

“No,” Ubbe says with a shake of his head. 

“Why not?” Sigurd demands, folding his arms across his chest, as if no answer is good enough for the damage done to his brother. 

“It is,” Ubbe hesitates and then rolls his eyes at events of the day. “Under control for now.” 

Sigurd scoffs. “You do not claim ‘Bloodaxe’ without being untamable.” 

“We will have to wait-”

“- Haakon had no part in this,” Ylva says hastily. “I know -”

Ubbe is shooting her dangerous looks, one Aslaug knows will result in some kind of sarcastic remark, causing the other boys to add on, picking a side, drawing a line, though it is not their fight. 

“Is Eir okay?” Aslaug ponders out loud. No one seems to be worried about the girl’s wellbeing. “I am sure she is shaken after -” Aslaug waves her hand. She still remembers what it was like to witness such brutal violence after a life sheltered behind closed doors. 

Ubbe nods his head. “She is home, with her family. As long as -” Ubbe pauses, shooting a searing look at Ylva - “Haakon keeps his -” 

“Oh gods you are insufferable,” Ylva whines.

Sigurd is demanding specifics on the bruise blooming along Ubbe’s jaw. Hvitserk motions to Ivar, asking how they can sneak into Eric’s camp without being seen. 

“Ylva, you know -” Ubbe starts to form his remark. He might tell Ylva she cannot be with Haakon, which will lead to an argument she does not have the wits to handle.

It will go on throughout the evening, into dinner, until Sigurd loses interest or Ivar becomes annoyed. Bjorn might end it all with his goading and inability to take anything seriously. She thought she might have heard him enter through the side door, his heavy footfall a clear indication of his arrival. 

“I will speak with Anund tomorrow, Ubbe,” Aslaug says in the softest voice she can manage. She is certain now Bjorn is somewhere in Sleeping Hall, his loud voice traveling through the hallways. Bjorn had always been an easy distraction for her sons. “Go to your brother, see that he needs nothing.” 

Ubbe nods his head. He can see his conversation with Ylva is going nowhere. 

Aslaug continues to remove her jewelry, watching out of the corner of her eye as Hvitserk, hair half-braided, and Sigurd, a smug look on his face, silently follow after Ubbe. She can hear Ivar carving into a stub of wood, the meditative motion taking up most of the sound in the room. Ylva fidgets on the ground, engrossed in grooming Hati. 

Bjorn’s booming voice can be heard echoing in the quiet room. Ivar snickers to himself and so does Ylva, for a moment, laugh along, tucking her chin so they might not see her face but Aslaug can sense the tears that threaten to spill out of her daughter’s eyes. They fall like silent raindrops, catching on her jaw and dropping to the neckline of her dress, until they turn into a gushing river and there is nothing that can stop the flow. 

Aslaug gathers her in her arms, pulling her close so that she might rest her head on her chest just as she did when she was babe. Ylva doesn’t want Ivar to see, Aslaug knows, her sons have never understood a woman crying and she does not think they ever will, no matter how many times they have endured the ordeal. 

“I love him,” Ylva says between gulps of air, snot running down her nose. 

Aslaug kisses her head. “I know,” she says reassuringly, sitting back in her chair. Ylva is crawling into her bed, burrowing herself in the blankets, near Ivar but not close enough to touch him. He looks at her in amazement, as if he cannot believe so much water can expel out of one person. He shakes his head, turning his attention to his whittling as Hati jumps on the bed, curling comfortably next to his feet.  

Reaching for a pillow Ylva pulls it against her chest, clutching it closely. “Let me be with him.”  

“Love has nothing to do with this, Ylva. You know as well as I do.” 

“Then what?” Ylva growls, fingers digging into the feather pillow. “We just submit to the Norns?”

Aslaug shrugs, smiling to the servant who brings in a gilded bowl of steaming hot water to wash her face and hands with. Hildi is her name, she had been loyal to Ragnar’s household since before Aslaug arrived on the shores of Kattegat, had watched his children grow before her very eyes. 

“What other choice is there?” Aslaug asks, reaching for the clean towel offered to her. Hildi bobs her head when Aslaug offers her thanks.  

Ylva frowns, a fresh set of tears spilling down her cheeks. “Did you ever love him?” She chokes out. 

There was a time, in the quiet moments in their bedroom, Ragnar’s fingers tracing her swollen belly, whispering promises to the babe within. Ragnar’s fate had played out in a million different possibilities until they narrowed in wholly on the children. The look on his face as she bore him not one, but two children, a little girl no less. How he had doted on Ylva. His entire world zeroed in on the little girl snug in his arms. 

How could she have not loved him? 

“Yes,” she says, trying not to let the longing seep into her tone. She dips the towel in the hot water, wiping her neck and face clean of the day. 

She can feel Ivar’s icy gaze slide across her face in question. She refuses to let her true feelings for their father shine through. She knew Ragnar’s destiny; to travel to new lands, conquering wealth, glory all for the sake of his family, his children. The disappointment when he did not show up year after year eventually turned to resentment, hate. 

She sighs, turning to take out the last of the jewels from her hair. “We will go to King Anund first thing tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

She is in her nightgown when Queen Aslaug and her daughter arrive at the tent her family have been calling home for the past week. She pulls her robe, thick with lamb’s wool and soft with fleece, tightly across her frame, feeling undressed, but there had been no announcement of their arrival, no time to prepare. The two had just shown up, shieldmaidens trailing their path, white wolf trotting at their heels. Eir had barely finished breaking her fast when Kattegat’s queen walked through the entrance of the tent. 

“My son tells me you are betrothed to Eric Bloodaxe,” Queen Aslaug states plainly. Her voice is a tinkling bell after the fuss her mother has raised over her arrival. She is seated in the nicest, largest chair they had, the one reserved for her father, poised before the polished oak table, a cup of tea steaming before her, a sweet cake waiting for her if she so pleases. 

Sif pales at the pronouncement, fingers rubbing at the jeweled cuff on her wrist. Anund shakes his head. 

Quietly, Eir bobs her head in agreement. The stench of the dead stag Eric slaughtered is still thick in her nostrils. She can feel the blood, sticky, drying between the grooves of her fingers. Most of the previous evening had been devoted to scrubbing herself clean. She cannot lie about her predicament with Eric even if she wanted to. 

“Is it not true?” Queen Aslaug asks again, demanding a verbal agreement from Sif and King Anund, though her tone of voice never changes. Eir watches Ylva, a vision seated next to her mother, glowing in the candle light around her, eyes bright with amusement at the awkwardness. 

Eir cannot help but smile, turning her head to hide her face from her mother. Ylva’s talisman is tucked under her pillow. She is certain it is the reason she was able to speak up to Eric, to create such a bold-faced lie before his towering figure. She wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of it even now, a full day later.  

Ylva catches her eye and Eir can no longer hold her laughter back, it bursts forth from her lips. Her father’s face is even more red than before. Eir leans over in laughter at his expense and then at her mother who is looking at her as if she has gone mad. Ylva is laughing too, tears rolling down her face, hand reaching across the table for hers. Ubbe must have told her the events of the previous day, and if not him, due to sheer embarrassment, then any one of her siblings. She imagines there is no such thing as a secret among that wild bunch, like wolves circling around their prey, pouncing at the moment a weakness is detected. 

Gods, Eric had been ready to kill Ubbe and that ridiculous talisman had somehow managed to save them both. Her stomach clenches at the thought. 

“An issue with the dowry arose,” Anund says carefully between bursts of laughter from the giggling girls. 

Queen Aslaug ignores her daughter altogether, leaning in to sip her tea. “Whatever the problem, we can help.” 

Anund sits up a little straighter, trying vainly to ignore his giggling daughter. “It is an internal matter.” 

Queen Aslaug’s perfectly manicured brow arches in question. Eir watches a small smile form on her mouth. Aslaug is amused by her father’s ruffled feathers, she observes in quiet fascination, her laughter practically quelled in the sight of the queen. 

“My father has a debt,” Eir announces to the surprise of both of her parents. “To Eric Bloodaxe. He threatens to take my father’s ships.” 

Aslaug smiles pleasantly, a hum of appreciation pushes past her pressed lips at her honesty. 

“Eric is King Harald Finehair’s heir,” Her father quickly adds. Eir frowns in his direction. Ubbe’s position in Ragnar Lothbrok’s house had never been a question before. “You have many sons, who are known to fight among one another.” 

Queen Aslaug is patient, her eyes briefly flutter closed, waiting for Anund to finish whatever ridiculous notion he has conjured in his mind about her family. “As boys are apt to do,” she says, smiling sweetly.  

“I won’t place my daughter among such chaos.” 

Aslaug nods her head in understanding, though Eir can see a hundred different responses flash across her green eyes, the same thoughts that are poised on the tip of her own tongue. Eric Bloodaxe’s family was none the safer from such violence. 

“I will pay off your debt,” Aslaug replies cooly to Anund’s insult. “As a show of good will.” 

Anund is flabbergasted, shaking his head, a fumble of words sputtering out of his mouth. Aslaug waves her hand in dismissal. “You won’t want to sail to the Mediterranean wondering how King Harald’s son will treat you when the tides change.” 

Anund is on his feet, trapped between the idea of falling to his knees in thanks or dismissing the queen’s offer all together. His wife has no reserves in showing her gratitude. She reaches out for Aslaug’s hand, almost falling out of her chair as she praises Kattegate’s queen. 

“Thank you,” Sif gushes, kissing the back of Aslaug’s hand. “I will feel so much better knowing my husband and sons are sailing without an axe hanging over their head.” 

Aslaug smiles nodding her head, placing her other hand on top of Sif’s. “I am sure you know, your daughter is beautiful.” She is speaking solely to Sif now, ignoring Anund as he paces the confines of the tent. “You have had many offers for her hand,” Aslaug declares, glancing from Sif to Anund, who nods his head in quiet confirmation, fingers squeezing the bridge of his nose. 

“You know my son’s lineage,” Aslaug continues on, sitting back to take a sip of her tea, smiling at either the taste or her cleverness. “His ancestors. It is what drew you to my offer. I hope you have not forgotten that.”

A gruff “no” is all Anund can offer in reply. 

The smile on Aslaug’s lips spreads pleasantly. “My stepson, Bjorn Ironside, will be king of Kattegat. No one doubts that,” she says, standing, motioning for her daughter to do the same. “Ubbe, however -” Aslaug smiles in amusement, as if someone has told a joke that only she understands - “I have seen his fate. He will accomplish what Ragnar could not.” 

Sif’s eyes are round at her proclamation. “It is true. You are a völva .” 

Aslaug’s eyes briefly close in confirmation, though no words of acknowledgment leave her mouth, she turns to Anund instead. “The bards will sing the tales of my sons. Who do you want your daughter to be standing next to when the stories are sung?” 

Aslaug does not wait for Anund’s reply, turning to leave the tent, Ylva and her wolf trailing behind her. The shieldmaidens that wait for their queen outside, stand at attention, ready to follow her lead. 

A warm spring air has picked up, pushing glossy red hair across Queen Aslaug’s neck. She turns to say her goodbyes to Sif and then says, politely - “King Anund, I have realized my mistake in your lodgings.” She pulls her hands away from Sif’s, smiling and nodding at Eir, and her little brothers, who peek at the queen from behind their sister’s skirts. “They are not suitable for a man of your stature.”

There is a cat-like smile that spreads across Aslaug’s face, one that Eir admires as she watches her speak to her father. “An oversight on my part.” She doesn't even pretend to be embarrassed but Anund is wearing a smug grin, sensing the queen’s suggestion. 

“I would like to invite your family to stay in the Great Hall,” Aslaug says, motioning to her home in the distance. The wooden figureheads, carved into fierce dragons, mounted on the roof, are apparent even on the outskirts of town. “Until your departure. There is more than enough room for you all. As a king, you deserve to be comfortable before your long journey.”

The stone weights of the loom clack together as her mother works. This is the last sail her older brother needs before he is to sail to the Mediterranean. There was a time, many years before Ragnar left, that her mother might not have been alone in her task. Many women surround them in the Great Hall, spinning their own wool, folding sails to be transported to ships waiting at the dock, but these are foreign women, not the ones who raised Ylva and her brothers. Siggy had long since passed, a sacrifice to Rán in trade for her brothers’ lives. Helga showed her face at the Great Hall only at holidays or feasts that demanded her attendance. She whispered of the ghosts she saw hiding near the walls and hearth fires, faces of children, friends come and gone, they haunted her in a way she could only briefly sustain.

Ylva watches as her mother whispers her wishes into the threads on the loom. A type of seiðr, when spoken correctly, could change the course of the outcome for those who sailed under its magic. Here was the success of Bjorn's journey, spoken so quietly Ylva is not even sure her mother’s lips are moving. Her own words are heavy on her tongue but she holds them, not wanting to be seen talking to the threads by her mother, by the person who taught her this magic. 

Her fingers pluck against the taut threads of the loom. The last of the clothes bureau belonging to Anund and his family are being brought in. Ylva lost her room altogether to her mother’s hospitality, forced to move in with her brothers. Eir would share a bed with her until she married Ubbe. There was nothing that was her own.  

“Help now as I lift,” her mother commands her, motioning to the loom.

“You will let just anyone live with us now?” Ylva accuses, moving with her mother to lift the heddle rod. 

“As a good hostess, it is my duty to see King Anund’s family safe,” Aslaug replies, carefully placing the heddle rod in its proper position. 

“I do not see you offering the same treatment to the other visitors,” Ylva says, watching bluntly as Anund’s family moves into their home. She can feel the burning glare of the other women. Her fingers should be working, spinning wool always, but she ignores them. Her anger is so tight in her chest she does not care if they hate her, or judge or spread gossip about her laziness. 

“This is different,” Aslaug says, placing a discarded spindle in Ylva’s hands, which she ignores, her fingers digging into the wood. “You seemed to enjoy Eir’s company this morning.” 

“She is not the problem.” Ylva frowns. Eir is motioning to a servant for help with the pile of furs they have brought in. “Ubbe did not even want to marry her four days ago-” she turns to her mother, lip snarling as she speaks - “Everything he touches is not his to keep.” 

Aslaug cannot keep her eyes from fluttering close in annoyance, lest she openly roll her eyes at her daughter. “He is the son of the king,” she says between tight lips. 

“A spoiled prince,” Ylva murmurs, reaching down to stroke Hati’s head meditatively. “Who thinks he will be king one day.”

Aslaug frowns, checking over her shoulder to be certain no servants are near. Gossip spreads like wildfire among the walls of the Great Hall. 

“Do not say it,” Aslaug warns, continuing to weave the shuttle through the strands.  

“Bjorn is not-”

“Ylva.” 

“You have always raised Ubbe differently from me.” 

“He is a boy.” 

Ylva smiles, burying her head in Hati’s thick fur she mumbles, “who-stands-to-inherit-father’s-crown.” 

“Ylva,” Aslaug hisses, eyes cutting across her face. She does not raise a hand to her, she never has, but there are times when her oldest daughter irritates her enough to send her to the Temples at Uppsala, where she would be forced to focus on the Gods, instead of the on-goings of her messy and fractured family. 

Long ago, Aslaug had seen her own future full with Ragnar’s sons but never had she seen a daughter among the brood. Ylva was both a blessing and a curse. She had always looked after her younger brothers, assisting her in running the vast household that was Ragnar’s. Ylva was such a sweet, dotting young girl, but on her twelfth name day, two full years after Ragnar’s disappearance, and every passing moment since, a fissure deepened between the two of them. A mirror was held up to Ylva on that day she became a young woman, and reflecting back, to her horror, was her mother. 

“I will not have treason spoken in this house,” Aslaug says quietly, patiently, though she wants to banish her child from the hall but that will bring unwanted attention. “Bjorn will be king and your brother will -”

“- lead great men,” Ylva interjects with a roll of her eyes. “Accomplish great things, as you have said many times before. We all know who you love the most.” 

Aslaug levels her gaze with her daughter. She loved all her children equally. 

“Me.” Ivar seems to materialize out of thin air. His wicked smile appears between the threads of the loom, shining in his sister’s direction. Ylva’s mouth puckers in distaste but quickly it vanishes as Hati leaps forward, licking the younger brother’s cheek. He scowls, wiping at his cheek with the back of his hand. “Get control of your dog, Ylva,” Ivar sneers. 

Ylva reaches to grab a hold of Hati but she slips through her grasp, running across the hall to greet Hvitserk and Ubbe and finally Skoll, who follows closely at his master’s heels. Hvitserk crouches in the doorway, stroking Hati’s head lovingly. Eir’s brother, the younger one of the two, runs past, wooden sword in hand, his brother easily keeping pace. Amused, Hvitserk follows the two of them, goading Hati to join in the entertainment. He claps his hands in her face and she playfully snaps her jaws in his direction, hopping on her front feet before dashing after Hvitserk and the two young boys. 

Ubbe stands next to Eir smiling with her as she laughs at Hvitserk’s antics, then leans over, gathering a pile of forgotten clothes. Ubbe’s fingers trace the back of her waist, tenderly, a whisper, till they find the corner of her elbow, leading her to her new room. 

Ylva scowls, glancing irritatedly between her little brother, who offers her a goading smile, and her mother, intent on finishing her weavings. 

“You are content with staying angry,” Aslaug says, fingers dancing along the threads of the loom. “That is your choice.” Ivar is snickering at his sister, whose face is contorted into a petulant frown. Aslaug raises a brow, continuing. “You can stay angry, but your brother has chosen love.” She nods in Ubbe’s direction as he smiles down at Eir. “He is choosing to love someone" - she falters as Harald Finehair walks through the side door - “what will you choose?” She asks softly. 

Ylva’s attention strains to look anywhere but Harald, knowing who follows him, always. Harald is laughing with Halfdan as he walks into the room and then, appearing in the doorway after them, his youngest son, Haakon. 

Aslaug sees it then, in the tender smile Haakon shares with her daughter. The future plays out in that moment, Ylva’s plans. Her meaningful conversation is of no use. If anything it has solidified something in Ylva that has been waiting for a decision to be made. Her daughter has chosen love. Aslaug shakes her head of the vision. 

Quietly, Aslaug says, almost to herself, for surely her daughter is no longer listening to her. “Without love we are lost.”

It was late, the part of the night when the stillness settles, deeper. The moments when there is no sound. Not the cracking of the hearth fire, or shuffling of servants, no creaking of bed frames or rustling of sheets as people try to find comfort. It is just quiet. Ylva can hear her brothers’ breathing, their exhales and inhales even, calm. Dead to the night. Ubbe never possessed a difficulty in sharing a bed with Hvitserk. They were always one in the same, more so than Ubbe and Ylva though they had once shared a womb. Ivar is asleep in their mother’s bed down the hall. Sigurd had laughed at him but his humor was left at the door, gone for the night to find a quiet spot with a particular slave whose company he had been enjoying for the last month. 

“Are you asleep?” Eir’s voice almost startles her but Ylva is not surprised to find that her bedmate is still awake. She thought the princess was too rigid, too still to actually be asleep. 

Ylva turns on her side, tucking her arms under her head as she takes in Eir’s silhouette. “I need your help,” Ylva whispers, she tries not to let the pleading seep into her voice but it is difficult, with each passing day she feels her chance to be with Haakon slowly slipping from her fingers. 

“Anything,” Eir breathes out honestly. Eir’s gaze is trapped in the rafters above, and Ylva wonders how long she has been awake. She doesn't think she has had a wink of sleep, her own mind trapped on how to leave Kattegat with Haakon by her side. 

“I need you to distract my brother,” Ylva says, not daring to say her twin’s name, worried that if she even thinks of him he will hear the secret she is about to share with Eir. “Tomorrow night, after everyone has gone to bed. I am running away.”   

Eir is silent for a moment, thinking, watching the rafters quietly, imagining how she might accomplish such a task. Finally, she answers, “I can do that for you.” 

A smile tugs on Ylva’s lips, she reaches out, squeezing Eir’s hand in gratitude. She is so close to getting what she wants, she can almost taste it. 

“I’ll be lost without your company here,” Eir muses quietly. Ylva is both amused and confused by her statement. Eir’s future, in a new home, a place she has spent less than half a moon’s time, is a scary and lonely place, better spent with someone who might understand her struggles. But they barely know one another, and Ylva is certain if the princess knew her longer she would find her off-putting, bossy, like the rest of her siblings.  

Ylva frowns, not able to find the words to explain her siblings’ opinions of her, and there is another more pressing matter. She pulls the bed sheets closer to her chin, saying, “it is not as though he would let me stay.” She tries not to growl in frustration. Hati’s ears have perked at the girl’s conversation but she does not lift her head, instead waiting for any indication in her master’s mood. “He will marry me off,” Ylva says knowingly, sighing heavily. Her life would never be her’s to own, not with her family involved.  

“I could,” Eir starts slowly, uncertain of the next words out of her mouth. “Speak with him for you.” 

Ylva cannot help but offer a kind smile in response. “It’s too late for that.” 

“Will you go by yourself?” Eir asks, turning on her side, searching her face in the darkness. She does not wait for Ylva’s reply. Her blue eyes are bright with excitement. “I could go with you. You could teach me your craft.” 

Her seiðr was not a craft taught or observed, it was a state that inhabited her wholly. Eir did not truly want to be possessed by such a power, what she truly sought was control, something Ylva is not sure even she knew the meaning of. 

She shakes her head. 

“No,” she says, wishing more than anything she could stay in Kattegat. Wishing that Haakon and her could build a home near Eir, sweet and kind, and Ubbe, her other siblings never far. Eir could be the sister she had always longed for. “You have already fallen for him. You need to stay.” 

Eir frowns, turning on her back to scowl at the rafters. “I am not so sure.” 

Ylva’s eyes close briefly, a wave of emotion crashing through her belly and up her chest. “But a piece of you has already decided,” she says. “The Norns have decided. Your destinies are intertwined.” 

Eir is quiet, processing Ylva’s proclamation, wondering if it might be true. Ylva does not blame her skepticism, half of the time she does not believe her own visions, opting to keep such information to herself than blurt out declarations that tend to scare people away than bring them in closer.

“Who will you go with?” Eir asks. 

“Haakon Haraldsson.” 

Eir’s brows furrow, eyes search the rafters, searching her mind for the origins of that name. “Oh.” Her lips part as the face comes forth. “The scruffy one? Dark hair, bright eyes?” 

“Yes.” Ylva tries not to giggle at the description. “That is him.” Haakon had of late looked a little more rough around the edges than usual, his beard grown long after traveling, waiting till the last before moment sailing to clean it all up. “Harald Finehair’s son.” 

Eir’s furrowed brows deepen, she tugs her lip between her teeth. “King of Norway?” The incredulous nature of her tone is irritating to Ylva. She bites down on her tongue to keep from lashing out. 

“No.” She moves to mirror Eir’s position on her back, trying to find solace in the rafters. It calms her momentarily. Hati’s nose nuzzles under her outstretched hand, sensing her anxiety. “Not while my father lives,” she states. 

Eir does not ask if she truly believes if Ragnar is alive. Ylva cannot possibly think that after all these years he would be hiding in some cave, too afraid to show his face but she does not push the subject, their friendship too new to dig into such a raw wound. 

Ylva’s fingers trace the bridge of Hati’s nose. The clouds have shifted, allowing the moon to shine through the coverings over the opening in the roof, casting a bright light across the room.  “Not while my brothers live.” 

Chapter Text

The anticipation for their journey is palpable. Even here, crammed into a back corner of the Great Hall, Eric can feel it strum the chords in his chest. He had first felt it that morning in the air as he walked to the docks. Spring breathing its first breath, saying a final goodbye to winter. He had seen it in the tufts of grass sprouted between melting snow. There was a change overnight. 

The people gathered in the hall that evening are more rowdy than usual, talking louder, hand gestures amplified for their upcoming travels, for the importance of such a journey. Men were taking chances on women they would not otherwise dare to engage with. The possibility of never seeing them too high to ignore. 

The sails were complete. They would leave soon for the Mediterranean. 

Eric watches the men who make fools of themselves as he leans against a post, arms crossed. His own men are nearby, though they know better to indulge themselves too deeply in the revelry. His crew would leave at first light the following morning and Eric despised drunk men boarding his ship. His men sit, scattered on the benches lining the wall, cups of ale in their hands, murmuring to each other the supplies still needed to prepare for their journey, the blood sacrifices still unshed. 

A couple, arms wrapped around one another, stumble past, and Eric plucks the cups out of their hands. He takes a sniff, smiling, wine - a rare find. He nods his head in appreciation when the man turns, glaring in his direction, but one look at the silvery scar running the length of Eric’s jaw is enough to move him along. 

Eric hands the extra cup to Haakon. He is speaking with his navigator, Alf, who has been sailing uncharted waters longer than Eric and Haakon have both been alive. The navigator seems to enjoy the attention, divulging secrets of the water that had taken Eric years to draw out. His brother will be a good man to have next to him after he inherited their father’s crown. He could coax a troll out of a cave during daylight. Charming, like their father. He would be in need of Haakon’s level-headedness. He could politic his way across Norway, uniting the petty kingdoms in a way their father had yet to achieve.

And then if Haakon was to marry Ragnar Lothbrok’s daughter, Eric would have even more power. His brother had whined to him that she was engaged to Sveinne’s son. That would not make Harald happy. Access to the Jarl of Lade’s ships was the key to Harald’s success. A boatless man was tied to the land, Eric’s biggest fear, one he was certain he shared with his father. 

He finds her, Ragnar’s daughter, out of the corner of his eye. She is smaller than the rest of her family. Eric sees this as he watches her move through the hall. Haakon has hardly been able to keep his eyes off of her since she entered. A union of that kind could be beneficial to their cause . Ragnar was said to be blessed by the gods. 

Ylva’s oaf of an older half-brother throws a large bear hug around her, spinning her once, before setting her down. He plucks a small child out of a blonde woman's arms and places it in her arms. The child sports a giddy smile, small grubby fingers reaching for her face, giggling when Ylva blows in her face. 

Eric glances at his own brother, who seems to glow at the scene unfolding before him but then a scowl forms, small, barely perceptible on his otherwise usually smiling face. A slight downward tick of his mouth shows his disdain. His beard has grown far too long. He would have to trim it before he thought to step foot on his boat. 

Ylva’s other brother circles in on her, closer with each passing moment. Hvitserk, his name has been on everyone’s lips since that morning. He would win the tournament. Eric knew a son of Ragnar was destined to win from the start. It was all rigged, a ruse to distract the men. Hvitserk towers over Ylva, a full head taller, leaning over to peek at the child, his unruly braids falling off of his shoulder. Eric had not seen such a poor attempt to manage hair since he had visited a certain of island off the coast of Norway - those wild haired fucks had not know the difference between a ponytail and a braid. The youngest two brothers are squabbling over something he can’t make sense of. Seated nearby, even the cripple hunched over at the foot of the dais, is twice the width of his small framed sister. 

Eric scans the room. Most of the people in attendance are looking their way, not blatantly, instead with coy side glances, returning like moths to the flame, again and again. He does not understand the allure of this family. 

The last one to join their little group is Ubbe, and poised perfectly on his arm, Eir. 

Eric does not stop his eyes from openly rolling at the sight of them, standing so proudly before everyone. His jaw clenches, hand moving to rest on the knife at his belt, the smooth bone of the handle calming his nerves. That sly little -  

“We need your help,” Haakon’s voice next to him is low, urgent. 

We? Eric cocks a brow at his brother with interest. Haakon had not asked him for help since he was ten years of age and wanted to take a skiff out to go whaling. Haakon had shown up that morning with a sharpened spear, ready to hunt. They had been far too young, too small, to accomplish such a task on their own. Eric had taken him out anyway. The only thing they found that day was an overly large fish and their backsides tanned by their father after they were caught.

Eric can hardly hear Haakon over the rustling crowds that cheer as Bjorn starts his announcement. He frowns, unconcerned for the winner of the tournament. He had dropped out after the first day when their father berated him for not performing better. 

“The sails are complete. We leave any day now,” Bjorn smiles when the crowd cheers in excitement. “Our journey is perilous, uncertain, but tonight we will feast!”

“Running away-” Eric hears the last of Haakon’s words. Now he truly has his interest. He leans his head into his brother’s, sparing a quick glance to Ylva on the dais. There is only one person his brother would be entitled enough to run away with. His little brother had always thought the ground should move for him, for how good he was. That was his mother’s doing. She had doted on Haakon, not like his own who always thought he could do better. “- need somewhere to go, where we will be safe.” 

Eric laughs silently to himself. His brother is lost without leadership. Following their father mindlessly for so many years had left him clueless. He would make a poor head of household, in need of a woman to lead the way. He would bring him on his boat this time, force his little brother to sail with him, then he could learn what it meant to be a man, a true leader. 

“The winner is -” 

“I know a place,” Eric says. He knew many hideouts along the coast where no one would find the couple. “There is -”

“Haakon Haraldsson!” Bjorn yells, pointing in their direction. The crowd is banging their fists on the tabletops, stomping their feet, cheering for the winner. Hands fall on Haakon’s shoulders, pulling at his arms, leading him to the dais where Bjorn waits with a crown made of sticks, a few early spring flowers jammed between the spaces to make it look fancier. 

King for a day. Eric laughs, watching as Haakon is unceremoniously shoved to the dais. It would drive the Ragnarsson mad to see a son of Harald Finehair up there. Eric relishes every moment of it, making certain to take in Ubbe’s expression as Haakon is pushed onto the throne by a few random bystanders. 

Harald is up there, somehow, the crowds seem to part for his advance, the shitty crown Bjorn once held now in Harald’s hands, placing it on Haakon’s head. His father never looked at him like that, with such unabashed pride. He rolls his eyes, scanning the room for anything more interesting to watch. 

“We need a place to stay.” 

“Meinvœttir,” he curses under his breath. Eric hardly finds himself surprised but the appearance of Ragnar’s daughter at his side is one that makes him jump. “Where did you come from, you little wight?” 

“Help us, Eric, please,” she whispers, glancing around, worried someone will spot them together, though no one is looking her way. The crowds are cheering on his brother, who sheepishly sits on Ragnar’s throne. “You owe us.” 

Eric scoffs loudly. “I owe you nothing.”

“I could have convinced Ubbe to let us be together if you would not have -” her hand waves in Eir’s direction. She seems to be clinging onto Ubbe’s arm as if she is the chain that withholds Fenrir. The boy is practically salivating at the sight of Haakon on Ragnar’s throne and Eric cannot help but laugh at it.  

“Your brother hates me,” Eric muses quietly, watching as Eir whispers what he is sure are sweet words into Ubbe’s ear. Hvitserk approaches the couple, his eyes just as dark as his older brother. Eric knows a murderous look, even this far across the hall. “I’ll help you two sneak away.”

“Thank you,” Ylva breathes out happily. She might have thrown her arms around him had she not been half terrified of him. He smiles down at her, letting the lofty feeling of her gratitude fill him up. She is a sweet little thing when she smiles, her eyes a bright intoxicating blue, one could get lost. He understands now what his little brother sees in her. 

“It has to be soon,” he adds, suddenly remembering the time constraint. He wanted to gather his men, leave earlier than the rest. Bjorn promised to leave the following day but Eric knew how these things went, the organization of it all. He could easily find Ironsides’ lead without a problem; he had sailed the coast of Frankia enough to know which direction he would take. “I don’t have time to babysit you two.” 

A sourness furrows her brows and hardens her mouth. “We are more than capable -”

Eric laughs, he doubts this girl has ever left the confines of the fjord she calls home and while Haakon may be able to call himself seasoned in battle he knew nothing of the battle that occurred between the bed sheets. 

“You know,” he whispers, leaning forward so that only she can hear. “My little brother has never laid with a woman.” She shifts unsteadily on her feet as his breath presses hot against her neck. 

“I know that,” she says between gritted teeth. “We are waiting -” 

He smiles cooly at her innocence, then leans even closer, whispering, “I could teach you a few things -” her hand strikes out as fast as a serpent hiding in the grass. He catches her wrist before she can make contact with his face. She struggles against his grip. Her dog, who has been mindless wondering about her general vicinity, turns her head towards her master, hackles raised, as Ylva lets out a grunt of frustration. He has to move fast if he doesn’t want to be bitten. 

“A King needs a Queen!” Eric’s booming announcement travels easily in the high ceilings of the Great Hall. All eyes turn to him. Ylva has rooted herself next to him, straight as a sapling. He drops her wrist, nudging her forward, on display for all to see. “What do you say, brother?” 

Haakon is as frozen as the fjords in the winter, fingers gripped around the armrests of the seat he occupies. Ragnar’s throne is not as gaudy or boisterous as their father’s but it is large enough to draw the eye. No one would doubt the status of the man who sat in that seat, its gold inlay glittering in the candle light. 

“Ragnar Lothbrok’s only daughter is quite the catch.” Eric’s voice carries above all the jabbering voices enjoying the festivities. There is a rousing murmur of agreement. “What do you say, brother? You are the King of Kattegat.” His tongue pushes against his teeth, trying not to laugh. “For the day, at least.” He shrugs his shoulders noncommittal, then motions to the crowds, asking them to join in. 

They cheer in excitement, reaching out for Ylva, pushing her along to the dais. A young woman, with long braided hair, pulls the flower crown from her own head to place it on top of Ylva’s wild curls. 

They seat Ylva on her mother’s throne and Eric can not help but yell out, “Kiss your queen!” 

The excitement of the crowd carries a unifying chant. “Kiss! Kiss!” 

His little brother wears a meek look on his face. Eric’s lip curls in disgust at his brother’s modesty. Haakon should wear his lineage proudly on his chest, sit up a little taller, raise his chin for all to see. They were the descendants of kings, great warriors who discovered new lands. Their father would be spoken of for years to come, passed down generation after generation. If they were so lucky they would surpass their father's legacy by ten-fold. Had Eric been up there instead he might have taken Ylva by the waist and kissed her haughtily before all of her wolfish brothers. 

Slyly, quietly, Haakon inclines himself across the armrest. Ylva, unable to help herself, meets him halfway, pressing her lips against his. The crowd erupts in a wild roar. Eric can see his father laughing with Halfdan, nudging Haakon playfully when he pulls away from Ylva. 

Turning to leave, he calls out to Arne, the captain of one of his ships, nodding for the rest of his warriors to leave. They would sail out at first light the next day. A full night's sleep was necessary. He would help these star-crossed lovers. That was a promise he would keep but not before he had his fun first. 

“Leaving already, Bloodaxe?” Ubbe quips over his shoulder as Eric walks past. 

“I wake early,” Eric replies with a smile. “For I want another man’s life and land.” He cannot contain the smile that spreads across his face. It is almost too easy getting a reaction out of these Ragnarssons. 

One corner of Ubbe’s mouth ticks in amusement. He is not as hot blooded as the rest of them, though the bruise, angry and red along the orbit of his cheek says otherwise. Eric smiles in Haakon’s direction. He had landed a mighty fine punch. Fear is sharp in Haakon’s eye, it darts between him and Ubbe, worried Eric will say the wrong thing. It is enough to push a little further.  

Eric scowls, turning back to address Ubbe. “As the saying goes -” he shrugs his shoulders - “no lamb for the lazy wolf.” 

He can see the cripple out of the corner of his eye, fuming in his seat, fingers clenching around a small throwing knife. Had he been speaking to that son of Ragnar, he would have a knife jammed into his throat. The other one, that is always glued to Ubbe’s side, Hvitserk, is watching, cup pressed to lips, waiting to see if his brother will react.   

“Eric,” Harald calls out his name, waving him to the dais, “Come.” He is patting Haakon on the shoulder, squeezing the appendage lovingly as he says, “Congratulate your brother.” 

"Congratulations." Eric’s lips pull into a tight line. He nods in his brother’s direction. “You know where to find me when all this is over,” he says over his shoulder as he leaves the Great Hall for the night. 

It had been foolish to think that Ylva’s talisman had given her some kind of power over men. Eir thought when she lied to Eric to save Ubbe, and spoke up to Queen Aslaug in regards to her father’s debt that the talisman had bestowed some kind of power unto her but she had been wrong. The talisman was meant to protect her against men, not to proceed over them like some kind of goddess. She sees this clearly with Ubbe, who is slowly unraveling underneath the soft touch of her hand. It rests carefully in the crook of his arm, holding him steady, though she thinks he might burst forth at any moment, attacking Haakon, the same as his wolf did to that poor warrior only a few days past. 

Ylva is on her feet, abandoning her post from Aslaug’s throne. Removing herself completely from being a pawn to another man’s ideas. She brushes past the guarding wall that is her brothers. They too are like wolves, hungry to devour their prey, mouths frothing with salivation, ready to snap their jaws, bones crunching under their powerful grip. 

Ubbe is steady before his sister’s fiery visage when he stops her advance. A carefully placed hand on the back of Ylva’s neck turns her to look at Haakon. Eir takes half a step back, not wanting to be a part of the altercation unfolding before her. The bruise on Ubbe’s cheek is evident as he leans into his sister’s soft round one. They watch Haakon, together, side-by-side. Ylva possesses more patience than Eir thinks possible, given the circumstances. 

“No one,” Ubbe says quietly, “has sat on father’s throne since -”

“You think I don’t know that?” Ylva stresses between clenched teeth. She pulls from her brother’s grip before he can lament the situation further. The corner of Ubbe’s mouth ticks in annoyance but he does nothing to further provoke his sister. 

“Ylva,” Aslaug’s voice is a quiet tinkering among the rowdy crowds. Eir glances in her direction, she can hear the concern leaking out of her soft tone. “Lagertha is here,” she says when she finally has her daughter’s attention. “And the blót, it will soon be time.”  

There is something that changes in Ylva. Eir watches it snap under her mother’s words. She knows it in herself but witnesses it in the woman standing beside her. Firstborn daughters; mind of a leader, heart of a mother.

She nods to Eir. “Will you find Sven? He needs to light the fire if he has not already.” Eir finds herself bobbing a curtsey, as if she is some kind of servant but she turns without further prompt. She does not know this man but she will find him, fulfill Ylva’s request. 

Ylva grabs Hvitserk by the collar of his shirt. “Go. Greet Lagertha, as she deserves.” His coy smile is enough to cause Ylva to roll her eyes. “You too,” she says, pointing in Ubbe’s direction, eyeing him critically. “She has always liked you the most for some reason.” 

“Reminds her of Ragnar,” Sigurd sniggers under his breath to Ivar. 

Ylva turns her attention to him. “Why is there no food coming out of the kitchen? Make sure no one is fucking the thrall in the cellar, again.” 

Sigurd flicks his chin tauntingly in Hvitserk’s direction. “That was my fault last time,” he says with a suggestive raise of his brows. 

“No,” Hvitserk shakes his head, joining Sigurd in step, they cross the hall together. “I was the one -”

Ubbe finds Eir as she searches out Sven. She can see Lagertha, black furs thick around her shoulders as she enters the hall. She has never met the woman before but everyone knows the great shieldmaiden Lagertha. She eyes her in wonder but Ubbe does not seem to be in a rush to fulfill the duties his sister has assigned him. 

“You can ignore her,” Ubbe suggests. Eir doubts there are very many people who get away with ignoring Ylva with no repercussions. She shoots him an incredulous look. His mouth quirks in amusement and then he says, flicking his chin in Lagertha’s direction, “Would you like to meet her?” 

Across the room, Hvitserk is offering a cup, gilded in gold, to Lagertha. The smile on her face invites others in to greet her but her eyes scan the room, looking for something or someone. Eir knows this look, one of distraction and concern, mind busy with internal matters even as the public contends for attention. Her own mother wears it daily at home, organizing the thralls and servants, trying to keep her husband happy, smiling at the endless stream of guests who visit.  

Eir shakes her head. “Sometimes it is better not to meet your heroes,” she says, turning to the open doors of the hall. People are coming and going from the festivities, their feet taking them wherever their desires lead. “They tend not to live up to expectations.” 

Ubbe shares a knowing look, brows shooting to his hairline. He has opinions about Lagertha but he keeps them behind pressed lips, following her outside and onto the wide platform of the deck. The clouds pass over the moon, blocking most of the light but there are torches lit, leading up the stairs to the hall and lining the length of the deck, casting dark shadows across Ubbe’s face. He watches the sky, taking in the shifting clouds. Skoll is sitting perfectly at his heels, ready to go in whatever direction his master does. Eir is tempted to reach out and scratch his large black ear.  

“No one has sat on your father’s throne since he left?” Eir ponders quietly. There was power in a throne, in a king seated there for all to see. She did not understand it fully but she respects it. Her own father looked different to her when he sat on that chair, ridiculous as it seemed in her mind, it was just a bunch of pieces of wood nail together. Ubbe pulls his gaze from the sky, briefly gripping the hand of a man who greets him as he passes by, then turns to Eir, shaking his head. 

“Not even Bjorn?” She asks in disbelief. 

“No,” he says after a moment, his mouth curling in amusement as if a memory has just struck him. “Mother would not allow it.” He crosses his arms over his chest, eyes sparking with mischief as he thinks about his older brother. “Not that he wanted to.”

“Anything your mother wants, she gets,” Eir acknowledges bluntly. She does not mean for her thoughts to come out of her mouth but they tumble forth before she has time to mull it over. Ubbe does not seem to take offense. He watches her, thoughtfully mute, biting his lip as she scrambles to recover from her bluntness. “I just meant that she didn’t have room for my father and suddenly she finds it as soon as her negotiations were being effected -” the more she talks the more she digs herself deeper in a hole. 

Ubbe allows her to ramble, eyes darting across her mouth and cheeks. She is certain she is blushing now. This is why she preferred to stay silent. Keeping to practiced phrases learned at her father’s court. It is when she starts to speak her mind that she finds herself in trouble. Her mind blanches at the thought of so rudely speaking to Queen Aslaug about her father’s debt. It was never her place to bring such a transgression up. 

Ubbe tucks his chin into his chest, listening to each cruel word that spills out of her mouth. 

“- she will do anything for her baby boy.”

Ubbe chuckles to himself, once again meeting her eye. “You sound like my sister.” 

“Maybe she is right.” 

Ubbe gives a shrug of indifference, the frown on his face is almost mocking. He glances at the group stumbling past, their faces are shrouded in darkness. Ubbe surely does not know their names. He nods his head in greeting when they call out to him. 

He glances at her again, a self-satisfied smile on his mouth. “You are no longer engaged to Bloodaxe,” he suggests with a playfully cock of his head. He looks at her as if he is speaking with one of siblings, full of mirth, a never-ending flow of banter. This is the language of his family, a way with words she does not understand. 

“I am not cattle,” she sneers, wrapping her arms across her waist. The spring wind at night is cool and she had not thought to bring her cloak. “Traded from master to master. Waiting for the day when I will be slaughtered.” Her eyes narrow in his direction. She does not trust that he will get her meaning. He is only a man. She says with a final nod of her head, “I do not wish to be owned by anyone.” 

“Good,” he hums, his voice low as he leans forward. “I do not wish to own you.” His mouth is alive with humor; she has an itch to slap it off. She cannot even begin to understand him.

She frowns. “Then why have me for a wife?” 

“To see you happy.” 

Two men walking up the steps to the Great Hall howl loudly at the moon. Distantly she can hear a lute playing from inside. Eir glances at the festivities. No one has ever concerned themselves with her happiness. 

“Ubbe.” Ylva appears, an outline in the entrance to the hall. She pointed expectantly in the direction of the bonfire, still unlit. 

“Best not keep her waiting,” Ubbe says coyly. 

She smiles, maybe one day she would be able to fully understand his language, the one that twisted, and turned into humor at any chance he got.

“I’d hate to find out what she would do if we do not listen,” she suggests, her voice low, hoping she had picked up on the lilt just right.  

“You know,” he suggests playfully. “We used to have another brother.” 

Eir’s laughter lifts to the sky and up to the Norns who have weaved her fate with the man who walks next to her.