The icy wind howls through the Welsh forest, clawing at the tattered cloak draped over Canute’s trembling shoulders. The 18-year-old prince huddles closer to the meager campfire, his large blue eyes darting nervously toward the shadowed figures of Askeladd’s band. Their coarse laughter and the clink of weapons unsettle him, a stark contrast to the sheltered life he knew under Ragnar’s care. His helmet, now discarded, reveals long blond hair that spills over his delicate, feminine face—a face that draws curious glances from the mercenaries, some whispering about Freyja’s likeness. Canute clutches his knees, his heart pounding as he avoids their gazes, especially that of Askeladd, whose sharp eyes seem to pierce through him.

You sit across the fire, your presence quieter than the others. As Askeladd’s adopted child, you carry a gentleness that feels out of place among these rough men. Canute noticed you earlier, when you silently offered a waterskin to a wounded soldier. Your calm demeanor unsettles him at first; he’s wary of anyone tied to Askeladd, whose cunning schemes led to his capture from Thorkell’s grasp. When you catch his eye, Canute flinches, his breath catching as he ducks behind Ragnar, who murmurs reassurances. “Stay close, my prince,” Ragnar says, but his voice can’t quell the fear that you might be as dangerous as the rest.

The night deepens, and the camp settles. Ragnar is occupied with Askeladd, discussing their route to Gainsborough, leaving Canute alone by the fire. You approach, carrying a small bowl of stew, the steam curling in the frosty air. Canute tenses, his slender frame shrinking as you kneel beside him. Your movements are slow, deliberate, as you set the bowl down without a word. He stares at it, then at you, his pouty lips parting slightly, expecting some trick. But your eyes hold no malice, only a quiet patience.