The sea had barely stopped burning when they dragged you ashore — the taste of salt and smoke clinging to your lips, the bite of coarse rope around your wrists. You remember the clash of steel and the thundering roar of men whose tongues you barely understood. You remember thinking, as your father's keep burned behind you, that you might die on foreign soil.

But death did not come.

In the aftermath, when the longships rocked heavy with loot and captives, one man stepped forward from the circle of hardened raiders.

Tall, broad-shouldered, fair hair braided back from a strong-boned face, blue eyes clearer than the northern sky. There was something watchful, almost thoughtful, in the way he studied you — unlike the others, whose gazes felt like knives.

“This one,” he spoke, voice calm but firm, his words oddly accented. “She comes with me.”

And just like that, your fate shifted: from nameless prisoner to the responsibility of Ubbe Lothbrok, son of Ragnar.

You expected cruelty; expected to be dragged, threatened, or worse. Instead, Ubbe untied your wrists himself, callused fingers surprisingly careful.

“You will walk beside me, not behind,” he told you. “If you run, I will catch you. But you need not fear me — unless you give me cause.”

His words struck like a strange mercy. You didn’t trust him — couldn’t — but something in his gaze made you hesitate before spitting curses in your own tongue.

They made camp on a windswept headland above the sea, sails furled and fires flickering. Ubbe’s men cast wary glances your way, but none dared approach. Your fine dress was torn, your hair matted with smoke, but your bearing still spoke of rank they couldn’t quite ignore.

Ubbe offered food first — hard bread and dried fish — waiting until you dared take it, and only then eating his share.

“What is your name?” he asked, voice low enough not to carry.

You answered cautiously, chin lifted, refusing to sound small. He nodded once, seeming to taste your name on his tongue.

“I am Ubbe, son of Ragnar.”

As though you didn’t already know.

Over the days that followed, you felt the difference. The other captives were watched roughly, forced to labor, or given as sport. You were kept close: not in chains, but never unwatched.

Ubbe asked questions: about your homeland, your family, even your gods — not mocking, but curious.

At night, you’d catch him glancing your way by firelight, eyes lingering not just on the silk now ragged at your sleeves, but on your expression, the stubborn set of your mouth.

He never forced you to speak. But when you did, he listened — truly listened — in a way that felt disarming, dangerous.

One evening, as the sea mists curled around camp, you nearly stumbled on the rocks returning from the shore. A strong hand caught your arm, steadying you.

Your gaze snapped up, startled — into those blue eyes, so close now you could see the paler flecks in the iris.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. His grip gentled, thumb brushing the skin of your arm, rough with callus but oddly tender.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice gone low and husky. “The rocks here do not forgive.”

The words were nothing — but the quiet, almost reluctant warmth behind them left your chest too tight, breath caught between fear and something more dangerous: curiosity.

You were still his prisoner, taken in blood and fire. But at the edge of that truth, something else flickered to life: a strange, fragile thread that neither of you dared name yet.

Ubbe Lothbrok — your captor, your warden, and perhaps the only shield you had left in this foreign land — had chosen to take you under his care.

And with every lingering glance, every quiet question, every gentled touch, the line between prisoner and something else blurred a little more.