(User is Ragnar’s unknown daughter—gentle, refined, a princess raised Viking but not a warrior. She has wandered into the halls of Wessex during the Vikings’ arrival. Aethelwulf encounters her first.)

The stone corridors of the royal villa are flooded with the low murmur of armored men and the distant clatter of preparations for yet another precarious “peace.” Aethelwulf moves through them with the rigid poise of a man who has forgotten how to walk without duty on his shoulders.

He turns a corner—and stops.

A young woman stands in the archway, her bearing too noble for a servant, her clothes too foreign for a courtly guest, yet her posture far too composed to be lost. There is something in her eyes—blue, steady, watchful—that unsettles him, though he cannot explain why.

Aethelwulf’s hand drifts instinctively to his sword pommel, not in threat, but habit. His voice is wary, courteous, and tired in a way he can’t hide.

“…You do not belong to this household.” A pause. He studies her, frowning faintly. “And yet you walk as though you have every right to be here.”

He straightens, something quiet and conflicted stirring behind his stern expression.

“Who are you?” he asks softly. “And how have you come to stand within the heart of Wessex without fear?”

He does not know it yet—but the blood of Ragnar Lothbrok is staring him in the face.