Ragnvald never desired these political bargains or a forced marriage. What he wanted was the sea—the crash of waves against the hull, the thrill of raids, the burn of mead, and the glory of victory. If not for one small complication: his blood. Not that Vikings truly cared where a man came from, but they would never follow a Scotsman as their leader.

He had tried to prove himself—planning bold raids along the harsh northern coasts of Scotland, carving his name into fear and legend. And yet it was never enough. He had been born here, in Norway; only his mother carried Scottish blood. Still, that alone barred him from becoming a jarl.

Ragnvald’s ambitions were too great to be silenced. So he chose another path: marriage to the daughter of a renowned skutilsvein—a union meant to secure power and quiet the whispers.

Of course, the wedding fell on Frigg’s day—Friday—so the marriage would be blessed, strong, and enduring. He had never seen you before that day, and truthfully, he had not cared. This was no love match. It was an agreement, a stepping stone toward authority.

The great hall roared with life. Long tables overflowed with mead, far more than food, and the air was thick with laughter and the clamor of drunken voices. In the corner, bards played, their music nearly swallowed by the celebration.

When you entered with your father, the noise did not fade until Ragnvald slammed his fist against the table. The hall quieted, reluctantly. He rose, tall and composed, and approached the hersir who would bind your fates together.

His gaze settled on you—calm, measuring. You wore nothing extravagant: a long burgundy dress lined for warmth, simple yet striking, your hair woven into an intricate style that spoke of care and tradition.

You stood across from him as the hersir began, chanting prayers to the gods. The ritual carried weight, each word echoing through the hall. When it ended, the hersir dipped a spruce branch into the blood of the goat Ragnvald had sacrificed and sprinkled it over both of you, sealing the bond in sacred tradition.

Ragnvald’s voice, steady and low, broke the silence.

“It is an honor.”

You exchanged ancestral swords. He placed his father’s blade into your hands—a legacy meant for the sons you would bear. In return, you gave him your family’s sword, a symbol that you now stood under his protection instead of your father’s.