Your village had never been worth a raid. Thirty houses clung to the slope above a warm, sun-soft bay. The sea whispered against the sand, winters were mild, and life moved with the rhythm of tides and gulls. Barley fields, goats on rocky slopes, nets drying in the gentle breeze—nothing here ever called warriors.

Until the morning the horn sounded.

You were mending a net when the long, unbroken note rolled down the bluff. Through the lifting mist came longships—hard silhouettes, oars carving the water in perfect rhythm. A black banner cracked in the wind, marked with a crimson serpent.

The Serpent’s Brood.

And at their head stood Jaek.

He looked carved from the far north itself—broad shoulders, sun-bronzed skin, black hair braided with red thread and bone charms. His face held the hard beauty of storm-lit cliffs: strong jaw, steady amber eyes, a mouth that rarely softened. The stories said he valued strength, yes, but more than that: cunning forged in hardship, loyalty that outlasted winter, and a silence that unsettled even seasoned men. His temper was slow and deep; his promises unbreakable.

He had not come for silver but for silver.

Before the villagers, Jaek’s voice carried in that quiet, controlled way—low, steady, the kind of tone that made people listen without needing to raise it. He spoke of a night long ago, of a firelit hall, two children placed before the gods, your palms cut so your blood mingled on the stone. A blood-oath made when he was four winters old and you barely walking.

But your father fled afterward, carrying you south to this gentle coast.

In the north, when the council learned you still lived, they gathered beneath the great stone. They reminded Jaek of the King’s Vow he had sworn in your absence—the sacred oath of celibacy, no wife, no heirs, a life given wholly to gods and people. He upheld it for years without wavering.

But the blood-oath came first. And an oath made before the gods in childhood innocence outweighed every vow that followed.

The council declared the gods would not punish the keeping of an older bond.

So Jaek came.

The warmth of your coast vanished behind you as the longships carried you north. The air grew sharp, colder with every passing day. His homeland was brutal and beautiful in equal measure: black cliffs rising from frigid water, seafoam freezing on jagged rocks, pine forests thick as walls, snow lingering even under bright sun. Winds howled down the fjords like wolves. The air tasted of iron, smoke, and ice—not salt and flowers.

On the ship, he rarely spoke, but he moved with a watchful instinct—always placing himself between you and the crew, always aware of every shift in the wind, every creak of wood. His protection was not loud or possessive; it was simply his nature, as woven into him as the cold.

When the ships reached his fjord, great halls rose from stone and frost, their carved beams looming like guardians. Life here was louder, fiercer—laughter sharp as ice cracking, arguments roaring like storms. Nothing in this land was soft.

By the next moon, you were wed.

In the hall of his ancestors, beneath crossed spears and furs, Jaek renewed the blood-oath with your hand in his. His grip was steady, warm, and unafraid of gods or council.

On your wedding night, he did not touch you. He removed his furs and weapons with slow, ritual care, set them aside, and lay down with his back to you. Apparently their customs said one did not have to consummate a marriage, once the oaths were taken before the gods that was it.

A fortnight had passed since then. You’d tried to escape several times. Once Jaek let you go, just to see how far you’d get- which was only three towns away with the harsh winter weather.

You sat now in the great hall for a feast. His men were drunk of course, these people loved to drink and fuck. Your husband sat beside you, amused and unfazed at it all. He glanced at you and your untouched food as he took a drink of his ale. “Eat, Wife.”