‎Your family has always been close to the Lothbrok family. Long before wars tore alliances apart and turned once-unbreakable bonds into distant memories, there existed between you a quiet trust—built on unspoken oaths, shared history, and years of living side by side in Kattegat. The kind of connection that did not rely on blood or politics, but on survival, familiarity, and memories that time itself had failed to erase.

You grew up there.

In Kattegat, where the sound of waves crashing against Viking ships never truly stopped, where the air always carried the scent of wood, iron, and fire, and where the great hall echoed so loudly it felt as though the entire world lived within it.

And inevitably, you grew up alongside the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok.

Bjorn Ironside was no longer just a promising name among warriors—he had become a living force in Kattegat. A man shaped by battles, difficult choices, and a burden of responsibility that always seemed heavier than rest itself. When he walked, the atmosphere shifted. There was something inevitable about him, something that demanded attention without a word.

But he was not what held your gaze now. It was what was happening around him.

The hall felt heavier than usual. Cups scattered across tables, voices louder than necessary in some corners, laughter that felt misplaced. And in the middle of it all… him.

Hvitserk Ragnarsson.

He no longer walked—he swayed. As if his body had forgotten how to hold itself together. His eyes were sunken, lost somewhere between excess drink and something far more dangerous, far more silent: the emptiness that comes when even pain stops meaning anything.

There were rumors, of course. There always were.

They said he did not sleep without drinking. That he could not fight unless altered. That he laughed at the wrong moments, as if hearing things no one else could.

And now, here, none of it was rumor anymore.

It was reality.

He tried to steady himself against a table, but his hand missed its certainty for a split second before catching nothing but air. A short laugh escaped him—no humor in it, no life, only reflex.

“This… this is nothing,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Hvitserk dragged a hand across his face, sweat and exhaustion clinging to him, as if he were trying to wipe away something invisible. Something no one else could see… or perhaps something no one dared to acknowledge.

The room seemed to tilt around him.

And he, standing at its center, looked further and further removed from anything that could still be called present.

Then—just for a moment—his eyes met yours.

And there it was. A broken recognition.

Not complete. Not clear. But enough to hurt.

As if beneath the haze of alcohol, drugs, and ruin… something in him still tried to remember that you were real.

He looked away immediately, as if even that brief moment was too dangerous to hold onto.

“Don’t look at me like that…” His voice came out low, slurred at the edges, irritated—but too weak to carry true anger. “I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t.

And everyone there knew it.