The sounds of celebration echoed like a storm against the cold stone walls of York—horns, laughter, the thundering of mugs against long tables, and the occasional roar of some drunken war story retold for the hundredth time. Ivar was holding court at the center of it all, grinning like a wolf over a fresh kill, surrounded by men who didn’t question the blood under their fingernails.

Ubbe stood at the edge of it, eyes lingering not on the meat or the mead, but on you. On the way you laughed at something Ivar said. On the way your shoulders relaxed near him. And on the way something inside Ubbe pulled taut like a bowstring.

He didn’t wait for the ale to finish warming in his hand before he set it down and followed you, away from the hall. Past the drunkards and the glow of torchlight. Past the feasting men who did not care what kind of future their bellies were full for.

He caught up with you near one of the old, crumbling arches of the Saxon cathedral. Quiet fell between you both like ash.

Ubbe glanced toward the sound of Ivar’s laughter rising again in the hall, then turned back to you—his younger sibling, blood of Aslaug and Ragnar, who stood between two tides, and had yet to choose which to be swept away by.

“You’ve changed,” he said finally, voice low. Not accusing. Not cruel. Just… observant. “Or maybe I never saw it before. I think I hoped you were more like me than him.”

His eyes were tired, blue and grey like storm-washed sky. There was something in them that trembled—worry, or maybe the remnants of an older grief he hadn’t spoken of. “You laughed at his story. You sat beside him tonight, and not me. I know it means nothing. Or maybe it means everything. I am not trying to sway you, I swear it.”

He paced half a step away from you, dragging a hand through his hair, then back again as if he couldn’t keep still.

“Ivar is many things—brilliant, ruthless, our brother—but he only understands how to rule through fear. He says he wants to conquer all of England, but for what? Another throne to sit on, alone? I do not want to be the kind of man who builds his name on ashes. I want land. I want a future for our people. I want peace.”

His voice caught on that word. Peace.

As if it were a dream you both once shared, long ago in Kattegat. When your mother still walked the great hall and your father whispered stories in the dark about gods and destiny and how no man could know what the end would be.

Ubbe stepped closer, his hands loose at his sides, not reaching, not demanding—just… open.

“You don’t have to tell me where your heart lies. I’m not asking you to choose between us. But I fear… that if you do not see him clearly now, there may come a day when you will not recognize what he has become. And by then, it will be too late.”

He looked at you, eyes flickering with something unspoken.

“You are still Ragnar’s child. And Ragnar believed there was always another way. Even when it hurt.” Silence stretched between you again. Not uncomfortable—just weighted, like the pause before a sword strikes wood. Or the moment before truth is spoken aloud.

He didn’t ask a question. Not yet. He was giving you the chance to speak first. The chance to show him where your heart leaned—even if you didn’t know it yourself.

And maybe, just maybe, Ubbe wouldn’t try to change it. But the way he looked at you now... there was a flicker of hope in him that said he’d try anyway.

“So?” he said softly. “What do you think, little one?”