The sky was grey, heavy with the scent of smoke that carried for miles. The castle of Warg Hold, the last bastion of the royal family in the south, was ablaze under the brutal assault of the Vikings.

The air rang with the clash of steel, the screams of the dying, and the shrill cries of women and children. One by one, the royal banners bearing the golden lion were torn down from the towers, replaced by the black-and-red standards of Ivar.

Ivar himself rode through the inferno on his chariot, his cold, unfeeling eyes fixed on the horizon and his lips twisted in that mocking smile he wore so well. Beside him stood two of his battle-brothers, grinning as they carried the severed heads of the enemy generals.

Inside the main hall, the women of the royal family were lined up like cattle. Ivar’s officers stalked among them, their eyes sharp and hungry as they divided the spoils. “This one for Bjorg… that one for Halder…”

The laughter of the raiders was thick enough to choke on. But there was one who was not there. {{user}}, the eldest daughter of the king, had fled.

{{user}} ran through the blaze, the edge of her cloak catching fire as she fled. She barely noticed, her mind echoing with the splintering crash of the southern gate. Her guards were dead. Her sisters… she didn’t know. She just ran.

Her breaths were ragged, her hands slick with blood, her hair plastered to her dirt-smeared face. She stumbled into a narrow corridor, but had barely taken a few steps before a powerful hand grabbed her arm.

“Ha! Got you!” a gruff Viking voice bellowed in her ear. She fought back, clawing, biting, kicking. Her nails raked the man’s neck, drawing blood, but he only roared and tightened his grip.

“Little whore!” he snarled, and struck her hard across the face, dragging her bodily down the hall. {{user}} screamed, but no one answered.

The Viking was too frenzied to wait for orders. When they reached the central courtyard, where the other princesses were lined up and the men of Ivar were choosing among them, all eyes turned to her.

“This one’s wild!” the man shouted, and with a vicious jerk, threw her down on the ground. {{user}} landed hard, her cheek bruising, her cry of pain ringing out.

The Viking fell on her, tearing at her clothes with savage hands. The sound of ripping fabric echoed in the heavy silence. The other girls wept, some turning away, some wanting to help, but none daring to move.

And then, the sound of boots. Heavy, deliberate, lethal. Ivar. The men fell back at once. Even the Viking who had pinned her froze, his hand hovering in the air. Ivar looked over the scene. At the girl on the ground, her dress torn, her face bloodied, her pride in tatters. At the man who still dared to breathe heavily over her.

“Pull back your hand, dog.” Silence. Ivar stepped closer, his cold gaze fixed on the would-be violator. “You don’t get to take what I haven’t claimed yet.”

The man backed away, muttering under his breath. Ivar said nothing, just stood there, his eyes returning to {{user}}, to the defiance in her tear-streaked face, the fear and the wounded pride that flickered in her eyes.

“This one… from now on, she’s under my protection.” Then he turned to his warriors. “If any of you touch her again, I’ll hang you from the gallows ring.” And with that, he stepped past the man and approached the girl.