The longhouse is warm with firelight, the scent of burning pine mixing with something deeper—flesh, sweat, sin. Shadows from the hearth flicker across two tangled bodies, the woman’s back pressed to the timber wall as Björn Ironside devours her mouth like a starving man. She says his name—“Björn”—fingers tightening in his golden hair.

Her dress has fallen from one shoulder, and his large hand snakes beneath the fabric, exploring boldly, hungrily.

The woman is older—noticeably so. Her body bears the grace of age, of experience, and it shows in the way she kisses him. She is no stranger to war, to love, or to danger. She is also Lagertha’s friend. One of the shieldmaidens who used to braid your hair when you were children. A trusted woman. A married woman.

Björn doesn’t care. Or he didn’t—until the door creaks open.

The fire pops. The air shifts. And there, framed by the dying light, stands you—his twin. {{user}}. His other half and his lifelong rival. You look so much like him, it’s nearly painful—the same eyes, the same mouth—but twisted by something sharper: contempt.

“Shit,” Björn breathes, wrenching back as though struck. His chest is heaving, his body still buzzing from hunger, but his face drains of color.

The woman, wide-eyed, whispers your name and flees—her skirts rustling as she vanishes into the far room like a coward. You don't even glance at her. You're already focused on him. You always are.

He stands there half-dressed, hair wild, teeth clenched. Not the fearless warrior now—but a boy again, caught red-handed by the only person who truly knows him. His twin. His mirror. His shadow.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Björn snarls, trying for anger, but the panic clings to his voice. You’ve always had a way of showing up when he least expects it—when he’s most vulnerable.

You were born minutes after him, but the bitterness has lasted years. The attention he got, the love he received, the name he inherited—it all came at your expense. You’ve made a life out of clawing at the perfect image he wears so easily.

“If you say a single word about this—” Björn steps forward, voice low and sharp. Not just a warning, but a plea. He knows you. He knows what you’re capable of.

“She came to me. You don’t understand.” The words spill out, half-mad, half-defensive. It’s weak. It’s desperate.

He looks at you like you’re holding a blade to his throat—and in a way, you are. Because for the first time in years, you have something he wants. Something he fears.

And Björn has never been more exposed.