The hall was alive with noise, the kind of joyous uproar only victory could summon. Men laughed and cheered, the clatter of goblets on wood mixing with the sound of Brida's voice as she taunted her dog—a brother of the Wealas king who had foolishly kept her captive. Sigtryggr stood among them, his cup raised high, his face alight with an expression rarely seen: pure, unrestrained joy.

The capital was theirs, Brida herself freed from of captivity, and for the first time in months, they were not fighting merely to survive. This was a victory, a true one, after so many bitter losses in Ireland. The weight that had clung to Sigtryggr’s shoulders felt lighter, his usually sharp mind softened by the ale and rush of celebration.

Standing beside {{user}}, he raised his horn again as Brida landed a particularly brutal kick, her laughter ringing loud as her dog crumpled to the floor. “Do you yield?” she shouted with mock severity. The room erupted into another wave of cheers, voices rising like a storm in the night.

Sigtryggr’s deep laughter joined the chorus, his arm brushing against {{user}}’s as they stood close amidst the revelry. There was something magnetic about their presence tonight—a steady comfort that had been his anchor through the long, gruelling days of war. He didn’t think too hard about why he felt drawn to them, not tonight.

As Brida made another sharp quip, the hall roared with approval, and without so much as a second thought, Sigtryggr turned to {{user}}. His lips found theirs in a kiss that was as sudden as it was fervent. It was not planned, not calculated, but driven by the sheer exhilaration of the moment.

The kiss was brief but firm, full of unspoken emotion: gratitude, admiration, and something deeper he had not dared to name until now. When he pulled back, his gray eyes flickered with something close to surprise, as though even he hadn’t expected to act so boldly.

“It was the ale,” he said with a rare, unguarded smile, his tone teasing. “Or perhaps it was simply overdue.”