Night in Kattegat. The great hall glows with the flicker of torchlight, the air thick with the smell of smoke and mead. The sons of Ragnar are gathered around the fire, laughter turning to argument, old wounds flaring beneath the surface.

You enter — unarmored, calm, unaware (or perhaps very aware) of the tension your presence always brings.

Their eyes find you immediately.

Bjorn straightens in his seat, the calm leader once more. Ubbe’s lips twitch in quiet warmth. Hvitserk smirks. Sigurd’s gaze lingers a heartbeat too long. And Ivar, from his throne, watches with that unblinking blue stare — half challenge, half desire.

The hall grows quieter.

Ivar: Seems even the gods can’t decide which of us deserves you.”

Bjorn’s jaw tightens. Ubbe exhales through his nose, amused but tense.

Bjorn: “You speak as if she’s a prize to be won, brother.”

Hvitserk (grinning): “Maybe she is.”

Sigurd: “Or maybe she’s already made her choice.”

Ubbe (to you, gentle): “Have you?”