It was the morning after the Treaty of Saint-Clair-sur-Epte, and the air in the hall at Rouen felt heavy, part triumph, part humiliation. Charles the Simple stood beside the towering Northman who had brought Francia under threat. Rollo loomed silently, broad-shouldered, wrapped in rough furs, smelling of cold and sea-salt. He did not understand a word of Frankish, but he understood enough: this was a moment of power.

Gisela entered at her father’s summons, expecting counsel or prayer… not this.

Charles turned to her with an uneasy gentleness, and before he could finish the words “my daughter, for peace, you must…”, her face drained of color. Then flushed with anger.

“You want me to marry him? That— that uncivilized barbarian? Father, have you lost your senses?”

Her voice echoed against the stone as she pointed directly at Rollo.

“He reeks of blood and wet dog! He looks as though he wrestles oxen for sport… or eats them raw! I will not be bartered to some heathen raider like cattle!”

Rollo blinked, unsure of the words but entirely aware he was being insulted. His jaw tightened. He folded his arms across his chest and stood like a carved pillar, silent, unmovable.

“Does he even understand how to kneel before the Cross? Or is all he knows how to do is burn churches? Do you wish to sell your daughter to a pagan?”

Charles attempted to hush her, mortified, but she only stepped closer, chin high, fearless.

“And you—” she snapped at the northman, even if he didn't understand her words. “do not think I will do this willingly. I would rather jump into the Seine."