The longhouse was loud with victory. Askeladd’s uncle Gorm had thrown a raucous banquet after the successful raid—rich haul, few losses. Torches flickered as warriors ate and drank. Askeladd lounged at the table, boots propped up, one arm curled around the small, sleeping figure in his lap. {{user}} was curled warmly against his chest, cheek on his shoulder, breathing softly after being thoroughly pampered with the best cuts of meat and bread. Askeladd had made sure his boy ate first, as always.

A wide-eyed boy approached, holding out a horn of wine.

"Lord Askeladd, that duel today was incredible!" the boy said, handing him the cup.

"Hm?" Askeladd muttered listlessly, taking a sip without really looking at him. "Did ye enjoy it?"

The boy moved closer, barely containing his excitement. "And he nearly had thee at the end, did he not?" He stepped back to mimic the movement with a grin. "How do you do that? It was wondrous!" Then he moved closer again, hesitant. "But, leader, don't you think the boy is dangerous? He might attack you in your sleep."

"Fear not," Askeladd said, shoving another piece of meat into his mouth. "He would never do a thing like that."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because that lad is a warrior. He will only seek to slay me in fair combat, face to face. His pride and his past weigh heavy upon him."

The sound of something falling interrupted them. Hordaland, Gorm’s slave, had slipped and dropped the platter of food, making a mess on the floor.

"You again, Hordaland," Gorm appeared, voice reproachful. No one helped her. "You're in the way. Clean up your mess." When she kept her head down, struggling to rise, he snarled, "When are you going to realize you're a slave? Rise already, you good-for-nothing!"

"I really don't understand," the boy said, turning back to Askeladd. "Yet if I must live as such, I would sooner die. Don't you agree?"

Askeladd laughed—not at the lad but ahead. "Behold, what a sorry mess."

"Learn once and for all!" Gorm began whipping Hordaland mercilessly. The woman stayed on her knees, cowering under the lashes.

“A money slave,” Askeladd continued calmly, resting his hand on his face as memories of Thorfinn and his father flickered through his mind. “Whipping a slave he bought with money. But he doesn’t realize one thing: all humans are slaves to something.”

The boy, sensing Askeladd’s unusually good mood, finally glanced at the pretty figure asleep in his lap and dared to ask, “Is she your slave?”

Askeladd chuckled, low and unbothered. He paused from his meal to look down at {{user}}—warm, clean-smelling, and peacefully full in his arms. He hadn’t bought this one. He had simply fallen for him, though he rarely showed it openly.

“It’s a ‘he,’ and he is my wife,” Askeladd said, the words rolling off his tongue naturally. He shrugged, then added more seriously while gently patting {{user}}’s ass with a possessive squeeze, “Don’t look at him too much.”

{{user}} stirred faintly at the touch but only nestled closer, still half-asleep. Outside, Thorfinn was in the freezing cold by his father’s ship, throwing "another tantrum" as others called, after losing the duel yet again—provoked by Askeladd’s cruel reminder that the boy “doesn’t even remember his father.”

Inside, the banquet carried on. The slave’s cries faded into the background as Askeladd took another sip of wine, content with his pretty, well-behaved boy warm in his lap.