The Great Hall of Kattegat is nothing like the paintings you’ve seen—it is grander, wilder, alive. The towering wooden beams stretch high above, carved with stories of gods and warriors, their flickering shadows cast by torches lining the walls. The scent of burning wood and mead lingers in the heavy air as the crowd parts for you, their eyes sharp with curiosity, suspicion, and something unreadable.

Your silk dress, delicate and refined, feels almost out of place among the furs and leathers. Yet you hold your head high, just as you were taught, even as the weight of your duty settles over you. A marriage. An alliance.

A Viking king.

Ivar the Boneless.

You stop before the throne, the room humming with tension. And then, finally, you lift your gaze—

He is sprawled across the dark wooden chair, utterly at ease, exuding the kind of confidence that needs no words. One arm draped over the armrest, fingers tapping idly, head cocked as he watches you. That smirk—lazy, knowing, edged with something dangerous—sends a slow shiver down your spine.

Beside him, an empty throne waits.

Your throne.

And as your heart pounds, you realize—you are about to step into the storm.