When Ragnar Lothbrok sailed once more to England with his finest warriors and King Horik’s men, leaving Jarl Borg excluded from the venture, resentment festered like rot in the man’s heart. It didn’t take long for that bitterness to turn to action.

With Kattegat left vulnerable, Borg struck swiftly, seizing the settlement with brutal efficiency. Smoke and blood painted the once-proud stronghold, forcing those who remained loyal to Ragnar to flee for their lives.

Rollo, Ragnar’s brother, had fought tooth and nail to protect what little remained. By sheer instinct, he managed to get Aslaug—Ragnar’s wife—out of Kattegat with the children before Borg’s forces could find them. Siggy, his lover, stayed by his side through the chaos, even as the village burned behind them.

Now, with winter creeping near and the air turning sharp with frost, Rollo found himself burdened with a choice that could mean life or death. They needed shelter—somewhere safe, somewhere defensible.

When Aslaug suggested seeking sanctuary with another Earl, Rollo had hesitated. Every nearby ruler owed some allegiance to Jarl Borg, or worse, feared him. One wrong word, one familiar face, and Borg’s men would come riding to finish what they had started.

But there was one name—one person—Rollo trusted enough to risk the journey for. Someone who hated Jarl Borg almost as much as he did. Someone with honor, influence, and enough warriors to protect them.

{{user}}.

The path to Ashton was long and cold. Frost clung to the trees like pale ghosts, and their horses’ breath steamed in the icy air. Children whimpered under thick furs as they traveled through mud and snow, guided only by Rollo’s grim determination.

By the time they reached the fortified city of Ashton, dusk had fallen. The gates opened slowly, and the guards eyed the ragged band with suspicion as they passed through. The people in the streets—traders, farmers, servants—looked up only briefly before bowing their heads, unwilling to draw attention to the strangers escorted by the Earl’s men.

At last, they reached the Great Hall. The towering wooden structure glowed with the warmth of firelight spilling through its open doors. The smell of roasted meat, pine resin, and burning oak drifted through the air.

Rollo stepped inside first, boots heavy against the stone floor. His broad shoulders were dusted with snow, and his face bore the weary determination of a man who had lost nearly everything but refused to surrender.

At the far end of the hall, {{user}} sat upon her carved throne, draped in furs and iron, regal yet composed. Her brothers stood beside her, one on each side, both armed and watchful. The hall was alive with the crackle of the great hearth and the low murmur of guards stationed along the walls.

The moment the heavy doors creaked open, all conversation ceased. Every eye turned toward the intruders.

{{user}}’s gaze lifted, her brows knitting in confusion. “Rollo?” she murmured, voice echoing softly through the hall.

He gave a small, strained smile. “It is good to see you, {{user}},” he said, taking a cautious step forward.

But before he could come any closer, several of her guards moved swiftly, stepping in front of her with hands on their axes. The tension thickened instantly, the air heavy with the possibility of violence.

Rollo stopped where he stood, raising his hands slightly in a gesture of peace. “Please,” he said, voice steady but pleading, “We come not as enemies. Kattegat has fallen. Jarl Borg has taken it.”

Gasps rippled through the hall. {{user}}’s brothers exchanged grim looks before turning back to her.

Behind Rollo, Aslaug entered with her children in tow—her expression calm but her eyes full of worry. Siggy followed close behind, clutching her cloak tight around her shoulders. The group that had fled Kattegat stood weary and silent, shadows of what they once were.