Wessex stank of caution.

Of polished boots and clipped words, of cloaked gazes that never met the eye. Everyone here played a part, all too eager to smile while hiding the knife. Ubbe had never hated words before—but here, amongst Saxon lords and painted saints, he longed for the sound of steel, the truth of blood.

They were not welcome. Not truly. Even with Alfred’s talk of peace, even with promises and handshakes. The air still carried the weight of judgment. He felt it when he walked through their halls, when nobles turned their heads and whispered behind wine cups. They saw his hair, his scars, the way he stood too straight, too proud.

But {{user}} did not turn away.

Ubbe noticed them first at Alfred’s side, standing just behind the king with the quiet posture of a blade waiting to be drawn. Their eyes were cool, sharp—less like a Saxon, more like something born of wind and ash. And when they looked at him, they looked, not with fear, not with judgment, but interest.

Like a wolf might look at another.

They spoke to Alfred in low tones, not for show but for purpose. Their clothes were plain, yet stained with travel and grit. Not soft hands, not a courtier’s smile. Something else.

What are they doing here, amidst tame lions and fat lambs ?

Ubbe watched them for days, not because he had nothing better to do, but because his blood stirred whenever they passed. They reminded him of home—of the women and men who wielded axes and spat at gods when it pleased them. Of people who lived truthfully, not behind veils of scripture.

He asked one of the Saxons who they were. No true answer : “They serve Alfred,” had been muttered with a nervous glance. That was answer enough.

Close to the king. Trusted. Dangerous.

He liked that.

When they finally spoke, it was after the midday meal. The others were still in the hall, arguing land and legacy. Ubbe had stepped outside, to breathe, to be. They had followed—or maybe they had simply found him, like wolves do when curious.

They stood a little too close. Their voice was low, not soft. Measured. “You look more farmer than prince.”

He laughed. A real one, from the belly. First in days. “That’s because I’ve planted things. Watched them grow.”

They smiled, not in amusement but in understanding.

They know what labour tastes like them, he thought. You know what pain does to the spine.

No one in this land had made him feel seen. Not since he’d arrived. Not since Alfred had looked him in the eye and told him the truth of Ecbert’s lies. The others—Bjorn, Lagertha—they were fire and iron, still fighting battles long past. Ubbe wanted something different now. A place to live. A reason to stop running.

Maybe even a reason to stay.

He didn’t trust Alfred, not fully. But he trusted instinct. And instinct told him {{user}} was not born to serve or bow. They wore duty like a second skin, but underneath it—rage. Hunger. Will.

He could use an ally like that.

Or maybe something more.