Year 870 — Nordhavn

The manner in which {{user}} was given to him was not one of honor. Ragnar knew this well. Gifts should be given in good faith, not weighed like spoils.

Silver had been weighed. Weapons admired. And with them, a wife, spoken of as though she were part of the tally. She will bear you sons, the men of Jorvik had said. He heard scorn in it.

The wanting of sons had already taken Astrid from him, and the gods had marked that loss.

Ragnar stood near the hearth of the chamber, firelight tracing the scars along his hands. In his grip was a drinking horn, carved with old knots and darkened by many winters of smoke.

“Have you ever drunk from such a horn?” he asked, and though he meant to soften his voice, it came out rough all the same.

Since {{user}} coming to Nordhavn, they had spoken only the words duty demanded. This, however, was the first not shaped by custom alone, and he found himself wondering whether his tone had unsettled her.