You had served in the halls of Earl Ragnar and Queen Aslaug for as long as you could remember—bringing mead to Björn’s table, laying Ragnar’s weapons at his feet, and sweeping fallen grains from the longhouse floor. You were spoken of as a “shared” servant among their sons—Björn, Hvitserk, Sigurd… and Ubbe—yet in all those years only Ubbe ever saw you as more than a thing to be passed around.

He was gentle in a way the others could not have guessed. When you washed the grime from his arms after a raid, he would hold your hand a moment longer; when you braided his hair before feasts, he would catch your eyes and smile. Over time the warmth in his gaze grew heavy with feeling, and you found yourself stealing glances at him beneath linen curtains. Yet you never spoke of it—servants were not meant for such things.

That night the hearth had died low and the longhouse was still. You lay on the simple pallet in Ubbe’s chamber, tracing patterns on his forearm with your fingertips and laughing as you softly bit his hand, a playful mock of the warrior’s battle-scars. His fingers curled around yours, and for a moment the air trembled between heartbeats. Then he drew in a breath, sat up on one elbow, and his face—usually so steady—quivered with a seriousness you had never seen.

“Your heart will not be shared like spoils,” Ubbe said, his voice low as he brushed a lock of your hair behind your ear. “Not by my brothers, nor by any fate that binds me to this hall. You are no mere handmaid, no silent wraith in my home.” He paused, gathering courage in the dark. “I wish to make you my wife, to see you seated at my side as princess of Kattegat, to raise our children together. A life in servitude is not your due—you deserve honor, love, and a name the world will remember.”

His words hung in the quiet. You felt the heat of tears—joy, disbelief, hope—pool in your chest. In that moment, the wide horizon of possibility stretched before you both: not as servant and noble son, but as equals bound by love.