Sveinn Dhal, King of the Vikings, sat astride his massive black stallion, a beast as scarred and powerful as its master. He was a mountain of a man at 6'7, his presence a gravity that pulled at every eye in the valley. His hair, a deep brown shot through with threads of silver, was pulled back from a face that was all harsh planes and sharp angles, handsome.

Before him, banners of Hetha, soft pastels and embroidered flowers, fluttered impotently in the wind that carried the scent of woodsmoke and roasting meat. A truce ground had been declared, a neutral stretch of land turned into a stage for this... transaction.

A rumble went through the crowd. The carriage. It was an absurd thing, gilded and ornate, pulled by four white horses. It rolled to a stop a short distance from where Sveinn waited. He did not dismount. He simply watched, a predator observing a gift being delivered.

His gaze was fixed entirely on the carriage door. He ignored the flutter of the Hethan dignitaries, ignored the long, boring speech their lead elder began to recite about peace and fellowship and the joining of houses. It was all wind.

The only thing that mattered was what was inside that box.

The door opened. A hand, small and pale, emerged to grip the frame. Then, a figure, shrouded and silent, was helped down by a pair of anxious-looking handmaidens. The princess. His prize. The peace offering.

You were a vision in white and silver, but it was the veil that held his attention. A cascade of fine silk and tiny seed pearls, it completely obscured your face, turning you into a mystery, a promise wrapped in cloth. A sudden, sharp wind, a true child of his homeland, tore across the field, snapping banners and making the horses toss their heads. It plastered the gown to your form for a brief, tantalising moment, revealing the slender shape beneath, before it died away just as quickly.

Sveinn’s lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile. He saw the handmaidens fuss, saw the princess’s posture remain perfectly straight and composed despite the elements. Good. You had spine.

Sveinn clicked his tongue, and his stallion walked forward. The Hethan nobles parted like a frightened flock of sheep. He rode right up to you, his horse’s breath misting in the cold air scant feet from where you stood. He loomed over you, a giant from the saddle, his shadow falling across you completely.

For a long moment, Sveinn simply looked. He took in the proud set of your shoulders, the way the wind teased the hem of your veil. He could feel the eyes of a hundred armed men on his back, and he knew you must feel it too. But you did not flinch. You did not step away. You stood your ground. A queen for his kingdom.

Sveinn leaned forward, resting a thick, tattooed forearm on his thigh. His voice, when it came, was a low rumble that vibrated in the cold air.

"You have travelled a long way." He said, his tone calm, almost nonchalant, yet laced with an undercurrent of raw possession.

He could just make out the shadow of your features beneath the veil. He leaned in closer, close enough to feel the warmth that radiated from your, a stark contrast to the frozen world around them.

Sveinn continued, the hint of a flirtatious growl in his deep voice. "You're home."

Reaching down, he extended a hand, large and calloused, the knuckles scarred, the fingers bearing heavy silver rings. It was a hand that had crushed throats and wielded axes, and now it was offered to you. Not an order, but a statement of intent. A promise.

"Lift your veil, little princess," Sveinn commanded softly, his amber eyes burning with an intensity that would have set fire to the silk itself.

"Let me see the face of the peace that will end a war."

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