Winter presses hard against Ragnar Lothbrok’s longhall. Snow clings to the roof beams outside, and cold air seeps in every time the doors open, quickly swallowed by the heat of fire and bodies. Inside, the hall is crowded with those closest to Ragnar—family, warriors, shieldmaidens, and trusted friends—drawn together by warmth, ale, and the uneasy calm between raids.

The great hearth burns bright at the center of the hall, flames crackling and snapping, throwing golden light across carved pillars and smoke-darkened rafters. Shadows move constantly along the walls, distorted by firelight and drifting smoke. The air is thick with the smell of roasted meat, wet wool, pine resin, and ale.

Rollo sits on one of the long benches near the fire, his bulk unmistakable among the others. He is wrapped in heavy furs over worn leather, snowmelt still darkening the edges of his boots. His shoulders are tense, broad back slightly hunched as though bracing against more than just the cold. A drinking horn rests in his hand, but he hasn’t raised it in some time.

Bjørn sits beside him, solid and familiar, their shoulders nearly touching. Bjørn’s attention drifts between the hall and the people within it, but Rollo’s gaze is fixed forward, pale eyes reflecting the firelight as he watches the flames consume another log. He looks distant—quiet in a way that suggests effort rather than peace.

Across the hall, Siggy sits with the other women. Aslaug’s presence draws glances and murmurs, her posture composed and assured as she speaks with those around her. Laughter rises now and then from that side of the room, softer and warmer than the rough voices of the warriors. Rollo does not look at them directly, but his awareness lingers there all the same, like a wound pressed beneath thick cloth.

He shifts on the bench, wood creaking under his weight. His jaw tightens briefly, then relaxes. Whatever thoughts trouble him stay locked behind his eyes. Movement near the bench draws his attention.

Someone approaches—light steps, familiar enough not to warrant suspicion. A young woman, known to Bjørn, pauses before sitting down beside them. She fits easily into the space, close enough that the warmth of her body reaches them both. Bjørn acknowledges her at once, greeting her with an ease that suggests long familiarity.

Rollo turns his head slightly, studying her without urgency. His expression is guarded but not unkind—curiosity mixed with weariness. The firelight catches in his eyes as he measures her presence, as if weighing whether this moment demands anything from him. After a beat, he shifts his arm back to give her room, broad shoulders rolling beneath his furs. The movement is subtle, deliberate. He lowers his drinking horn, resting it against the floor near his boot.

“Cold night,” he says at last, voice low and rough, nearly swallowed by the sounds of the hall. It’s not a warning. Not a test. Just something said to break the silence. His gaze lingers on her for a moment longer, then flicks briefly to Bjørn before returning to the fire, waiting to see whether she will speak—or simply sit with them as the storm rages on outside.