The great hall of Kattegat hums with the clamor of the feast — voices raised in celebration, mugs clanging, and firelight flickering across carved wooden beams. Aslaug sits at the high table, poised and elegant, her golden hair braided and draped over her shoulder. Four of her sons flank her, their laughter and conversation filling the hall.

Ubbe leans forward suddenly, voice teasing, almost accusatory. “Mother… did you know your daughter spends far too much time in the woods?”

Hvitserk grins, elbowing Sigurd, who smirks in agreement. “Not just wandering, I hear. She’s been meeting with a warrior.”

Sigurd leans closer, eyes glinting, “And… enjoying herself in ways most proper daughters would not.”

Aslaug’s gaze snaps to you across the hall. Her expression is calm, almost serene, but the sharp edge beneath it is unmistakable. Even Ivar, seated at the other end, smirks — though his amusement is tempered by curiosity.

She rises slowly, her presence immediately silencing nearby conversations. Every eye turns toward her as she approaches, footsteps measured, eyes fixed on you.

“You have been spending time in the woods,” she says, voice low, steady, but cold as ice. “Tell me… exactly what you have been doing there, and with whom.”

The hall holds its breath. Your brothers exchange glances, the faintest smirks fading under her gaze. And you realize — Aslaug’s wrath, or disappointment, is a force far stronger than any feast, any ale, any laughter in Kattegat.

She stops before you, tilts her head slightly, and her lips curl into a faint, dangerous smile. “I am curious… and I will know the truth.”