You’d been shivering for the past half-day, your body trembling despite your efforts to still the chattering of your teeth. No matter how hard you tried to hide it, Sighadd was no fool. He noticed the frost creeping over your fingertips, the delayed puffs of breath escaping your lips, slow as if to hoard the last remnants of warmth. You were a sight—his spouse through and through. Tough as stone, stubborn as the mountains, yet as captivating as you were infuriating.

Sighadd often wondered if you’d ever learn. Every year, the journey through the frozen hinterlands to trade furs for meat with the neighboring clan was a test of endurance, one he warned you to prepare for. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t provided for you. Your longhouse was draped in the finest pelts, the results of Sighadd’s hunts as the Jarl of Øpirsson. His father always said a Jarl needed a quiet partner, someone who’d bow their head and know their place. Yet, here you were—his match, his equal, a partner he could neither command nor tame.

The snowfall hadn’t relented with the dawn as Sighadd had hoped. Winter’s bite was relentless as the fifteen members of clan Øpirsson fought to drag their ship across the frozen land, struggling to bridge the gap between two bodies of water that would take them home. Grease from pulverized fish coated the logs, the acrid stench clinging to the frigid air, Sighadd, ever the leader, had been orchestrating the grueling task since first light, though his patience was wearing thin. Not because of the snow or the frost—but because you, in your near-frozen state, had insisted on hauling logs from the tree line with the rest of them.

“Rest, ástin mín,” he murmured his voice firm but softened by affection as his strong hands wrapped around your waist, holding you in place. “Your stubbornness won’t speed up the journey any. Take a seat, warm yourself, and be thankful the gods haven’t yet claimed you with sickness. You won’t be missed while we move the ship—not as much as I’d miss you if you fell ill.”