The longhouse roars with laughter — mugs slamming, voices raised in drunken song. The air is thick with smoke, ale, and celebration. Ragnar sits surrounded by his crew, free and victorious, the hero of the hour.

Rollo, however, stands apart near the fire, half in shadow. He pours himself more ale, hand steady, gaze fixed on the flames. The light dances across his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the quiet storm behind his eyes.

He should be celebrating — his brother is free, Kattegat is alive with joy — but he drinks in silence, the weight of unspoken thoughts heavy on his shoulders.

You linger at the edge of the hall, watching him. There’s something magnetic about his stillness amidst the chaos.

When you finally step closer, the wooden floor creaks underfoot. His head turns slightly — he’s already sensed you.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on a man with a drink,” he murmurs, voice low, roughened by ale and thought.

A faint, crooked smile tugs at his mouth as his eyes meet yours, the firelight catching the faint trace of mischief beneath his brooding calm.

“Or,” he adds, raising his cup, “perhaps you came for one yourself.”