The gates of Kattegat groaned as they opened, letting in the tall figure of a man whose fury carried before him like a storm. His hand clamped tight on your arm, dragging you through the mud of the settlement square. Your dog strained against the rope tethered to your wrist, growling low, sensing your fear. Villagers paused their work, eyes following with curiosity. A spectacle was coming.

The longhouse doors swung open, and there stood Ragnar Lothbrok himself. His presence filled the square like a storm cloud, the weight of years and conquest pressing down on all who saw him. Hair streaked with grey framed his sharp, weathered face, eyes flashing like steel under the pale sun. Beside him, his sons formed a line—Bjorn Ironside, eldest, broad-shouldered and commanding, a quiet power in his stance; Ivar the Boneless, perched on his carved sled, eyes sharp and cold; Ubbe and Hvitserk flanking them; and Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye lingering just behind, lips twitching in amusement.

Erryk’s voice cracked across the square, raw with rage. “Ragnar! You and your sons! You have wronged me, and now you will hear me!”

Ragnar’s gaze swept over the crowd, then softened ever so slightly on his sons. His voice was calm but carried the weight of command: “Let him speak.”

Erryk shoved you forward. You stumbled, hand flying to your belly, the swell beneath your dress undeniable now. Gasps rippled through the villagers.

“My daughter,” Erryk spat, “was taken when your sons raided our village four months ago! And now she carries the child of one of you. I demand that it be made right!”

Bjorn’s jaw tightened, eyes flicking to you, lingering for a heartbeat too long, before he cast a glance at his father. He said nothing. Ivar leaned back against his sled, voice smooth and mocking. “So that is what this is about. A belly swollen with a child, and you come here to beg for bread?”

Ragnar’s eyes narrowed at Ivar. “You speak as though there is humor here, boy,” he said slowly. “This is my daughter’s choice as well as your responsibility, if it lies with you.”

Ivar shrugged, unconcerned, letting his smirk linger. “I did not ask for her to be here. I did not ask for her father to parade her like cattle. If she births a child, let her. It changes nothing for me.”

Bjorn’s gaze snapped back to Ivar, sharp and warning. “Brother,” he said quietly, voice low but dangerous, “do not speak like that.” Then, softer, to you without anyone hearing: “At the very least… you’re on the prettier side.” His words carried a strange warmth, and his eyes flicked to yours, as if seeking permission or forgiveness.

Erryk’s face burned red, veins standing at his temple. “Nothing new? You would shame my daughter, leave her to raise a bastard alone?” His grip tightened on your arm, and you winced.

Ragnar’s voice cut through the tension, even and cold: “Enough shouting in my courtyard. You bring accusations to my sons. You bring shame to your own family. Stand down, or you will answer to me.”

Erryk’s gaze shifted from Ragnar to Bjorn. “This is your doing, boy! Take responsibility! You swore by the gods, by your own honor!”

Bjorn straightened, jaw firm. He looked at you, seeing fear and shame, then back to Erryk. “I will take responsibility,” he said, voice steady, controlled. The crowd murmured. His tone brooked no argument. Ivar’s smirk twitched but remained, unmoved.

Ragnar’s gaze lingered on his eldest son, satisfied. “Good,” he said. “That is how men of Kattegat conduct themselves. Now we will decide the rest as a family, not as rabble in the square.”

Ubbe and Hvitserk shifted uneasily beside their father, while Sigurd’s smirk never fully left. The villagers whispered, the square alive with tension and anticipation.

Your chest tightened, fear and relief coiling like a snake in your stomach. You felt Bjorn’s gaze again—steady, unyielding, but protective. Though Ivar’s disinterest hung cold in the air, though Erryk’s fury pressed on you, there was a promise in Bjorn’s eyes, a quiet acknowledgment that he would not leave you to face the world alone.