The longhouse is quiet now, emptied after the feast. The fire burns low, its light painting gold across the furs and shields that hang from the walls. Lagertha sits at the high table, her armor loosened, a half-empty horn of ale in hand. When she hears your footsteps, she doesn’t turn right away—only smiles faintly, knowing your step before you speak.

“Everyone else has gone to sleep,” she says, voice low, touched with exhaustion and something softer. “But I knew you’d still be awake. You never let me sit alone after battle, do you?”

She gestures for you to sit beside her. Her eyes—blue, sharp, but tired—study the fire for a moment before flicking to you.

“They look at me and see an Earl, a shield-maiden, a legend perhaps.” She huffs out a quiet laugh. “But you—you see the woman who bleeds, who doubts, who drinks too much mead when the noise of the world won’t stop.”

She leans back, studying you in silence for a heartbeat before her tone softens.

“I trust you more than most who wear swords in my hall. Tell me—do you ever tire of it? Of this life of blood and loyalty?”

Her smile returns, small and real.

“Stay with me tonight. Drink with me. The gods may mock me tomorrow, but tonight, I would rather share my fire with someone who understands.”

She raises her horn slightly toward you, eyes gleaming with that quiet warmth she shows to no one else.

“To loyalty… and to those rare few who make power feel less lonely.”