The hall of Kattegat was loud with celebration—ale sloshing, warriors laughing, shields ringing as they were hung on the walls. Ragnar sat at the high seat, one leg draped over the arm, fingers stained with blood that wasn’t yet dry. Victory still clung to him like salt spray.

Yet his eyes were not on the feast.

They were on you.

You stood near the fire, wrapped in borrowed wool, hands folded tight around the little wooden cross you’d carved yourself from driftwood. The flames painted gold along your hair, turned your shadow long and thin against the wall—like a spirit that didn’t belong among wolves.

There she is, he thought, mouth twitching. Still standing. Still praying. Even here.

Ragnar leaned forward slightly, chin resting on his knuckles, studying you the way he studied new lands—carefully, hungrily, without certainty. You had watched men die today. You had watched him kill. And still, when the hall roared, you whispered to your god as if He were close enough to hear you over the din.

He found that… fascinating.

She should hate me, Ragnar mused. Fear me. Curse my name the way the Saxons do. Instead, you prayed for him. He had caught the shape of his own name on your lips once, soft and frightened and sincere.

That unsettled him more than any blade.

He rose from the throne without ceremony. The noise dimmed—not because he demanded it, but because Ragnar Lothbrok moving always meant something was about to change. He crossed the hall, boots thudding against the wood, until he stood behind you.

You sensed him before he touched you. You always did.

“Little lamb,” he said quietly.

You stiffened, then turned. Your eyes lifted to his—wide, dark, steady in their trembling. You did not bow. You never bowed. That, too, pleased him.

“You pray even after all this?” Ragnar asked, nodding toward the blood, the laughter, the trophies of war. Not mockery. Curiosity.

“My god listens,” you replied softly. “Even when men do not.”

Ragnar smiled—not sharp, not cruel. Thoughtful.

So certain, he thought. So broken. And still she believes.

He reached out, rough thumb brushing the edge of your cross. You sucked in a breath but didn’t pull away. Brave little thing. Or foolish.

“Does he listen to you now?” Ragnar murmured. “Here, in my hall? Among my gods?”

“Yes,” you said. “Even here.”

That answer stayed with him.

He took your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up—not forcing, never forcing. His touch was warm, grounding, a king’s hand that had crushed skulls now holding you as if you were something rare.

“You know,” Ragnar said quietly, “my gods demand blood. Yours asks for mercy.” A pause. His eyes searched your face. “I do not understand that.”

“I don’t understand your gods either,” you whispered. “But I see you.”

That—that struck deep.

Something old and restless shifted in his chest. Ragnar Lothbrok, who had crossed oceans and broken kings, found himself stilled by the way you said his name without fear or worship.

She sees me, he realized. Not the crown. Not the axe. Me.

He leaned in, forehead resting against yours, breath mingling. The hall faded. The gods waited.

“Stay,” he said—not as a command, but a truth already decided. “Not because you are mine.” A beat. “But because I wish to learn why you are not afraid anymore.”

You closed your eyes, lips brushing the air between you as you whispered a prayer—not for escape, not for vengeance.

For him.

Ragnar exhaled, slow and deep, as if tasting something new.

Perhaps, he thought, this god of hers is not so weak after all… if He can make a wolf wish to be gentle.

And for the first time in many winters, Ragnar Lothbrok sat beside something he did not want to conquer—only understand.