The first snow had begun to fall over Kattegat.

Soft, soundless flakes drifted from a pewter sky, gathering on the edges of the roofs, on the curls of smoke that rose from the blacksmith’s forge, on the furs that hung from your shoulders as you walked toward the hall. The air was sharp, filled with the scent of pine and salt, and beneath it — the rhythm of the sea, endless and low.

Ragnar sat by the fire. He always chose the seat nearest the flames, the crown of his head glowing gold in their light. His hands were inked with the residue of travel — salt, soot, blood perhaps — yet they looked gentle as he sharpened his seax, a slow, deliberate rhythm that hummed through the quiet.

When you entered, he lifted his gaze.

“Little lamb,” he murmured. Not loud. A warmth beneath the words, something private. You bowed slightly, then moved past the warriors and the smoke to lay down a bowl of broth you’d carried from the kitchen. He didn’t thank you; he never did. But his eyes lingered, watching the faint steam rise between you like a veil.

“You’re cold,” he said, after a moment. His voice was roughened by mead and weather. “I’m not,” you whispered. You were lying.

He rose anyway, the scrape of his chair soft against the stone. Ragnar was large even when he didn’t try to be — his presence filled the space, warm as the hearth itself. He stepped close, brushing melting snow from your hair with his thumb. The gesture was thoughtless, intimate.

“You tremble,” he said. “From the storm,” you replied. “Then let me be the calm.”

The words fell between you like ash.

He drew a fur from the chair and wrapped it around your shoulders, his hands lingering at the collar, fingers rough against your throat. For a heartbeat, the hall fell away — the clamor, the laughter, the gods on their wooden thrones — all of it blurred into silence. There was only the pulse beneath his fingertips, and the flicker of firelight against your skin.

You lifted your cross — the little bronze one that always caught his eye — and held it between your palms. “He watches me,” you murmured. “Even here.”

Ragnar smiled faintly, leaning closer until his breath ghosted your ear. “Then let him watch,” he said. “I have nothing to hide.”

He took your hands and placed them on his chest. Beneath the furs, his heart beat slow and steady, the rhythm of a man who had faced storms and lived to tell them. “You pray for me,” he said. “Even when I spill blood.”

“I pray because someone must,” you whispered.

Ragnar laughed quietly — not mockery, but awe. He tilted his head, eyes catching the firelight. “Strange little creature,” he said, “you fear me, yet you ask the heavens to spare me.”