#halfdan x reader

The Great Hall of Kattegat always reeked of the things Halfdan the Black tried to drown himself in: spilled mead, roasting boar, and the cheap, fleeting musk of Beta camp followers.

He was an Alpha of the highest, most brutal order. His natural scent was an intoxicating, suffocating storm of dark mahogany, crushed pine needles, and the sharp, ozone metallic tang of freshly spilled blood. It was a scent that made Omegas weep and weaker Alphas drop their gaze.

Yet, for all his terrifying power, Halfdan was running scared.

The source of his terror sat just three benches down, casually sharpening a throwing dagger. You.

You were a renowned shieldmaiden, a warrior whose name was whispered with reverence from the shores of England to the gates of Kiev. You were also an Omega. But you weren't soft, and you weren't looking for a master. Your scent was a devastating contrast to his—sweet, wild honey tangled with the bitter, smoky ash of a sacrificial fire. Every time the draft blew your scent across the hall, Halfdan’s inner wolf roared, demanding he drag you to his furs, bite your neck, and claim you until you both bore the unyielding scar of the true mate bond.

And that was exactly why he hated you.

To Halfdan, a true mate bond was a death sentence to his freedom. He was a Viking. He lived for the high seas, the roar of raiding, the blood on his axe, and the right to bed a different woman in every port. A true mate meant being a one-woman man. It meant an Omega who could demand he stay behind, an Omega whose safety would make him a coward on the battlefield.

So, he fought the bond with a vengeful, desperate fury.

The Strategy of Betas

"You’re staring again, brother," Harald Finehair murmured, leaning back with a horn of mead, his eyes tracking Halfdan’s murderous glare across the room.

"I am not staring," Halfdan growled, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He abruptly grabbed the waist of a passing Beta servant girl, pulling her roughly onto his lap. She gasped, a generic, unbonded scent of wild berries wafting from her. She didn't trigger his instinct. She didn't threaten his freedom.

"You are," Harald countered, a smirk playing on his tattooed face. "She is your true match, Halfdan. The Gods practically carved your names into the same piece of ashwood. Why do you resist?"

"Because I am a wolf, not a hound on a leash," Halfdan snarled, his hand sliding crudely up the Beta’s skirt, his thumb pressing hard into her thigh until she whimpered. "An Omega true mate softens a man. They cry when you sail. They beg you to farm. I will die with an axe in my hand, not a screaming babe in a smoky hut."

Across the hall, you didn't even look up from your dagger. You caught the drift of his thoughts—and his crude display—and simply took another sip of your ale.

"They're asking about him again," Torvi whispered, sliding onto the bench beside you. "The women in the back. They want to know why the great shieldmaiden allows Halfdan to parade those Beta girls around when everyone with a nose knows you are his fated."

You let out a soft, amused chuckle, the scent of your smoky honey sweetening the air. "Let him have his fun, Torvi. In the end, he is the one who will regret it. He thinks he’s protecting his freedom, but he’s just wasting his time. If I decide to mate with someone else—some handsome Earl from the west—the bond will tear him apart. But honestly? I am far too busy training the new recruits to care about a scared boy playing at being a stallion."

The Sexcapades

Halfdan took your indifference as a personal insult. It drove him to madness. If he couldn't force the bond to break, he would drown it in lust.

That night, he didn't just take one Beta; he took three into his quarters, demanding the door remain cracked so the sounds would echo through the longhouse. He wanted you to hear. He wanted you to break.

Inside the dimly lit room, the air was thick with the generic, musky heat of the Beta women. Halfdan was a beast possessed, his massive, heavily tattooed body slick with sweat. He threw a blonde Beta named Astrid onto the fur-lined table, ripping her tunic to shreds.

"Look at me," he commanded, his Alpha voice booming, heavy with the scent of dark mahogany and sharp iron. He wasn't looking at her, though; his eyes were fixed on the door.

He slammed into her from behind without preamble, his thick, heavy length stretching her open. Astrid shrieked with a mixture of shock and pleasure, her fingers clawing at the wood as Halfdan drove into her with brutal, rhythmic force. Thud. Thud. Thud. The table groaned under his weight. He reached around, grabbing her breasts, pinching her nipples until she cried out his name.

"Yes! More, Lord Halfdan!" she begged.

But it wasn't enough. The bond inside him felt like a burning coal, mocking him. He pulled out of her with a slick, wet slap, leaving her panting and dripping on the table. He turned his predatory gaze to the other two Betas shivering on his bed.

"Both of you. On your knees," he ordered.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his massive, rock-hard cock glistening with Astrid's fluids. The two women scrambled forward, eagerly taking him into their mouths. One licked his heavy balls while the other engulfed his thick shaft, sucking greedily. Halfdan fisted their hair, shoving his pelvis forward, forcing himself deep down their throats, making them gag and choke on his size.

He spent hours taking them every way he knew how—bent over the chests, pinned against the stone wall, faces buried in the furs. He filled the room with the sounds of wet, squelching friction, slapping flesh, and ragged moans. He spilled his seed over their bellies, their faces, inside them—yet when he finally collapsed, panting and covered in sweat, the scent of smoky honey still haunted his senses, unbothered and unchanged.

The Cruelest Display

Weeks passed, and your total lack of jealousy drove Halfdan over the edge. He decided to strike where it would hurt any standard Omega: their pride.

During a massive feast celebrating a successful raid, the hall was packed. You were sitting near Harald, laughing at a joke, your honey-and-ash scent warm and inviting. Halfdan walked into the center of the hall, dragging a well-known Beta camp follower by the hair—not painfully, but possessively.

He stopped right in front of your table.

"You think you are something special, shieldmaiden?" Halfdan sneered, his voice cutting through the chatter of the hall. Silence fell. "You sit there with your nose in the air, thinking the Gods made me for you. Look at you. Cold. Hard. A man in a woman’s armor. You aren't an Omega; you're a stone. I would rather spend a thousand nights inside a common whore than ever touch a dried-up, arrogant bitch like you."

The hall gasped. Harald stood up, his face darkening with rage. "Halfdan, hold your tongue—"

"No, Brother, let me show her what a real woman does," Halfdan interrupted, his eyes wild and bloodshot.

Right there, on the heavy oak table directly in front of you, Halfdan shoved the Beta woman down. He shoved her tunic up to her waist. He didn't look at her face as he unbuckled his trousers and freed his massive, turgid length. With a savage thrust, he buried himself inside her right in front of your face.

The Beta screamed, a mixture of exhibitionist thrill and pain as Halfdan pounded into her with terrifying, violent speed. The wet, slapping sound of his hips hitting her thighs echoed in the silent hall. He didn't take his eyes off you. He sneered, his face contorted in a mask of forced pleasure, grunting loudly as he drove his thick cock deeper and deeper, trying to force a tear, a scream, anything from you. He reached a frantic, explosive climax within minutes, roaring like a beast as he painted the Beta’s thighs with his thick white seed.

You didn't blink. You didn't flinch. You casually picked up a piece of roasted apple, bit into it, and watched him with the mild curiosity of a person watching a dog chase its own tail.

When he finished, panting, his iron-and-ash scent sour with desperation, you simply looked at him and said, "Are you done? Some of us are trying to eat."

Halfdan looked as if he had been struck with an axe. He stumbled backward, pulling up his trousers, and fled the hall.

The King’s Intervention

An hour later, you were by the docks, enjoying the cool night air, when King Harald approached you. His face was etched with deep shame and anxiety.

"Please," Harald begged, his voice cracking as he reached out, though he didn't dare touch you. "Please, do not leave Kattegat. Do not take your shieldmaidens and abandon us. I know what my brother did was an abomination. It was a violation of the Gods and of your honor. I will banish him if I must. Just... do not leave."

You turned to look at the King, the cool night breeze carrying your scent of sweet honey and smoky ash. You actually smiled.

"Harald, calm yourself," you said softly. "I never did plan to leave. And truthfully? It didn't hurt me when Halfdan did what he did."

Harald blinked, stunned. "It... it didn't?"

"No," you chuckled, looking out over the dark water. "He is fighting a war against his own soul, and he is losing. Why should I be angry at a man who is so terrified of loving me that he has to humiliate himself in front of the entire court just to feel powerful? I am a shieldmaiden, Harald. My worth isn't between Halfdan's thighs. I have a raid to plan."

The Reckoning

Harald left you, a mixture of awe and relief in his chest, and marched straight to Halfdan’s private quarters. He kicked the door off its leather hinges.

Halfdan was sitting in the dark, a jug of mead in his hand, looking completely hollow.

"You are a fool," Harald hissed, walking up and striking his brother across the face with a backhand that drew blood. "A pathetic, cowardly fool. You humiliated yourself tonight. You thought you were breaking her? She didn't care, Halfdan. I just spoke to her. She pities you. She thinks you are a scared little boy."

Halfdan’s eyes widened, the dark mahogany of his scent turning rancid with sudden, piercing agony. "She... she wasn't hurt?"

"She laughed," Harald said coldly. "She said she is too busy to care about you. And know this—there is an Earl arriving from the West next week. A strong Alpha. He has already asked for her hand. And since you have made it clear you want nothing to do with her, I will bless the match."

Harald turned and walked out, leaving Halfdan alone in the dark.

The words pierced Halfdan deeper than any blade ever could. Another Alpha. Touching you. Tasting your smoky honey. Biting your neck. Securing the bond that belonged to him.

The realization hit him like an avalanche. In trying to protect his freedom, he hadn't saved himself—he had handed his soul over to a lifetime of torture. The thought of you with another man made his inner Alpha howl in pure, unadulterated agony. The bond, which he had fought so hard, snapped tight around his heart, pulling him toward you with the force of a tsunamic wave.

The Submission of the Black

You were in the armory late that night, wiping down your axe, when the heavy oak doors burst open.

Halfdan stood there. He looked wrecked. His hair was wild, his eyes bloodshot, and his chest heaving. But his scent had changed. The arrogant, suffocating iron and pine were gone, replaced by a desperate, submissive, pleading note of burnt mahogany and rain-soaked earth.

"Get out," you said without looking up.

In a flash, he was across the room. He didn't attack. Instead, the great, terrifying Halfdan the Black dropped heavily to his knees at your feet. He buried his face into the leather of your boots, his massive shoulders shaking.

"Please," he choked out, a sob tearing from his throat. "Please, no Earl. No other Alphas. I am sorry. I am a fool. I was so scared, y/n. I was so terrified of losing the sea... but losing you is a living death."

You looked down at him, your expression unreadable. You let your scent flare—warm, rich, smoky honey—coating his senses, making him groan in desperate need. You reached down, fisting your hand in his dark hair, and forced his face up to look at you.

"You think you can play your games, bed your Betas, insult me in my face, and then crawl back when you get scared?" you asked, your voice dangerously low.

"No," he whispered, tears mixing with the dirt on his face. "Punish me. Kill me if you wish. But let me be yours. I will never look at another woman. I will sail only when you allow it. I will be your hound, your slave, anything. Just... claim me."

You stared at him for a long moment, letting him writhe in the agony of his own making. Slowly, a dark, victorious smile spread across your lips.

"Strip," you commanded.

Halfdan didn't hesitate. With trembling hands, he ripped his tunic off, throwing his weapons aside, presenting his heavily muscled, tattooed chest to you. He stayed on his knees, panting, looking up at you like a starving man looking at a feast.

You sat back on the armory table, parting your legs slightly. "You want to be my man, Halfdan? Then you crawl. And you better hope your tongue is as good as your pride, because you have a lot of making up to do."

With a ragged gasp of gratitude, the fierce Alpha crawled between your thighs, completely conquered by the Omega who didn't even have to fight to break him.

The Reclaiming of the Alpha

Halfdan did not move with his usual arrogant heft. The beast that had proudly pounded into Beta women on tables was gone, replaced by a desperate creature operating on pure, unadulterated worship. He kept his knees planted firmly on the cold stone floor of the armory, his massive hands trembling as he rested them flat on the table on either side of your thighs. He didn't dare touch your bare skin yet. He just looked up, his eyes wide, dilated, and swimming with a frantic need for permission.

"Look at you," you murmured, your voice a smooth, low purr that sent a visible shiver down his spine. You leaned back slightly on your elbows, shifting your weight. The scent of your smoky honey flared, thick and heavy in the cramped, iron-tang room, completely drowning out the stale, sour smell of his previous, desperate escapades. "The great Black Wolf, begging at my feet. Where is that loud mouth of yours now, Halfdan?"

"Gone," he rasped, his voice raw. He leaned his forehead against your wrapped knee, breathing you in like a drowning man breaking the surface of the water. "Burned to ash by my own stupidity. Please, y/n... let me taste you. Let me clean the insult of my words from my mouth."

"Do it then," you commanded softly. "But if you bite, or if you get rough without my leave, I will have Harald's men throw you into the fjord."

He didn't need to be told twice. Halfdan slid his large, calloused hands up your calves, pushing the leather guards aside until his palms met the warm, soft skin of your inner thighs. He parted you further, his chest heaving as he buried his face between your legs.

Even through your thick linen undergarments, the heat of his breath was a scorching brand. He didn't rip the fabric away with the violent impatience he’d shown the camp followers; instead, he used his teeth to gently hook the hem, pulling the cloth down and away until you were completely exposed to the cool air of the armory—and his burning gaze.

Your Omega scent was a heady, intoxicating syrup, damp and ready despite your cool demeanor. Halfdan let out a low, rumbling groan deep in his chest—a pure Alpha sound of submission and arousal—before he pressed his mouth to your center.

The first stroke of his tongue was broad, wet, and incredibly deep. You gasped, your fingers instantly digging into his thick, dark hair as he drank from you. He didn't rush. He swirled his tongue around your sensitive flesh, lapping up your sweet, slick heat with a reverent, agonizing slowness. He pressed his face flat against your pelvis, inhaling your scent until he was entirely intoxicated by it, his nose rubbing against your slickness to coat himself in your mark.

"Ah... Halfdan," you breathed, your hips twitching involuntarily as his tongue found your clit. He pinned your thighs with his heavy forearms, holding you steady as his tongue flicked with a sudden, rhythmic mastery. He sucked you into his mouth, his lips creating a tight, wet vacuum that made your toes curl against the stone.

He was relentless. Every time you tried to pull back from the sheer intensity of the pleasure, his grip tightened, holding you to his mouth, forcing you to take every slick, lapping stroke. He drank you down as if your slick was the finest mead in Valhalla, his tongue driving inside you, stretching you out, mimicking the friction of his cock until your breath came in ragged, short pants.

"Halfdan, wait," you panted, the heat building rapidly in your lower belly.

He ignored you, his tongue moving faster, harder, vibrating against your swollen flesh until you shivered violently. A sudden, white-hot wave of release crashed over you. You cried out, your fingers yanking his hair as your walls clamped down on his tongue. Halfdan drank through your climax, swallowing every drop of your release, his own mahogany scent flaring with a fierce, possessive pride as he felt your body shake.

The True Bond Sealed

When your trembling subsided, he pulled back, his mouth and chin glistening with your juices. He looked up at you, his eyes dark, his lips parted as he panted.

"More," he whispered, his hands sliding up to your waist, gripping you hard enough to leave bruises. "Let me inside. Please, y/n. Fill me with your scent. Erase everything else."

You looked down at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. The indifference you had worn like armor all evening was finally melting away, replaced by the deep, ancient call of the bond. You could feel his agony, his terror of losing you, pulsing through the air. He was completely broken to your will.

"Get up," you whispered.

He scrambled onto the table, his massive body looming over yours. His cock was a thick, heavy pillar of dark vein and heat, leaking clear fluid as it throbbed against his abdomen. He didn't just thrust in. He rested his weight on his forearms, framing your head, his face inches from yours.

"Look at me when you take me," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "Know that I am yours. Only yours. Forever."

You guided his thick head to your entrance. He was so massive it felt like a wall of hot iron pressing against you, but you were slick and opened wide from his tongue. Slowly, deliberately, you lifted your hips and sank down onto him.

Halfdan let out a ragged, choked scream as your tight, hot heat sheathed him to the root. He closed his eyes, his entire body shuddering as the true mate bond snapped completely into place, locking your souls together with the finality of a heavy iron gate. The sheer pleasure of being inside his true mate—the friction of your soft walls gripping his thick length—was so intense he could barely breathe.

"Gods," he gasped, his forehead dropping against your shoulder. "You are so tight... so perfect... y/n..."

"Move, Halfdan," you groaned, the fullness of him stretching you to your absolute limit, sending a deep, delicious ache through your core.

He began to move. It wasn't the frantic, hollow pounding from before. This was a slow, heavy, devastating rhythm. Every time he pulled back, he withdrew until almost the very tip of his head left you, only to plunge back in with a deep, wet squelch that filled the quiet armory. Slap. Slap. Slap. The sound of his heavy hips hitting your thighs was loud and possessive.

He fisted his hands in your hair, pulling your head back so he could kiss you. His mouth tasted like you—like sweet honey and smoky ash. He kissed you with a starving, desperate fury, his tongue tangling with yours while his lower body worked you over with unyielding power. He drove himself into you at an angle that caught your g-spot with every single thrust, making you moan loudly into his mouth.

"You're mine," he growled against your lips, his pace picking up, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, more chaotic as the Alpha heat took him over completely. "Tell me you won't take the Earl. Tell me you're mine."

"I am... mine own," you panted, striking his chest with a fist, though you wrapped your legs tightly around his waist to pull him deeper. "But you... you are my hound, Halfdan. Remember that."

The word hound should have enraged his prideful Alpha spirit, but instead, it sent a jolt of pure arousal straight to his cock. He let out a dark, booming laugh, his hands sliding under your hips, lifting you off the table entirely so he could slam into you with unrestricted force. He was a beast unleashed, his tattooed chest slick with sweat, his veins bulging as he pounded you into the wood.

The pleasure built until it was unbearable. Your walls gripped him in tight, rhythmic spasms, signaling your second climax.

"I'm going to spill," he roared, his scent of burnt mahogany and rain turning sharp and sweet as his climax hit him. He didn't pull out. He buried himself as deep as his anatomy would allow, his hips locking against yours as he erupted.

Huge, thick ropes of his hot Alpha seed shot deep into your womb, filling you to overflowing. He grunted with every pulse of his release, his body stiffening, his eyes rolling back as he poured every ounce of his strength, his soul, and his submission into you.

The Morning After

The next morning, the Great Hall was quiet as the thralls began to sweep the floors and light the hearths. King Harald sat at the high table, a cup of herbal tea in his hands, looking exhausted from a night of worry.

The heavy doors opened, and a hush fell over the few warriors present.

You walked in, your posture upright, your armor clean, and your shield mounted on your back. Your scent was different now—it was still wild honey and smoky ash, but it was heavily layered with the undeniable, deeply possessive musk of Halfdan the Black. You bore a dark, prominent mating bite at the crook of your neck, fresh and slightly bruised.

Walking a half-step behind you, carrying your extra spears and your heavy iron chest, was Halfdan.

The fierce, terrifying prince looked completely transformed. His hair was neatly braided, his face washed, and his eyes were fixed entirely on the back of your head. His scent was no longer a wild, raging storm threatening to choke the room; it was a calm, deeply settled note of rain-washed earth, entirely anchored to yours. He walked with the quiet, contented discipline of a wolf that had finally found its alpha.

Harald stared, his jaw nearly dropping into his cup. He looked from the bite on your neck to his brother’s submissive posture, a slow, triumphant grin spreading across his face.

"Well," Harald chuckled, leaning back. "It seems the Western Earl will have to find a bride elsewhere."

You stopped at the foot of the high table, turning slightly. Halfdan immediately stopped beside you, setting your chests down without a word of complaint, his hand coming to rest respectfully on the small of your back.

"The Earl was never an option, Harald," you said, a dry, knowing smirk playing on your lips. You glanced at Halfdan, who looked down at you with nothing but pure, unadulterated devotion in his dark eyes. "But it is good to know that the Black Wolf finally learned how to heal a scent."

The peace in the Great Hall did not last past the midday meal.

While Harald sat back, satisfied that his brother had finally been brought to heel, the reality of what Halfdan had done over the past few weeks still hung over Kattegat like a foul mist. A mating bond could seal two souls together, but it couldn't instantly erase the humiliation Halfdan had paraded through the village.

It started near the armory. You were inspecting a shipment of new iron rivets with Torvi when Astrid, the blonde Beta woman Halfdan had used so brutally on the table just days prior, stepped into your path. She wasn’t a shieldmaiden, but she had the hardened, bitter edge of someone who lived on the fringes of a warrior’s camp.

Her scent was a sour spike of unbonded jealousy and humiliation. She looked at the dark, purple-red mating mark standing out proudly on your neck, and she sneered.

"So, the great shieldmaiden finally crawled into his furs," Astrid hissed, loud enough for the passing guards to halt. "Tell me, Omega, does he taste different now that he’s bound? Or does he still taste like me? Because he had his tongue down my throat and his seed dripping down my thighs while he called you a dried-up, arrogant bitch."

Torvi’s hand instantly went to the hilt of her sword. "Watch your tongue, girl. You speak to a commander of the King’s fleet."

"I speak to a woman who shares her scraps!" Astrid shot back, stepping closer to you, her eyes flashing with a desperate need to wound. "He used me to mock you. He used three of us in one night just to prove how little you mattered. Every time he grunted, he was thinking of how much he despised the thought of you. You think a bite on the neck makes you a queen? You’re just the leash he was forced to wear."

Before Torvi could draw her blade, a terrifying, guttural roar echoed down the wooden walkway.

Halfdan appeared from around the corner of the longhouse, and the change in him was instantaneous and violent. The calm, rain-washed earth of his bonded scent vanished, replaced by an explosive, suffocating tidal wave of scorched mahogany and pure, predatory rage. His eyes were completely bloodshot, his jaw locked so tight the muscles in his neck strained against his tattoos.

He didn't just walk; he charged, his massive hand flying out to catch Astrid by the throat. He slammed her back against the timber wall of the armory with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs.

"You dare?" Halfdan snarled, his voice a sub-vocal vibration that made the nearby thralls drop to their knees in terror. His Alpha aura was so heavy it felt like a physical weight in the air. "You dare speak her name with your filthy mouth? You are nothing. A passing shadow. A mistake born of my own cowardice. If you ever breathe a word to my mate again, I will personally cut the tongue from your head and feed it to the crows!"

Astrid choked, her hands clawing at his iron grip, her face turning a dangerous shade of blue. She looked at him with sheer terror, realizing that the man who had held her in his bed was completely gone. In his place was a monster who would kill her without a second thought to protect the honor of his Omega.

"Halfdan. Let her go," you said. Your voice wasn’t loud, but it carried an absolute, unyielding authority.

Halfdan stiffened. The wild, murderous beast in his eyes warred with the primal urge to obey your command. He turned his head to look at you, his chest heaving, his grip tightening just a fraction more on the Beta's throat.

"She insulted you," he growled, his voice thick with a dark, possessive madness. "She throws my sins in your face. Let me end her."

"I said, let her go," you repeated, stepping into his space. The sweet, smoky heat of your honey-and-ash scent flared, pushing against his aggressive musk, wrapping around him like a heavy velvet cloak.

With a ragged exhale, Halfdan opened his hand. Astrid collapsed to the dirt, coughing violently and clutching her bruised neck, scrambling backward like a frightened animal until she vanished down the alley.

Halfdan didn't care about her. He immediately turned to you, his massive body trembling with a toxic mixture of rage, shame, and fear. The realization of what Astrid had said—the reminder of his crude, public display in the hall—was eating him alive. He looked around at the watching guards, his scent turning sharp and sour with agony.

"They look at you and they see a woman who took back a dog," Halfdan whispered, his voice cracking as he stepped closer, his hands reaching for you but hovering, terrified of your rejection. "I ruined it. I fouled the air between us before it even began. I stood in front of the whole court and... and I bedded her to hurt you."

"You did," you said calmly, crossing your arms.

"Punish me," he begged, his knees buckling slightly, right there in the middle of the crowded thoroughfare. He didn't care who saw his submission anymore. The pride of Halfdan the Black was dead. "Beat me. Banish me from your tent for a moon. Do whatever you must, y/n, but do not let her words make you doubt. I was a coward. I was running from the greatest gift the Gods ever gave me."

The drama of his public breakdown was drawing a crowd. Warriors, shieldmaidens, and thralls alike were watching the terrifying prince beg for forgiveness from the woman he had publicly scorned just a day ago.

You stared down at him for a long, silent moment. Then, you reached out, your fingers gripping his jaw, forcing his eyes up to meet yours.

"The words of a boy trying to convince himself he was free mean nothing to me, Halfdan," you said, your voice carrying clearly across the courtyard so every whispering tongue could hear. "You gave those women your body because you were weak. You gave me your soul because you had no choice. Let them talk. They are watching a king’s brother serve a shieldmaiden, and I find that a very satisfying view."

A collective breath was released among the onlookers. Harald, who had been watching from the balcony of the longhouse, let out a loud, booming laugh, raising his horn to you in absolute respect.

Halfdan let out a ragged sob of pure relief, pressing his face into the palm of your hand, his scent finally settling back into a warm, deeply bonded rain. He was your warrior, your hound, and your mate—and the entire world now knew exactly who held the leash.

The tension in the courtyard slowly dissipated, the watching crowd returning to their duties, but the fire inside Halfdan’s blood was far from quenched. Your public reclamation of him—not as a victim of his cruelty, but as his absolute master—had triggered something primal and frantic within his Alpha core. He was practically vibrating with a desperate, submissive heat, his eyes dark and dilated as he followed you back toward your private quarters.

​The moment the heavy wooden door clicked shut behind you, the shift in the air was instantaneous.

​Halfdan didn't wait for a command this time. He lunged forward, throwing his massive arms around your waist and burying his face into the crook of your neck. He inhaled sharply, his nose dragging right over the fresh, tender mating mark he had given you. He was trembling, his scent of scorched mahogany and rain flaring into something thick, musky, and heavy with a desperate need to serve.

​"You are too good to me," he choked out, his voice a gravelly, broken rasp against your skin. "You should have let me kill her. You should have spit on me in front of the whole court. Gods, y/n... I don't deserve the air you breathe."

​"Probably not," you murmured, a smirk playing on your lips as you fisted your hands in his hair, pulling his head back so you could look down into his tortured, beautiful face. "But you are mine now, Halfdan. And I don't like other people touching what belongs to me—even if it's just to complain about it."

​A ragged gasp tore from his throat. The raw, possessive claim in your voice was like gasoline on a fire. He dropped to his knees right there at the entrance of the hut, his large hands frantically reaching up to unbuckle your leather armor, his fingers clumsy with urgency.

​"Let me show you," he pleaded, looking up with eyes filled with a terrifyingly beautiful devotion. "Let me wash her words away. Let me fill you until you can't think of anything but me."

​"Strip me, then," you commanded, leaning your back against the heavy timber of the door.

​Halfdan worked with a furious, reverent speed. He peeled away your leather guards, your tunic, and your shifts, tossing the fabrics carelessly onto the dirt floor until you stood entirely naked before him in the dim, amber firelight of the hearth. Your scent—sweet, wild honey and the sharp, smoky ash of a sacrificial fire—exploded into the room, coating the walls, suffocating his senses in the most intoxicating way possible.

​He didn't waste a second. He ripped his own clothes off, his massive, heavily tattooed body gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat. His cock was already fully erect, a thick, throbbing weapon leaking clear fluid, but he didn't dare use it yet.

​He tackled you to the massive pile of bear furs beside the hearth, his heavy weight pinning you down. He grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand, while his other hand slid down your body, grasping your thigh and lifting it over his shoulder.

​"Look at me," he growled, his Alpha aura flaring, a dark, primal dominance bleeding back into his submissive desperation. "Look at what you do to me."

​He lowered his head, burying his face between your thighs. His tongue was a hot, wet blade as he stabbed it straight inside you. You shrieked, your hips bucking off the furs as the sudden, intense friction hit your swollen flesh. Halfdan was ruthless now. He swirled his tongue deep within your heat, lapping up the sweet, thick slickness that was pouring from you. He used his thumb to fiercely rub your clit, pinning you down so you couldn't escape the blistering pleasure.

​"Halfdan—ah!—please," you gasped, your head thrashing against the furs as his tongue flicked faster, harder, driving you to the absolute brink within seconds.

​He didn't stop until you were screaming his name, your body shaking with a violent, shattering orgasm that left you panting and wet. He drank every drop of your release, letting out a dark, satisfied growl as he pulled back, his chin smeared with your glistening juices.

​Before you could even catch your breath, he shifted his weight. He positioned the thick, blunt head of his cock right against your dripping entrance. His eyes were wild, completely consumed by the true mate bond.

​"I am your hound," he whispered fiercely, his voice shaking. "But I am going to break you open, my Queen."

​With a brutal, heavy thrust, Halfdan buried himself inside you to the absolute hilt.

​The sheer size of him stretched you to the point of pain, a deep, full ache that made you cry out and dig your nails into the tattoos on his back. He didn't give you time to adjust. He began to pound into you with a savage, rhythmic fury. Thud. Thud. Thud. The heavy fur bed groaned under his weight. The wet, squelching slap of his hips against yours filled the room, a loud, primal rhythm of absolute ownership.

​He fisted his hands in your hair, forcing your mouth up to his. He kissed you with a starving madness, his tongue mimicking the brutal, deep thrusts of his hips. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, locking him inside you, matching his chaotic energy with your own fierce, warrior strength. You weren't a fragile Omega; you were a shieldmaiden, and you took his heavy, devastating thrusts with a proud, loud defiance, moaning deeply into his ear as he hit your g-spot over and over again.

​"Sweeter than Valhalla," Halfdan roared, his pace turning frantic, his thrusts becoming shorter, sharper, and incredibly violent as his climax neared. "You are my home, y/n! My sea! My everything!"

​He lifted your hips off the bed, driving himself upward with an explosive, final plunge. He locked his hips against yours, his entire body stiffening as a guttural, beastly scream tore from his lungs.

​Huge, boiling waves of his Alpha seed shot deep into your womb, filling you completely, spilling out over your thighs in a thick, white ruin. He thrashed against you, grunting into your neck as he emptied himself entirely into his mate, his scent of rain-washed earth finally settling over the room like a peaceful blanket after a devastating storm.

​An hour later, the fire had burned down to low, glowing embers.

​You lay on his chest, tracing the intricate tattoos running down his arm. Halfdan was wrapped around you like a protective cocoon, his large hand resting possessively on your hip, his nose buried in your hair. He was completely spent, his breathing slow and deep.

​The door to the hut suddenly creaked open a fraction, and Harald’s face appeared in the gap. He looked in, saw the tangled mess of limbs, furs, and the overwhelming, deeply bonded scent of honey, ash, and rain, and he smiled.

​"The Western Earl has officially left the harbor," Harald whispered, his voice warm with amusement. "And the court is quiet. It seems no one has anything left to say about the Black Wolf's loyalty."

​Halfdan didn't even lift his head from your shoulder. He simply tightened his grip around your waist, letting out a low, warning rumble in his chest that told his brother to leave.

​You chuckled softly, looking up at the ceiling as Harald closed the door. The drama was over. The whispers were gone. Halfdan the Black had fought the Gods, fought the sea, and fought his own soul—only to find his absolute freedom exactly where he feared it most: on his knees, bound to you.

The serenity of the darkened hut was a fragile thing, shattered not by the whispers of camp followers, but by the cold, heavy reality of politics.

Two days after the Earl’s departure, the morning air in Kattegat carried the sharp, biting scent of impending winter. The Great Hall was packed, the tables laden with salted fish and heavy barley bread. You sat at Harald’s right hand, your posture commanding and your honey-and-ash scent projecting an unyielding wall of authority. Halfdan sat beside you, his dark mahogany and rain scent warm, his large hand resting heavily on your bare thigh beneath the table—a silent, constant reassurance of the bond.

Then, the heavy oak doors of the hall swung open.

A delegation of four men strode in, their rich wool cloaks lined with expensive silver fox fur. These were not common raiders. They were chieftains from the eastern borders, men who controlled the vital trade routes Halfdan had secured years ago. At their head stood Earl Sigurd, a towering Alpha whose scent was a bitter, aggressive wave of burnt peat and old iron.

Beside Sigurd walked a young Omega woman, her head held high, her eyes fixed instantly on Halfdan. She smelled faintly of sweet mint, her gaze tracing the sharp lines of his face with an intimately familiar look that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

"King Harald," Sigurd boomed, bowing his head just enough to be respectful, though his eyes remained sharp. "We have traveled through the storms to hold you to your word. The raiding season is ending, and the pact must be sealed."

Harald shifted in his high chair, his expression tightening. "Sigurd. You are welcome to my hearth. But what pact do you speak of?"

Sigurd smiled, a cold, humorless baring of teeth. He gestured to the mint-scented Omega beside him. "The pact of blood and silver. Two seasons ago, your brother Halfdan sailed into our waters. To secure the trade routes and guarantee our ships passage, he promised he would return to take my daughter, Freydis, as his bride. He bedded her in our halls, swore his allegiance to our house, and promised that before the snow fell this year, he would claim her."

A dead, suffocating silence fell over the Great Hall.

Halfdan’s hand froze against your thigh. The warm, rain-washed earth of his scent instantly turned into a sour, panicked spike of toxic ash. He bolted to his feet, his chair screeching against the stone floor.

"That was before!" Halfdan roared, his chest heaving as he stared down the eastern Alpha. "I was a different man. I gave no formal oaths, Sigurd! I bedded many women in the east, and I promised nothing but a return to the trade tables!"

Freydis stepped forward, her mint scent turning sharp with a sudden, vengeful sting. She reached into her cloak and pulled out a heavy, braided silver arm ring—one that bore the specific, crude carvings of Halfdan’s own handiwork.

"You gave me this in your bed, Halfdan," Freydis cried out, her voice echoing off the rafters. "You held me against your chest, drenched in my scent, and told me that no Omega in Kattegat could ever tame you. You told me the shieldmaidens of the west were like blocks of ice, and that you would return to the east to build your home. Now I come to your hall, and I smell the foul, heavy mark of another on your skin?"

She pointed a trembling, accusatory finger directly at you.

The hall erupted into fierce muttering. The warriors of Kattegat looked from the silver arm ring to you, the tension mounting until the air felt thick enough to choke on. A broken promise to an Eastern Earl meant war—it meant the trade routes would be closed, and the blood of Kattegat’s men would stain the winter snows.

You didn't move. You sat perfectly still, your fingers idly tracing the rim of your horn of mead. But your scent—the sweet honey—completely vanished, replaced entirely by a bitter, blinding wave of sacrificial ash. It was the scent of a shieldmaiden preparing for a slaughter.

Halfdan felt the shift in your aura and panicked. He dropped to his knees right there at the high table, grabbing your hand, his face pale with a terror worse than death.

"y/n, listen to me," he begged fiercely, his voice a frantic, low whisper that trembled with agony. "It was before the bond. I was running from you. I went to the east to drown myself in anyone who wasn't you. I swear on my axe, I never intended to marry her. I was lying to myself, lying to them—please, look at me!"

You slowly turned your head to look down at him. Your eyes were ice. "You told her I was a block of ice, Halfdan?"

"I was a fool!" he cried, a tear finally slipping down his tattooed cheek, completely unbothered by the fact that the entire hall was watching the great prince weep at his mate’s feet. "I said anything to convince myself I was free. Punish me. Strike my head from my shoulders, but do not let them take me from you."

Earl Sigurd sneered at the pathetic display. "Is this the great Black Wolf? Groveling like a whipped hound before a woman in armor? Harald, your brother dishonored my daughter. If he does not fulfill his promise and return to the east with us, the trade routes are closed, and our axes will meet you at the border."

Harald stood up, his face dark with royal fury, but before he could speak, you slammed your mead horn onto the table. The heavy wood cracked.

You stood up, your towering, powerful Omega presence filling the space, completely eclipsing the frantic energy of the room. You looked down at Halfdan, who was still trembling on his knees, clutching the hem of your tunic like a lifeline.

"Stand up, Halfdan," you commanded, your voice cutting through the hall like a winter wind.

He scrambled to his feet instantly, his posture rigid, his eyes locked on you, awaiting his sentence.

You walked around the high table, stepping down into the center of the hall until you stood a mere foot away from Earl Sigurd and the weeping Freydis. The scent of your sacrificial ash was overwhelming, making the mint-scented Omega take a fearful step back behind her father.

"You come into my hall, demanding my mate?" you said softly, your voice dangerously calm. "You think a piece of silver and the whispered lies of a scared, unbonded Alpha constitute a blood pact?"

"He gave his word!" Sigurd barked, stepping into your space, his burnt peat scent flaring aggressively. "He took her virtue, and he promised our house his strength!"

"He belongs to me," you hissed, stepping even closer, your face inches from the Earl’s. "The Gods themselves carved the bond into our bones. If you want to take him back to the east, Sigurd, you will have to win him in the circle. I challenge you. Right now. Your axes against mine. If you win, you can drag his corpse back to your ships. If I win, your daughter leaves her silver in the dirt, and your trade routes remain open—or I will personally sail east and burn your halls to the ground."

A collective roar of approval went up from the Kattegat warriors. They loved a blood feud, and they loved their shieldmaiden.

Halfdan’s heart hammered against his ribs, a wild, soaring mixture of terrifying arousal and fierce pride exploding through his veins. You were fighting for him. You were claiming him before the world, not with tears, but with iron and blood.

Sigurd looked at your unyielding stance, then looked past you to Halfdan, who had his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his eyes gleaming with a murderous, protective rage that promised a slow death to anyone who dared touch his mate. Sigurd knew the reputation of the shieldmaiden before him. He knew he wouldn't survive the circle.

The Earl stiffened, his aggressive scent faltering into something sour and defeated. He looked down at his daughter, then back to you.

"The trade routes... will remain open," Sigurd spat, his voice tight with humiliated rage. "But the house of the Black Wolf is dead to us."

He turned on his heel, grabbing Freydis roughly by the arm. The young Omega sobbed, tearing the silver arm ring from her wrist and hurling it at Halfdan's feet before they fled the hall, the heavy doors slamming shut behind them.

The moment the doors closed, the hall erupted into cheers, but you didn't stay to celebrate. You turned and marched straight out the back exit toward your private quarters, the ash of your scent still burning hot.

Halfdan followed you like a shadow, his heart in his throat.

The second the door to your hut slammed shut, he was on you. He pinned you against the heavy wood, his massive body crushing yours, his mouth finding your neck, biting fiercely at your mating mark until you let out a ragged groan.

"You claimed me," he gasped against your skin, his hands tearing at your armor with a frantic, unhinged desperation. "Gods, y/n... you stood before the world and told them I was yours. I wanted to die of shame, and I wanted to crawl inside you all at once."

"You still have to pay for those words in the east, Halfdan," you panted, your fingers digging into his hair, pulling him down into a fierce, bruising kiss that tasted of iron and heat.

"Take it out of me," he begged, dropping to his knees, his face burying into your heat as he ripped your trousers down. "Make me bleed, make me beg, just never let me go."

The sheer velocity of his descent to your feet told you everything. The proud, unyielding prince who had once sailed the Baltic with a heart of ice was entirely gone, replaced by a man utterly consumed by the terrifying, beautiful reality of the true mate bond.

Your scent of sacrificial ash was still heavy in the small, timbered room, thick and suffocating, making Halfdan’s inner wolf whine with a desperate need to appease you. His massive hands, scarred from a hundred battles, shook as he gripped your hips, pulling you flush against his face. He didn't care about the dirt floor. He didn't care about his dignity. He only cared about the slick, sweet heat of the Omega who had just claimed his soul before the kings of the earth.

"I am a dog," he groaned against your bare thigh, his breath scorching your skin as he pulled your undergarments away. "A stupid, blind dog who didn't know the treasure he had. Let me serve you, y/n. Let me lick the dirt from your boots."

"Quiet, Halfdan," you commanded, your voice a low, dangerous growl that sent a bolt of pure lightning straight to his groin. You fisted your hands in his thick, dark hair, pulling his head back so he had to look up at you. Your eyes were dark with an ancient, predatory hunger. "You want to make up for the East? You want to make up for every lie you whispered to that girl? Then you don't stop until I tell you to."

With a ragged gasp, Halfdan buried his face between your legs.

His tongue was no longer gentle; it was a weapon of absolute submission. He strode it deep inside your aching heat, lapping up the thick, syrupy sweetness that had begun to pour from you the moment you stood up to Earl Sigurd. He used his lips and his teeth, biting gently at the tender skin of your inner thighs, marking you with his saliva, drowning himself in your smoky honey until he was completely intoxicated.

"Ah... Halfdan," you cried out, your back slamming against the heavy oak door as his tongue found your swollen clit. He pinned your legs wide with his massive shoulders, lifting you slightly so he could get a deeper, wetter angle.

He sucked you into his mouth with a frantic, starving energy, his tongue flicking in rapid, rhythmic strokes that drove you absolutely mad. The wet, squelching sounds of his mouth against your flesh filled the quiet hut, a testament to his complete undoing. You writhed against the wood, your fingers pulling desperately at his hair, your walls clamping down on his tongue as a sudden, violent climax tore through your body. You screamed his name, your release pouring over his face, but he didn't pull back. He drank every single drop, growling like a beast as he held you tight through the aftershocks.

Before you could even slide down the door, Halfdan surged up. He didn't look like a prince; he looked like a wild animal, his eyes completely dark, his breath coming in ragged, shallow pants. His cock was a thick, pulsing iron bar, dripping with clear fluid and reflecting the dim amber light of the hearth.

He grabbed you by the waist, lifting you effortlessly, and carried you to the heavy wooden table in the center of the room—the very place where you had eaten your morning meal. He threw the wooden bowls and the platters to the floor with a loud, crashing clatter, slamming you down onto your back on the rough timber.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a gravelly, guttural vibration that made your core twitch with a renewed, desperate ache. He spread your legs wide, pinning your knees to your chest, exposing your dripping, swollen center to his gaze. "Remember what I said in the hall? Remember how I insulted you on a table just like this? I am going to spend the rest of my life burning that memory out of your head."

Without another word, he drove his thick, heavy length inside you with one brutal, unrelenting thrust.

The sheer force of it made you gasp, your eyes flying open as he stretched you to your absolute limit. He was so large, so hot, it felt like a brand entering your soul. The true mate bond flared between you, a heavy, golden chain tightening around your hearts, linking your breaths, your pulses, your very blood.

Halfdan didn't wait. He began to pound into you with a savage, devastating rhythm. Thud. Thud. Thud. The heavy oak table groaned and shifted against the stone floor under the violent momentum of his hips. The wet, slapping sound of his tattooed thighs hitting yours was deafening in the small room. He reached down, fisting his hands in your hair, pulling your face up so he could kiss you with a bruising, desperate fury. His mouth tasted of your own sweet release and the bitter ash of your anger.

"You're my Queen," he roared against your lips, his pace turning chaotic, his thrusts driving deeper and deeper, catching your g-spot with a rhythmic, bruising accuracy that made your vision blur. "Say it, y/n! Say I am your slave! Tell me I belong to you!"

"You... you are mine, Halfdan!" you screamed, your fingers clawing at the muscles of his back, drawing thin lines of blood through his tattoos. You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him deep inside your womb, taking his heavy, animalistic thrusts with the proud defiance of a shieldmaiden. "You will never sail... without my leave! You will never look at another... ah! Halfdan!"

The submission of his mind only fueled the dominance of his body. He let out a dark, booming roar, his scent of rain-washed earth and burnt mahogany exploding into the room, entirely merging with your smoky honey. He lifted your hips higher, his thrusts becoming short, sharp, and incredibly violent as his climax neared. He was a man possessed, pouring every ounce of his fear, his love, and his eternal loyalty into the friction of your bodies.

Your walls seized him, a second, shattering orgasm gripping his thick shaft in a tight, suffocating vice. That was the breaking point. Halfdan let out a ragged, beastly shriek, his eyes rolling back as he shoved himself as deep as his anatomy would allow, pinning his hips flush against yours.

Huge, boiling ropes of his Alpha seed shot deep into your womb, a massive, endless release that filled you to overflowing. He thrashed against you, his chest heaving, his forearms shaking as he held his weight above you, his grunts echoing in the quiet room as he emptied his very soul into his mate.

Late that night, the winter wind howled against the timbers of the hut, but inside, the air was warm and heavy with the scent of a completed bond.

You lay across his chest, the rough wood of the table forgotten as you rested on the thick bear furs by the hearth. Halfdan’s massive arms were wrapped around you so tightly it was almost difficult to breathe, but you didn't mind. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, his lips resting against the dark mating mark, his breathing slow and peaceful.

The silver arm ring that Freydis had thrown at his feet lay in the corner of the room, forgotten and meaningless.

"We sail for the Western lands when the ice melts," you murmured into the dark, your fingers idly tracing the scar on his shoulder.

Halfdan shifted slightly, his grip tightening around your waist as he let out a low, contented purr—a sound that would have shocked the fierce warriors of the Great Hall. He kissed your shoulder, his scent of rain-washed earth settling over you like a shield.

"Wherever you command, my Queen," he whispered, his voice steady, his heart beating a slow, faithful rhythm against your cheek. "The sea means nothing if you are not on the ship."

The Winter Throne of Kattegat

By the time the deep snows finally locked the longships into the frozen fjords, the hierarchy of the Great Hall had permanently shifted. The whispers had died out, replaced by a quiet, unyielding respect. No one dared question the authority of the shieldmaiden who had brought the Black Wolf to his knees.

On the final night of the winter solstice feast, the hall was roaring with the heat of massive central hearths. Harald sat upon his high throne, laughing as his skalds sang of past victories, but the eyes of the court were drawn to the long table just beneath the dais.

You sat there, your posture relaxed but dominant, your scent of sweet, wild honey and heavy sacrificial ash claiming the space around you. At your side sat Halfdan. He wore no silver arm rings from the east, nor did he look toward the camp followers who hovered at the edges of the room. His gaze was anchored entirely to you. His scent—rain-washed earth and deep, burnt mahogany—swirled lazledly with yours, completely settled and fiercely possessive.

Every time a thrall approached to top off your horn of mead, Halfdan’s hand would subtly tighten on your thigh beneath the table, a low, warning vibration rolling in his chest until the servant bowed their head and backed away. He had become your shadow, your protector, and your most fierce advocate.

"You look bored, my Queen," Halfdan murmured, his gravelly voice brushing against your ear as he leaned in close. His lips hovered just a breath away from the dark, healed mating mark on your neck. "Shall we leave my brother to his drunkards and retire to the furs?"

You turned your head, a slow, victorious smile tugging at your lips as you caught his jaw in your hand. "The night is young, Halfdan. And I believe King Harald is about to announce the spring raid coordinates. Don't tell me you've lost your appetite for the sea?"

Halfdan’s eyes darkened with a mixture of intense devotion and primal heat. He leaned his forehead against yours, his hands sliding up to cup your waist with a firm, heavy pressure.

"The sea is just water, y/n," he whispered fiercely, his heart beating a steady, faithful rhythm against your palm. "You are the wind that moves the sail. I go where you command. Always."

One Final Submission

When the feast finally dwindled to embers and the hall grew quiet, you led your Alpha back to the private quarters. The winter wind howled against the heavy timber walls, but inside, the air was already thick with the musky, intoxicating heat of your shared bond.

The moment the heavy iron bolt slid into place on the door, Halfdan didn't hesitate. He didn't drop to his knees out of fear or shame tonight; he did it out of pure, unadulterated worship. He knelt before you on the thick bear furs, his large hands reverently sliding up your calves, pushing the hem of your woolen tunic out of the way until he could press his face against your bare thighs.

"Mark me again," he growled softly, looking up at you with dilated, pitch-black eyes. "Let the whole world see the bruises of your fingers on my skin when we sail in the spring. Let them know exactly who commands the Black Wolf."

"You talk too much, Halfdan," you whispered, reaching down to grab his hair and pulling his mouth up to yours.

The kiss was a brutal, beautiful collision of taste—honey, ash, and the sharp iron of his devotion. He lifted you effortlessly from the floor, throwing your body onto the massive bed of furs beside the roaring hearth. He stripped his own tunic away in one violent motion, his heavily tattooed chest heaving, his massive, rigid length throbbing against his abdomen, slick and dripping with clear, desperate arousal.

He pinned your wrists above your head, his heavy weight anchoring you to the furs as he drove himself deep inside you with one long, devastating thrust.

A ragged gasp tore from your throat as your hot, slick walls stretched completely around his thickness, the true mate bond snapping tight, sending a golden wave of pure pleasure straight to your core. Halfdan let out a low, animalistic roar, his hips instantly locking into a furious, unrelenting rhythm. Thud. Thud. Thud. The wet, squelching friction of your bodies echoed in the small hut, a loud, primal testament to your absolute unity.

He pounded into you with an unyielding, warrior strength, catching your g-spot with every deep, heavy plunge until your breath came in short, panicked gasps. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, digging your nails into the tattoos on his back, pulling him deeper, demanding more of his weight, more of his strength. You weren't his captive; you were his general, and you rode the storm of his arousal with a proud, loud defiance.

"You're mine," he panted against your skin, his pace turning chaotic, his thrusts becoming short, sharp, and incredibly violent as the Alpha heat claimed him entirely. "Every breath... every raid... everything I am belongs to you!"

With a final, explosive surge, Halfdan buried himself to the absolute root, his hips locking flush against yours as a guttural, beastly shriek tore from his lungs. Huge, boiling waves of his seed shot deep into your womb, filling you to overflowing, spilling out over the dark furs in a thick, white ruin. He shivered violently against you, his chest heaving, his face buried in your neck as he emptied his very soul into his mate.

As the dawn broke over the icy peaks of Kattegat, the light filtered through the cracks in the timber, illuminating the two of you tangled together in the quiet warmth.

Halfdan lay fast asleep, his massive arm wrapped securely around your waist, his face content and peaceful. The man who had once been terrified of a one-woman man was now completely free, finding his absolute liberation in the unconditional surrender to his true mate.

You reached out, tracing the fresh lines of your own fingernails scratched deep into his tattooed shoulder. The spring would come, the ice would melt, and the longships would sail—but the Black Wolf would never run again. He was home.

The Spring Horizon

The ice in the fjord did not melt cleanly; it cracked with the sound of breaking bone, a loud, echoing roar that signaled the true awakening of Kattegat.

By the time the first longships were pushed down the wooden rollers and into the freezing black water, the entire settlement had gathered on the pebble shore. The air was a sharp, crisp mixture of salt, melting snow, and the heavy, black pitch used to seal the hulls.

King Harald stood on the high dock, his cloak catching the brisk wind as he looked down at the crew of the leading vessel. "The tides are in our favor, brother!" he called out, his voice booming over the sound of crashing waves. "The English coast expects our axes, but they do not expect the fleet we bring this year."

At the helm of the grandest ship stood you.

Your armor was polished, the iron plates reflecting the pale northern sun, and your shield—painted with the crest of your vanguard—was locked firmly into the gunwale. Your scent of sweet honey and heavy sacrificial ash was carried far out to sea by the wind, a declaration of intent to whatever lands lay over the horizon.

Beside you, adjusting the heavy hemp lines of the main sail, was Halfdan.

He moved with the easy, brutal grace of a man who had completely rediscovered his purpose. The anxiety that had once clouded his features was entirely gone. His scent—rain-washed earth and deep, burnt mahogany—was so thoroughly intertwined with yours that the crew treated him not just as a prince, but as the unbreakable anchor of your shield wall.

He stepped up to the helm, his massive hand coming to rest over yours on the steering oar. He didn't try to take the control from you; he simply added his strength to yours, his chest pressing against your back as the ship caught the primary current.

"The wind is strong," Halfdan murmured against your ear, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrated straight through your armor. He leaned down, his lips brushing the dark, permanent mating scar on your neck, completely unbothered by the eyes of the warriors watching from the deck. "They are waiting for your command, my Queen."

You looked back at him, your fingers tightening over his large, scarred knuckles. "And what of your freedom, Halfdan? The open sea is ahead of us. Are you still afraid of the leash?"

Halfdan let out a low, content laugh, a sound that carried across the water with absolute certainty. He looked out over the endless blue horizon, then down into your eyes with a devotion that bordered on madness.

"I have never been more free," he whispered fiercely, his hand sliding up to grip your waist, anchoring you to him as the bow hit the first massive wave. "The sea is vast, y/n, but it is nothing without the wolf at your side. Command me. Lead me. I am yours until the halls of Valhalla claim us both."

With a sharp nod, you raised your hand, signaling the oarsmen to strike. The fleet of Kattegat surged forward into the unknown, driven by the unyielding strength of a shieldmaiden and the absolute submission of the Black Wolf.

Yes, the big, powerful, brutal Viking was merely just a puppy dog when it came to you. “How have you been?” you asked to which he just grunted making you laugh.

“I do not wish to ruin your good mood with idiotic men and their talks,”

“Okay sweetie,” you laughed, “Come here,” you instructed, moving him to lay with his head on your lap. He did not fight you, instead he allowed himself to relax into your soft thighs as your hand raked through his hair.

“What have you done today?” he asked.

“Well let’s see,” you said, leaning back against the tree as you absentmindedly scratched his scalp making him groan softly, “I helped my sister with her goats this morning and she gave me some Skyr for our supper which was nice. Then I went to the market. I got some better soaps to try wash the blood from your tunic,”

“I don’t know why you try. I always dirty them,”

“I don’t know why you try to tell me not to,” you countered, “I always get my way,”

“That you do my love,” he mumbled, half considering if he should just fall asleep right here, “What else?”

“I tended a few small errands, finished sewing part of my dress, and sharpened your axe,”

“You’re too good to me,”

“I know,” you said making him smile, “Then I came out here to relax and made this,” you said, picking up the flower crown.

He rolled onto his back, squinting at the sun as he took the flowers from your hand, “Its beautiful,” he smiled, resting it on his head making you laugh, “How do I look?”

“As pretty as a flower,” you grinned, leaning down to kiss him.

You enjoyed the moment, pulling back to looking into his eyes with a soft smile. It was perfect. That was till a loud wolf whistle rang out followed by Harald’s echoing laugh, “I’ll kill him,” Halfdan growled as he sat up, the flowers falling to the ground.

“I thought you were a man! Not a baby!” His brother called from several feet away.

You put your hand on his chest to stop him chasing his brother, “Bugger off Harald!” you shouted back, “At least he has a wife,” you teased, smirking when you saw the smile fall from his face, “Don’t be a baby Harald!” you called as he began to walk away.

“You’re lucky I like you sister!” he called back, turning away as he stalked off to presumably sulk.

You looked back to your husband with a grin, “Now where were we?”

He paused as he pretended to contemplate it, “Right,” he said, his hands grabbing your waist suddenly and flipping you onto your back making you laugh, “here,” he grinned as his lips went down to pepper your face in soft kisses.

“Stop!” you laughed as his hands moved to tickle your sides, “You’re killing me!”

“Don’t be a baby,” he teased, copying your earlier taunts as he leaned down to capture your lips again. Days like this were his favourite.

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What Could Have Been - Dainsleif

Unfulfilled Aspirations - Halfdan

Meet in the Middle Once More - Dainsleif (Reader's POV)

"I will fix it tomorrow." Halfdan's smooth voice breaks the silence, drawing your attention to the couch where he sits, leaning on his knees with his elbows. The worried, stressful frown is still deep between his brows. "Thank you," you nod. "A drink?" "Do you have a beer?" "I have wine. Two bottles," you reply from the kitchen, holding the door of the fridge as your gaze falls on the bottles with the familiar logos. "I will take it," he sighs. "I thought so."

The lights coming from the kitchen cover the living room in a soft, orange hue. Your muscles melt against the couch as you sit down and hold up one of the bottles to the man next to you. "No glass?" He smirks, accepting your offer, though. "It's a glass-free household," you joke between two sips. The taste of the wine spreads over your tongue, and you have to close your eyes for long seconds to enjoy this momentary peace. "I'm sorry," Halfdan says after a while, making you jump when he grabs your legs to put them over his lap. His long fingers start to massage your sore muscles. His touch is warm and familiar. It's like a reflex that didn't die out of you even after one year. His every movement lights a fire in your lower belly. You almost laugh at it. "It's fine," you tell him. "Were you on a date?" He asks. "Yeah," you grunt. "To be honest, I should be grateful." "Why?" "It was horrible." He laughs. The man can't help but feel some satisfaction at your words. "Our baby knows when he has to get sick to save his mama." "He sure does," you hum, holding the bottle to your lips. "But I'm really sorry, you know? I should know what to do when my son is sick." Reaching out to squeeze his arm, you smile at your ex-husband comfortingly. You can see how devastated he is because of tonight, even though you know he did everything he could. "It's fine, Halfdan," you tell him. "Sometimes sick little boys need their mamas. You did everything well. Don't punish yourself because of nothing."

Not long after your boy's first birthday, you and Halfdan decided to end your marriages after months of struggling. It was quick and peaceful. Both of you wanted only the best for your child, and this kept your relationship away from useless battles and fights.

And here you are, after a year of your divorce, sitting with your ex-husband while your boy sleeps in his room. And you don't remember the last time you felt so content and calm, even though you are tired and still worried about your son's health.

"And what about your date?" He asks, turning his head to look at you. His fingers still work their magic on your muscles. "Do I know him?" "No," you reply. "I don't think so. I met him online." "First date?" "And the last." "So horrible?" You shrug. If you want to be fair, there was nothing wrong with the guy. He was nice, polite, and funny. "Boring." He hums. "Can I tell you something?" "I see the wine is starting to work," he smirks. He sees it in your eyes and the slight curve of your lips. You looked familiar when he first met you and asked you out on a date after two minutes of introducing himself. You giggled and said yes. "Everyone seems boring compared to you," you confess. "I have no idea how to enjoy a story if you are not the one who is telling it." Halfdan shooke up your whole world. He forced you to leave your comfort zone and live a little. He inspired you to start your own business, and even after all those years, he is still your biggest supporter.

Halfdan's chest stretches with a new wave of satisfaction when he hears your words. He remembers your first date. If he wants to be honest, he fucked it up. He talked and talked about his upcoming travel overseas. He was so excited. And you, instead of being annoyed with him or thinking him rude, listened and asked, and before he knew it, he was even more excited to come home to you. "We were good together, huh?" He asks but doesn't want your answer. He knows you were good together. Two pieces of a puzzle that fit perfectly... At least for a while. "Where did it go wrong?" "It was me," you reply immediately. Halfdan wants to argue, but you don't let him. "After our son was born I... I forgot how to be... me, you know? I became a mother and didn't know how to be anything else." You thought about it a lot, especially after your relationship got better and better after your breakup. He squeezes your leg and drinks from his bottle. "I should have reminded you." "Everybody should have reminded me," you grunt with the thorn still in you. Of course, you can't blame the others. Reminding you of yourself was not their job, but everyone made it so easy to forget that you are still Y/N, a woman, a wife, and not just a mother. "I'm sorry," he says anyway. "I didn't know it was so hard for you." "It wasn't," you reply. "I mean... I didn't notice until we broke up."

Halfdan opens his mouth to say something, then decides against it. He can't do that, can he? Would it be too risky? Would he cross a line? Did those things ever stop him? "Let me take you out on a date." The wine burns your throat as you cough. A small drop of red liquid runs down your jaw until you soak it with the sleeve of your shirt. "What?" You croak out. "Do you love me?" He asks. Halfdan is not the type who beats around the bush. "I still do. I still love you, and you know our son is my whole world. You two are my whole world." "Why do you think it would work now?" You ask him uncertainly, even though you can't help but smile at his words. "Because we know what went wrong the first time," Halfdan replies. He is so sure of himself. "I wouldn't let you forget who you are besides being a mother, Y/N. What more? We could go and travel somewhere. Our son could stay with Harald, he is old enough, and Harald will spoil him. Maybe we could go somewhere new? Or I could book the place where we were on our honeymoon?" Your laugh shuts him up. Your eyes shine with tears. "And here you are, already planning for a new adventure." "Please tell me you will come with me."

You watched the sun as it slowly descended lower and lower on the horizon. As evening was approaching, your steps led you toward the training grounds where you were sure some of the knights were still sparring. The path you took ran through the gardens and you lazily looked around observing the blooming flowers and how magical they looked. You stopped at the particular flower bed and crouched to pick up one of the Inteyvats. You loved the flower and its meaning, mainly because of Halfdan who told you all about it. Hearing his explanation and how it was his favourite, it quickly became yours as well.

Entering the wide-open field used for training, your eyes moved over all the knights before stopping at the two, or more like only one of the knights, who sparred the Twilight Sword. You watched in amazement as the two exchanged blows, their attacks quick as lightning with so much power, you wondered how the wooden swords were still intact. You once asked why the two were always sparring together whenever you visited and the answer was simple but hidden by the humble front as you had to dig deep to get it. There was no one else but only a few people who could match Dainslief's abilities, one of them being your Halfdan. Their power and skills were on similar levels because of the constant training and sparring sessions they sought to better themselves.

Suddenly you gasped as Halfdan's weapon pointed at his partner's neck. They stood like that only for a few seconds before Dainslief swung his sword in alert and knocked the weapon out of the royal guard's hand. Your lover grabbed his hand hissing softly but you couldn't hear it being so far away. You slowly stepped toward them and when they heard steps coming closer they both turned to you.

Halfdan immediately smiled as soon as he saw you and he moved his hands as if to open them for a hug but quickly realized that he was probably sweaty because of the sparring and held back. Not minding him, you bounced straight into his arms as soon as you were close enough to him and he laughed joyfully. It was always surprising how easily he picked you up, but then you remembered the muscles he hid behind his uniform, and that explained everything.

"Hello there, love. It's great to see you." He muttered into your chest before letting you go. "Hhsss." He hissed in pain as your feet touched the ground and you quickly looked at what happened. He held the side of his palm and massaged it in pain. You were worried it was something you did but then Dainslief stepped closer. "Apologies, Halfdan. I must have hit your hand when I swung my sword." The Captain commented after nodding at you in greeting. "No worries, Dain. I'll be alright after some time." Your lover said shrugging his palm off as if he didn't feel the pain and it wasn't already swelling. You looked at him in mild disbelief and turned to Dainsleif. You noticed that he had the same unbelieving and concerned expression as you. "Don't worry I'll take care of him." You said and when Halfdan tried to cut in saying he didn't need anything you waved your hand at him knowing fully well he had trouble acknowledging it out loud. Only because he didn't want to trouble anyone. "Thank you, (Y/n)." Dainslief said in your direction before turning to his friend. "I'll see you for a sparring session soon enough."

Then you led Halfdan to a storage room and searched for some bandages or potions to give him. He reluctantly agreed after seeing the uneasy look on your face. You gave him one of the potions (I know Genshin does food but bear with me - it makes more sense), applied some cool paste that would help with the swelling, and then carefully bandaged his hand.

Halfdan watched you attentively, his expression unreadable despite the pink on his ears. "Thanks." He muttered, his voice soft and sincere. "Don’t know how Dainslief always gets the better of me... next time I’ll—" He stopped himself, and when you smiled encouragingly to him a grin appeared on his face as well. "Next time, I’ll win." He loved having your support and seeing you smile seemed enough to pick him up. You smiled, tying off the bandages with a firm knot. "Next time. But for now, get some rest, love. You'll be sparring again before you know it." You agreed, securing the final piece of bandage around his arm. You brought his hand closer to your mouth and placed a healing kiss making him giggle. He was so enamored by you, by every action you performed for him. You as well, you would do anything to make him happy and if you could you would take away any pain he would feel.

Halfdan raises his brow—the blue-black ink of the tattoo on his temple and forehead twitches and wrinkles. At the moment, he’s more content with filling his belly and entertaining your company than fretting over his brother, yet you won’t let the subject rest so easily, and deep down, Halfdan knows you are right, as is the feeling of dread in his liver. “Had it been me, the thought of retribution would not yet be gone, nor the fog of dolor.”

You make a convincing case, and with a sighing frown, Halfdan pushes away from the table and you, heading toward Harald’s tent—hand resting on the hilt of his sword, knowing already he will have to serve as his brother’s protector once more. A moment later, Halfdan emerges from his brother’s pavilion. The sword in his hand is coated with blood, bright and red. And it would seem, after all, he knew women far better than his brother—or at least how to listen to you. 

He frees a cloth from his belt and slides it down the blade, cleaning it with a single long swipe as he looks at you, watching and waiting. Halfdan doesn’t have to say anything as he approaches for you to know, but regardless, your lips quirk upward. “Told you,” you declare, and he makes a low sound of agreement from the back of his throat, taking the cup of ale you offer. You knew Ellisif would not have so easily nor quickly forgiven Harald for his transgression, especially after not upholding her promise to wait for marriage. 

Harald’s curses and fit of rage ring out in the brisk air. You know there’s little that can soothe his heart and pride, but if anyone in the Ragnarsson encampment can make an earnest attempt, it is you—Halfdan knows this too. “I’ll see to him,” you breathe, taking one last drink of ale. Halfdan grips your arm before you can go to his brother and leans close, offering a soft, quick kiss over too soon.

THE RIVER FLOWS slowly, given its breadth near the encampment of the Sons of Ragnar—a hundred longships are pushed up against the banks and moored in the water. Together, you and Harald walk along the water’s edge, heading north, where fewer ships and wandering eyes and ears are. The blood on his hands and chest is nigh dry, and it makes his red woolen tunic stick to him and stiffens his silver-tinged beard.

Harald Finehair looks at you but cannot dispel what you must think of him, of these circumstances—your expression is only a cool mix of solicitude and what he thinks is annoyance. Yet again, he finds himself failing to understand the mind and heart of a woman—one he has known since childhood, no less. “My brother is lucky,” Harald admits, feeling a spike of jealousy stab at him as he thinks about you and Halfdan, “to have only ever loved you.” But had he ever truly loved Ellisif beyond his desire for her beauty? Even he is not sure of the answer.

You stop near the prowl of one of Jarl Olavsson’s ships—his shields and sails marked by white and dark green—and stare at Harald, aghast and confused by his insinuation. “Do I no longer have your love?” You ask, reaching for him and the leather ties at the neck of his tunic.

“I had thought–” his voice trails off as he looks at the flock of blackbirds flying overhead, unsure if it is a sign from the gods or just an ill omen. He lets you draw him nearer, but it’s only when the flat of your hand connects with his bloody cheek that his gaze and attention return to you—his stormy blue eyes filled with bewilderment and indignation. He stares at you, nostrils flared. 

“No, Harald!” You’ve finally grown exasperated by his foolishness—you could tolerate his laments about love and marriage, but to nigh let himself be killed by a recreant woman under such circumstances? “You didn’t think!” You tell him, and Harald steps back, hands curling to fists at his sides. He needs to hear this, though, if not from his brother, then from you. “And if you did, it was with the wrong head.” The same head all men think with first when it comes to women.

“You speak to a king,” he reminds you, puffing out his chest—a weak reply, and you both know it.

You shake your head and reach for him, hands settling on either side of his blood-spattered face—thumbs following the blue-black scrollwork of the tattoos on his cheeks. “And I am also speaking to one of my oldest friends,” you remind him. King or no, Harald and his brother are among your oldest and dearest friends—they could be little more than farmers or simple whalers, and you would think no less of them nor love them less. There’s a shift in Harald’s expression then, as though he realizes the error of his ways in disregarding your and Halfdan’s counsel, and hubris fades to humility. “One whom I care for and love very much.” Love, the word catches him off-guard. Then an ephemeral smile returns to grace your lips. “Even if he is pigheaded at times.”

He forces down the growing knot in his throat. “My brother–” Harald starts, but you press your fingertips to his weathered lips, shushing him and chasing away any apprehension or fear of driving a rift between the three of you with what comes next. “Halfdan knows,” you tell Harald with airy unconcern—fingers slipping down to comb through his silver-tinged wiry beard. Your trysts had never been clandestine, even before whatever this unspoken thing with his brother began before the first raid on Paris. “He’s very astute,” you remark, the corner of your lips quirking upward again. “You could stand to learn a thing to two.”

He huffs, then goes to the river, shrugging off his tunic, and kneels at the water’s edge, splashing the cold water on his face and chest—scrubbing the drying blood of the woman he once intended to marry. He stares at his reflection, shoulders falling forward, accepting his ill-fated pursuit of marriage and defeat, alas. “I’ve been a fool,” he grumbles. You crouch next to him, dipping your hand in the river to help wash the blood from his shoulders and the back of his neck, humming your agreement—gladdened to know it is no longer a whispered secret between you and Halfdan. “You’re not supposed to agree with me,” he admonishes, mirth slipping back into his tone.

There’s a scar on his shoulder, and without thought, you lean toward him, placing the gentlest and quickest of kisses on the raised patch of silvery skin. You can recall how he and Halfdan have gotten most of their scars, but the history of this small mark evades you right now. When you meet his eyes, you see him staring at you with a look of raw hunger and desperation you’re entirely unprepared for, and it sends a wave of heat washing over you. But he’s so gentle when he handles you—even in all his lingering anger and hurt.

He holds your chin until his thumb swipes across your flushed cheek—always touching you like you’re some fragile, precious thing and not a shieldmaiden—and then his lips part, and he exhales a shaky breath, waiting for your permission, spoken or otherwise. You give it with a breathy sigh of his name. Harald. His warm breath hits your cheek, followed by the faint tickle of his scraggly beard at your jaw before his lips are fully on yours. “Let me have you.” His plea is soft against your mouth—and you cannot deny him.  

Skirts rucked up around your waist, Harald grips your hips, drawing you closer to him until his wool and linen-clad thigh presses between yours. His touch is fervent—hot palms, calloused from years of battle, scrape over the bare skin they touch. His tongue sweeps across your bottom lip before kissing you—languid and soft. Your hands grasp at his back to pull his chest to your own. And then he fumbles to loosen his belt, but you knock away his hands, and Harald curses and groans when your hand slides into his undone britches, fingers wrapping around his half-hard cock—stroking him.

Your stomach flutters as his fingers caress you briefly, fleetingly—but gone far too soon. Your hips move towards his touch, but now is not the time for drawn-out caresses and teasing. In truth, he's not focused on your pleasure but more on his desire.

Harald pushes forward, rocking his hips slowly until his cock is fully sheathed inside the warmth of your cunt, and his hips meet yours. You gasp, somewhere between a whine and moan, head tipping back, and Harald takes the chance to press his lips to the base of your neck. He’s gentle as he trails a hand down your side and holds your waist—he and Halfdan have always been two sides of the same coin as lovers.

You lay back—letting him do as he pleases. He needs this moment, this release, far more than you do. His thrusts start slow, lazy almost, as though you’ve all the time in the world—like you’re back in Tamdrup on a spring night in a patch of wildflowers or bale of loose straw in a stable, not lying on a muddy English riverbank on the verge of another battle—not knowing if tomorrow will be the day Valhalla beckons you home.

He looks down at you—splayed beneath him and his gut twists with a sickening realization. I’ve been a fool, Harald thinks again, cradling your cheek, the rough pad of his thumb pressed against your parted lips, chasing a woman who could never love me. But you. It did not matter what misfortunes or victories the gods bestowed upon him. You were always there—never faltering from your place at his and Halfdan’s side. He’s only ashamed not to have realized or acted sooner.

Your legs spread wider to welcome him, squeezing at his shoulders to urge him to move faster. Every push and pull of his hips brings him deeper inside you. Harald pants at your ear, his breathing ragged and strained as his pace falters—thrusts growing quicker and rougher as he seeks release. Beneath your palms, the muscles in his back ripple, contracting with each thrust. His lips find yours again, and you pull him down closer until his bare chest presses against the rumpled wool of your dress bodice—nails scraping across his shoulders and the patchwork of tattoos on his shoulder blades.

The look in Harald’s eyes is nigh unsettling—a mix of emotion you do not wish to think about in this moment of lust and carnality—and you squeeze at his biceps, urging him to move faster, and when his trance breaks, he obliges. He breathes hushed praises against your neck and strokes a thumb over the racing pulse in your neck as he rolls his hips up into yours—strokes long and deep. 

You whine and squirm for him, grinding your hips into his. The next time he moves, his cock strikes the place inside you that makes you cry out without thinking, and your toes start to curl—he does it again and again, thrice over. “Harald.” He works himself deeper still, pelvis rubbing against your clit, and he doesn’t miss the shiver that goes through you or the way your muscles tense—cunt squeezing his cock tighter. His breathy, open-mouth kisses grow sloven as you fumble to keep in rhythm, your movements slack—distracted by the fog of ecstasy in your head.

Breath hot against your lips, his eyes drift shut in unison with yours. Behind closed eyes, all that triumphs is the feel of your bodies sinking into each other. He will not last much longer. Harald barely manages a coherent rasp of your name, teeth gnashing, when his entire body shivers and he stills deep, deep inside, cock twitching. 

His livid eyes are dark, like a stormy sea when they open once more, and there’s a crease between his brows that you have a yearning impulse to kiss away—and so you do, and in the wake of your lips, you smooth your fingertips over his brow. “I do love you, Harald,” you tell him—a breathless whisper—and suddenly, the knot in his throat and the offbeat feeling in his heart is back. “Just as I love Halfdan.”

He says nothing, only rests his forehead against your shoulder and shivers when your hand runs along his back, finding his dark braid to run your fingers along. But there’s a new dampness on your flesh—tears for love lost and love found.

HIS TEMPER IS quelled upon returning to the encampment, even if his heart has yet to mend. Halfdan rises from his spot at one of the fires, leaving the waning conversation with Björn Ironside when he sees you and his brother approach. The whispers around the camp of what happened between Harald, Vik, and Ellisif have already faded with new discussions of the army’s next move in Mercia—steadily creeping closer to Wessex and retribution upon King Ecbert for his part in Ragnar’s death. Harald swallows his pride and glimpses you before turning his attention to Halfdan. “Thank you, brother,” he says. “Yet again, I owe you my life.”

“I’ll always watch your back,” Halfdan replies, pressing a cup of ale into Harald’s hand before clasping his shoulder—then his gaze flits to you, and he smiles, a glimmer shining in his dark eyes. “But next time we tell you to kill someone, you should listen, yeah?” Harald shakes his head, looking down into the cup of ale with a dry laugh. You both told him to rid himself of Ellisif before setting sail to England. He should have listened then—knows he was a fool not to have. But once more, it is the three of you, and maybe that is how the gods always intended it to be.