#ubbe lothbrok

Silence.

The silence before the big storm. It was always scary to sit in the middle of it, knowing those precious, rare, peaceful moments were followed by destruction.

Even the weather was a silent observer. It wasn't snowing anymore. It was only occasionally winding outside.

They say some things are meant to happen, but why? Does anybody really have the answer as to why they should happen? Or when?

Probably not. Maybe only the Gods held the answers, if somebody believed as much as to follow that path.

You certainly didn't believe the propaganda about religions anymore.

Where was Odin when you needed him? Why didn't Frigg help you when Ubbe forced you to stay? Where was Freya when you prayed?

You only believed in yourself, because you had made it here all by your strength and love for your child.

Well, it was true on thing; a mother's love is strong enough to suffer every torment.

However... If you believed in Gods, you'd say that you were avenged. The wheel turned and Ubbe got exactly what he deserved.

Slaves speak much and citizens of Kattegat a lot more... The secret about the thrall's son was everywhere, mocking, gossiping that the child wasn't the prince's. He was the the main topic of every gossiping conversation, he was the laughing stock of drunken men and desperate housewives.

Though, that didn't feel cruel enough. Sure, pride was the most important thing for a person, and you should be very pleased by the outcomes of his infidelity. But you knew that you were in the middle of this, your child was in the middle of this and that made the sweet victory feeling slightly bitter.

The queen wasn't pleased. She stayed in her chambers, not speaking much about the matter, or attempting damage control. In her mind, as in everybody's, Ubbe was the good son, the clever and dutiful, her eldest.

But not the king's eldest... Surely, she wanted him to take the throne of Kattegat instead of Bjorn Ironside... but now...

The Great Hall was empty most of the days, the men were preparing for yet another raid in the England as the spring was approaching.

Your son was getting older, almost able to walk. Her son... nobody talked about the baby anymore.

"How's he...?" You asked one evening Torvi who was knitting.

Knitting was never your thing, but lately, it was comfortable, made the mind to travel. Not even the thought of fleeing helped much anymore. The atmosphere was suffocating and tense.

"I don't know." Torvi answered without looking at you.

"Bjorn's not speaking much of him these days. I don't think Ubbe speaks to anyone in general these days." Torvi turned her eyes eventually at you.

"Why are you asking?" Her tone was curious.

You shrugged. You were almost surprised with yourself. You couldn't care. You shouldn't care. Not after everything you both went through. Not after what he's done, or how he's humiliated you.

Ubbe was confused, apparently. Not knowing what to do with her. After all, she was the love of his life obviously and these results were unforeseeable.

Again, not that you were expecting something better. Though, you should have been happy with how this came out to be. However, you were anything but happy about his torment. Not because you felt empathy – which you did feel for him as well at some point – but because in the middle of all this mess was a poor soul – a baby born to carry the sins of other people

"He's still my husband and the father of my child in case you've forgotten..."

"Oh, I've not forgotten, but you seem..." She paused not really knowing how to describe your stance.

"Don't say things we both know that aren't true." You were quick to answer.

You sighed and then looked at your knitwork. "Especially not when you know our story so far..."

"It's strange really." She stopped knitting, turning all her attention to you.

"Ubbe's not... I mean.... he seemed different..."

"He's a Viking, Torvi." You spoke quickly with a click of your tongue inside your mouth.

"He can't be much different from his brothers. You know how men are, they want, they possess and they have strong the feeling of pride. Even when they have to pay."

"Cynical..." Torvi commented and you laughed.

"Yeah, after almost getting killed or be parted from my son or seeing my abusive husband marrying a thrall... Yeah, I'm cynical and definitely not waiting for the judgment of your Gods." Your attention was on Torvi.

"But I won't leave him, not until he's torn apart."

"He is torn apart, (Y/N)."

"Good and now I'm enjoying the outcome."

Lie. Though it shouldn't be after everything this woman – you – had endured from that awful man, who seemed to be kind and different for everyone but her.

"Liar."

Your eyes looked at Torvi, way good enough now to stop the knitwork. Head tilted on the side. Expression surely unfased.

Torvi was looking back at you as well, her own knitwork long forgotten on her lap.

"Wanna know the truth? Yes, in a way, I find great pleasure in his own torment. Why? It's obvious. Pride is the worst weakness of the man – any man – and Ubbe's is attacked enormously. First he married her and now this... He's a prince, one of Ragnar Lothbrok's sons. People expected him to be bigger than his father and Ubbe repaid the expectations quite nice, didn't he?"

You sighed.

"However... you're true. I don't feel that much compassion about this as I have every right to. He's still the father of my son, my husband..."

You hated the unspoken words behind your loud ones. Ubbe had destroyed you in ways that you thought you could never be destroyed mentally and yet a twisted part of yours felt bad or maybe something worse...

________________________________________________________________

That night was warm, as spring was coming the winter and the snow were giving place to warmer and shorter nights. Though, lately the air of the Great Hall was suffocating and tense for obvious reasons.

The suffocating silence of the room broke when he entered. He slammed the door, not caring about anything in particular and stormed in seeking his son – your son. You didn't even look at him, you knew it was him anyway, who else would have stormed in the room like that? No one.

The little boy was delighted to see his father, after a couple of days not having seen him at all.

"You must be very pleased at how things came out to be." Ubbe's tone was harsh as he was referring to you.

You rolled your eyes, even while this was happening, he was here trying to blame you again. He couldn't spend just one moment with your child without fighting with you. It was a tradition and an every-day thing by now.

You clicked your tongue before speaking, trying to bite back your tongue and deliver another biting remark back on his face.

"I must admit that I didn't see this coming... and unlike other people I'm not pleased by misery, Ubbe. How much you don't know me..." You said, though you didn't succeed on not continue this – as usual –since your tone was harsh and mocking slightly.

Something that obviously enraged him. He left your son in his crib and walked closer to where you were standing at the corner of the chamber.

"Tsk... a brilliant performance, my lady wife.... The only thing is... I don't believe a word coming out of your infuriating mouth." He stepped closer. His tongue was harsh, dangerous, the very one he used every time you were fighting and he was threatening you.

"I know you well. Too well maybe for your own safety. And I know that you're happy that I'm humiliated and I don't know what to do." His hand moved on your jaw, his grip was strong and not gentle. In fact, it was anything but gentle, it meant to deliver pain and authority.

"Don't think I'm not looking at you. I freakin' do. My eyes are turned at your place."

A threat. This was clearly a threat and you knew exactly what he meant by using it.

You scoffed. Unfortunately for yourself, you weren't one to back down as it seemed from the beginning of all this to this very damn moment.

"Oh please. You have so much in your plate at the moment that I could easily snap away. I could leave and you would be unable to do a thing. Especially now that you have another son." You were obviously trying to enrage him more, a stupid move, pulling even away from his grasp, walking closer to the door as to enlarge on your words.

You could see him tightening his fists. His teeth were surely clenching too, as his jaw was clenched, you could tell. By now you knew him way too well, as he claimed to know you.

His hand moved violently on your arm, gripping you in a brushing way as he pulled you closer.

"You wouldn't dare."

You smirked. You were pushing his limits again and that wasn't wise as you, yourself, could remember what happened the last time you attempted to flee with your son.

"Wouldn't I?"

It was obvious, you were getting worse in his nerve, the more you were speaking, challenging his authority, the worse for you.

His grip on your arm was only tightening, there was obviously a bruise there.

"Don't test my limits, because this time you won't be this lucky. This time I won't be as gentle as before."

"And what worse could you do to me? Kill me? Take my son away?"

"My son." He corrected you with a growl and smirked viciously. "Yes. You won't see him again."

"I'm not falling for your threats this time. Things came this way by your doing. You did all these. You and only you. And now you have to face the consequences."

"Shut up." He growled his hand moved on your throat, as if threatening you again not to remind him, not to push him.

"Does it hurt listening to the ugly truth?"

Your faces were too close by now. Both too angry with the other. His grip only tightening on your throat, he could easily kill you and this time he was pissed. This time would be the one and true time he could easily do it, without keeping the consequences in mind right away.

The whimpering of the little boy in the crib was enough to make him stop, to take his attention away from arguing with his son's mother.

"You're lucky." Ubbe growled between his teeth as he lifted the boy in his arms.

"You or I?" The unspoken words were everywhere in the room around them.

Now, he could see the consequences everywhere – finally — he couldn't just hurt her or take her away from his son, even if he truly wanted it.

He had grown up with absent parents. His father exiled on his own. His mother too occupied to his younger brother, Ivar. And Ubbe in the middle having to grow up on his own, while acting as the big brother to his younger brother, Hvitserk.

Ubbe didn't want that for his son. No honourable man would. No Viking, no pagan, no Christian.

This woman — you were his nemesis, his bane of existence, but surely you'd die for that young boy as much as he would, if not more.

"Leave." He muttered before the words had settled in fully in his mind.

Your eyes widened. There must be something you couldn't understand right here.

"After we leave for raiding in England, you'll take the boy and leave. I don't care where you'll go – I don't care about your own well being, just keep our boy safe and strong."

His blue eyes weren't the dark shade you knew all well, but his gaze wasn't softer than you were used to either.

"It's not that simple. Besides, what are you even doing? Are you throwing your son at the side for the b—“

"Shut up, woman." He commanded and you frowned ready to fight back, but you didn't because he spoke again, while he had your son in his arms, caressing his little back for soothing — a movement he had long to do for the kid.

"Margrethe's not staying. Neither will you. This cage won't keep my son, and if it keeps you, it does the same to him.” His blue eyes were only on the little boy in his arms.

He was awful and you hated him, but he loved the boy in his own way, but he did. You saw once again that you couldn’t just steal that — you couldn’t steal a son from his father.

You closed your eyes.

You should leave. You should leave.

You didn’t — shouldn’t — care about his feelings for losing the boy from his life. He’d done that to himself, to you, to everyone.

Yet again, you weren’t a saint. Both of you did atrocities during your time and surely a child couldn’t be raised in such a cruel and hateful environment.

“He’ll hate me for that…” That was the only thing you said as your eyes were studying him this time.

“And he’ll hate us both of we raise him like this. I won’t be any different. You won’t be any different. We can’t learn to love each other, (Y/N). Because love isn’t for us.”

“You think?”

For a moment, you wanted him to say no, but only for an awful moment. Indeed, you, two, weren’t made to love. At least not each other.

Ubbe looked at you. It wasn’t hateful, it was the gaze of man who was tired of everything surrounding him.

“I only now that I love the picture of my son with his mother. Now, the woman herself — you — that’s a different story.”

He sighed.

“I don’t want to become my father — and I so fear I have. Ragnar was a great Viking warrior and a good king, but he wasn’t a good father or husband. I don’t want that father for our son — I don’t want to be the way my father was to me. And surely I don’t want you to be my mother — because it all started because my father didn’t love her. It was always Lagertha for him…”

“As it’s Margrethe for you?”

He clicked his tongue inside his mouth and left your son in his crib yet again as he turned his attention on you.

“No. Margrethe is nothing more than what she is. You’re what you are and you’ll stay that way for me forever. I’ll keep what we have, whatever it is stored."

You sighed. It should've been a relief to be able to walk away and live the life you've always wanted, with your son away from this man you've despised since the very first moment you've laid eyes upon and vice versa.

Meanwhile, Ubbe started moving closer to you. Your eyes were studying him, after he had threatened multiple times to kill you. He left a long breath and came close to you — probably two or three breaths away from your face.

For a long moment, silence was everywhere in the chamber. Eyes on eyes.

Blue that wasn't angry, just tired was on her.

"After all, I'll know where my son is. Always. Don't forget that."

You rolled your eyes.

"That's like telling me that you could take my son whenever you want." That was testing the limits of his patience. It was like a constant battle, a war — a game.

"You're almost beautiful and nice when you don't speak." He whispered as he was looking directly at you. An almost smirk was on his face.

Almost.

"Shut that enraging mouth for just five minutes. Then maybe I could fall in love with you."

You scoffed. The defence was back on as your mind was sharp and was working overtime.

"I never had you for that cheap." Your tone was pure poison.

"Doing all that just because she betrayed you. You must feel terrified that you'll be alone. Without nobody to actually blame and torment, because I know for a fact that you'll a whore to—"

His hand found its way on your throat. By now, you could wear it as an accessory after all this time he was almost choking you.

"This tongue. I should've cut it ages ago. So infuriatingly bitter and yet... even with that awful and poisonous mouth... You're messing with my fucking head more than anyone could play with another's mind."

Ubbe came closer, pressing your throat just so much as to mess with you.

"I hate you so much. I hate that you have that much affect on me." His whisper was dangerously low in a way that almost made you wanting to contrast him to see how he'd react, but you didn't. Your eyes just settled on his blue ones.

"Sometimes I hate you so much that I want to..." He stopped.

"Take you."

"And I hate you evenly in terms that... I'd let you."

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One whole week you avoided him. That night wasn't supposed to end like that. Well, it was for any other married couple, but certainly not for you.

Though that one week, Ubbe didn't try to reach out either. However, he was seeing the little boy. He was spending much time with your son. And you knew him to well to know that he was doing so to prepare for the time you'd departure after he was away in the ships for the raid in England.

You rarely — to never — accompanied him there. It was odd when he saw you. It felt like a goodbye.

And it should've been.

Ubbe fixed his gaze on you before approaching.

"Almost there." He just said, his voice was too soft to be his.

"Yeah. I guess you won't be back before the first snow falls." You spoke simply as your hands were tangled in front of you as you were standing with him on docks.

"You'll have plenty of time to move away and get settled." Ubbe remarked.

"No, I will be heavy by the time you'll be back." You shook your head, just when his gaze snapped at you confused and surprised all at the same.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to endure me longer than you had in mind..." You bit your lower lip.

Without a warning his hands moved on your flat stomach.

Ubbe was surprised looking down on your stomach then up at you. It was one of the too few times you've spotted tears in his blue — ocean-like — eyes.

"This time..." He paused as he breathed. "This time I'll happen correctly." Ubbe whispered as he moved closer.

His lips moved to place a tiny kiss on your forehead. After that, his forehead touched yours as his hands moved on your face.

"Take care." Ubbe breathed.

"You too. I'll be waiting..." You whispered before he walked away.

...The End...

The winds of Kattegat do not merely blow; they are the breath of the Jotnar, seeking to strip the warmth from your very marrow. The cold here is a living thing, a thief that slips beneath your furs to turn your blood to slush.

It has been seven full moons since the dragon-prows vanished over the grey horizon. Seven moons since the Great Hall felt like anything other than a tomb.

You are not a woman who weeps at the shoreline like a frightened thrall. You are a shieldmaiden, the chosen wife of Bjorn Ironside. When the other women huddle by the loom, whispering fears that the Norns have cut the threads of their husbands' lives, you hold your chin high. You sharpen the edge of your axe until it sings; you govern the holding with a hand of iron; you raise your children to fear neither the dark nor the gods.

But when the sun dies and the long night claims the village, the bed becomes a vast, frozen wasteland. The silence of the house is louder than the shield-wall.

It begins with the wood.

The winter stores have run low, and the thralls are busy tending to the livestock, so the burden falls to you. You stand in the yard, boots buried in the drifts, hacking at a stubborn knot of pine that refuses to yield.

Your back screams in protest, a dull, throbbing ache born of sleepless nights spent cooling your little son's fever with snow-water. Your arms feel as heavy as lead, your grip slick with sweat despite the biting chill.

You heave the axe upward, desperate to sever the wood, but your strength fails you. The blade glances off the frozen bark with a hollow thud, jarring your shoulder so violently that the vibration rattles your teeth.

"Hel," you hiss through gritted teeth, the curse snatched away by the wind as you drop the axe, clutching your arm to your chest.

"You possess the strength, but your footing is poor."

The voice is low. Calm. Like the earth shifting.

You spin around, hand instinctively going to the knife at your belt before you recognize him. Ubbe.

He is leaning against the rough-hewn beams of the storehouse, wrapped in heavy wolf-pelts that make him look like a bear standing on two legs. He is always there lately, a silent sentinel in the periphery of your vision.

Since Bjorn chased the sun to the Mediterranean, Ubbe remained to guard Kattegat for Lagertha—but his eyes, blue and piercing as the winter sky, seem only to guard you.

He has been watching you for the better part of an hour, hidden in the shadows where the torchlight does not reach. He sees the weariness etched into the pale curve of your face, the dark shadows bruising the skin beneath your eyes. He sees a woman who is carrying the weight of an Kingdom on shoulders meant to be held, not burdened.

It angers him—a slow, boiling heat in his gut—that his brother is off seeking glory in warm sands while you fight a war against the frost alone. He wants to wrap you in his cloak until you stop shivering. He wants to take the axe from your hand. But he knows you. He knows you are proud. He knows you would strike him if he offered you pity.

"I know the way of the axe, Ubbe," you snap, your patience frayed, too weary for the pleasantries of the court.

He does not take offense. The corners of his mouth twitch—not quite a smile, but a softening. He pushes off the beam and walks toward you, his heavy boots crunching rhythmically in the packed snow. He moves with a predator's grace, slow and deliberate. He stops before you, reaching down to retrieve the weapon from the ice.

"I know you do," he says softly, his voice a balm against the sharp air. He looks at your hand, clutching your shoulder. "But your spirit is tired, and your body follows. The wood does not care for your pride."

"I must feed the hearth," you insist, though the fight is draining out of you. "The fire is dying."

"Go within," he commands. It is not an order given by a Jarl to a subject, but a plea from a man to a woman he cannot bear to see suffer. "Brew tea. Warm your hands. I will bring the wood."

He doesn't wait for your permission. He steps up to the block, raises the axe, and brings it down. Thwack. The log splits cleanly in two. Thwack. Another follows. The rhythm is effortless, the motion of a man who finds peace in the simple, brutal work of survival.

You stand there for a moment, frozen, watching him. In the pale moonlight, the resemblance to Ragnar is striking—the sharp eyes, the intensity. But where Ragnar was a storm, chaotic and dangerous, Ubbe is the mountain that endures the storm. He is steady. He is safe.

As he works, Ubbe can feel your gaze on him. It burns the back of his neck like a brand. He swings the axe harder, channeling his frustration into the wood.

Why did you leave her, Bjorn? he thinks, the wood splintering under his fury.

How could you sail away from this?

"Why do you do this?" you ask, your voice quieter now, almost lost in the wind. "Bjorn did not ask you to act as my thrall."

Ubbe pauses, the axe resting on the chopping block. He turns to you, and for a moment, his mask slips. He looks at you with a raw, unguarded intensity that makes the air between you feel suddenly, dangerously hot. He sees the snow caught in your eyelashes. He sees the loneliness you try so hard to hide.

"Bjorn asked me nothing," he says, his voice rougher than before. "I do not do this for him. I do it because the hall is cold, and you look as though you have not slept since the ships left the harbor."

I do it because I cannot sleep while you are struggling, he wants to say.

I do it because I love my brother's wife.

But he does not say it. He turns back to the wood, raising the axe high. You turn to go inside, clutching your freezing arms, but your heart beats a frantic rhythm against your ribs, a drumbeat of confusion and something that feels dangerously like hope.

Two moons later, the sickness returns. It does not come as a guest, but as a raider in the night, a dark spirit creeping into the longhouse under the cover of a storm.

It claims your daughter this time. It seizes her small body with a heat so fierce it feels as though a dragon has breathed fire into her chest. She is thrashing amongst the furs, her cries piercing the heavy silence, raw and terrified.

You are a woman who has stood in the shield-wall. You have watched blood spill onto the snow without flinching. But this battle? This battle is different. This is an enemy you cannot fight with an axe.

Panic grips your heart with a cold, iron hand.

You sponge her burning forehead with river water, whispering frantic prayers to Eir, to Freya, to any god who might turn their ear toward a desperate mother. Do not take her, you beg the shadows. Do not let the Norns cut her thread so soon.

The heavy wood door groans against the wind. It is late—the Hour of the Wolf—yet he is there.

"I heard her screams from the Great Hall."

Ubbe’s voice cuts through the haze of your fear.

He is clad in his leathers, his boots caked with the mud of the thaw, his hair whipped by the gale. To anyone else, he would look like a warrior fresh from a raid, but you see the tension in his shoulders. You see the sharp alertness in his eyes as he scans the room. He did not come to command. He came because the sound of your distress called to him like a beacon in the fog.

"She will not settle," you choke out, your voice cracking like dry kindling. "I have given her the herbal draught. I have prayed. But the fever consumes her."

Ubbe crosses the room in three long strides. He seems enormous in the low-ceilinged chamber, a giant of a man, yet he moves with the silence of a ghost. He sinks onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and reaches out.

His hand—a hand that has wielded swords and broken bones—trembles. Just once. Then it rests upon your daughter’s sweat-slicked brow. It is a touch of such profound gentleness it makes your chest ache.

To Ubbe, looking down at the small, flushed face of his brother’s child, he does not just see Bjorn’s blood. He sees you.

He sees the shape of your eyes in hers. He sees the stubborn set of her chin that matches yours when you are angry. A fierce, protective surge rises in his gullet—a desire to stand between this child and the darkness of death, to fight the gods themselves if he must. He loves these children not merely as an uncle. He loves them as the father who wishes he could claim them.

"Peace," he hums, a low, rumbling vibration that seems to resonate from deep within his chest, like distant thunder. "Peace, little shield-maiden. The Valkyries have no business here tonight. The halls of Valhalla are not ready for one so small."

He begins to sing. It is not a boisterous drinking song of the hall, but an old lullaby from the days of Ragnar’s youth—a melody about the sea rocking the longships to sleep and the stars guiding the weary home. His thumb strokes her temple. A rhythmic, hypnotic motion.

Slowly, miraculously, the tension leaves your daughter’s body. Her cries soften into whimpers, and then into deep, ragged breaths. Her tiny hand reaches up, blindly grasping, and wraps around Ubbe’s thick thumb.

He freezes. He looks down at that small connection, and a look of such naked tenderness crosses his face that you have to look away.

You stand in the corner, leaning heavily against the rough-hewn wall, hugging your arms to your chest to hold yourself together. A sudden, sharp pang of anger pierces through your relief—a bitter, poisoned arrow.

Where is he? Where is Bjorn Ironside?

He should be here, singing the songs of his people to his own flesh and blood.

He should be the one whose heart is breaking.

But he is far away, under a foreign sun, likely drinking sweet wine from a golden cup, a woman in his lap who knows nothing of his true life.

And here sits his brother, wiping the sweat from your daughter’s brow as if she were the most precious treasure in all of Midgard.

Ubbe looks up at you then. The room is dim, illuminated only by the dying embers of the hearth and a single tallow candle, but the light catches the blue of his eyes.

He looks at you, and he feels the weight of your exhaustion as if it were his own. He sees the way your hair has fallen from its braid. He sees the terror that still lingers in the set of your mouth. He wants nothing more than to cross the room and take that burden from you. To hold you until you stop shaking.

"The heat is breaking," he whispers, his voice rough with emotion. "She is cooling down."

"Thank you," you breathe, the words barely audible. You feel weak, and you despise the weakness, but the relief is a flood that threatens to drown you. "You have... a gift with them. The children. They know your spirit."

"I have love for them," Ubbe says. He shrugs, a modest gesture that belies the truth. "They are honest creatures. Men and women weave lies with their tongues, but children... they ask only for warmth and truth."

And I would give them the world, he thinks, if it meant I could stay in this house with you.

He stands up slowly, careful not to wake the sleeping girl, but he does not make for the door. He moves toward you, stepping into your personal space until the scent of him fills your senses—woodsmoke, oiled leather, and beneath that, the clean, sharp scent of pine soap.

He has washed. He washed the mud of the day from his skin before coming to check on you. The realization lands softly in your mind.

"You must rest now," he says softly. His gaze drops to your lips before flicking back up to your eyes—a momentary lapse in his discipline. He raises a hand, and for a heartbeat, time seems to suspend. His fingers hover inches from your cheek, trembling with the restraint it takes not to touch you. Not to wipe away the tear track on your skin.

He pulls his hand back, clenching it into a fist at his side, respecting the ghost of his brother that stands between you.

"I will keep watch outside the door," he vows. "If she cries, I will hear her before the wind does."

"Ubbe," you say, the name heavy and strange on your tongue, like a secret you are not supposed to keep. "You do not have to stay. You are a son of Ragnar. You are not a guard dog."

"I wish to," he answers.

And the way he says it—so simple, so stripped of pretense—makes your knees weak. He is not speaking of duty. He is telling you, in the only way he can, that there is nowhere else in all the nine worlds he would rather be than guarding your door.

The great lurs sound when the sun is at its highest—a mournful, guttural roar that echoes off the granite cliffs and rolls across the fjord like the thunder of Thor.

The thaw has finally broken the spine of winter. The ice has retreated, leaving the water dark and restless, hungry for the wooden keels of the dragon-ships. The entire settlement of Kattegat surges toward the docks, a living wave of furs, wool, and frantic excitement.

You stand before the polished metal of your mirror, fingers trembling as you fasten the oval tortoiseshell brooches of your finest hangerock. It is deep blue linen, the shade of the midnight sea—the color Bjorn once swore was the only thing more beautiful than the lights of the Bifröst. You braid your hair tight against your scalp, weaving silver beads into the plait, turning yourself into the queen he left behind. You command the children to stand straight, to wipe the mud from their faces, to look like the progeny of a King.

But inside? Inside, your stomach churns with a sickness that has nothing to do with the stale air of the longhouse. It is dread. It is the hollow, terrifying certainty that the man returning is not the man who left.

Ubbe stands beside you on the wooden planks of the dock, though he maintains a respectable distance—a gap wide enough for a ghost to stand between you.

He is rigid, his jaw set as hard as the stones beneath your feet. To the village, he is the dutiful brother awaiting his kin. But inside, Ubbe feels as though he is standing at his own execution.

He has not looked at you all morning. He cannot bear to. He saw the blue linen. He saw the way you scrubbed your face until it shone. He knows you have adorned yourself for him—for Bjorn—and the jealousy that coils in Ubbe's gut is a living, venomous serpent. He hates the ships on the horizon. He hates that they are bringing back the sun, for he knows that when the sun returns, the moon must fade into the background.

He has been your moon for seven months. He has reflected your light, guarded your darkness, and now he must simply step aside.

"He is home," Ubbe says finally. His voice is flat, stripped of all joy, sounding more like a warning than a celebration. He watches the prow of the lead ship cut the water, the wooden dragon’s head snarling at the shore.

"Yes," you reply, your voice barely a whisper against the wind. "He is."

The ships slam against the docks, the wood groaning under the impact. The noise is deafening—the clang of shields, the shouts of warriors, the weeping of wives.

And there he stands. Bjorn Ironside.

He looks magnificent, a creature forged by the gods themselves. He is broader than you remember, his skin turned a deep, rich bronze by the merciless sun of the Mediterranean, his eyes bright with the madness of the desert. He roars to the crowd, raising his sword high, and the people scream his name until their throats are raw. To them, he is not a man; he is a myth returned to flesh.

He vaults over the gunwale, landing with a heavy thud. He embraces Lagertha with a ferocity that shakes her frame; he clasps arms with Hvitserk, laughing at the sky.

Then, the world seems to slow. He turns. He sees you.

You step forward, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You have plastered a smile onto your face, a mask of the loyal, waiting wife.

"Husband," you greet him. The word carries the weight of all the lonely nights you endured.

Bjorn looks at you. And in that single heartbeat, the tether that bound you to him snaps.

Ubbe watches the exchange with the eyes of a hawk. He sees what you see, and it makes his blood run cold with rage. He looks for the hunger in Bjorn’s eyes—the desperate, starving look a man should have for the wife who kept his hearth warm. It is not there. There is no light. There is only recognition, the way a man recognizes a familiar chair or a well-balanced axe. Bjorn looks at you and sees a duty, a relic of his past life in the North, while his soul is still wandering the sands of the South.

"Wife," Bjorn says.

He does not pull you into his arms. He does not bury his face in your neck to breathe in your scent. Instead, he reaches out and gives your shoulder a quick, firm pat.

It is the greeting of a Jarl to a vassal. It is a dismissal.

"The children have grown tall."

"They have," you manage to say, though you feel as though he has struck you across the face. "We... we missed you."

"I have many stories," Bjorn says, his gaze already drifting past you, scanning the cheering throngs for faces that offer him more glory than your quiet devotion. "We will feast tonight. The gods have favored us."

He walks past you. He simply walks past you, leaving a wake of cold air where his warmth should have been.

You stand there, rooted to the dock, the wind whipping your hair across your face, stinging your eyes. The sun is shining, but you have never felt colder. You feel small. You feel foolish in your blue dress.

Then, you feel it. A pressure on the small of your back. Warm. Solid. Grounding.

It is a large hand, radiating a heat that seeps through the linen of your dress and anchors you to the earth.

"Steady," Ubbe whispers, his voice a low rumble in your ear, meant for you alone.

He does not step in front of you; he does not make a scene. He stands just behind you, his body shielding you from the wind, his hand telling you that you do not fall today. He is furious—furious at his brother’s blindness, furious at the pain etching lines into your face—but for you, he is the calm water.

"Breathe, little Valkyrie," he commands softly. "Do not let them see you bleed."

You lean into his hand for just a fraction of a second, stealing his strength because you have none left of your own. You inhale sharply, the scent of the sea and Ubbe filling your lungs, and you straighten your spine.

You are the wife of Ironside. But you are sustained by the son of Ragnar who stayed behind.

The Great Hall is a cavern of noise and smoke, a beast that breathes the heavy stench of roasted boar, unwashed bodies, and sour ale. The air is thick enough to choke on, vibrating with the thrum of goat-skin drums and the guttural roar of warriors deep in their cups.

Bjorn sits at the high table, the undisputed sun around which this chaotic universe spins. He is recounting a tale of a sandstorm in the Saracen lands, his arms wide, his voice booming like the thunder of Thor. Men hang on his every word as if he speaks prophecy; women look at him with hungry, dilated eyes.

You sit beside him, a shadow in the glow of his fire. You stare into the dark depths of your horn, the mead untouched. He has not touched your hand. He has not asked how the winter treated his holding. He has not asked if his children survived the fever that nearly took them to the gods.

You are a ghost at your own wedding feast.

From the dark corner near the weapon racks, Ubbe watches. He leans against a heavy wooden pillar, nursing a cup he has no intention of finishing. His blue eyes—sharp and predatory—are fixed on the high table. He sees the stiffness in your shoulders. He sees the way you shrink into yourself to make room for Bjorn’s swelling ego. He sees the exhaustion you have painted over with warrior’s pride.

A slow, simmering rage burns in his gut. He wants to walk up there, overturn the heavy oak table, and demand his brother look at you—truly look at you. But he stays rooted. He waits. He is the wolf waiting for the bear to leave the kill.

Finally, as the hour grows late and the resin torches burn low, Bjorn leans toward you. The smell of wine and foreign spices is heavy on his breath.

"Walk with me," he commands. It is not an invitation.

You rise and follow him out of the suffocating heat of the hall and into the biting embrace of the night. The air is crisp, smelling of pine needles and the frozen fjord. Above, the stars are scattered like spilt milk across the darkness. Bjorn stops near the paddock, turning to face you. He does not look guilty, as a man should who has neglected his hearth. He looks... unburdened.

"I must speak plain words to you," Bjorn says, his voice steady. "I hold care for you. You know this. You are a mother of wolves. A woman of iron."

"But?" you ask, the word hanging in the air like a cloud of frost.

"But I am not the man who sailed away," Bjorn confesses, running a hand over his shaved scalp. "And I cannot share a bed with you in truth. My spirit... the Norns pull it elsewhere. I met a woman in the sands. It was fleeting, like a spark from the flint, but it woke me from a sleep I did not know I was in. I realized I do not possess that fire with you any longer."

He looks you in the eye, offering you the cruelest gift of all: honesty without kindness.

"I will not speak false words to you. I respect you too much."

Respect. The shield of a coward.

"You respect me," you repeat, your voice hollow, stripped of all blood and warmth.

"So you leave me for the memory of a stranger in the south? You trade a life built in stone for a dream of sand?"

"It is not about her," Bjorn says, frustration creeping into his tone, the petulant boy surfacing beneath the King. "It is about us. The love has withered. I will give you weight in hack-silver. I will give you a homestead of your own. You will be provided for, as befits your station."

"I do not want your silver," you whisper, the dignity in your voice cutting deeper than any scream.

"I am sorry," Bjorn says. And he means it, in his own selfish way. But it matters as little as the wind. "I will sleep in the Great Hall tonight."

He turns. He walks away. He cuts the rope that binds you to him and sets your boat adrift in the dark water without looking back.

You stand there, rooted to the frozen earth. You do not weep. You are too stunned to weep. You feel a profound, crushing foolishness. You spent the long, brutal winter keeping his bed warm, fighting death away from his children’s door, chopping his wood until your hands bled, and he has returned only to discard you in the span of a few heartbeats.

"He is a fool. A blind, witless fool."

You jump, your hand flying to your mouth. Ubbe steps out from the deep shadows of the longhouse eaves.

He is not calm now. He looks terrifying. His face is a mask of fury, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle spasms in his cheek.

Ubbe heard every word. He stood in the darkness, his hand gripping the hilt of his knife until his knuckles turned white. He heard Bjorn offer you silver as if you were a thrall to be paid off. He heard the indifference in his brother's voice. And while his heart cracked for the pain he knew you were feeling, beneath the rage, there was something else—a terrible, selfish, overwhelming relief.

He left her, the thought roared in Ubbe’s mind, louder than the storm. The fool was blind enough to leave her.

"You heard?" you ask, furiously wiping at the traitorous moisture in your eyes.

"I heard," Ubbe growls. He stalks toward you, his strides long and aggressive, eating up the distance between you. "I wanted to strike him. I still might."

"Don't," you say, laughing a bitter, broken sound that hurts his ears. "He is the King of the Mediterranean now. You cannot strike him."

"I do not care what titles he wears," Ubbe stops directly in front of you, his chest heaving with the force of his emotion. "He is blind. He sails to the ends of the earth seeking gold and glory, and he leaves the only true treasure sitting in his own home, tending his own fire."

You look up at him, shaking your head in denial. "Ubbe, stop. You speak out of kindness. You are his brother. You cared for us because it was your duty to your kin."

"Duty?" Ubbe laughs, but it is a dark sound, devoid of humor. "You think I climbed your roof in the blizzard to fix the thatch for duty? You think I sat beside your daughter’s bed, singing to the gods while you slept, because of duty?"

He steps closer, invading your space, shattering the boundaries that have stood between you for months. He is so close you can feel the heat radiating from his body, a furnace against the cold night.

"I did it because I could not bear the thought of being away from you," he confesses. The words rush out of him, messy and raw, a dam breaking. "Every time I looked at you this winter... chopping wood with your back straight, carrying the water buckets, being so damn strong while he was gone... I hated him. I hated my own brother for leaving you alone."

"Ubbe..." you breathe, the realization dawning like a slow sunrise.

"I was jealous," he whispers, his voice dropping, rough with shame and longing. "I was jealous of a ghost. I wanted to be the man you looked for at the horizon. I wanted to be the one coming home to you."

He reaches out, his hands—rough, calloused, scarred from the shield-wall—cupping your face. His touch is a shock, so gentle it makes your heart ache. He looks at you not as a sister-in-law, not as a responsibility, but as a starving man looks at a feast.

"You are not just a mother," he swears, staring deep into your eyes, willing you to believe him. "And you are not just a 'respected wife' to be put on a shelf. You are fire. You are life. And he is too stupid to see he is freezing to death without you."

The dam breaks. The tears finally spill over, hot and fast. You let out a sob, your composure shattering under the weight of his truth. Ubbe does not hesitate. He pulls you in. He wraps his powerful arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you. He holds you tight, crushing you against his chest as if he is trying to glue your broken pieces back together with his own strength.

"Let him go," Ubbe whispers against your skin, his lips brushing your ear. "Let him go to his sand and his silver. I am here. I am not going anywhere. I have got you."

The sun glints off the water, catching in his daughters’ hair as they crowd around him—three of them, all elbows and laughter and stubborn determination, each insisting her line will be the one to catch a fish.

“Easy,” Ubbe chuckles, steadying the youngest as she nearly topples into the river. “Patience. The fish do not like shouting.”

They protest loudly, of course, and Ubbe laughs again, deep and unguarded. It is in the middle of that laughter that his eyes find you again.

You haven’t moved.

Your hands are clasped at your waist, fingers twisting together as if you are bracing yourself against something unseen. Your smile is there—but thin, strained, not reaching your eyes. Ubbe’s laughter fades at once.

“Girls,” he says gently, guiding the lines back into their hands. “Watch the water. I’ll be right back.”

He wades toward the shore, water darkening his trousers, his attention fixed on you. When he reaches you, he searches your face, concern already etched into the lines he wears so rarely at home.

“What is it?” he asks softly. “What’s wrong, my love?”

You hesitate, your gaze slipping past him to where your daughters are now crouched together, whispering fiercely as if the river itself might overhear them. Your voice, when it comes, is quiet and unsteady.

“I worry,” you admit. “That you wish for a son.”

The words hang between you, heavy with everything you’ve never said. You tell him how you see other men boast of heirs and bloodlines. How you fear that, despite his kindness, despite his love, there may be some small disappointment he does not speak aloud. That you have given him daughters—three beautiful, wild girls—but not the son you think a man like him is meant to want.

Ubbe stares at you for a long moment.

Then he laughs—not loud, not mocking, but soft and incredulous, like the idea itself has surprised him.

“A son?” he repeats, shaking his head. He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the familiar scent of river water and woodsmoke. He lifts your hands from where you’ve clenched them and holds them between his palms. “Is that what has been weighing on you?”

He tips your chin up so you have no choice but to look at him. His eyes are gentle, steady.

“Look at them,” he says, nodding toward the riverbank.

Your daughters are now splashing deliberately, shrieking with laughter as the eldest pretends to command the others like a shieldmaiden leading a charge. Ubbe’s mouth curves with unmistakable pride.

“They are brave,” he says. “They are stubborn. They are clever, and they have your fire in them.” His thumb brushes over your knuckles, grounding. “They will break hearts and bones if they choose to.”

Your throat tightens.

“I never once wished my life to be different,” he continues, voice firm now, certain. “Not when the first was born. Not when the second followed. And certainly not when the third arrived screaming like she meant to challenge the world.”

He leans his forehead against yours, the weight of him comforting, familiar. “The gods gave me everything I need. A home. A wife I love. Daughters who will grow strong and fearless. What more could I ask for?”

You let out a shaky breath, the worry easing from your chest at last.

Ubbe pulls back just enough to smile at you—warm, crooked, full of quiet devotion. “And besides,” he adds lightly, “have you met our daughters? Any man who thinks sons are stronger has never faced them.”

As if summoned by his words, one of the girls whoops triumphantly, holding up a wriggling fish far too big for her hands. Ubbe laughs and turns back toward the river.

“Come,” he says, squeezing your hand. “They’ll want to show you what they’ve caught.”

You all laughed as Bjorn retold a story of how Fenrir had launched through the air, darkening the sky, as he attacked Saxons with ferocity he had never seen before. He boasted about how you and Fenrir moved as one and made battle look like a dance. The younger Ragnarssons held onto each of Bjorn’s words, impressed by the notoriety you had achieved since you had left with Bjorn and Lagertha. 

Hvitserk idly scratched behind Fenrir’s ear with his foot, earning a low, pleased rumble. Sigurd leaned down to tug playfully at a tuft of dark fur near the wolf’s shoulder. Even Ivar, seated further down the table, tapped Fenrir’s flank once with his crutch, earning nothing more than a lazy flick of the tail. 

Fenrir accepted them all. He always had. And yet there was a Prince missing. 

Ubbe watched this from across the hall. When he heard you were returning to Kattegat with Bjorn and Lagertha he felt his heart skip a beat. He had not seen you since he was fifteen. You had left suddenly and without a goodbye. He waited with his brothers as the boats landed and was as shocked as everyone else to see Fenrir, larger than he remembered, burst onto the dock. The crowd parted for him, and you, as you followed. You had hugged each brother, a smile splitting your face. Ubbe was last and the hug was brief, almost cold. Fenrir had pushed himself between the two of you and ushered you toward the Great Hall. Hvisterk had walked with you, his arm around your shoulder. 

He had known you since you were small—mud on your knees, braids always coming undone, running wild through Kattegat alongside him and his brothers. You had shared meals, laughter, bruises, and winters. There was nothing unfamiliar about you and yet everything was different. 

Ubbe rose from the bench, horn in hand, and made his way toward you, intent on finally speaking to you alone, away from the noise. He wanted his friend back, a jealousy he hadn’t felt since you were all children and you had told him teasingly that Hvitserk was a better friend. 

He hadn’t even made it halfway before Fenrir’s head lifted sharply, ears pinning back. The growl that rolled from his chest was deep and immediate, vibrating through the hall like distant thunder. Conversations faltered. A few warriors turned, startled. Lagertha watched from the head table, a knowing smile on her face. 

Ubbe stopped where he stood.

Fenrir rose slowly to his full height, muscles shifting beneath black fur, positioning himself squarely between you and Ubbe. His lips pulled back just enough to show the edge of his teeth—not snapping, not wild—but unmistakably warning, daring the prince to come closer.

“Fenrir,” you said quietly, surprise threading your voice. The wolf did not look at you.

Ubbe lifted his hands, palms open, brows knitting together in confusion. “I’ve known her since we were children,” he said, glancing briefly at his brothers as if for confirmation. “You know that.”

Hvitserk frowned. “That’s true,” he said. “But he lets all of us touch him.”

As if to prove the point, Sigurd reached out and placed a hand on Fenrir’s shoulder, “what did you do to anger the beast, brother?” He asked with a raised brow, teasing. 

The wolf did not react. But when Ubbe took a single step forward, the growl deepened. Fenrir’s head dropped low and he bared his teeth. Fenrir used to wrestle with Ubbe and chase the young prince playful down the shore of Kattegat but that was no more. 

You placed your hand on Fenrir’s thick ruff, feeling the tension coiled beneath your fingers. “Ubbe is not a stranger,” you murmured. “He won’t hurt me.”

Fenrir flicked an ear at your voice, but his eyes never left Ubbe.

Ubbe let out a slow breath, something unsettled flickering across his face. He had faced shield walls and storms at sea without hesitation—but this was different. This was personal.

“For some reason,” Ubbe said quietly, almost to himself, “he does not like me.” Ubbe didn’t remember the past as well as you did, as well as Fenrir did. He didn’t know you had seen him and Margrethe in the barn so many years ago. He didn’t know how much it broke your young heart. 

Fenrir never forgot your pain, your tears drenching his dark coat as you cried for days. Fenrir never forgave Ubbe for the betrayal and he was not willing to let him close again. Fenrir had torn Saxon heads from their bodies, gnawed on their bones, and lapped at their blood. Fenrir did not discriminate, Saxon or Northman - a threat to your safety was not something he took lightly. 

Fenrir took one deliberate step forward, placing his body more firmly between you and Ubbe. The message was clear.

You exhaled softly and kept your hand steady on the wolf’s neck. “He chooses who he trusts,” you said, not unkindly. “I learned long ago not to argue with him.”

Ubbe nodded once, accepting the boundary without protest. He stopped where he was, gaze lifting to meet yours instead of the wolf’s. He longed to speak to you, to laugh with you like you had when you were young. He wanted to hear the tales from your raids with Lagertha and Bjorn. 

“Then I will stay here,” he said. “And perhaps… one day, he will change his mind.”

Fenrir did not growl again—but he did not move either.