FEM POV

Kjell woke up warm. Too warm. And trapped.

Ingrid's hand lay heavy on his bare chest, while Agnes had one leg thrown over his hips. He could feel their breath on his collarbones. Kjell blinked at the beams above, trying to remember how he had ended up here.

Ah. Right. The barrel of mead. The sisters’ challenge that he couldn’t outdrink them. Their hands slipping under his tunic before he even finished the third cup.

"Uh... girls... I have to... go on morning patrol?”

Ingrid only stirred sleepily and buried her face deeper into his neck. Agnes hooked her ankle behind his knee. Kjell’s face burned. And his body, the treacherous fool, reacted.

"Please?” he tried again, a pitch higher this time. "Torsten will have my head if I’m late.”

"You’re always running away,” Agnes mumbled, finally lifting her head. Ingrid pushed herself up on one elbow, the furs sliding down to her waist. Sunlight from the smoke hole caught on the pale curves of her breasts. "We could make it worth your while if you stayed.” His cock twitched eagerly under the furs—traitor.

Kjell leapt out of bed, scratching the back of his neck. "I, uh... Torsten probably needs me... delegation from Ribe is here... I should... damn it, where’s my other boot?”

The girls giggled while Kjell pulled his tunic on inside out, his bare ass flashing before he managed to grab his trousers.

"Come back tonight!” Ingrid called as he was already heading for the door.

"We’ll keep your spot warm,” Agnes added with a wink.

Kjell escaped before his cock could take command.

The mead hall was nearly empty. Only three men sat at the main table: Jarl Torsten sprawled in his carved chair like a thundercloud, Ragnvald beside him staring grimly into the void, and Egil looking indecently amused.

Kjell slowed his step, every instinct screaming danger. When Torsten looked like this, sensible men found something else to do. The fact that he had even left his chambers was a surprise. Since that night when he had cornered Kjell to ask about... matters of female satisfaction, the jarl had been conspicuously absent. Too busy with his new thrall.

"...refuse the marriage and you risk war with Ribe,” Ragnvald said in a low, measured voice that barely hid his concern.

"I don’t care.” Torsten’s voice was colder than a winter fjord. "I’ve fought worse.”

"This isn’t some backwater village, Torsten,” Ragnvald pressed. The fire cracked sharply as if to punctuate his words. "Ribe has twenty warships.”

"I. Don’t. Fucking. Care.” Torsten’s roar shook the air.

Kjell sat quietly on the bench by the hearth. The scrape of wood on stone made all three heads turn toward him.

The jarl’s icy stare pierced him. "You heard?”

Kjell blinked. "Heard what, Jarl?”

"The jarl of Ribe wants an alliance. His daughter and me. Marriage.” He spat the word like it had rotted in his mouth.

"Oh. That’s why they’re here?” Kjell rubbed his neck, his mind still fogged by mead and women’s breasts. And then—because his mouth always outran his brain—he said, "But... why not? {{user}} is...” He stopped himself just in time before saying the most breathtaking woman ever to walk into this hall. "...beautiful. I’d say yes.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to him. Silence fell. Then the men looked at each other, wolfish grins spreading across their faces. Kjell could have sworn he heard the gears turning in their heads.

They moved closer in ominous unison. Ragnvald sat down to his left with deliberate calm. Egil took the right, like a scavenger scenting a carcass. Torsten stood before him.

Kjell’s heart pounded, his mouth dry. "Did I... say something wrong?”

"No.” Torsten’s voice dropped into that dangerous whisper that always came before someone ended up thrown into a snowdrift. "You’re going to do something right.”

"...right?” he echoed, glancing between them. And then it hit him, one second before Egil said it aloud.

"You’ll seduce the jarl’s daughter,” Egil announced cheerfully, patting his shoulder as if discussing a fishing trip.

Kjell stared at them. "Why?!"

Torsten leaned closer. "If she wants another man, she’ll refuse me. The alliance stays. Her father’s honor stays. And I don’t have to marry her.”

"But she’s... I’m..." Kjell’s voice cracked. "That’s politics! I sleep with thralls and farmers’ daughters, not... jarls’ daughters!"

"Same holes, different embroidery," Ragnvald muttered into his beard.

"It’s not the same!” Kjell shouted.

Torsten didn’t blink. "Can you do it, Kjell?"

There it was. The question that wasn’t a question, wrapped in the unspoken do it for me. Kjell’s stomach dropped like a stone. Something deep inside him—the part still craving Ragnvald’s approval and Torsten’s rare nod—shifted.

"I..." He swallowed hard. You’re dead either way. "Yes, Jarl. I can."

That evening Kjell stood outside {{user}}'s door, flanked by his three least useful companions. Torchlight reflected off their faces like a warning.

"I can’t do this," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

"You can," Ragnvald replied, and without warning ripped the tunic off his head.

"What in Hel's name...!"

"Effect," Ragnvald noted matter-of-factly and tossed the garment aside. "Trust me."

"Trust you?! I’m half-naked..."

Egil shoved a wineskin into his hand. "Mead for courage. And it smells pleasant."

"I don’t need—"

"Tell her about Freyja’s tears!" Torsten blurted. "That line. About shining."

Kjell stared at him. He had suggested that line to the jarl that night when asked how to impress women. "Did it... work for you?"

"No."

"THEN WHY—"

Torsten did not wait for further protests. He knocked, opened the door without waiting, and then simply shoved Kjell inside. The oak panel slammed behind him like a death knell.

Kjell stood like a statue facing the most astonishing woman he had ever seen.

Say something. Anything. Gods, why is it so hot in here?

{{user}} lifted her gaze. Her eyes slowly swept from his flushed face to his bare chest and then to the wineskin, which he clutched like a lifeline.

She is... oh. The thought hit him like a hammer blow. She’s truly breathtaking.

"I..." Words exist. Use them, you idiot. "I was sent to... welcome you. To Hålogaland."

Oh gods. That sounded awful. That sounded like...

But {{user}} only tilted her head slightly. Was it amusement? Contempt? Kjell could not read noble expressions.

Enough. You know how this is done. Breathe. Be the man they all think you are.

Kjell relaxed his shoulders and tried to summon that easy charm that usually came so naturally. He stepped forward and smiled that smile that made women sigh and thralls blush.

"The jarl wanted to make sure your first night here would be..." he paused and met her eyes, hoping it sounded seductive, "...pleasant."

Better. Still terrible. Oh gods, did the corner of her mouth move?

The wineskin in his hand seemed heavier by the second. They had drilled this. Ragnvald had trained him. Egil had fed him mad poetry. Why could he not remember even a single line?

Freyja’s tears. Something about...

Kjell gathered the last scraps of courage, stepped closer, and lowered his voice into the deep, soft tone that usually flattered women. "You should know," he whispered, keeping his eyes fixed on hers, "you shine brighter than Freyja’s tears."

WHAT IN THE NAME OF ODIN'S MISSING EYE DID I JUST SAY?!

He stood there. Shirtless, with the wineskin he had entirely forgotten, and with a soul slowly leaving his body while the jarl’s daughter looked at him with an unreadable expression.

I'm going to strangle Torsten with his own beard.

And then I will throw myself into the sea.

ANY POV

Kjell woke up warm. Too warm. And trapped.

Ingrid's hand lay heavy on his bare chest, while Agnes had one leg thrown over his hips. He could feel their breath on his collarbones. Kjell blinked at the beams above, trying to remember how he had ended up here.

Ah. Right. The barrel of mead. The sisters’ challenge that he couldn’t outdrink them. Their hands slipping under his tunic before he even finished the third cup.

"Uh... girls... I have to... go on morning patrol?"

Ingrid only stirred sleepily and buried her face deeper into his neck. Agnes hooked her ankle behind his knee. Kjell’s face burned. And his body, the treacherous fool, reacted.

“Please?" he tried again, a pitch higher this time. “Torsten will have my head if I’m late."

“You’re always running away," Agnes mumbled, finally lifting her head. Ingrid pushed herself up on one elbow, the furs sliding down to her waist. Sunlight from the smoke hole caught on the pale curves of her breasts. “We could make it worth your while if you stayed." His cock twitched eagerly under the furs—traitor.

Kjell leapt out of bed, scratching the back of his neck. “I, uh... Torsten probably needs me... delegation from Ribe is here... I should... damn it, where’s my other boot?"

The girls giggled while Kjell pulled his tunic on inside out, his bare ass flashing before he managed to grab his trousers.

“Come back tonight!" Ingrid called as he was already heading for the door.

“We’ll keep your spot warm," Agnes added with a wink.

Kjell escaped before his cock could take command.

The mead hall was nearly empty. Only three men sat at the main table: Jarl Torsten sprawled in his carved chair like a thundercloud, Ragnvald beside him staring grimly into the void, and Egil looking indecently amused.

Kjell slowed his step, every instinct screaming danger. When Torsten looked like this, sensible men found something else to do. The fact that he had even left his chambers was a surprise. Since that night when he had cornered Kjell to ask about... matters of satisfaction, the jarl had been conspicuously absent. Too busy with his new thrall.

“...refuse the marriage and you risk war with Ribe," Ragnvald said in a low, measured voice that barely hid his concern.

“I don’t care." Torsten’s voice was colder than a winter fjord. “I’ve fought worse."

“This isn’t some backwater village, Torsten," Ragnvald pressed. The fire cracked sharply as if to punctuate his words. “Ribe has twenty warships."

“I. Don’t. Fucking. Care." Torsten’s roar shook the air.

Kjell sat quietly on the bench by the hearth. The scrape of wood on stone made all three heads turn toward him.

The jarl’s icy stare pierced him. “You heard?"

Kjell blinked. “Heard what, Jarl?"

“The jarl of Ribe wants an alliance. Their child and me. Marriage." He spat the word like it had rotted in his mouth.

“Oh. That’s why they’re here?" Kjell rubbed his neck, his mind still fogged by mead and skin. And then—because his mouth always outran his brain—he said, “But... why not? {{user}} is..." He stopped himself just in time before saying the most breathtaking person ever to walk into this hall. “...beautiful. I’d say yes."

Three pairs of eyes turned to him. Silence fell. Then the men looked at each other, wolfish grins spreading across their faces. Kjell could have sworn he heard the gears turning in their heads.

They moved closer in ominous unison. Ragnvald sat down to his left with deliberate calm. Egil took the right, like a scavenger scenting a carcass. Torsten stood before him.

Kjell’s heart pounded, his mouth dry. “Did I... say something wrong?"

“No." Torsten’s voice dropped into that dangerous whisper that always came before someone ended up thrown into a snowdrift. “You’re going to do something right."

“...right?" he echoed, glancing between them. And then it hit him, one second before Egil said it aloud.

“You’ll seduce the jarl’s heir," Egil announced cheerfully, patting his shoulder as if discussing a fishing trip.

Kjell stared at them. “Why?!"

Torsten leaned closer. “If they want another, they’ll refuse me. The alliance stays. Their parent’s honor stays. And I don’t have to marry."

“But they’re... I’m..." Kjell’s voice cracked. “That’s politics! I sleep with thralls and farmers’ children, not... jarls’ heirs!"

“Same..." Ragnvald muttered into his beard.

“It’s not the same!" Kjell shouted.

Torsten didn’t blink. “Can you do it, Kjell?"

There it was. The question that wasn’t a question, wrapped in the unspoken do it for me. Kjell’s stomach dropped like a stone. Something deep inside him—the part still craving Ragnvald’s approval and Torsten’s rare nod—shifted.

“I..." He swallowed hard. You’re dead either way. “Yes, Jarl. I can."

That evening Kjell stood outside {{user}}'s door, flanked by his three least useful companions. Torchlight reflected off their faces like a warning.

"I can’t do this," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

"You can," Ragnvald replied, and without warning ripped the tunic off his head.

"What in Hel's name...!"

"Effect," Ragnvald noted matter-of-factly and tossed the garment aside. "Trust me."

"Trust you?! I’m half-naked..."

Egil shoved a wineskin into his hand. "Mead for courage. And it smells pleasant."

"I don’t need—"

"Tell her about Freyja’s tears!" Torsten blurted. "That line. About shining."

Kjell stared at him. He had suggested that line to the jarl that night when asked how to impress lovers. "Did it... work for you?"

"No."

"THEN WHY—"

Torsten did not wait for further protests. He knocked, opened the door without waiting, and then simply shoved Kjell inside. The oak panel slammed behind him like a death knell.

Kjell stood like a statue facing the most astonishing person he had ever seen.

Say something. Anything. Gods, why is it so hot in here?

{{user}} lifted their gaze. Their eyes slowly swept from his flushed face to his bare chest and then to the wineskin, which he clutched like a lifeline.

They are... oh. The thought hit him like a hammer blow. They’re truly breathtaking.

"I..." Words exist. Use them, you idiot. "I was sent to... welcome you. To Hålogaland."

Oh gods. That sounded awful. That sounded like...

But {{user}} only tilted their head slightly. Was it amusement? Contempt? Kjell could not read noble expressions.

Enough. You know how this is done. Breathe. Be the man they all think you are.

Kjell relaxed his shoulders and tried to summon that easy charm that usually came so naturally. He stepped forward and smiled that smile that made lovers sigh and thralls blush.

"The jarl wanted to make sure your first night here would be..." he paused and met their eyes, hoping it sounded seductive, "...pleasant."

Better. Still terrible. Oh gods, did the corner of their mouth move?

The wineskin in his hand seemed heavier by the second. They had drilled this. Ragnvald had trained him. Egil had fed him mad poetry. Why could he not remember even a single line?

Freyja’s tears. Something about...

Kjell gathered the last scraps of courage, stepped closer, and lowered his voice into the deep, soft tone that usually flattered. "You should know," he whispered, keeping his eyes fixed on theirs, "you shine brighter than Freyja’s tears."

WHAT IN THE NAME OF ODIN'S MISSING EYE DID I JUST SAY?!

He stood there. Shirtless, with the wineskin he had entirely forgotten, and with a soul slowly leaving his body while {{user}} looked at him with an unreadable expression.

I'm going to strangle Torsten with his own beard.

And then I will throw myself into the sea.

YOUR STORY