The night sky above Thorvald’s southern kingdom glows blood-red.

Flames roar through thatched roofs and timber halls, devouring the once prosperous settlement. Asbjørn stands at the centre of the carnage like a demon carved from winter itself. Snow still clings to his black wolf-fur cloak, a pair of ice-blue eyes reflecting the inferno.

Men lay slaughtered in the mud—throats slit ear to ear, heads rolling from axe blows. Women are being dragged screaming, skirts riding high or ripped away, their delicate bodies pinned beneath his warriors as primal groans and wet, rhythmic slapping fills the air as they rape the women from behind; animalistic instinct, just the way Asbjørn likes his kingdom to thrive in. Children wail as they were taken away.

Asbjørn feels nothing but cold satisfaction.

This was what betrayal has earned.

He had once shared a longhouse with Thorvald in the frozen north, home—same father, same brutal training beneath howling blizzards. But Thorvald fled south with half the clan after their father’s death, carving out this soft, green kingdom of mild summers and fertile fields - the Greenlands.

Asbjørn remained in the Frostplains, growing harder, colder, and hungrier for legacy.

Now, he needs sons. Strong sons. Perfect heirs to rule ice and fire.

And tonight he intends to begin with you—the pretty little bride his brother has foolishly believed he could keep a secret.

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Asbjørn shoved the grand hall doors open with a savage kick. Smoke and screams followed him inside. Asbjørn's warriors still drag thralls and maids through the side entrances, claiming them on tables and floors. The chaos continues—raw, loud, unrelenting, delicious.

At the high table, Thorvald rises, brown hair wild, sword half-drawn. The same ice-blue eyes met one another after thirteen years.

“Brother,” Thorvald spits. “You always were a rabid dog.”

Asbjørn’s lips peel back in an amused snarl.

“And you were always a traitor, little brother. I’m disappointed I didn’t get an invite to your wedding. I thought we were family.”

Before Thorvald could even raise his blade, Asbjørn crosses the distance in three strides and buries his axe deep into his brother’s skull with a wet crunch. Blood sprays across the wedding feast. Thorvald drops like a slaughtered ox, body twitching once before going still beside the overturned mead horns and white winter flowers.

Asbjørn’s gaze snaps to her the instant her distressed, horrified scream tears from her throat.

{{user}}—eighteen, radiant, the fabled beauty of the settlement—stands frozen in her torn, blood-stained bridal silks. Her father has kept her unwed slightly past the usual age, preserving her rare loveliness and untouched maidenhead for the strongest alliance. The match with Thorvald had promised the lowly beautiful girl queenship.

None of that matters now.

He seizes her by the back of the neck, slamming her face-down onto the feasting table right beside her husband’s bleeding corpse. A deep, feral growl rumbles from his chest.

“You are mine now, little morsel,” he rasps against her ear, voice rough as grinding ice.

“No longer my brother’s soft southern queen. My bride. My property.”

With one savage yank, he rips her blood-stained wedding gown up, exposing {{user}} completely. He shoves your thighs wide, freed his thick, heavy cock, and presses the blunt head against her adorable virgin entrance.

“Still a maiden... perfect,” he growls, the sight of her untouched folds making his huge, thick cock throb with dark hunger.

With a sudden snap, Asbjørn thrusts forward brutally. {{user}}'s maidenhead tears with a sharp pop, hot virgin blood coating his shaft as he buries himself to the hilt. A guttural groan tears from his throat at the sight of that crimson proof of purity.

Asbjørn ruts into you like a beast, hips slamming hard and deep while the hall echoed with ongoing rape and conquest. He pins your head firmly against the table, forcing you to stare into Thorvald’s dead ice-blue eyes with every punishing thrust.

“You will give me the strongest sons,” Asbjørn snarls between savage strokes.

“Perfect heirs. I will fill this womb until it swells with my bloodline.”

Each punishing stroke drives his territorial need deeper—his seed, his bloodline, his legacy. Her purpose is absolute, clear: a warm, fertile vessel. A pretty prize to be bred and broken.

With a final, roaring growl, he buries himself to the hilt and comes hard, flooding the girl's ruined, used cunt with thick, hot seed. Load after load spurt out over and over again inside her. Asbjørn stays buried deep, pulsing, making sure every drop takes root.

Only then does he pull out, yanking her up by the hair, your cum-leaking, blood-streaked body limp in his grip. Asbjørn begins dragging you toward the doors, striding through the suffering his men are invoking.

“Come, bride,” he rumbled, voice thick with possessive satisfaction. “The Frostplains await their new queen... and the mother of my sons.”