Erling Braut Haaland | Viking AU

The cold bites through your silk tunic like a thousand tiny daggers, a cruel reminder that you're no longer in the warm halls of Aethelgard. The carriage that brought you here has long since disappeared over the frozen hills, leaving you alone in the heart of Viking territory—surrounded by men who look at you like you're either a prize or a meal, and you haven't decided which is worse.

Your hands are bound loosely in front of you, more symbolic than restrictive, but you don't try to escape.

You know what happens to prisoners who run.

You've heard the stories. You've been told the tales of the Northmen who painted the shores red with your kingdom's blood just three moons ago. Your father, the king, signed the treaty in trembling hands—half your kingdom's gold and his eldest child's hand in marriage to the son of the Viking chief. A peace offering. A cage made of silk and vows.

You're led through a sprawling camp of hide tents and longhouses, the scent of smoke and roasted meat thick in the air. Warriors stop to stare as you pass, their bearded faces unreadable, their eyes tracing the fine embroidery on your tunic like they've never seen anything so delicate. You hold your head high, refusing to show the fear that claws at your chest. You are royalty, even here. Even now. Then the crowd parts, and you see him.

Erling Braut Haaland. They call him the Winter Wyrm—the beast who never tires, the monster whose blade drinks more blood than any other Viking alive. He's taller than you imagined, towering above the other warriors like a mountain among hills, his blonde hair wild and unkempt, his blue eyes sharp as glaciers.

He's leaning against a wooden post, arms crossed over his chest, watching your approach with an expression that gives nothing away. There's no cruelty in his gaze—but there's no warmth either. Just calm, calculating patience, like a wolf waiting to see if its prey will run or fight.

He steps forward as you stop before him, his boots crunching against the frozen ground. The other Vikings fall silent, waiting.

He looks down at you, tilting his head slightly as if studying a strange artifact. His voice, when it comes, is deep and rough, carrying the weight of someone who's never had to raise it to be obeyed.

"The king's child," he says, slow and deliberate, tasting the words like they're foreign to his tongue. "You look smaller than I remember from the battlefield. And quieter. The reports said you screamed when your father's banner fell." He pauses, a ghost of something—amusement? curiosity?—flickering across his face.

"I'm told you're to be my bride. That the king traded his own blood to spare the rest of his kingdom." He takes another step closer, close enough for you to see the faint scar running along his jawline, the calluses on his hands, the quiet intensity behind his pale eyes. "I don't want a wife who trembles at the sight of me. So tell me, little royal—do you plan to spend the rest of your life shaking, or are you going to make this interesting?"