Soon, they reached the outskirts of the village, the timber homes quiet.
The clan awaited their arrival at the longhouse. The girl beside him now seemed so small, her slender frame trembling, despite how she tried to stop it.
“Do not worry,” Njáll whispered, his voice barely heard over the rancorous greetings filling the hall. “The Konungr is intimidating, but noble. You will not be harmed.”
Tension seeped from her skin, her shoulders dropping from their pinched position by her ears. “Thank you,” she murmured, the barest hint of affection coloring her tone.
It was a small victory, but one he’d carry with him through the coming days.
Usually, the packed longhouse was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and roasting meat. Today, however, it hummed with palpable energy.
Children eager to see their fathers, women eager to see their lovers, and parents eager to see their sons.
Dense crowds of people lined the ceremonial hall, their faces alight with joy. At the head of the great oak table stood the Konungr, flanked by the Dróttning—his wife.
A familiar feeling knotted in his chest.
One of reverence and respect.
The Konungr was a fierce warrior. The kind the skalds wove tales about. Silver streaked his greying hair like lightning. His grey eyes glowed like moonlight, seeing what others didn’t. He wore no crown, only the authority of the victories marring his skin.
Beside him stood the Dróttning, a woman of elegance. Waves of chestnut curls, interwoven with strands of silver cascaded down her back, framing her freckled face. Laugh lines creased around the edges of her eyes and mouth, showing a life well-lived.
Her mossy gaze landed on the girl next to Njáll, gentle amusement lighting up her features.
As they reached the dais, his little flame stiffened. His fingers feathered to her waist, squeezing gently before his hand fell. The motion did not go unnoticed by the Konungr.
He knew it wouldn’t. His king saw everything.
“Konungr,” Njáll said, dropping to one knee with a hand over his heart. “The raid on the southern territories brought great success. We secured three villages, a full complement of iron ore and other wares, as well as securing the much needed southern pass.”
Rough parchment slid along his fingers as he fished the manifest out of his pouch and presented it. The Konungr scanned the document, listening impassively as Njáll recounted their victories.
Once he had finished, a hush fell over all assembled.
“Well done. Rise, Jarl.”
The command did nothing to loosen the tightness in his limbs. It only strengthened its hold, knowing what was to come.
As Njáll rose, the Konungr’s gaze shifted. They were no longer resting on the spoils of their conquests, but fixed with an unnerving intensity upon the girl doing what she could to remain stoic beside him.
Even as the tang of her fear thickened in the air, she lifted her chin, and his cock stirred at her bravery.
The oversized linen shift dusted with dirt emphasized her slight frame. She was a single spark of delicate fire amidst a landscape of stone. His heart thudded, thankful she could not understand the Norse tongue.
“And this,” the Konungr said, his tone dropping to a threatening rumble commanding absolute silence in the hall. His gnarled, scarred hand gestured to her, and his strong girl didn’t recoil. “This is not amber nor gold.” The Konungr’s voice dropped low enough for only him to hear. “Is she a thrall?”
“Not a thrall,” Njáll said, forcing the deference into his voice. “She possesses what the Völva spoke of.”
Silently, the Konungr gestured for him to go on. Njáll stole a wayward glance at his girl, emboldened by her calm demeanor. The unearthly quiet in the hall as he explained the story to the Konungr made the hairs on his arms stand on end.
He recalled the last village they had searched. The girl who flung herself between his blade and her father, all to protect him.
With each word he spoke, a wider smile split across the Dróttning’s face, offering him a flicker of hope. Even as the Konungr appeared to remain frustratingly unaffected.
Even if it were his duty.
Then, Njáll’s voice dropped, not wanting all assembled to hear the next words, as they were for the Konungr alone.
