"Dreams." Earl Haraldson rolls the word around like it's something bitter he's forced to taste. "That's what they say you bring, Ragnar Lothbrok. Dreams and trouble."
The hall is full enough to feel crowded, but quiet enough to hear the fire pop. Men sit along the benches with their cups paused halfway to their mouths, watching me as if I'm about to juggle knives—or bleed.
Haraldson sits higher than everyone else, as he likes it. Broad shoulders under a heavy cloak. A thick gold ring on one hand, another on the next. His eyes never blink for long.
Beside him, Siggy rests back like she belongs there. She doesn't stare the way the men do. She measures. She's watching Haraldson, not me—learning what mood he's in before he decides to become merciful or cruel.
Svein stands off to one side with that smug half-smile that says he's enjoying this.
I step forward, wet still drying on my clothes, and I can feel the room deciding whether I'm brave or stupid. In Kattegat, the line between the two is thin.
Haraldson leans forward a fraction.
"Tell me," he says, voice calm. "What lands lie west of here?"
My mouth goes dry.
Because I know the answer in two ways.
One version is the one everyone in this room believes: nothing but sea, fog, death, and a flat edge where the world ends.
The other version is the one that's already carved into my skull like a scar: green cliffs, monasteries, England.
Lindisfarne.
The beginning of a legend.
And if I say it wrong here, in front of this man, I don't just lose an argument. I lose my head. I lose my family. I lose the chance to steer anything at all.
I keep my chin up. Ragnar's stubbornness rises in me like a shield.
"I don't know what lies west," I say. "Not for certain."
A few men snort, pleased. Haraldson's mouth twitches like he's caught a child trying to sound wise.
"So," he says, "you admit you are speaking without knowing."
"I admit I haven't been there," I answer. "But the sea is not a wall. It's a road."
That earns me a sharper reaction—murmurs now, a couple of heads turning, as if I've said something indecent.
Haraldson's eyes harden.
"And you think you are the first man to look at the sea and imagine you can tame it?"
"No," I say. "I think I might be the first man here to try."
The hall tightens. I feel it in the way backs straighten, the way a breath is held.
Haraldson smiles—thin, controlled.
"You are a farmer," he says, as if reminding me of my place is charity. "A good warrior, yes. Useful. But still a farmer. You should be thinking about fields and children… not filling my people's heads with fantasies."
A flicker of Bjorn's face hits me—waiting for his arm ring, wanting his father's pride.
I swallow it down.
"If we only go east," I say carefully, "we raid the same shores as everyone else. We fight the same men. We bring back the same silver."
"And silver is silver," Haraldson snaps. The calm slips for half a second, showing teeth. "It buys ships, buys swords, buys loyalty. It buys peace."
Peace. That's what powerful men call obedience.
I glance—just once—to the benches near the front.
Rollo sits there, legs apart, hands clasped, trying not to look like he's watching a trap close. He won't meet my eyes. If he does, he'll show too much.
I force my attention back to Haraldson.
"I am not asking you to send the whole fleet," I say. "Only one ship. A small crew. A test."
"A test," Haraldson repeats, amused again. "And if your test fails? If you die? If your crew dies?"
"Then you lose nothing," I say. "And I lose everything."
The words land heavier than I intend.
Haraldson studies me. Siggy's gaze flicks to him, just a quick check, like she's watching a knife edge.
Haraldson turns his head slightly, addressing the hall as much as me.
"You hear this?" he says. "Ragnar offers his own life as if it's worth buying with."
A few chuckles. The kind that are safer than silence.
Then Haraldson looks back at me and the humor drains.
"I do not need you dead," he says. "I need you loyal."
The hall goes colder.
"I am loyal," I say, and I can hear the strain in my own voice. "To Kattegat."
To my people, Ragnar's instincts want to add. Not to you.
Haraldson's eyes narrow as if he heard the unspoken part anyway.
"Loyal men obey," he says. "Loyal men do not gather friends and whisper about new ships and secret routes. Loyal men do not stare at the horizon like it's calling their name."
My heartbeat picks up.
He knows about Floki.
Of course he does.
Powerful men always know more than they should. They pay for eyes and ears the way they pay for blades.
Haraldson raises a hand and Svein steps forward at once—eager.
"You have been speaking to the boatbuilder," Haraldson says.
I don't deny it. Denial is pointless when the accusation is already a verdict.
"I have," I say. "He thinks differently."
"And you like men who think differently," Haraldson replies. "That is your sickness."
A few men laugh again, but it's nervous laughter now. They don't like being reminded that curiosity can get you killed.
Haraldson leans back, heavy as a throne.
"You will stop," he says. "You will go east with the others when I call for it. You will raid where I tell you to raid. And you will keep your mouth shut about the west."
He lets that sit. Then he adds, almost casually:
"If I hear you speak of it again… I will not take your head. That would be too kind."
My stomach twists.
Haraldson looks around the hall as if he's doing everyone a favor.
"I will take what you love instead," he says. "Piece by piece. Until you remember who holds the power here."
The room is silent. Even the fire seems quieter.
I feel something in me surge—rage, fear, the urge to spit in his face and damn the consequences.
But Ragnar's other instincts—older, smarter—clamp down hard.
A man can be brave and still be alive tomorrow. A dead man can't change anything.
So I bow my head, just enough.
"As you say, Earl Haraldson," I force out.
Haraldson's smile returns. He likes it when men bend.
"Good," he says. "Now go. You stink like the fjord."
Laughter breaks out, relieved, shallow.
I turn and walk away like I'm not shaking.
Like my hands aren't fists.
Like my heart isn't pounding because I can still feel his threat crawling across my skin.
Outside, the wind hits me, cold and clean compared to the smoke of the hall. The settlement is alive with its ordinary noise—children shouting, dogs barking, the distant ring of hammer on iron.
It's insulting how normal everything looks after a man calmly describes ruining your life.
Rollo falls into step beside me before I've gone ten paces.
"You pushed him," he mutters.
"I spoke," I correct.
Rollo lets out a sharp breath, part laugh, part anger.
"You spoke like you wanted him to gut you in front of everyone."
"I spoke like a man who's tired of doing what he's told."
That earns me a glance—quick, searching. Rollo's expression tightens.
"You always talk like that," he says. "And then I'm the one who bleeds with you."
There it is. The honest thing.
Behind his anger is something else: fear of being left behind… and fear of being dragged into Ragnar's storm.
I stop walking and face him.
"I don't want you bleeding for me," I say. "I want you beside me when I bleed for us."
He huffs. "Pretty words."
"Not words," I say. "A choice."
Rollo's jaw works as if he wants to spit back something cruel, but he doesn't. He just stares at me a long moment, then looks away toward the harbor.
"You're going to do it anyway," he says.
It isn't a question.
I don't answer, because the answer is already in my bones.
Lagertha finds me near the edge of the training ground where men are sparring with dulled blades. She moves like a blade herself—direct, clean, no wasted motion.
She doesn't ask how the meeting went.
She looks at my face and already knows.
"What did he threaten?" she asks.
I exhale slowly.
"He didn't threaten me," I say. "Not really."
Lagertha's eyes narrow.
"He threatened us," I admit.
Her mouth tightens. For a heartbeat, the mask slips and I see raw anger there—hot and controlled.
Then she nods once, sharp.
"Then we move carefully," she says. "Not like boys trying to impress gods."
A gust of wind tugs at her braids. She steps closer and lowers her voice.
"Bjorn is waiting," she says. "Don't let Haraldson steal this from him too."
That hits harder than the threat in the hall.
Because Bjorn isn't a pawn. He's a boy with bright eyes who wants to be seen.
I nod.
"I'll be there."
The arm ring ceremony is simple and heavy with meaning.
Bjorn stands near the fire in the hall—same hall, same smoke, same watching eyes—but now the mood is different. This isn't politics. This is tradition.
Men form a loose half-circle. Some smile. Some look stern, pretending it doesn't matter when it clearly does.
Bjorn tries to stand like a man. His shoulders are squared too hard. His chin is lifted too high.
He looks at me like he's holding his breath.
I step forward.
The ring is thick, bright metal. It catches the firelight and throws it back like a promise.
My hands—Ragnar's hands—should know this motion. They do. Muscle memory guides me as if it's done it a hundred times.
I slide the ring onto Bjorn's arm.
His eyes widen, just a little. He swallows.
I squeeze his shoulder once. Firm.
"Stand," I tell him quietly.
He stands.
He looks taller, even though he hasn't grown an inch.
The men murmur approval. Someone claps him on the back. A few voices call his name.
Bjorn's mouth twitches, fighting a grin.
Then he leans in, close enough that only I can hear.
"Did the Earl call you a fool again?" he whispers.
The question is so blunt, so Bjorn, that it almost breaks something in my chest.
I exhale through my nose, fighting a laugh.
"Yes," I whisper back. "But you… you did well."
Bjorn's grin flashes quick as a knife and then he schools it away, trying to look serious again.
It's ridiculous.
It's perfect.
And it makes my decision feel less like pride and more like necessity.
Because if Haraldson rules forever, Bjorn grows under that shadow.
If Haraldson crushes every man who dreams, Kattegat stays small and afraid.
And if I'm truly Ragnar—if this body, this name, this path is mine now—then standing still isn't safety.
It's surrender.
Night settles. People drift home. The hall empties into darkness and hearthlight.
I don't go home right away.
Instead, I walk down toward the boats, toward the place where tar and salt and fresh-cut wood mix into a smell that means possibility.
I find Floki where he always is—half in the world, half in his own.
He's hunched over a frame of wood like he's speaking to it. His hands move fast, precise, almost gentle. He looks up as I approach, eyes bright with that unsettling joy he carries like a secret.
"I heard you were swimming," he says, smiling too wide. "Are you becoming a fish now, Ragnar?"
"I spoke to Haraldson," I say.
Floki's smile stays, but his eyes sharpen. He understands power. He pretends he doesn't, but he does.
"And?" he asks.
"He forbade the west," I tell him. "He forbade new ships."
Floki's grin widens like I've handed him honey.
"Ah," he says softly. "So now it becomes interesting."
I step closer and look at the ship skeleton beside him. The curve is different than the others. Sleeker. The keel looks like it wants to cut the sea instead of begging it for mercy.
"This," I say, keeping my voice low, "can cross open water?"
Floki leans in toward the wood like it's a lover.
"This," he whispers, "can go wherever you dare to take it."
My pulse kicks.
A sane man would walk away.
A loyal man would walk away.
A man who wants to live quietly and grow old would walk away.
But I'm standing here in Ragnar's skin, with Ragnar's legend waiting like a loaded axe.
And Haraldson just showed me what obedience buys: a leash.
I look Floki in the eye.
"How long?" I ask.
Floki's expression turns almost reverent.
"Long enough to make the gods jealous," he says.
I nod once.
"Then we start."
Floki laughs under his breath—delighted, half-mad.
"Yes," he says. "Yes. We start."
As I turn away, a raven lands on a post near the waterline. It watches me with black, unblinking eyes.
For a moment, the world narrows again, as if something old and hungry has noticed me.
I don't know if it's fate.
I don't know if it's a warning.
But I know this:
Haraldson is going to come for me.
And the only way forward now… is west.