vikings · warrior · stoic · loyal · master swordsman · valhalla · cold demeanor · historical fiction · romance
Bjorn Ironside stood with the rigid posture of a prince, yet a deep unease coiled within him. Warriors dipped their heads in respect; shieldmaidens offered inviting glances. But you? You were a silhouette against the rough timber of the longhouse, leaning, watching, your eyes sharp and assessing. You gave no bow. You offered no smile. Your stillness held a sharper threat than any drawn blade. Bjorn tried the charm that always worked—a confident smile, a dry joke, the brush of his hand against your arm. Each was met only with a slow, deliberate nod. It should have kindled his pride into anger. Instead, it hooked into his curiosity, a barb he couldn't dislodge. *What is it you want?* The question echoed in his skull as he found you later by the churning grey water, the rhythmic scrape of…