The first weeks at Skálholt establish the rhythms of my new existence.
My sons and I are given chambers in the east wing—comfortable but removed from the royal apartments, a physical manifestation of our ambiguous status.
The rooms are finer than anything I have known, with thick furs on the floors and actual glass in the windows rather than oiled hide.
Tapestries cover the stone walls, depicting hunts and battles and the great deeds of kings long dead.
Yet they feel less like a gift than a gilded boundary.
The boys are assigned tutors for letters and history, weapons masters for combat training.
Servants treat them with careful deference, clearly uncertain how to categorize children who are neither legitimate heirs nor common bastards.
The hesitation shows in small ways—a moment's pause before bowing, sidelong glances exchanged when they think I am not watching.
Bjorn endures his lessons with rigid discipline, attacking each subject as though it were an enemy to be conquered. His tutors report that he learns quickly but refuses to engage beyond the minimum required.
Erik, predictably, charms his instructors into leniency. His copper-haired enthusiasm wins forgiveness for lessons left unfinished and attention that wanders toward the training yard.
The weapons master declares him a natural with the sword, blessed with his father's speed and instincts.
"He will be formidable," the man tells me, grinning. "Once he learns to focus for more than three heartbeats at a time."
Ivar absorbs knowledge like dry earth drinking rain, asking questions that make his tutors pause and consider before answering.
He has requested additional lessons in healing arts and herb-lore, subjects typically reserved for women and völvas.
"Why healing?" I ask him one evening as I check the door locks for the third time.
"Because knowing how to mend things means understanding how they break," he answers, and the wisdom in his strange eyes unsettles me more than any threat.
***
Astrid holds court as queen with poisonous grace, and I quickly learn how thoroughly my half-sister has woven herself into the fabric of power.
The noble ladies follow her lead in all things—fashion, gossip, the intricate dance of favor and slight that constitutes courtly life. And Astrid's lead where I am concerned is cutting exclusion.
Conversations fall silent when I approach. Women who were laughing a moment before suddenly remember urgent business elsewhere.
Invitations to women's gatherings never arrive, though I hear of them afterward—embroidery circles, music performances, intimate suppers where alliances are forged over honeyed wine.
Servants respond to my requests a heartbeat slower than to anyone else's. Small delays accumulate—bathwater that arrives lukewarm, messages that take hours to deliver, laundry returned with mysterious stains.
It is death by a thousand small cuts, designed to remind me of my outsider status every waking moment.
I endure it by focusing on what matters—my sons' safety and my own usefulness. If I cannot belong to this court through acceptance, I will carve a place through competence.
When I offer my sword and tactical mind to Ragnar's war council, the male commanders greet me with skepticism bordering on contempt. Lord Hákon, the eldest among them, makes his position clear the first time I speak.
"The shield-maiden offers advice on fortifications," he drawls, not bothering to hide his amusement. "Perhaps next she will teach us to braid our hair and choose ribbon colors."
"The shield-maiden held the eastern flank for seven years against raiders who would have gutted your coastal holdings," I reply evenly. "But please, continue dismissing her knowledge. Your enemies will thank you for the weakness."
Ragnar says nothing, but his ice-blue gaze flicks between us with something that might be interest.
Over the following weeks, my insights prove valuable. I know the patterns of northern raiders—their preferred landing sites, their timing based on tides and seasons, their tactics when facing organized resistance.
Each session earns me grudging respect from commanders who cannot deny the usefulness of intelligence, however distasteful its source.
During one such council, as commanders argue over coastal fortifications, Leif leans across me to reach a map on the far side of the table.
His chest presses against my shoulder, warm and solid through layers of wool and leather. His hand braces on my thigh for balance—casual, as though he has not noticed where his palm rests.
The heat of him seeps through my clothing.
"The harbor here," he says, pointing to a position near the disputed coastline, his voice low near my ear. "The depth allows larger vessels. We should assume they will attempt a landing."
He lingers a heartbeat too long. Two heartbeats. His fingers shift slightly against my thigh, a subtle pressure that sends heat spiraling through my belly.
When he finally withdraws, his hand trails across my leg as it goes—a whisper of touch that could be accidental but is not.
No one else notices. The commanders continue their debate, oblivious.
My skin burns through the fabric. I force my expression to remain neutral, my voice steady when I offer my next observation about tidal patterns, even as heat pools low in my belly and my pulse pounds in my throat.
Ragnar watches me during these councils with unreadable intensity. More than once I look up from maps and strategy to find his ice-blue gaze fixed upon me, something flickering in its depths that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
He never speaks of what he sees. He simply watches, and waits, and lets the weight of his attention speak for itself.
Between them, fire and ice, hunger and patience, I feel like prey caught between two predators who have agreed not to fight over the kill.
Then Astrid announces a feast to celebrate the konungs' recent victory over a rival jarl, and I understand with cold certainty what awaits me.
"The whole court will attend," Solveig reports, her weathered face troubled. "The queen has taken personal charge of the arrangements. She has been very specific about the seating."
"Let me guess. I am to be placed where everyone can see me and no one of rank will speak to me."
"Worse." Solveig's voice drops. "She has invited ladies from three neighboring jarldoms. Women who remember your father's household. Women who knew you as the bastard daughter who cleaned stables."
The information settles into my chest like a stone.
I am about to be publicly displayed—a spectacle for my half-sister to orchestrate, my humiliation served as entertainment alongside the roasted boar.
Every cut, every slight, every whispered insult will be witnessed by an audience primed to enjoy the show.
"Can I refuse to attend?"
"You can." Solveig meets my eyes. "But your absence will be noted. The court will assume you are ashamed, or afraid, or both. And Astrid will ensure everyone knows exactly why."
I close my eyes, breathing slowly, reaching for the calm that has carried me through battlefields.
When I open them, my voice is steady.
"Then I will need a gown. Something that makes clear I am not ashamed of anything."
Solveig's smile holds grim approval. "I know just the thing."