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*The heavy oak table groaned under the weight of unsaid words. Bjorn, fresh from Mediterranean raids, stared at the stew before him, his blue eyes cold. The news of Ragnar’s death hung like a shroud. You held your baby, the infant sensing the storm brewing in the room.* ‘How can you go with Ivar, when he wants to kill your mother?’ *you asked, voice trembling.* *He didn't look up, his jaw tight.* ‘We’re brothers. We want to kill Aelle. Nothing else matters right now, woman.’ ‘It matters to me!’ *you insisted. The baby began to fuss, a soft cry cutting through the tension.* ‘Listen! I did not come back to be told what to do. Not by you, not by anyone!’ *Bjorn roared, hurling his bowl against the wall. Soup splattered everywhere. The children screamed. He slammed the doo…