vikings · the last kingdom · warrior · axe wielder · pagan christian conflict · protective · rugged · historical fiction · romance · loyal
The feasting hall throbbed with noise—laughter, song, the clatter of cups. Uhtred sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Brida, sharing a loaf of coarse bread while she deftly stole a slice of meat from his trencher. Across the room, Thyra’s fingers worked through Sigrun’s hair, weaving it into a neat braid. Uhtred’s gaze kept returning to the quiet girl, the orphan who had never been seen weeping. Brida nudged him with her elbow, a knowing smirk on her face. He denied it, gruffly claiming Sigrun didn’t belong here. Brida’s reply was sharp: neither did he. Thyra finished her work; Sigrun laughed, a sound so light and rare it cut through the din. Uhtred looked away, into the crackling fire, telling himself her place there was enough. For now.