Eight longships were approaching Kattegat.

Sansa watched from the beach as the dark, honed shapes came nearer. Lagertha stood at the prow of the lead boat, her hair smoothed by the wind as if she were a dragon-head that Floki had carved. She jumped onto the boardwalk, her eyes sweeping the bay for her son, before realising he was not there and smiling gracefully at villagers instead. Everyone made way for the new men and women who looked up at the mountains as they unloaded animals and supplies. Amidst them, two well-dressed men who must have been earls. Lagertha - and the spoils from England - had persuaded them to join Ragnar.

Rollo stood behind Sansa, one hand on her side. Lagertha walked up to them. 'Hello Rollo.'

'Lagertha.'

Her slate-blue eyes flickered to his hand, before she looked at Sansa, a little curiosity behind the coolness. Sansa nodded at her, keeping her spine straight.

Lagertha looked back at Rollo. 'Ragnar?'

'Gone to Thisted. With Bjørn.'

She nodded, exchanging a silent greeting with Aslaug as she approached with her sons. 'Then we must welcome these people ourselves.'

After the feasting, many of the new villagers gathered on the beach. They would make camps tomorrow, when it was light. Tonight there was drinking, dancing, figures in animal skins and skull-masks.

Rollo was stretched out on the bed on his back, Sansa on top of him, her ear on his chest, listening to the activity outside. Strains of drunken singing mingled with the dark drum-beat of his heart. A sense of thunder, somewhere far off.

Ragnar would return in a day or two. She tried to imagine his eyes when he knew about them both. 'I don't think Ragnar is going to be happy,' she said.

Rollo tilted his head down to her. 'About what?'

'Us.'

Ylva, beside them, sat up and scratched at her ear with a paw.

'Why not? Because of Athelstan?'

She clasped her hands on his chest, rested her chin on them. 'He wanted me to marry Bjørn.'

Rollo shifted up a little onto his elbows. He didn't look shocked, or displeased. 'Do you want to marry Bjørn?'

She gazed at him, and felt a slow, shy smile warm her face. 'No.'

His eyes were deep hollows, the inside of tree-trunks. Beetles and moss and damp bark. 'Do you want to marry me?' Spoken with a half-smile.

The words spread thickly across her ribs. Almost painful. It was - so soon. Only days. 'I don't know,' she said, carefully, still smiling, as if she was treading on new-budded twigs that she did not want to break.

'I want to marry you.' The words were sent out on lots of breath, the wind in them. He moved suddenly, something very still becoming full of energy, rolling her onto her side and facing her, an arm sliding over her ribs. There was a spark of pride in his eyes. 'Think of it. The brother of a king and the heir to the north of your land.'

Sansa felt her shyness give way to a tiny, bitter tang on her tongue, like green lemons. Her smile dissolved. 'Is that why you want to marry me?' she said, quietly.

He smiled. 'What is wrong with that? We could join our lands. It makes us both strong. Stronger, Sansa Stark.'

Was that it, after all this time? Rollo had remembered that she had lands, a title, though that felt worth very little at the moment – that she was a princess? He was looking at her expectantly, the bruise from the battle in England yellowing now on his cheek. He couldn't see the wrongness in what he was saying.

She slid out from the blankets, found her dress. Ylva jumped off the bed and trod on its skirt as she stepped into it.

Rollo rolled over onto his back again, leant up on his elbows. 'Where are you going?'

It gave her a dull pain to say it, but she said it anyway. 'To my own bed.'

A puzzled pause. 'Why?'

'Because you are just like the others.' She was already out of the door, Ylva at her heels.

V*V*V*V*V*V

Ragnar returns to a village that seems more full of people than ever. They move to the edges of the path to let them past, look curiously at his guests, especially at the size of Earl Olesen, who seems like a bear riding a horse, or a horse riding another horse. Ragnar collects the villagers' nods, returns them with his eyes elsewhere.

He finds Sansa with his jagged-legged son. 'Princess. I need you to -' There is a wolf cub sitting next to her, on a pile of furs. 'What is that?'

She picked it up, held it to her cheek. A mangy-looking pup with a nose the colour of blackened wood. 'This is Ylva.'

'It should not be near my son.'

She stood up, cradling it. 'I am sorry. She is safe. I am training her.'

You cannot train a wolf, he is about to say before he remembers that she once had one, a wolf as high as her hip. He flutters his fingers at it. 'Well, not near my sons. And keep it away from the goats.'

'How is Bjørn?' Her eyes are full of sky and water.

He is pleased that she asks. 'He will get better, with the right people by his side.'

She nods, quickly, still clutching the little wolf. 'I will do everything I can. I miss her too.'

He can smell the promise of an alliance, as good as that wolf can smell - whatever it is sniffing the air for right now.

'And how was – were you successful? In your meetings?'

'Almost.' He tilts his head to the side, looks at her. Northern wolf-girl. 'Come with me.'

'What for?'

'Because you will make me successful. I need you to come and meet the earls. Tell them everything you have told me, many times.' He steps closer to her for a moment, inhales something of her skin – cream, dried flowers – before looking at her brown dress. It is not her best. 'Perhaps change into something a little more -' he inclines his head, smiles what he hopes is a woman-pleasing smile. 'Befitting your status.'

V*V*V*V*V*V

Bjørn found you overseeing the new boat-building on the beach - Floki had set up two large camps now, one over in his own forest, and one here.

You followed him into the longhouse. Your brother was back on his throne, the throne you had found difficult to sit on while he was away, as if it was made of thorns and not wood. He sat on it like it was made of baby goat-hair and meadowgrass. And Sansa was there.

You had not seen her for a day and a night. Or if you had, it had been like a flash of lighting, a fox-tail in the undergrowth. Once or twice you had tried to speak to her, and she had made her excuses and left, with the little wolf at her feet. You did not understand what had happened. Why should you not tell her you wanted to marry her? Why should she not want to? Odin spoke of offering soft words and wealth to win a woman's love. He who wins, woos.

Two earls, one with his head practically in the rafters. The earls from Thisted and Struar, who you met once before. And the earls Lagertha brought with her. They were all staring at the raf refr and her wolf. She hardly looked at you, and your stomach punched itself.

'Princess,' your brother said, in a casual voice, though you could see that there was iron in him. 'Tell us of your lands.'

A silence. You could see Sansa's shoulders moving as she breathed. She was wearing one of Aslaug's old dresses, one the colour of butterwort. The little wolf in her arms sneezed.

The big earl raised his eyebrows. Ragnar put his head down, laughed quietly as if Torstein had just whispered a terrible joke in his ear, and went to her. 'Princess.' His eyes bit. 'Tell our guests of your lands.'

Her lips came apart and you thought of all the times you had put your thumb there, felt the wetness just inside. Perhaps now she did not want you all to attack West-er-os.

But she began to speak and her words came slowly at first, then more sure, falling as clear as a mountain stream. The earls asked her much and you wanted to hit them for not believing her, for challenging her so, though you knew it must be done.

The thin one, Edman, squashed his eyes together as he looked at her. 'How do we know you are who you say you are?'

'You don't,' she said. 'I have no way of proving it apart from my words.'

'Words,' he said. His voice sounded like it been scratched many times. 'They are fragile things to build boats on. To send hundreds of men over the sea for.'

'You have seen her maps,' said your brother, smiling. 'And the boats she has drawn. No ordinary girl could do these things. And look how she has learnt our language. She speaks it better than some people who were born here.'

'Yet she herself says these are only words,' Olesen had food in his beard.

It was as if her hedgehog-spines had risen. 'The word of a lady, ser, is respected in my lands. The word of a Stark, even moreso. My family is known for their honour.' A patch of colour on her neck that you wanted to put your mouth on until it was cool again.

'I thought your family were dead.'

A deep breath. 'I am alive.'

Olesen was staring at her with his deep-set eyes, as if they had got lost in his skull. 'Forgive me, Princess Sansa, but if these are your lands, why are you so eager for King Ragnar to raid them? It seems rather strange. Perhaps you are leading us all into a trap.'

'I'm not -' Her words stopped as fast as they had started, and her eyes flew to your brother. He gazed at her and slowly she looked back at the big bear-earl. 'My family was destroyed. The people who rule now do not matter to me. I am happy if Ragnar hurts them.' At last Sansa's eyes came to yours, like a chaffinch alighting on you for a moment.

They asked more, about armies, kings, castles, and frowned at the answers. 'This seems a formidable land, King Ragnar,' said Edman.

You spoke, then. 'We will see for ourselves. If you give us your bloody men.'

Olesen frowned. 'But no one has been clear on where this is. Can you navigate, Princess Sansa?'

'I cannot.'

Ragnar sighed. He was getting his bored look, the one he always had when he was not getting his own way. 'I have shown you where Athelstan and I believe it is. And I did not have a map of England, as my son reminded you in Thisted.' Wide, child-eyes. 'Yet I still found it.'

Bjørn folded his arms, looked impatient, like his father. He seemed more his old self - before the battle when he had hurt his leg - though his eyes were small and tired.

'Yes,' said Olesen. 'We have heard of him. Your Christian priest.'

Your brother stared at them both. His lip curled. 'Fine. We will work with what we have. There will be more to share between us and Earl Ingstad and Earl Borgerson and Earl Hjemlstad.' The last words were rattled through quickly, his fingers flung at them. Lagertha's neck became as long as a swan's and the other earls nodded coolly. Ragnar turned away.

Another look between these two earls.

'It does not need to come to that,' said Edman. He looked like he was chewing on a very old bit of horsemeat. Olesen nodded at him. 'We will join you, King Ragnar. We will send men to collect warriors and supplies.'

Ragnar's eyes flashed like the sun on the sea, and he threw away his mood in a moment, as if it had never been there. 'I am glad to hear it. Then we must celebrate. Our new alliance.' He put his arms out.

V*V*V*V*V*V

Another feast, with people spilling out from houses and onto the beach. There was heat and excitement in the air, mingling with firesmoke and charred meat-smells.

Sansa sat with Helga, watching the earls, and thought of Winterfell, before she and Arya and their father had travelled to King's Landing. Everyone red-faced from ale, loud laughter and men with broad shoulders congratulating each other. For so many months, she knew that Ragnar's plans had been progressing slowly towards attacking Westeros, but it had never quite seemed real until now. She felt nothing but dread. And it seemed ludicrous – after all, the earls were right. She didn't know where Westeros was. They would be sailing into the dark.

And there was another reason that it felt like that night, though this time it was a tall, dark warrior and not a cold, golden-haired boy-prince who was in her thoughts. She remembered her excitement as Joffrey had sauntered across the feast-room with a shame that she wanted to scratch at until it bled. Rollo had never really talked about her being a princess, a lady – these things seemed so distant to her now. She was just - washed ashore, as he had said. No dowries, no promises of riches.

Lagertha was sitting next to Athelstan at the next table. Athelstan had never treated Sansa as anything more than an equal, which was exactly as she had wanted it. Lagertha passed him another piece of roast boar and licked her fingers, before holding her cup up to him, a smile uncurling. He gave her one of his mild summer grins, and held his own out, the rims just touching. Perhaps -

Movement on her lap. Ylva woke up suddenly – she had got used to people very quickly, and the noise did not bother her – sitting up, bumping her head on the table. A tiny, irritable whine. Sansa kissed the raised bone above her eye and fed her a few shreds of meat. He had given her this little wolf cub. He understood her in some ways. Many ways. She would have to make him understand all of her.

V*V*V*V*V*V

Sorry for the delay! Been away. Will get the next one up sharpish. SF