Welcome! This story starts a few years before Thor. No love triangle. Canon-compliant up until the end of Thor: Ragnarok. Canon-divergent from Endgame onwards for obvious reasons.

This is largely inspired by European Medieval and Renaissance courts as portrayed in Borgias or Tudors or A Song of Ice and Fire because Asgard seems more developed than the courts of the 10th and 11th centuries. I take some cues from mythology, although this is really more of a Marie Condo approach.

Cover image shows the beautiful Alexandra Dowling as Queen Anne of Austria in The Musketeers. It belongs to the BBC.

Please be so kind and leave a review, I appreciate constructive criticism! Let me know what you think.

Chapter 1: The Bait

"Freyja, are you ready?" Her father sounded impatient. Naturally, he wanted her gone. Here, she was a liability, but at court, she could be an asset. And Sigurd Haraldson liked assets.

"Yes, Father." She fastened the buckles of her travel cloak and hurried down the marble stairs. Sessrumnir was her family's ancestral seat, having once belonged to the legendary hero Ragnar himself. It was the grandest house in Asgard, apart from the palace itself, perhaps, furnished with marble and golden wood from Nidarvellir. Notoriously expensive and therefore her father's first choice.

"You look good," he said as he beheld her, "But you need to look exceptional. Do not forget that he never even saw your sister's beauty in all her years of service. You need to be different. Freyja, I expect you to be better."

"I will do my best to charm him, Lord Father," she said but Sigurd looked at her as if he meant to say that even that was not enough.

"The hopes of our family rest on your shoulders. Odin is old and there will come a time when my friendship with him can no longer sustain the dynasty of Ragnar Ironfist."

She said nothing. A hundred times or more had she heard this tale. That she alone would be responsible should their family fall from grace after Thor's accession to the throne, that she alone was destined to be queen at his side, that she ought to show her gratitude for her father's efforts. Sif had escaped Sigurd's clutches years ago when she had joined Thor's motley group of soldiers. She had never returned to Sessrumnir, not even to visit. Sigurd had not dared to publicly cut ties with his elder daughter who had risen so high in the prince's favour, though not as high as Sigurd had hoped, but Freyja couldn't recall that her father had ever spoken to Sif privately since then.

Sigurd pulled some strands from her carefully pinned-up hair into her face.

"You must not look like a matron, child," he said and his words had no warmth. "You need to look alluring. He is a young man, still a boy at heart, and boys love with their eyes."

Freyja had lain awake at night, wishing for this day to finally come, not because she was especially interested in Thor or because she wanted to fulfil her duty, no, she simply wanted to get away from here, her golden prison in the cold mountains. The rooms were always warm here but no fire could thaw her father's heart, frozen by greed and hunger for power.

"I understand, Lord Father."

"Let us hope you do." He looked at her sternly with his hazel eyes,eyes that would have been kind in another's face, then he turned around. "Ulf! See that Lady Freyja reaches the palace safely."

When she finally steered her mare through the for once open gate, a relief washed over her that she had never felt before. Indebted as she was to her father, in his service still, she would be away, not out of reach but out of sight.

"Are you looking forward to life at court, my lady?" asked Ulf.

"I am." She tried not to think about the prince she had to win and the queen she had to serve. One was a golden haired fool, the other a sly enchantress. Freyja had been at court before, brief visits with her father, almost invisible in Sigurd's long shadow. Yet, she knew them all. The King, softer than Sigurd but cut from the same wood, Frigga, the half Vanir-queen, proud, elegant, and, rumour had it, just as deadly as her husband, the Warriors Three, Sif's new friends, rash, brazen boys that knew only victory, the mischievous prince, wielder of dark magic and notorious trickster, shrouded in mystery, and of course Asgard's hope, Thor, in love with his hammer that seemed to be an extension of his arm because he rarely walked without it, the true leader of the Warriors Three because he was as rash, brazen and spoiled by fortune as the three of them combined. Freyja knew that she should think more favourably of him. After all, her father and the Allfather intended for them to be wed.

There was no denying that Thor was the greatest warrior Asgard had seen in the last few millennia, that enemies feared his name almost as much as the king's. And he seemed jolly, good-natured. They had nothing in common, perhaps, but he was not a bad man. He wasn't a man at all. A boy. Her father had been truthful in that at least. No, Thor would not be her problem. The Queen, however...she doubted Frigga would take kindly to her if she found out she was after her golden boy. The woman was a leopardess when her sons were concerned. Still, she would cross that bridge when she came to it.

"My lady, be cautious." Ulf said, suddenly alert. "There's movement in the forest ahead."

Freyja cursed her father for his frugality. The hope of the family she might be but not worth the carriage and ten mounted soldiers that he himself travelled with.

"Brigands?"

There were few criminals in Asgard, the Allfather's presence made sure of that, but there were always those that were either desperate or greedy enough to risk it.

"It seems. Stay behind me, my lady, and ride as the wind when I tell you to."

Ulf looked at her gravely.

"I will not leave you –"

"You are your father's greatest pride. I will protect with all my might." For a moment it was as if he wanted to say something else, too, but then he drew his axe, large enough to sever a horse's head with one stroke.

Ulf was a heavy man and strong but he was also old enough to be her grandfather.

"Ho!" Three hooded figures on battered horses left the twilight of the forest. "Hand out your jewels, lady, and your footman will be unharmed."

"I am no footman, boy, I am a soldier," Ulf said and raised his axe. "Ride, Freyja."

But she did not.

"I will give you what I have but I cannot trust you. Lay down your weapons first."

"This is not the sort to bargain with, lady," said Ulf, more urgently now but the brigand that had spoken before nodded.

"As you say, lady. Brother, sister, lay down your arms." And he flung his knife at Ulf, who raised his axe just in time to deflect it.

"Whoreson," he cursed and the brigand laughed. "Just so, old man, just so."

And the three of them came for Freyja and her bodyguard.

She took the hidden knife from her boot, knowing it was as useless in her hand as a greatsword. What would her father say when he found out? Would he regret sending her on her own? Or would he blame her and Ulf for not being careful enough? Surely the latter.

"Beorn, take the girl," said the first brigand, while he and a young woman (her hood had slipped down) were fighting Ulf.

"You know what we country lads dream of, lady?" said the boy with a nasty smile.

"Winning your spurs in a glorious battle?" she asked, and as always when she was scared, that haughty mockery crept into her words, her voice, as if she had to prove the world that she was unimpressed by what it threw at her.

"Try again," he said and pulled her hair.

With horror, Freyja saw that the other two had made short work of Ulf. The old man lay next to his whinnying horse, blood on his nose.

"Now, to you, lady," said the leader but Freyja still stared at her guard.

"You killed him?"

"Not quite, I think. Although we'll finish the job eventually. Your jewels now, and we might just let you live."

A rage overcame her that overshadowed everything she'd ever felt at home. A rage that pulsed through her veins until at last, it reached her heart and burst.

"You will leave us alone," she said, "You will ride back where you came and never set foot in this wood again."

It had been an empty threat but while she spoke, she noticed that her voice vibrated, echoed off the trees around. This voice was not hers, it was deep, like the rumbling sound of an avalanche, it seemed to consist of a hundred echoes..

The girl that had looked her in the eye with undiluted hatred before stared blankly into the air, then they all turned their horses without another word and galloped away through the forest.

Thunderstruck, she remained ahorse for a moment, thinking it some form of trickery, some mean joke to fool her. But the forest around them was quiet.

With a start she slipped down, landed ungracefully on slippery leaves and ran over to Ulf.

He was breathing and the blood on his face did not seem to be his own for the most part.

"Ulf," she shook him, which was in itself no easy feat.

"Freyja," his eyes snapped open. "Is this Valhalla?"

"You're alive."

"Where are these sorry bastards?"

"Fled at the sound of a horse," she lied quickly and not altogether convincingly but she didn't know how long her words would last. They might come back soon.

"We need to reach the palace as quickly as possible."

Ulf got to his feet almost without staggering. "Halfwits, those lads. No skill with the blade."

"Thankfully," she replied as she mounted again. And as Ulf navigated the woods, she allowed herself to relive the moment of intense fear. She knew what it was that she had done. Compulsion. She had read about it in an ancient book on Vanir magic. She knew of course that only very few were capable of producing magic and even fewer could sharpen their skills, fashion magic into a weapon. The queen could. And her son, too. Loki.

Freyja had always fancied herself powerless. Not ungifted, no, she didn't want to be ungrateful, but she had never been able to defend herself like hee sister. Sif had tried to teach her when they had still been children, hiding in the dense woodland behind the house so that their parents wouldn't catch them, but she had been a helpless case. She had always thought that perhaps her wits were her weapon. Where Sif was all shouting and stomping, she was calm, sly. She had learned how to pull her father's strings, how to get what she wanted without so much as raising her voice. It had worked passably well most of the time but it was no secret weapon, nothing to arm herself in.

Freyja had always known that she had nowhere to go but Sessrumnir because there was no place in the world where a young woman without any useful skills could make a living on her own. She had ultimately resigned herself to her fate as her father's pawn. If, however, she was capable of magic, that would change everything. If she could get someone to teach her, perhaps she wouldn't have to marry the prince after all. Certainly there was a place in the universe for a woman with magical abilities and knowledge of the arcane.

All she needed was a teacher. And she was headed for the palace, where two of the best-known wielders of magic lived. Frigga she couldn't ask, of course, she would be her servant. But Loki...tales were told about the king's other son, tales that made her feel quite certain that a bargain could be struck if she figured out his price.

Soon, she could see the golden towers looming above them and not much later did they pass through the palace gates. Ulf took his leave, probably to get a cup of ale at a tavern in the city while she entered the entrance hall. A woman rushed past her, clad in breastplate and a red tunic, almost as if to mimic the prince himself. Freyja called out to her.

"Sif!"

Her sister wheeled around.

"Freyja! What are you doing here?" She embraced her quickly, awkwardly. Their last meeting had been two moons past and they had not parted as friends. Freyja had begged her to come home once more and Sif had stiffly declined, pointing out their father's disapproval and her acceptance at court. Neither had felt entirely blameless: Freyja knew her request was selfish while Sif felt guilty for leaving her younger sister alone with the despot they called father.

"I meant to write to you but Tamir is on leave and I don't trust his replacement. I am a lady-in-waiting now. To Queen Frigga," Freyja said quickly, glossing over their past strife. They were here now, and together. Everything else would fall back into place.

Sif seemed surprised. "A high honour for a young girl." Usually, married women were selected for this high office in the queen's service.

"Father pulled some strings with the king. She might not be too pleased to receive me."

But to Freyja's surprise, Sif shook her head.

"I doubt that. The Allfather and the Queen love each other. He wouldn't have decided this over her head. But why are you truly here?"

While Freyja looked nothing like their father, Sif had his dark hair, slim build and hazel now, the intensity of her gaze rivalled Sigurd's death stare. Freyja averted her gaze when the familiar oppressive shame washed over her, as it did every time she thought about the prince. He did not deserve being deceived so but it was her only chance to leave Sessrumnir behind her for good.

"I was sent for the same reason as you." She looked down at Sif again. Despite her rather diminutive stature, she had never had difficulties to assert herself, something Freyja had always envied her for.

Sif's cheeks flushed, probably with anger. Thor was her friend, after all. "You mean…"

"Him." There was no need to specify. Sif had received the very same task years ago, when she had come to court first. Though of course she had quickly abandoned the assignment, and her family, too, to join Thor. It had caused an outrage back then, a maiden from one of the finest families who could call Ragnar Ironfist her ancestor had traded the fine silks and riches of her rank for a soldier's armour. Now, she no longer looked like a foot soldier. Freyja had heard tales of her sister's prowess in battle. She was a hero, had earned her place amongst the upper ranks of the military, had earned her place at Thor's side.

"Do you think you'll be successful?" Sif asked and she sounded concerned. For whom, Freyja did not care to know. They were sisters, they had been close, but Sif's new life revolved around Thor. He certainly was energetic enough to rival Midgard's sun. If Sif had to choose between Freyja and her prince, Freyja didn't know whom she would pick. She wasn't sure Sif did.

"Well, I have to try," In truth, Freyja was quite certain she'd win Thor over before the end of the hunting season but it sounded rather arrogant to say that aloud and failure was still possible after all so modesty was her best option. "It is my only way out, really. I, unlike some very fierce shieldmaiden, cannot join the prince's fearless fighters."

Sif smiled. "Perhaps the queen needs an embroiderer."

Sif had never taken to needlework so in return for teaching her swordplay, Freyja had completed her sister's stitches. Half a lifetime ago, it felt.

"Give me a needle, sister, and you will regret it."

Sif grinned wolfishly. "Not if my needle is longer."

"Spoken like a man." Freyja found herself smiling, genuinely.

"It's so good to have you back, Fey" Sif embraced her once again, though more affectionately this time.

"I'm glad to be here. I'm glad to see you again. It's been too long."

"It will be like the old days," Sif said with a grin. "I'll show you how to sneak into the kitchens and steal some mead –"

"You will find, I hope, that theft is not much appreciated in Asgard," said a cool voice behind Sif, and a man clad in green leather appeared, seemingly out of thin air.

"Prince Loki," Sif said, with definite annoyance in her voice. "He likes to make a dramatic entrance."

"It was not an entrance, technically," the prince said with a pleased smile, "but I appreciate the introduction. This will be my mother's new handmaiden, then?"

Freyja was certain that he was aware she would be a lady-in-waiting, not a handmaiden, but that he simply liked to irritate her. She had not seen much of the king's second son, he had a habit of sneaking around practically invisible, but that much she had heard.

"You seem to be misinformed, my prince," she said, therefore, very courteously. "I am to be Her Majesty's lady-in-waiting. I'll gladly explain the difference if it confuses you."

Sif grinned. Loki seemed slightly vexed but there was nothing he could accuse her of. She had not been disrespectful in any way.

"Such trivialities do not concern me," he said airly without missing a beat, "Welcome to Asgard, Lady Freyja. And my best wishes for your future endeavours here."

And with one last lingering look that somehow made her uncomfortable, he strode away, graceful as a panther.

Prince Loki had said nothing of matter, objectively, and he had been perfectly polite if one disregarded his arrogance but there was something about that last sentence that made her wonder whether he had already guessed her role. He had known her name, after all, and she had never been particularly prominent during her brief visits here. He would prove a challenge, it seemed.

"Never mind him," Sif said, who had apparently not picked up a hidden meaning. "He just likes to meddle. Create a bit of chaos. 'God of Mischief' they call him on Midgard."

Fitting.

"Well I better unpack and introduce myself to the queen."

"I'll see you tonight at the feast." Sif was about to turn on her heel when Freyja asked: "A feast for what?"

"Oh, there are feasts all the time. This is a merry court. Not like Sessrumnir."

But as Freyja walked up the many stairs to her chambers in a distant tower, she couldn't help but observe the small groups, the solitary lurkers, the hushed whispers in every hall or corridor. This was perhaps a merrier court than her father's, but intrigue, corruption and secrecy filled the air of Asgard's golden palace, too.

Sif had been right about one thing, at least, the Queen could not have been more gracious.

She was garbed in golden satin that flowed from her shoulders and trailed a good two or three feet behind her when she walked. And how she walked! Freyja had never seen her this close. Tall she stood, and bore herself with regal dignity. She commanded respect. Her voice, however, was kind and her smile genuine when she walked towards her.

"Ah! Our newest arrival, Lady Freyja Sigurdsdottir. I am very glad you decided to join my household." She offered Freyja her hand.

Did the queen know it had been her father's decision more than hers? Probably. Freyja curtsied and kissed her coronation ring. "I am honoured, Your Majesty."

"Your father is one of the king's closest advisors and much appreciated. I am certain I will be able to say the same of you soon enough, Lady Freyja."

She rose from her curtsy. Freyja was tall enough to look her queen in the eye.

"You are too kind, Your Majesty."

"I expect you to be an excellent companion, my lady. The feast will start soon, I advise you to prepare yourself for it. You may join me tomorrow morning to break your fast with me."

Again, she curtsied her thanks. There was only one reason why the queen would bestow such a favour upon her before she had even spoken ten words: Frigga was aware of Sigurd and Odin's plans and wanted to get to know her better before she would sanction them.

It was indeed almost time for dinner. The loud bell would announce the evening meal in less than an hour. Her looking glass told her that her encounter in the forest had not been without consequences. She looked very tired and if one had a close look at her neck, a very pale, finger-shaped bruise was visible just under her ear. Which left her no choice but to wear her hair down. She couldn't risk word of their encounter reaching her father, or worse, the king. An investigation might lead them to the culprits and they would be able to recount what she had done.

Had her father not told her to look less matronly? With grim satisfaction, she unravelled her hair so that it fell to her hips. What could be more maidenly?

She struggled with her gown, a fine creation of blood red silk that looked exceptional with her blonde hair, but finally managed to lace it up one-handedly. Tomorrow, she would inquire where her handmaiden was. Perhaps her father had forgotten about her servants. She didn't put it past him.

The bell sounded and Freyja hastily put on her slippers. She would be late on the very first evening already. Splendid.

~o~

The bell rang the second time and a woman entered, red patches on her cheeks, attracting the attention of those in the lower hall. Loki had chosen a seat next to his mother on the dais today instead of his seat at his brother's table because it was a much better vantage point. Ever since he had heard that Freyja Sigurdsdottir would come to court permanently, he had waited for this moment. Her introduction to Thor. She was Sif's sister but as different from her as day from night. For the feast she wore her long, golden hair down in loose waves that would be the nightmare of every shieldmaiden, and she evidently preferred the finest silks to the steel of her sister's armour. Their father was Sigurd Haraldson, Odin's wealthiest and most corrupt partisan. The king was lucky to have his allegiance for half the court (the half that was more impressed by gold than by offices) were in Sigurd's pay. He owned Sessrumnir, the family's ancestral seat in the mountains, and Loki was certain that not even Heimdall knew everything that happened there. Sigurd paid the Allfather's court the occasional visit, although those had been more frequent in the last years, and he had always brought his younger daughter as bait. Not that he had caught any fish with it so far. Freyja had a soft, sensual beauty that had enthralled him at first but she seemed utterly dull in every other way. Predictable. Now, Sigurd had taken the last step. As Freyja's occasional presence was not enough to catch Thor's attention, he now served her to him on a golden platter.

While the girl seemed to think the plan was a well-guarded secret, Loki of course knew why she had suddenly been made one of his mother's ladies in waiting. Odin had been suspiciously silent on the subject of matrimony in the last few weeks. No doubt she had been trained for this task at Sessrumnir after Sif had failed to capture the prince's heart. He had to admit that Freyja Sigurdsdottir looked every inch the queen. Taller than her sister, buxom and pretty, she was very much Thor's type as far as appearances were concerned. She had a graceful manner, Loki observed, but seemed lost in thought as she walked up the length of the hall, seemingly indifferent to the curious looks she received until she took a seat next to Sif. He had always considered Sif a beauty. Not that Loki had ever been interested in her in any way, she was too much like his brother for that, but he had considered Thor a fool for not seeing how well they were matched. Freyja was a match for her sister, he admitted.

But Thor, who sat opposite Sif, as customary, had not noticed her at all, so preoccupied was he with Fandral and his goblet, until Sif introduced her sister to him. A sort of reluctant admiration bloomed inside Loki as he watched the elder sister. If he was right, Sif had to force that joyous smile as she watched her sister talk to her prince. Although, soon enough, his brother returned his attention to his warriors and his mead and the woman seemed all but forgotten. Loki smiled up at the high table. Freyja Sigurdsdottir would be fighting a losing battle and he would very much enjoy watching.

He dropped his gaze and busied himself with his dinner after noticing an inquisitive look from his mother. It was best if she didn't suspect him of knowing more about Freyja Sigurdsdottir than he should. She would be a mayfly anyway. They all were.

A clear laugh rang through the hall. Thor had seemingly abandoned his full plate, which in itself was a marvel. His attention was captured by the mayfly who had just laughed out so loudly, the ghost of a grin still lingering on her pretty face. Thor was positively beaming, Fandral at his side was vying for a fracture of her attention which she willingly gave. Much to Thor's displeasure, it seemed. Loki wouldn't have been surprised if he had elbowed Fandral aside but apparently, he had found a much better way to mark his territory: Freyja gave him a gracious nod, blushed prettily and busied herself with her plate while Fandral looked slightly crestfallen. Thor pulled his plate back towards him and dug in.

After dinner, when they proceeded to the Great Hall for dance and more honey wine, it soon became clear how his brother had trumped his friend.

"A quick melody!" Thor called, mead making his voice so booming that the Midgardians surely had no trouble hearing him. Lady Freyja walked over to him, almost timidly, and took the large hand her prince offered her with slight hesitation, her eyes large and guileless. A born actress. No. A puppeteer. All of this was carefully orchestrated.

Thor led her to the middle of the hall, grabbed her waist, not bothering with conventional dance positions and she held onto his shoulders, probably to steady herself. With her swirling skirts and his cape they would have been every painter's nightmare. His brother was not an elegant dancer and Loki wondered how often her feet even touched the ground. At least she didn't seem to have a weak stomach. Loki had taken up position by the back door but was craning his neck to keep an eye on his brother. Thor, it seemed, was enjoying himself. Tall though she was, she barely reached his shoulder, and beckoned him to bend down occasionally, whispering something in his ear, evidently very careful to brush his skin with her lips. A cheap trick. It worked, however. For a while, his hammer and his friends seemed forgotten. The Warriors Three and Lady Sif were drinking in a corner and only the occasional stolen glance gave Sif's true feelings away. If Loki could somehow find a way to use her infatuation to his advantage...He had wanted Freyja Sigurdsdottir to fail spectacularly, not only for his entertainment. If Thor married a respectable woman, Odin would give him the throne. And Loki would not let that happen. He was the God of Mischief and he fully intended to be true to his name.

When Thor had tired of dancing, which was much later than Loki had anticipated, she did not capitalise on her victory but withdrew early, leaving Thor to his companions. Not entirely foolish, perhaps, but iron was best forged hot. He wondered whether she had quite understood what her duty was. One dance would not serve. Perhaps he did not need to act just now. Freyja might still fail without his doing.