A/N: Thanks for the feedback! I'm happy you all seem to like it. Enjoy all the historical notes and tweaks along with it.

Just a few notes: ealdorman = nobles. Witan = council.

Klaus heard the song of the woodland on his first pilgrimage to Upsala.

A young boy of twelve, he'd grown up with stories detailing the magnificence of the temple. His paternal grandmother, Gunhild, was the first to teach him and his brothers about the importance of the blóts performed upon sacred stone.

"The gods embroil themselves in affairs of many," said Gunhild. "Sometimes sacrifice is needed to rouse the All-Father to the plight of mortals below."

"But do Huginn and Munnin not show him all that happens?" He'd asked in all his childhood innocence, referring to the two ravens of Odin.

The old woman huffed a laugh. "Yes, and no. The gods are complex. They make demands we sometimes cannot refuse."

"Sometimes?"

"Yes, sometimes. There is always a price for going against them.

After her death, his mother took over teaching him all that was needed.

Mikael took their family on the journey after his brother Kol turned five years old. None of the stories could fully encapsulate the sheer size alone. It was an open-air sanctuary decked in bright gold, nestled between trees tall enough to touch the sky, and flanked by rushing trees. It was too far to see the sacred groves or Royal Mounds from the entrance, but so far, all he'd seen had stirred a foreign excitement in him.

The entrance was flocked by eager pilgrims shuffling forward into sacred ground. Esther told him before their journey that Upsala could speak to those whom the gods considered listeners. For a twelve-year-old youth, it was a strange concept to unravel.

But a truth experienced is undeniable.

A song unlike any other whispered from the shell of his ear, yet there was no one at his side. His feet remained fixed on the ground, unable to propel himself, enraptured by a voice that came from everywhere and nowhere.

"What are you stopping for, boy?" Mikael's harsh inquiry brought him back from the fog, but not completely. His family was several paces ahead, looking at him with confusion from his siblings, anger from his father, and dawning understanding from his mother.

"I-I heard something," Klaus stuttered.

"I hear nothing. What did you hear, brother?" His youngest brother, Kol, piped up from his perch on Esther's hip. His sister Rebekah curled her bottom lip, wispy blonde strands falling over her worried eyes, which flitted to their less than pleased father.

His eldest brother Finn had a similar look but kept his indifferent gaze away from any unpleasantness sure to erupt.

Mikael took a single step forward to his middle son. "How do you expect to reach the top with this time-wasting? Do you delight in making our journey difficult?" His raised voice made the tiny hairs on Klaus' skin stand erect. He wanted to explain to his father, but could summon no words to the tip of his tongue. Its difficulty was likened to describing the stars to an ant; the concept made no sense to a being unable to comprehend its purpose.

"Perhaps he heard an animal, Father," Elijah suggested in defense of his younger brother. Still, it would not quell their father's rising rage. It never took much for it to fester upon Klaus, and they all knew it.

"I'm sorry, father. I thought I heard a strange sound." The boy took one cautious step back, a familiar wave of apprehension settling into the bottom of his belly. The song hadn't stopped, but Klaus found it hard to focus anymore and wished it would. Anything to lessen the sting of Mikael's impending fury.

"A whinging weasel like you never stops being sorry," Mikael said, peppering his bitter words with acerbic cruelty.

Although his eyes watered and his throat constricted, his face remained stiff, unwilling to give his father any more reasons to emphasize his weakness. He'd stomached crueler words.

"Mikael, leave him be. It is the nature of this place," his mother finally spoke. Mikael turned in her direction, fixing Esther with a long, indiscernible look. She remained upright beneath his heavy gaze. Years of toilsome marriage stiffened her spine into something devoid of fear, draped in a sheath of resignation masqueraded as tolerance.

He gave Klaus one more disgusted glance before shoving past Finn and pressing forward into the temple. In retreat, he offered a passing word to his distant wife, loud enough to reach the ears of his least-liked son.

"Only you'd think the gods could visit that bastard boy, foolish woman."

The delightful irony of those words would not be comprehended until years later. Not even later that night after witnessing the blóts ritual by the chalk-painted priests, encased by the smell of sweet smoke in the center of the magnificent temple. After his mother, quiet and sorrowful, confessed the true circumstances of his birth, hoping that by the sacred rites of the holy place, her husband would find it in himself to offer forgiveness for a burden she had carried for twelve years.

She had not known him well enough.

And so her son lay on the forest floor, half-dead from the machinations of Mikael's realized hatred. His weak body dragged and spat on by the man he'd called father all his life, left to the mercy of the elements. His shame was to die a victim; no sword in his grasp to lead his path to the glory of Asgard, but to fall into the obsidian grasps of Hel. His mother once told him what an inhospitable place it was, filled with people in agony that would remain trapped in them for all eternity under the rotting eye of the goddess Hela.

Then that sweet song started again, soft but strong, with a cadence of neither male nor female. It swallowed him with warmth so unnatural, stretching from his head to the tips of his fingers and toes. Perhaps his proximity to the end recovered a trove of memories, but Klaus recalled that conversation with his grandmother. He then understood what she meant by consequences. It was useless to struggle against the intricate web of the Norns. Giving into destiny was an easier price to pay.

So give in Klaus did, and a single word of chorus changed him forever.

"Silfr Auga."

Silver Eye.

It was strange being led through her own castle like a visitor.

As a child, her small hands patted these walls in awe as she strolled with her grandmother, imagining all those before her who'd pressed palms in the same place. Her great-grandfather, Alfred the Great, commissioned a refurbishment of the old Roman walls and monuments after retaking London from the Viking warlord Guthrum. Years later, it would become the unofficial capital for a united England.

In comparing the two, Bonnie preferred the elegant history of Winchester, but admired the resilience of London. It was a city conquered many times by both the Romans and Danes, yet always seemed to rise again. And she hoped that it would again.

Kol Mikaelson was not a chatty man despite the impression of earlier. He led her in silence, face set with straightforward purpose. It gave her the chance to study him briefly.

He carried all the typical markings of a Northman; bloodshot eyes lit with violent tenacity, a hefty gait, long braided hair with shaved sides, and a generous number of bodily markings. She recalled Bishop Hastings teaching about the sin of marking one's skin and how such defilement led to the fiery halls of hell. It seemed like an exaggeration, but arguing with a man of God was a headache in more ways than one. Her late godfather and later father-in-law regarded her observation with amusement and a light warning to never repeat it outside their company.

Bonnie didn't think tattoos would ruin this man. She was certain his other sins were far more remarkable.

"Here were are," He stated. They arrived at the king's office, located in his chambers. She pushed past him as he tried to open the door for her, unimpressed at the feigned courtesy. Kol huffed in amusement but departed, leaving her face to face and alone with Klaus Silver-Eyed.

Her heart sped, accompanying the clamminess of her palms. Bonnie had only been alone in a room with three men in her entire life: King Alaric, her husband Jeremy, and cousin Marcellus. This severely shattered any sort of royal protocol she'd been raised with.

It doesn't matter anymore, does it? A resigned thought followed.

The usurper was seated at the desk her husband occupied just the day before. He was taller than she imagined, yet did not carry any of the intimidating bulk she assumed he would. His presence held a silent danger; it did not announce itself, yet the drawl of a predator shone like moon rays over clear waters. All of it enhanced by his unnaturally bright silver left eye. She forced herself to remove focus from it lest he thought she regarded him as any other.

Bonnie stood with the air of a woman with plenty to negotiate and little reason to concede. If he was looking for a tearful hostage, he'd better look behind her.

"Bonnie of England," Klaus said. He spoke as if testing the words on his tongue. "It is an honor to meet you at last."

At last?

"I truly wish it were the same for me."

He smirked as if pleased by her bite. He emerged from behind his desk and made his way to a small table beside the desk where a jar of light ale was set and poured himself a cup. "Can I offer you something to drink?"

"I'm not thirsty."

"I understand. The weight of today's events leave little room for appetite. But I recommend you to consume something, my lady. Do not deprive yourself, especially in such a stressful time when your strength is needed."

How dare he? Her nails pressed into her palm with vicious pressure, almost breaking skin until she willed herself to stop.

"How thoughtful of you to worry about my well-being after destroying my home," Bonnie replied coldly.

He raised a single finger. "Take care to realize nothing has been destroyed in the castle. I've instructed my men to tear apart nothing in respect."

Bonnie's eyes widened. "Respect? Is it with respect that they carry away our gold and silver without shame?"

Klaus sipped his ale, eyes fixed on her over the rim of his cup. He licked his lips in satisfaction. "You and I both know we've barely scratched the surface of the wealth stored in this place. We simply take what is needed to placate deserving soldiers."

Such knowledge shouldn't be available to him. Bonnie wondered if there was a spy in her midst feeding messages about matters of the treasury to him, but an equally plausible perspective dawns on her moments later.

"Where is my husband?"

"Safe."

It tells her plenty and little at the same time. There is no reason she should believe him and assume Jeremy is anything other than a headless corpse in a heap. But she does.

"Where are you keeping him?"

"There are many things I've desired since the beginning of my campaign." Campaign. What a wonderful substitute for raiding and pillaging her homeland. "Revenge for the murder of my kin in Danelaw during your St. Brice's Day celebration. The chance the feel your former king's neck beneath my feet. The desire to do what none of my ancestors has ever done by taking England. I've tasted all of them in one form or another.

A burst of anger ran through Bonnie as she recalls King Alaric's actions. She'd warned him. Begged him to see reason. If there was one thing Northmen did not renege upon, it was their thirst for revenge. Men who worshipped gods that craved blood needed little reason to spill it and provoking them into an attack by killing the Dane and Nord settlers in Danelaw was akin to a death wish. Of course, he did not listen. His concern was pleasing the ealdormen whose grumblings sang false of civil war. Only Mercia had the guts to follow through, but Lord Zhu knew had no true claim to the throne. At least not by blood.

But pushing his daughter into Jeremy's bed was a decent circumvent to that little hiccup and it ensured his counsel reached her husband's ear with ease, and soon Alaric disregarded all common sense. It brought her little comfort that upon his deathbed, Alaric wept in regret at the realization of what his actions caused.

"I have left you a nightmare, my dear." His frail hand cupped her cheek.

Bonnie placed her hand over his and remembered for a moment the kind, thoughtful man who was her godfather. The man Sheila placed as her granddaughter's regent before the trappings of power encircled his heart. "You forget my grandmother was a Norman. We create nightmares."

"Yet above all, nothing has surpassed my desire to meet you, Queen Bonnie."

Anxiety pulsed behind her rigid facade. As did curiosity.

"It is not every day a man beholds in admiration the one who almost caused his defeat," Klaus said.

Bonnie blinked once. The first shatter in her indifferent demeanor. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your husband." She can hear the mocking tilt with which he emphasizes the word. "Confessed to me after attempting to seize credit for your strategies. Although I'm not certain how he expected to be believed. It takes only a glance to realize he is not one of your country's most brilliant minds."

"Defeated or not, I ask that you take care when describing the man I'm married to," Bonnie said evenly. The steel behind her defense of Jeremy is instinctual, but lacks the passion of a devoted lover. It's not hard to forget that his refusal to take her advice is what led them to this moment. The Bishop instructs that a good wife must never let bitterness cloud her conduct towards her husband, no matter what he may have done. But Bonnie is certain Bishop Hastings never envisioned a situation in which a stubborn husband falls into the bait of his enemies despite warnings from his wife.

Klaus nods once, a haughty smirk gracing his handsome face. "Apologies, my lady. But I only speak what I know."

"And what exactly is it that you think you know, King Klaus?" There is no attempt to suppress her disdain.

"How did you know we would first attack by the marshes?"

She opened her mouth to deny it but pauses at the expectant look on the Danish King. They both know it is a waste of time. Her thumb brushes the ruby ring adorning her smallest finger in hesitation.

"There is a man with you. One of your allies or generals by the name of Stefan Sigurdson," Bonnie began. "Stefan is his Christian name, which he prefers, but I know his birth name to be Sten. He is a prince of Norway and his half-brother Damon is king."

Klaus doesn't interrupt.

"The Nords were once friends to us. My grandmother, Sheila of Normandy, was fond of their father Sigurd, and that fondness transferred to his sons. They were so close that Sigurd had his sons baptized in the Christian faith, as you know, and in the spirit of cooperation, told my grandmother of our strength in the south. That no one would ever take the time to attack us there because of the stink and mud. I knew that Stefan would waste no time telling you that we wouldn't be expecting an attack there. He wasn't wrong."

"Which is why you sent men there," Klaus completed.

"Yes."

"And were you certain I'd heed his advice? Why?"

Bonnie shrugged. "It was a calculated risk. You attacked Kent first, so pushing a quarter of your troops forward instead of marching further south saved you time. Of course, they were collateral since we stopped them."

"Yes, you did." The admiration in his voice puzzled her. "And had your husband not taken my bait, perhaps we'd be in different positions right now." During the parley, Klaus goaded Jeremy onto the London bridge and trapped him there with ease. Bonnie had seen it coming moments before her foolish husband charged forward.

"Perhaps so," she echoed.

There was silence. Klaus poured himself another cup of ale, but held it without drinking. Instead, he studied Bonnie without courtesy. She swallowed, feeling disassembled beneath his gaze, uncertain of her fate. His left eye gleamed like a diamond beneath the light.

"What is it you want, Silver-Eye?" She asked after a beat.

"An empire."

Her heart skipped a beat. "An empire in the image of your heathen gods."

He chuckled. "An empire is for men, not gods. They already own everything we see and touch. There happens to be a select group of men given access to the same. I am one of them." He sipped his ale. "And I believe that you are, too."

"What do you mean?"

Klaus took several steps forward until they stood a hair's breadth apart. He smelled of sweat and smoke with a tangy aroma underlying. A tattoo peeked from beneath his armor. "I have never met an enemy as brilliant as you, Bonnie of England. I cannot claim to have knowledge beyond me, but a blind man can see that are wasted on your husband."

"I am not chattel to be switched between hands," Bonnie spat. "I am a daughter of Wessex and Normandy. If you are looking for a war prize to hump, I'd advise you to stuff your cock inside your shithole."

Her fiery words made him laugh aloud. Full, hearty laughter that left him clutching his stomach. Klaus wiped his damp eyes. "I didn't know Christian women used such words. I've been told you're all so prudish." Not even the Viking Christian women he knew spoke like that, and they were freer than their English counterparts.

"We can also hit and slap," Bonnie said sarcastically.

"Is that what you want to do to me, my lady?" He teased, spreading his arms wide.

She sighed in frustration. "I will not marry you, King Klaus." Her husband was not even dead, for goodnes's sake.

"Nor am I asking you to." He carefully reached for her hand and she allowed him to take it without protest. "According to all I've heard, you are beloved by your people, with Frankian and English royal blood flowing in your veins. Your people will only accept me with someone like you by my side. Perhaps not as a wife, but as a co-ruler."

Bonnie wasn't sure what to say. A deep, honest part of herself knew it was close to what she'd wanted. To be Queen without the trappings of a man dictating her actions. But the Viking wanted to rule through her.

"I won't be a puppet."

Klaus inhaled her scent, breathing in lavender and saffron from the Byzantine. Then he kissed her hand, right on top of her wedding ring. "No, you are my destiny."

Stefan Sigurdson made his way down to the dungeons below the castle. Above him, the victors celebrated with drink and venison, in awe of their King and the prize he'd given them. He too wanted to celebrate, but other matters required attending. The first half of the war may be finished, but it wouldn't end because they were resolved on the battlefield. He'd spent time in the English court as a child and learned how their cunning cloaked itself in skilled diplomacy. The nobles might cower for the moment, but their ambitions would not. If Klaus was going to keep his new kingdom intact, then he would need help.

One man who was more devious than the rest.

"Marcellus."

He opened one eye to see his visitor from his cell. "Sten. Stefan. I'm not certain what name you go by these days. Traitor might be a perfect fit."

The Nord prince placed his torch on a latch fixed to the wall. "Save your histrionics. I acted on your message, did I not? I've yet to thank you for saving my life."

Marcel sat up with a sardonic grin, waving around in his cell. "If this is what your gratitude looks like, I'd rather have indifference."

"Klaus imprisoned every man of noble blood until negotiations can begin. It is out of my hands."

"Of course. Does he know you're here?"

"Klaus is an ally, but I am not his subject. My own interests remain mine to tend to," Stefan answered.

Marcel let out a delighted chuckle. "You truly have grown, Stefan. I am glad you didn't perish during the massacre. I am sorry the same cannot be said for your comrades."

Stefan had resided in Danelaw when King Alaric gave the order for the St. Brice's Day massacre. His death was almost sealed. Had it not been for Marcel's hasty message to evacuate. The message did not come soon enough, and he'd lost many friends, including Lexi, his betrothed. It was the reason he'd happily accompanied Klaus' cause. That and the promise to support his claim to the throne of Norway.

"Thank you," Stefan meant it with all sincerity.

Marcel waved him off. His grin dissipated after a moment. "How does my cousin fare?"

Stefan leaned against the cell doors which rattled beneath his weight. "She is well. Klaus has a vested interest in her."

"Oh?"

The Nord exhaled lightly. "He wishes to make her his co-ruler."

"Well, that will make raiding us even harder for your people, then."

"He has dreams of an empire spanning the entire North Sea." Stefan admired Silver-Eye's lofty goal, but knew achieving it would take more constant battle.

Marcel was silent for a moment. He scratched the bottom of his chin in contemplation. "The ealdormen will not take it, and you know that."

Stefan nodded thoughtfully. "In particular, the ealdormen of Mercia."

"Ah, you are aware of Lord Zhu's attempts to pawn his daughter onto King Jeremy?" The affair between the newest king and Lady Anna of Mercia was not a well-kept secret. Bonnie had struggled to limit her father's influence in the Witan, but as one of the richest lords, it proved difficult. He was one of those supportive of Alaric's decision to push the succession line away from Sheila's granddaughter to his son.

"I am certain he will prove to be an obstacle as we move forward."

"So, what should we do?"

"We?" Marcel huffed. "I am imprisoned. What can I do?"

Stefan rolled his eyes, gesturing at the bunch of keys in his holster. "You'll get your freedom soon. I need to know more."

"Knowledge required a price, Stefan."

"And what is yours, Marcel?"

Marcel leaned against the wall, chains rattling with his movement. "There is a new order underway. I want a place of importance and perhaps I'll help your ally prevent a civil uprising before his new reign can properly begin."

A/N: I never realized how much I love Stefan and Marcel colluding together.