DESTINY, Thyra had come to understand, was no gentle weaver at her loom, but a frostbitten crone with blood on her spindle—spiteful, sharp-fingered, and fond of dragging her threads back through old wounds.
The fortress of Dunholm rose ahead like a dream carved in basalt and bone, its black walls rimmed in rime, crowned with windblown snow, and shrouded beneath a sky the color of old pewter. It looked more like a ruin than a home—too cold, too quiet, and entirely too unchanged. She had vowed when she'd left Dunholm for Wessex with Uhtred and his men never to set eyes on it again.
And yet, here she was.
The wind screamed across the hills like a thing being hunted, dragging claws of sleet through the naked trees and rattling the branches like bones in a sack. Winter had come early to Northumbria, cruel and joyless, as if the gods themselves had breathed frost into the land just to watch it shatter. But Thyra no longer feared their cruelty. She had been broken in their name and rebuilt without them.
"Thyra, my dear, are you well?" Beocca's voice came through the snow, low and steady, like a bell half-buried in snowdrifts. He rode beside her, cloaked in several layers of thick wool, the corners of his eyes white with frost. He looked more solemn than usual, though no less kind. Her husband's concern, gentle and ever-persistent, wrapped around her like a second layer of wool—unasked for but not unappreciated.
"I am, Beocca, my love," she said, and immediately the lie turned bitter on her tongue. She let it sit there a moment before breathing again. "…No. But I will be." Lies had no place between them in their marriage.
Beocca nodded once, as if that settled something in him. Of course, he understood. That was Beocca's gift: to listen not only with his ears but with something deeper, something unshakable. He reached across the narrow space between their horses, his gloved hand finding hers with a reverence that still startled her sometimes. His fingers were soft, the skin papery from age and parchment, but his grasp never wavered.
The snow had followed them for days now, relentless and silent. The world had vanished beneath its white cloak—fields, roads, the very air between trees. Only the crunch of hooves and the labored breath of horses remained to remind them they still moved forward. Each morning, Thyra had risen hollow-stomached and pale, retreating behind frost-laced trees to retch as quietly as she could. Beocca had said nothing, only held her hair back with shaking hands and whispered soft prayers to a God she no longer trusted.
She suspected the truth, though she kept it wrapped tight inside her, like a flame too new to expose to the wind. Not yet. Not until she was certain.
The mare beneath her snorted, breath clouding in the frigid air. The beast was tired, as they all were. Three weeks on the road from Winchester had left them hollow-eyed and aching, with nothing to sustain them but duty and the weight of the twin burdens they carried—one official, one secret.
Inside Beocca's robes, close to his heart, rested the scroll bearing Alfred's formal decree of banishment, the official pronouncement of what Uhtred already knew. The king's crimson seal adorned it, unbroken, waiting like an angry eye to witness Uhtred's final humiliation. It was a cruel task to make Beocca the bearer of such news to a man he considered a friend. But it was not their only purpose.
"I still wonder if we should have told Alfred about his daughter," Beocca said, as if reading her thoughts. It was a conversation they had repeated many times since their hasty departure from Winchester. "To carry his decree in one hand while secretly bearing his daughter's plea in the other..."
"Aethelflaed was very clear," Thyra said softly, the words familiar now, though still hard to say. "Her father mustn't know… not yet." She looked up at Beocca with quiet pleading. "You understand, don't you, my love?"
Beocca sighed, his breath forming a cloud before his face. "I know. But to ask Uhtred for help, even as we deliver formal word of his banishment... it feels like treachery, somehow."
"It isn't betrayal," she said gently, her voice barely above the wind. "It's survival. Hers… and maybe even Wessex's." A pause, then: "And if anyone understands what that means… It's Uhtred."
The truth of it settled between them, unspoken but acknowledged. Uhtred of Bebbanburg, oath-breaker, Dane-slayer, pagan—and the man who had freed Thyra from Kjartan's cage. The man who returned to Ragnar and would call himself a Dane in his heart, despite his Saxon upbringing. A living contradiction, much like Thyra herself—neither fully one thing nor the other, existing in the contested borderlands between worlds.
"There," Beocca pointed toward the fortress gates. "They've spotted us."
Thyra looked up to see distant figures on the walls, small as ants from this distance. One raised a horn to his lips, and a moment later the sound reached them, carried on the winter wind—a single, long note that announced their arrival. It was not an alarm, but a greeting. They were expected, after a fashion. News of Alfred's decree had traveled ahead of them, if not its specific contents.
Their horses trudged forward through snow that reached past their fetlocks, each step an exercise in determination. Thyra found herself counting them, as she had once counted the days of her captivity. One foot after another. One breath following the last.
"I wonder how Uhtred will respond to all this," Beocca said, his voice low. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, the movement drawing her eye to his bald head, now dusted with snowflakes. "To receive formal notice of his banishment, only to be asked in the same breath to rescue the daughter of the king who cast him out."
"He'll help her," Thyra said softly, her voice filled more with hope than certainty. "Not for Alfred. For her. Because… it's the right thing to do."
Beocca's mouth quirked in a half-smile, both fond and exasperated. "You sound very sure."
Thyra lowered her gaze briefly, then looked up, her tone gentle but unwavering. "I know what it feels like to need saving," she said, the memories brushing close but not breaking her voice. "And I know Uhtred."
They approached the massive gates, wood darkened by age and weather. Above them, the wall stretched toward the sky, formidable even now when she came willingly. How much more terrifying it had seemed when she was dragged here, a girl barely grown, her family's blood still warm on her skin.
Thyra closed her eyes, just for a moment, and let the memory rise like mist from frozen earth. She did not fight it anymore.
The screaming came first. Not hers—his. A high, reedy thing, like a pig caught in iron. Then the growls, wet and eager, the tearing sounds that were more felt than heard—the snap of tendon, the crunch of brittle bone. Her hounds had not rushed. No, they had taken their time. It was almost thoughtful, the way they unmade him. Piece by piece.
She remembered standing very still, arms limp at her sides, while his shrieking echoed against the stone like some obscene hymn. She did not speak. She did not cry. The fury had already drained from her by then, leaving only the hollow of it behind, like the husk of a fire burned down to ash.
And in that silence, with Sven's death slow and merciless at her feet, she had felt something close to peace. Not justice—justice was a word for courts and kings. This had been something older. Wilder.
A reckoning.
Then she opened her eyes again, dragging her thoughts out of the past like a hand pulled from snow. That was then. This was now. She was no longer the feral girl who had lived in cages and shadows. She was a woman grown—scarred, yes, but married, loved, and alive.
A gust of wind swept over the hilltop, rattling the bare branches overhead. Ahead, the gates of Dunholm creaked open with a reluctant groan, as if the fortress itself resented her return. The timbers were thick and frost-split, iron-banded and bristling with rivets like old scars.
Guards flanked the entry, their eyes sharp beneath fur-lined helms. They did not call out, nor did they lower their spears—just watched in silence, wary but not hostile. Thyra's heart stuttered. She felt the old fear stir somewhere beneath her ribs, rising like something half-buried, clawing for breath.
But Beocca's hand remained in hers. Warm. Solid.
Together they passed beneath the arch, swallowed briefly by shadow.
The smell hit her first. Horses, old smoke, the tang of worked iron, stale sweat, and waste—thick in the cold air like breath that wouldn't clear. Dunholm in winter. A hundred bodies packed too tight, too long, with too little sky. It was the scent of captivity and survival, and though she hadn't smelled it in years, it unfurled in her memory instantly.
She had known this place too well once. And now, the stone remembered her.
"Breathe, Thyra, dear," Beocca murmured, noticing her distress.
She did, forcing air into lungs that suddenly felt too tight. This was not then. She was not that girl anymore, broken and terrified. She was Thyra, wife of Beocca, sister to Ragnar, who now ruled here. She belonged to herself.
The outer bailey was a muddy slurry of trampled snow, dung, and straw, churned by the passage of men and beasts. Their horses picked their way through it carefully, hooves sometimes sinking unexpectedly, causing them to snort in displeasure. Around them, the daily life of the fortress continued—men training with sword and shield despite the weather, women carrying bundles of firewood or baskets of food, children darting between the adults like fish through reeds.
As they rode into the main courtyard, activity slowed, then stopped altogether as people recognized the visitors. A stable boy approached, reaching for their horses' reins with uncertain hands. Thyra dismounted, her legs stiff from the journey, and pushed back her hood. The winter wind caught her red hair, drawing more than one curious glance from those gathered in the yard.
She knew what they saw.
A Dane with a Saxon priest—a strange pairing, like wolves walking with lambs. An incongruity made flesh. Some of the guards squinted as if trying to make sense of the picture. Others simply looked away, unsure of what to do with it. What they did not see were the stories etched into her skin. The scars beneath her furs that spoke of cages, of blood, of winters colder than this one. They did not see the girl who had once cowered in these very halls, or the nightmares that still stirred when she closed her eyes too long.
They did not know how Beocca had spoken when others had only stared. How his voice had found her in the dark—not loud, not heroic, just steady. Just there. Love had come quietly, like snowfall. Not all at once, but flake by flake, until one day she'd woken warm beneath it. And by then, it had already buried the pain deep enough to breathe again.
They saw only what stood before them. But so much of her was still beneath the ice.
"Thyra?"
The voice came like a crack in the frost-hung air—surprised, uncertain. She turned toward it, heart already tightening before her eyes found him.
Ragnar was striding down from the great hall, his fur-lined cloak flaring slightly in the wind, boots crunching through the thin crust of ice on the packed earth. His beard and pale hair caught what little light the sky offered, a faint gold halo that made him look, for just a moment, like the boy she remembered.
Then he saw Beocca.
The warmth in Ragnar's face did not vanish—it froze. His smile stalled at the corners, his eyes narrowing not in anger, but in something quieter. Calculating. Careful.
He stopped a few paces away. "What are you doing here?" he asked, voice low and not unkind, but heavy with meaning. His gaze flicked from Thyra to Beocca, lingering there. Not a threat. But not welcome, either.
Ragnar's gaze searched her face. "Thyra… what are you doing here?" he asked again, this time quieter, as if afraid the answer might sting.
Thyra tilted her head, snow melting in her lashes. "Brother, are you not glad to see me?"
His expression cracked, warmth breaking through like weak sunlight through clouds. "Of course, I am, Thyra. Gods, just look at you." He stepped closer, taking her hands in his and helping her dismount her horse. "You're beautiful. And you're smiling."
"I am," she said simply. "I am happy, Ragnar." She smiled up at him, blue eyes bright with cold and memory. "And you…you look older. But still like home."
"You've crossed half the kingdom," Ragnar said, more softly now. "All for me?"
"To see you," she said, her voice firm despite the chill in the air.
Before he could reply, a voice cut in behind him, sharp and unmistakable.
"And the priest, Thyra? Who exactly is he here to see?"
Thyra turned to see Brida approaching, her wild dark hair framing a face set in its customary expression of cautious assessment. She was wrapped in thick furs against the cold, but moved with the fluid grace of a she-warrior, eyes missing nothing. Those dark eyes lingered on Beocca with undisguised disgust, eyes narrowing slightly before moving to Thyra.
Beocca offered a small inclination of his head that was mostly mockery. "Ah, Brida. I see winter hasn't yet dulled your sting. Still chewing on hornets, are we?"
Brida's face flushed in anger, and Thyra stifled a smile, though her tone softened as she spoke before Brida could reply. "Beocca insisted on accompanying me. He wouldn't let me come alone."
"That is true," the priest said, adjusting his gloves. "But I'm not only here for companionship, I'm afraid. I carry a message from King Alfred—a legal edict. Uhtred, if he is here, is to be formally banished from the realm, and I am to deliver it with the usual grim solemnity."
He turned to Thyra. "Once she's grown tired of her brothers' bickering, we'll leave. I'll not linger longer than courtesy allows, nor do I wish to."
Brida snorted. "You came all this way to deliver something he already knows? Seems like a waste of horse and breath."
Beocca smiled faintly. "I came to see the boy. Perhaps knock some sense into him, if he'll let me. Kick his arse one last time, perhaps. And yes—confirm the truth of what's been said."
Before another barb could be thrown, a familiar voice rang out across the bailey.
"Thyra."
Thyra turned to see her brother Uhtred approaching from the great hall. His long, dark hair was half-bound in the Danish fashion, and his expression shifted from welcome to wariness as his gaze flicked to Beocca briefly before returning to her. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he approached, furs drawn tight against the wind.
"It is good to see you, Thyra," Uhtred greeted softly.
"And you, Uhtred," Thyra said, her face softening.
"My children? And Gisela?" he asked without ceremony. "Have you heard anything?"
"They're well," she said gently. "Safe, and being cared for. Hild visits them often, whenever she can."
"I'll send for them soon," Uhtred replied, his voice low with resolve. Then, with a glance at Beocca, he added, "You and I will speak later."
His eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger, but in expectation. Still, he lifted a hand and gestured toward the hall.
"Come inside for something to eat," he said. "Whatever news you carry, it'll sound better by the fire. And taste better with food and ale."
Thyra's eyes met Ragnar's as they walked side by side toward the great hall, following Uhtred. He smiled at her—genuine, unguarded—and something in that expression loosened the knot behind her ribs.
Strange, how easily he could smile in this place. This place that had been her prison. Stranger still, that he had no idea what those walls had held for her. She'd never told Ragnar and Uhtred the worst of what Kjartan and Sven had done to her.
But maybe that was a mercy. Some truths were too heavy to pass from one hand to another.
"Sister," he said quietly as they reached the steps. He touched her arm, careful as if she might splinter beneath his fingers. "Welcome to Dunholm."
Dunholm.
Not home.
A small thing. But it mattered. It told her he understood—at least a little—that the stone and timber that had once caged her could never be home.
"Brother," she answered, forcing a smile that was almost real.
Brida stood nearby, arms folded, dark eyes sharp with appraisal. She gave Thyra a slow once-over and then nodded, seemingly satisfied by what she saw. "You look half-frozen, Thyra. The hall's warm, at least," she murmured. Her gaze slid to Beocca, and the faint curl of her lip returned. "Though your priest here looks like he's halfway to meeting his God."
"Brida, my angel," Beocca said with theatrical warmth. "You look as though you've swallowed yet another wasp. Still stinging with grace, I see."
Brida's scowl deepened, but before she could fire back, Uhtred's voice cut through the cold, sharp and tinged with annoyance.
"Enough. Save the bickering for after there's food in your bellies." His eyes flicked to Beocca. "I want to hear why Alfred's priest has come all the way North to freeze his arse off in my brother's hall."
As they moved toward the hall's entrance, each step suddenly began to feel heavier than the last. Thyra felt the old weight of her memories settle on her shoulders like fresh snowfall. The flurries thickened around them, drifting silently onto her cloak and in her hair, melting into her skin with a shiver.
Her past was everywhere.
There, the post where Kjartan had bound her, her body a spectacle for the amusement of his drunk and jeering men.
And over there—the well where she had once tried to drown herself, her first night here in the castle. She remembered its depth more than its shape. Remembered how the water had stung as she'd slipped beneath it, only to be dragged back up by one of Kjartan's men who feared Kjartan's wrath more than he pitied her despair.
Beside her, Beocca walked in silence. But he knew. His grip on her hand tightened.
"It's different here now, Thyra," he murmured, correctly interpreting her silence. His weathered face, lined with the kindness of years, was earnest in the falling snow. "Kjartan and Sven are dead. Their men are gone."
"But their ghosts remain, Beocca," Thyra whispered, too quietly for anyone but Beocca to hear. Her fingers unconsciously reached up to trace one of the thin scars on her cheek, a lingering reminder of her years of abuse.
His hand found hers again, squeezing gently. "Then we shall exorcise them together."
They stepped into the great hall, and the cold was chased away in an instant. It was vast, still dark in the corners, but alive with sound and heat. A great fire blazed in the central hearth, casting long flickering shadows against smoke-stained beams. Sparks leapt up into the air like startled birds. Long tables flanked the flames, their benches drawn in close to hoard the warmth.
At the far end of the table, the lord's table waited—Ragnar's table—raised just a step above the rest, but heavy with presence. The hall was busy but not crowded—men-at-arms lounging near the fire with boots off and cups half-full. Servant girls wove among them, balancing jugs of ale and steaming plates of food. Women worked along the walls—some mending, some grinding grain, and others just watching the newcomers as they headed toward the table, silent but curious.
It all felt familiar.
Too familiar.
Conversation faltered as they entered, dozens of eyes turning in unison to assess the newcomers. Thyra felt their gazes burning like physical things, crawling all over her skin. She had been stared at before in this very hall, when she was nothing more than Sven's whore, his trophy of conquest, his little pet. The memories threatened to overwhelm her, but she stamped them back down, forcing herself to come back to the present moment. On Beocca beside her, solid and real. On her brothers ahead, nothing like the monster who had once ruled here.
"Sit," Uhtred commanded, gesturing toward the raised lord's table. "Eat. Warm yourselves. We'll speak of Winchester after."
Thyra and Beocca moved to obey, but Uhtred's men were already in place—his shadow-walkers, loyal even in exile. They sat with the ease of those long accustomed to war and to one another, their presence grounding the hall in something solid, something unshakeable.
Finan, the Irishman, lounged at Uhtred's right. Dark-haired and sharp-eyed, he wore his smile like a weapon—quick, disarming, but never careless. Thyra had heard the story: he and Uhtred had once shared chains on the same slave ship. There was steel between them now, forged in suffering, impervious even to the weight of a king's decree.
Beside him sat Osferth—Alfred's bastard, though no one dared say it like an insult anymore. Fair-haired, soft-spoken, and thoughtful in a way that made people underestimate him. His gentleness was real, but so was his blade. He had chosen Uhtred over his blood, and that choice sat quiet but proud in the set of his shoulders.
Slightly apart from them sat Sihtric, his posture straight, his face unreadable. Thyra's gaze caught his, just for a breath.
Kjartan's bastard.
The same blood, the same ruin, just carried differently. She had lived in Dunholm as a prisoner. He had grown up here under the weight of a father who never wanted him, never saw him as anything but a shame-given form. They had never spoken of it, not in words. But there was a quiet kinship between them, one born in the shadow of the same monster.
The nearness of Ragnar beside her brought a strange comfort, even as the hall itself turned her stomach. Blood recognized blood, no matter how many winters had passed.
She and Beocca settled at the table. At once, servant girls emerged from the shadows with steaming trenchers and jugs of ale, moving quickly to fill their plates and cups. Thyra found herself between two anchors: Beocca, warm and steady on her right; Ragnar, blood-bound and uncertain on her left. Across from them sat Uhtred and Brida, framed by the fire's glow—two figures from her past who had never stopped burning.
The nearness of both her brothers offered a strange comfort, though the hall itself remained hostile to her senses—too loud, too warm, and far too full of ghosts.
Strange, she thought, how blood still knew its own, even after so many years apart.
The food was simple but plentiful: roasted meat fragrant with fat and smoke, loaves of fresh bread still warm from the ovens, pale winter apples, and soft rounds of cheese. Ale flowed freely, but Thyra drank only water. Her stomach was still unsettled from this morning's earlier bout of sickness, constant now, like a tide she no longer tried to resist.
She watched Beocca eat with the gusto of a man who'd seen too many cold camps and thin meals. Beside her, Ragnar ate as well, though his attention kept flitting back to her, as if checking to see she hadn't vanished like a trick of snow and shadow.
"So," Uhtred began once hunger had dulled the edge of travel and silence, "what word from Winchester that brings you both through a winter storm to find a banished man? I already know Alfred has cast me out. What more can he have to say to me?"
Beocca wiped his mouth on his sleeve, a gesture that earned him a look of disgust from Brida. He hesitated, his eyes flicking toward the far end of the hall where a familiar figure sat with his back to a pillar, deep in conversation with several men. Thyra followed his gaze and felt her stomach clench.
Aethelwold. Alfred's nephew. He had not noticed their arrival yet, too engrossed in whatever tale he was spinning to his audience.
"You did not tell us Aethelwold was here," Beocca said softly, almost sounding angry with Uhtred.
Uhtred shrugged. "He arrived a week ago. Claimed he was fleeing Alfred's displeasure, though I suspect it's more than Alfred finally tired of his plots. Why? Does it matter, Father?"
"It might," Beocca replied, cautious now. "Depending on what else we need to discuss."
Finan leaned forward. "If you're worried about him hearing what you have to say, don't be. He spends most evenings drunk on Ragnar's ale, telling increasingly unlikely tales of his prowess in battle."
"And in bed," Sihtric added dryly. "Though I suspect both are equally fictional."
A ripple of quiet laughter passed around the table, quiet and knowing. But Thyra didn't join in.
Her eyes drifted to the man seated beside Aethelwold, to his left. A stranger with cold eyes who seemed to be the only one not laughing at whatever jest had been made.
There was something predatory in the way he watched the room, something that sent a chill down her spine.
"Who is the man with him?" she asked. "The tall one."
"Calls himself Tidman," Osferth answered, his voice naturally soft. "Aethelwold's shadow. Barely speaks, but watches everything. I don't like him."
"Nor I," agreed Ragnar. "But they are guests under my roof, for now." The slight emphasis on 'for now' did not escape Thyra's notice.
Beocca nodded slightly, clearly filing this information away. "First, the official matter," he said, reaching into his tunic to withdraw the scroll. The wax seal bearing Alfred's mark was unbroken, a crimson eye staring out at them from the table. "King Alfred sends his formal decree of your banishment from Wessex. You are forbidden to return on pain of death."
A silence fell over the table, thick as the snow outside. Uhtred's face hardened, all trace of welcome vanishing like mist in morning sun.
"I see," he said finally. "And he sends you to deliver this message? My friend?"
"He thought you might accept it better from me," Beocca replied, the bitterness in his voice making it clear what he thought of that reasoning.
"Did he?" Uhtred laughed, a harsh sound without humor. "Alfred continues to understand me not at all, even after all these years." He reached for the scroll, breaking the seal with a decisive snap. His eyes scanned the contents, his expression growing darker with each line.
"This is more than banishment," he said, tossing the scroll onto the table. "He strips me of my lands, my title. Everything I've earned in his service, gone at the stroke of a priest's pen."
"It was not my pen, Uhtred," Beocca said quietly.
"No," Uhtred allowed. "You're just the messenger. But a willing one, it seems."
"Hardly willing," Beocca snapped, voice sharpening like flint. "I argued against it. I told Alfred he was making a mistake. But the king is... determined."
"Alfred was always determined," Brida cut in, her voice dripping with contempt. "Determined to use you, Uhtred, and then discard you when it suited him. I told you this would happen. Saxons cannot be trusted, especially not their priests." She cast a venomous glance at Beocca, who returned it with equal disdain.
"Not all Saxons are alike, Brida," Thyra said quietly. "Just as not all Danes are alike."
Brida's eyes softened slightly when they fell on Thyra. "Perhaps. But priests are all the same—sanctimonious puppets who do their masters' bidding while pretending to serve a higher power."
"And what power do you serve, Brida?" Beocca asked, his voice deceptively mild. "The gods who demand blood sacrifice? Who speaks only through the ravings of skalds and seers? At least my God offers mercy."
"I've seen little mercy from your god," Brida snapped. "Only judgment and punishment."
"Enough," Ragnar intervened, his voice carrying the weight of command. "This bickering serves no one." He turned to Uhtred, his expression grave. "What will you do, brother?"
Uhtred stared into the depths of his ale cup, as if seeking answers in its murky surface. "What can I do? Alfred has spoken. I am banished. But I can promise you this, Ragnar, the king will regret his decision. Perhaps not today, perhaps not tomorrow, but someday." He raised his cup in a mocking toast. "To the pious bastard King Alfred. May his God grant him the wisdom he so sorely lacks."
Thyra watched the conversation unfold from behind the quiet curtain of her nerves, hands folded neatly in her lap. She had expected the irony, but still, it was sharp to witness: Uhtred, freshly stripped of title and land, was about to be asked to risk his life for the daughter of the very man who'd cast him out. It would've been almost laughable—had it not felt so tragic.
"There is more," Beocca said at last, his voice dropping beneath the murmur of the hall. "A second matter, not from Alfred, though it concerns his house."
Uhtred's brow rose, already impatient. "Speak plainly, priest. I have no patience for riddles, especially now."
Beocca's eyes flicked around the hall before leaning in slightly.
"It is Aethelflaed. She has fled her husband and hidden herself in a nunnery at Wintanceaster. She fears for her life—Aethelred means to kill her."
Uhtred stared at him. His face was a storm cloud—disbelief, irritation, something darker. "And this concerns me how, exactly, Beocca? Alfred banishes me, strips me of everything, and now his daughter wants my help?"
Thyra's fingers tightened around her cup. Her voice, when it came, was soft—barely more than a breath, but clear. "She cannot go to her father," she said, gently.
"She trusts you," Beocca added. "Despite what has passed between you and Alfred, she believes you will help her."
Uhtred scoffed, bitter and incredulous. "The arrogance of that family is truly astounding. Alfred casts me out as if I were a disobedient hound, and in the same breath, his daughter expects me to come running to her rescue?"
Thyra looked across the table, meeting his gaze as steadily as she could. Her heart fluttered with nerves, but she didn't flinch.
"It is not arrogance," she said, quiet but sure. "It is desperation. And faith in your character."
"My character," Uhtred echoed, his voice flat. "The character of a banished lord, an oath-breaker—"
"A man who keeps his word when it matters," Ragnar broke in, finally speaking. "A man who helped me save my sister when no one else would. A man who has sworn himself to me as a Dane in his heart, if not in his blood." He leaned forward, eyes locked with Uhtred's. "A man I am proud to call brother."
For a long breath, the table held still. Uhtred and Ragnar stared at one another, something unspoken shifting in the space between them. Then Uhtred exhaled, the fight softening just a little in his shoulders.
"You always did know how to make a simple matter complicated, Beocca," he muttered, but the heat had drained from the words.
"It is a gift," Beocca replied, dryly.
"What exactly does Aethelflaed want of me?" Uhtred asked, his voice returning to iron.
"Safe passage," Thyra answered, eyes lowered respectfully. "Protection from her husband's men. And eventually, help in securing terms that will allow her to live free of him without war between Wessex and Mercia."
Uhtred laughed—short, bitter. "She asks a great deal for the daughter of a man who has taken everything from me."
"She is not her father," Beocca said, leaning in.
"No? She has benefited from his protection all her life. She has men of her own. Guards. Servants." Uhtred's jaw clenched. "Let her use them. This is not my concern."
Beocca flushed with frustration. "Not your concern? After she stood by you at Ethandun? After she defended you to Alfred countless times?"
"And where was her defense when Alfred stripped me of my lands, cast my family from the hall, and left them without a home?" Uhtred snapped. "When he took my home and gave it to another? She calls herself my friend, yet when her father banishes me, she is silent."
"She could not openly defy him—"
"Then she should not openly ask for my help." His voice was like the crack of a sword in frost. "Alfred has made his choice. Let him and his daughter live with it."
Thyra winced at the rising heat in Uhtred's voice. This was going poorly. Worse than she had feared. She looked to Ragnar, finding her unease mirrored in his quiet expression.
Beocca's voice dropped to a near-whisper, heavy with emotion. "She considers herself your oath man. Or have you forgotten the oath you swore to her after you saved her from the Danes? To protect her when she had need?"
Something flickered in Uhtred's face—a crack in the stone—but it passed too quickly to name. "That was before Alfred cast me out like a dog," he said, voice quieter now, but no less bitter.
"And does your oath end with Alfred's favor?" Beocca pressed. "Is your word so easily broken?"
Uhtred's gaze darkened. "Careful, priest. You deliver Alfred's decree with one hand and beg favors with the other. Do not speak to me of oaths and broken words."
Silence fell around the table, thick as snow. Thyra could feel the heat in Beocca's temper, the cold rage in Uhtred's reply. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached out, placing a hand on Beocca's arm.
It was a quiet gesture, but it was enough.
"We are all tired from travel," she said softly, her voice gentling the air between them. "Perhaps, Beocca, we should continue this conversation later, after we are all better rested."
Ragnar nodded, clearly relieved at her intervention. "Thyra speaks wisely. The storm worsens, and none of us is thinking clearly. Let us speak of this tomorrow, when heads are cooler."
Uhtred held Beocca's gaze a moment longer, then gave a curt nod. "Tomorrow, then. Though, do not expect my answer to change."
Beocca opened his mouth as if to argue further, but Thyra's grip on his arm tightened. After a moment, he subsided, though she could feel the frustration humming through him like a plucked bowstring.
Beocca parted his lips as if to speak, though before he could utter a word, their conversation was interrupted by the scrape of benches and the sound of approaching footsteps. Thyra looked up and immediately wished she hadn't. Aethelwold was making his way toward their table, his man Tidman following like a shadow at his heels. The conversations quieted around them as people sensed the tension brewing.
"Father Beocca," Aethelwold called, his voice carrying across the hall with practiced authority, sounding seemingly genuinely surprised to see them both here. "And Lady Thyra. What an unexpected pleasure to find you so far from Winchester. Welcome to Dunholm."
Thyra's stomach clenched as she recognized the false warmth in his voice. She had always disliked Alfred's nephew, with his petty schemes and barely disguised ambitions. He was slender and carried himself with an arrogance that had always grated on her nerves. His blond hair was neatly combed, his clothing fine despite the rough setting. A sword hung at his hip, its hilt glinting with precious stones—a weapon for show, not use, as anyone who had witnessed his fumbling attempts at swordplay could attest.
Behind him stood his man Tidman, taller and broader than his master. This man, Thyra did not know, but there was something watchful in the man's colorless grey eyes that afflicted her, a look that reminded her of a predator assessing prey. He wore plainer garb than that of his lord, but his presence was no less intimidating.
Beocca's hand found hers beneath the table, squeezing in silent communication. She did not need to look at him to know his thoughts. They had spoken of Aethelwold many times, of his petty schemes and dangerous ambitions. "A snake," Beocca had called him once, "with neither the courage to strike openly nor the wisdom to know when to retreat." It was an apt description.
"Aethelwold," Beocca replied, his tone perfectly polite yet somehow conveying a world of disdain. "As ever, you appear where least expected and desired. Why does it come as no surprise to see you here?"
A tightness formed around Aethelwold's mouth, but he maintained his smile. "As charming as ever, priest. I see marriage to a pagan has done nothing to sweeten your temperament. I am among friends here in Dunholm, Father Beocca."
Uhtred watched the exchange with poorly concealed amusement. "Is there something you wanted, Aethelwold, or did you simply come to exchange pleasantries with my guests?"
Aethelwold's eyes narrowed slightly at the dismissive tone, but he recovered quickly. "I merely wished to greet old... acquaintances from Winchester. News from the south is precious this far north, and Father Beocca has Alfred's ear." He glanced at the unrolled decree on the table, and a smile of genuine pleasure spread across his face. "Though I see my uncle has finally made official what we all knew was coming. A pity, Lord Uhtred."
"Your concern overwhelms me," Uhtred replied dryly.
Aethelwold turned his attention to Thyra, his gaze lingering longer than was proper. "Lady Thyra. You look well. Marriage to the priest agrees with you, it seems."
"Thank you, Lord Aethelwold," Thyra replied with careful neutrality, fighting the urge to shrink from his scrutiny. She was no longer the frightened girl in Kjartan's cage. She would not cower before this petty schemer. "You seem... comfortable here at Dunholm."
"Oh, quite," he agreed, too quickly. "Lord Ragnar has been most hospitable. As has Lord Uhtred." His gaze flickered between them. "So much Danish hospitality for Saxon visitors. It warms the heart."
The insinuation was clear, and Thyra felt Beocca stiffen beside her. Before he could respond, Ragnar spoke.
"Father Beocca and Lady Thyra are family," he said, his voice hard with warning. "You, Lord Aethelwold, are merely a guest."
The implied distinction was not lost on Aethelwold, whose smile thinned noticeably. Tidman shifted his stance slightly, the movement subtle but somehow threatening. Thyra saw Finan's hand drop casually to his knife, while Sihtric's watchful gaze never left Tidman's face.
"Of course," Aethelwold said smoothly, recovering his composure. "And I am grateful for that hospitality." He made a slight bow. "I will leave you to your family discussions. No doubt you have much to catch up on."
He turned to leave, then paused, glancing back at Beocca. "Oh, and Father—please, when next you see her, give the Lady Aethelflaed my regards."
Thyra felt a chill run through her. The seemingly casual question carried a weight of implication that could not be mistaken. Somehow, Aethelwold knew or suspected something about Aethelflaed.
"We will tell her," Beocca answered carefully. "I'm sure she would be touched by your concern."
"Yes," Aethelwold said thoughtfully. "Family must look after family, mustn't they? Even when separated by... circumstance." With that parting shot, he inclined his head and walked away, Tidman following like a shadow.
Thyra watched them go, a sense of dread settling in the pit of her stomach like a stone. Beside her, Beocca leaned close, his lips nearly touching her ear.
"This is ill news," he whispered. "He knows something. Or suspects."
"You think he knows about Aethelflaed?" Thyra asked, though she already knew the answer.
"I think Aethelwold is never anywhere without purpose," Beocca replied grimly. "And his purposes rarely align with those of decent men. If he's learned of Aethelflaed's flight, and seeks to curry favor with Aethelred..." He shook his head slightly. "And that one," he nodded subtly toward Tidman, who had taken up position near the wall where he could watch their table, "is worse. A cruel man who serves a weak one—always a dangerous combination."
Across the hall, as if sensing their attention, Tidman looked up. His eyes met Thyra's, and a slow smile spread across his face. It was not a pleasant expression. Thyra looked away quickly, but the damage was done. She felt marked somehow, noted.
"I want to rest," she said suddenly to Beocca. "The journey was tiring."
Her husband nodded, concern evident in his eyes. "Of course, Thyra, dear. Come, let me take you back from here."
They rose, making brief excuses to Ragnar and Uhtred. As they crossed the hall, Thyra felt Tidman's eyes following her, a physical weight between her shoulder blades. Aethelwold was speaking animatedly to Uhtred, but she caught him glancing their way more than once.
Outside the hall, the air was colder but cleaner, free of the smoke and press of bodies. Thyra breathed deeply, trying to still the unease that had taken root within her. The fortress stretched around them, a maze of stone corridors and stairways that seemed to lead ever deeper into the heart of the earth. It would be easy to get lost here, to take a wrong turn and find oneself in some forgotten chamber, trapped. The thought made her heart race.
"This way," Brida said, appearing beside them as if conjured by thought. "I'll show you to your chamber."
Beocca looked surprised at the offer, suspicion flickering across his features. "That's... very kind of you, Brida."
"It's not for you, priest," Brida replied tartly. "It's for her." She nodded toward Thyra. "In her condition, she shouldn't be wandering these halls looking for somewhere to sleep."
Beocca's brow furrowed. "Her condition? What condition?"
Brida's eyes widened slightly, realizing her mistake. She glanced at Thyra, a rare flash of contrition in her expression. "I thought he knew, Thyra. I could tell from the minute you rode through the gates. You have that look."
"Knew what? What look?" Beocca demanded, looking between the two women. "Thyra, what is she talking about?"
Thyra sighed. This was not how she had wanted to tell him. Not here in a cold corridor, with Brida as witness. But fate, it seemed, had other ideas.
"I'll tell you, Beocca… I promise," she said gently, her voice barely above a whisper. "Just… not here. Please."
Brida nodded, clearly relieved to be spared witnessing the conversation. "Follow me."
They moved through the fortress, climbing a narrow stairway and following a corridor lit by sputtering torches. The stones here were worn smooth by the passage of countless feet over the years. Thyra ran her fingers along the wall as she walked, wondering how many times she had traveled these same paths as a captive, unseeing in her misery.
"Here," Brida stopped before a heavy wooden door. "There's water for washing and furs for warmth. If you need anything, send word."
"Thank you," Beocca said, his earlier suspicion temporarily overridden by genuine gratitude.
Brida nodded, then hesitated, looking at Thyra. "Rest well," she said finally, a subtle acknowledgment of their earlier conversation. Then she was gone, disappearing back down the corridor with quick, sure steps.
The chamber was small but comfortable, with a brazier of hot coals providing warmth and a narrow window shuttered against the snow. A bed piled with furs dominated one wall, while a small table and two stools stood beneath the window. Someone had placed a jug of water and a basin for washing on the table, along with a loaf of bread and some cheese in case they grew hungry later.
Thyra sank onto the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted. The journey, the emotional strain of returning to Dunholm, the unexpected appearance of Aethelwold and Tidman—it was all too much. She felt hollowed out, scraped raw.
Beocca busied himself with the brazier, adding a few more coals from a bucket near the door. The firelight caught the planes of his face, highlighting the strength and character there. For all the years she had known him, she never tired of watching him in unguarded moments like these. The priest's appearance was not what most would call handsome—his bald head, the lines etched deep around his eyes, the scars that told of a life lived fully—but to Thyra, he was beautiful in his humanity, his flawed perfection.
"What condition was Brida talking about?" he asked finally, turning to face her. "Are you ill? Is that why you've been sick these past days?"
Thyra took a deep breath, her fingers curling in her lap. This moment had lingered in her mind for days, hovering like a candle's flicker at the edge of sleep, too fragile to reach for, too bright to ignore.
"Not ill," she said softly, her voice a little shaky. "At least… not in the way you're thinking."
Beocca crossed the room and sat beside her, gently taking her hands. His touch was warm and careful, but she could feel the tightness in his grip—the tension he was trying not to show.
"Then what is it?" he asked.
Thyra looked down for a moment, then up at him again. Her voice came barely above a whisper.
"I think… I might be with child." She smiled nervously, eyes flicking to his. "Our child."
Beocca went very still. His breath caught, and for a long moment he didn't move, didn't speak. The color drained from his face, then rushed back all at once. His mouth opened and closed several times, no sound emerging, as if the revelation had stolen not just his words but his very ability to form them.
Finally, his voice barely above a whisper, trembling with emotion: "A child?" he said, as if the word itself might vanish. "Our child?"
She nodded, watching him with wide, searching eyes. "I'm not completely certain—not yet. It's still early. But… the signs are there." Her cheeks flushed pink. "The sickness in the mornings. The missing blood. And… well… tenderness." She gestured vaguely, not quite able to say more.
Blushing, she ducked her head, but Beocca didn't seem to notice—he was already kneeling, slowly, reverently, his hands hovering over her stomach like he feared the moment might break if he touched it too quickly.
"A child," he whispered again, his voice cracking with emotion. "Here… inside you."
"Yes," Thyra whispered, her smile fragile but full of light.
When Beocca looked up at her, the love in his eyes made her chest ache. There was joy, yes, but also awe, and something protective and raw that nearly stole her breath.
"I never thought…" he began, then stopped, overwhelmed. "I never dared hope for something like this."
Thyra's smile wavered, a tremble in her voice as she asked, "You're… pleased, then?"
She already knew the answer, but she needed to hear it, just once, said out loud.
"Pleased?" Beocca laughed, a sound of pure joy. "Thyra, my love, 'pleased' is what a man feels when he finds an extra coin in his purse or when the ale is particularly good. This—" he gestured between them, encompassing her body, the miracle it contained, "—this is beyond pleasure. This is wonder."
He rose and took her in his arms, holding her as if she were made of the most precious glass. Thyra leaned into his embrace, allowing herself to believe, just for this moment, that everything might be well. That they might create a future untainted by the shadows of the past.
"A child," Beocca murmured against her hair. "Here, of all places." He drew back slightly, his expression troubled. "We should not have come, Thyra, dearest. Not in your condition. The journey was too hard, too dangerous."
"We didn't have a choice," Thyra said softly, her voice calm but edged with weariness. "Alfred's decree… and Aethelflaed's message—it couldn't wait until spring. Or until things felt easier."
Beocca's jaw tightened. "Aethelflaed and her message be damned," he muttered, and the sudden heat in his voice startled her. It was rare for him to speak harshly of Alfred's family—rarer still to curse.
She blinked, surprised. "Beocca…"
"Your wellbeing—our child's—means more to me than any courtly scheme or royal squabble," he said, softer now, but still burning. "More than all of it."
Thyra gave a faint, tired smile, dipping her head slightly. "And yet… here we are," she murmured, her tone dry but not without affection. "In Dunholm. With Aethelwold slinking about like something spilled under a door."
Beocca's expression darkened. "Yes. Aethelwold." He shook his head slowly. "That is troubling."
"You think he's here because of Aethelflaed?" she asked, her voice cautious, testing, not accusing.
Beocca let out a breath and rubbed a hand over his face. "I think Aethelwold never moves without purpose. And whatever that purpose is… it rarely serves decent men." He was quiet for a moment, then added more gently, "But that's a trouble for tomorrow. Tonight, we rest."
They undressed in the dim light of the brazier, helping each other with laces and buckles made difficult by the cold. Thyra's fingers lingered on the rough wool of Beocca's priest's robes, the simple wooden cross he wore around his neck, the familiar contours of his shoulders.
It struck her anew, the miracle of their union—a Danish woman and a Saxon priest, finding love amid the chaos of a world divided. Perhaps their child would be a bridge between those worlds, a testament to the possibility of peace.
Or perhaps not. The child would be born into a world of conflict, where oaths were broken, loyalties shifted like drifting snow, and violence hid behind every corner. A world where Uhtred was banished, where Aethelflaed lived in fear of her husband, where Aethelwold schemed in whispers, and men like Tidman watched with cold, hungering eyes.
It was not the world she would have chosen for her child—if choice had been hers to make.
But that was the nature of motherhood, wasn't it? To bring life into an uncertain world, to protect it with everything one had, and to hope, despite all reason, that the future might be gentler than the past.
Thyra lay curled beside Beocca on the narrow bed, his arm warm around her, her head rising and falling with his breath. The wind keened beyond the shuttered window, rattling the old wood like skeletal fingers. Inside, the brazier glowed softly, casting flickers of gold across the stone walls and their entwined bodies. A small island of peace.
"Sleep," Beocca murmured, brushing a kiss to her brow. "Tomorrow will bring its own challenges."
She closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of his heartbeat soothe her. But before sleep claimed her, a thought surfaced—sharp, familiar.
The last time she had lain beneath this roof, she had been a prisoner. Now she returned freely, carrying new life within her. The symmetry struck her as unnatural. Life, she knew, rarely offered such perfect circles. It was messy. Twisted. Cruel.
And there was Ragnar. She had felt his gaze more than once that evening—quick, searching glances when Beocca touched her hand or said her name. Though Uhtred might have spoken of their marriage, Ragnar reserved judgment for himself.
It unsettled her, that scrutiny. Stranger still was the fact that she cared. The girl he had once known was gone, devoured in the fire that took their father. Did he hope to find her again beneath all her scars? Did he believe she had carried some untarnished version of herself through all that pain?
If so, he would be disappointed. She had survived by becoming someone else—someone hardened, someone cautious. And in the quiet, unexpected shape of Beocca, she had found healing.
Her brother could never have imagined her loving a Saxon priest. Not one with no hair, hands soft with scripture instead of sword. And yet it was Beocca who had looked at her without fear. Beocca, who had seen her—not the broken girl in the cage, not the Dane to be pitied or feared, but her, wholly and without shame.
Did Ragnar understand that? Could he? She thought of his eyes, so like their father's. There had been love in them. Concern. But also confusion, as if she were a riddle he'd never learned to read.
Let him wonder, she thought. Let him watch, and measure, and judge if he must.
She had survived Kjartan's cage. She would not trade it for another, not even one built of love. Still, as she nestled closer to Beocca, her hand resting lightly on her stomach, a hollow ache formed beneath her ribs.
Because part of her, small and childlike, barely alive, still wanted Ragnar to see her choice and understand it. Still longed for his approval.
It was foolish. But it was real.
Tomorrow would bring its weight: Alfred's decree. Uhtred's decision. Ragnar's silent judgment. And the most troubling thing of all—Aethelwold and Tidman. Their presence clouded the air like smoke before fire.
She thought again of Tidman's eyes on her across the hall. Cold. Appraising. Not unlike the eyes that had followed her in those darkest years, when she had not been seen as a woman, but as a possession. A toy. A warning.
Would she ever be free of such men? Or was their gaze simply part of being a woman in this world—something learned to endure like winter or grief?
And what of the child she carried?
It would be born into a world shaped by sword and sorrow. A place where a woman's worth was measured in lineage or looks. Where men bled for gods and pride. But maybe—just maybe—it would also be a world where a Dane could love a Saxon. Where peace could be made, if only in small, flickering moments. Where a child might grow up with both old stories and new faith. Both blood and hope.
It was a fragile dream. A spider's thread. But Thyra had lived long enough to treasure such threads, delicate though they were.
Sleep pulled her down, soft and relentless. Her last thought was of the child within her—a bridge, perhaps, between all that had been lost and all that might be. Or maybe just a child. Innocent. New. A page not yet written.
Outside, the wind battered the stones of Dunholm. Snow piled against the walls that had once been her prison. But inside, she slept in warmth, in love, carrying the future in her womb. And somewhere in the dark, Aethelwold and Tidman whispered their schemes—still unknown, still dangerous.
The past and future had found each other in Dunholm.
And Thyra, bone-tired, slept on, unaware that fate was already reaching for her once more.