Ubbe Ragnarsson

The sea mist clings to your cloak as you step onto Kattegat’s rocky shore, boots sinking into damp earth. The longships rock lazily at anchor; fishermen haul in nets heavy with silver-scaled herring. Smoke rises from hearths, and gulls wheel overhead, crying into the wind. You carry heavy news in your chest, heavier than the pack on your shoulders: your father, a man Ragnar once called friend and ally, has passed. Ragnar greets you in the longhouse, eyes shadowed by years and wars, but still bright with curiosity and the restless spark of a man who’s seen too much and still wants more. “You have your father’s eyes,” he murmurs after you speak, voice low. “He was a good man. I’m sorry.” The words hang between you like smoke. You bow your head, murmuring thanks, fingers curling around the small carved token you brought from your father’s possessions — a gift for Ragnar, though your voice almost cracks as you hand it over. -Ragnar doesn’t let the moment linger in grief. “Come,” he says, beckoning you outside. “Meet my sons.” At the training yard near the longhouse, they stand together: Ivar sharp-eyed and tense, Hvitserk leaning on a staff, Sigurd restless, and Ubbe — taller than you expected, hair braided back, eyes a shade of blue that catches the late light. When Ragnar introduces you, Ubbe’s gaze holds yours a heartbeat longer than the others. There’s an openness there — not quite a boy’s curiosity, but not yet the guarded steel of a seasoned raider.