A Conqueror's Claim

The great hall of Skarhold was alive with voices.

The scent of burning logs mixed with ale and roasted meat, thickened the air as warriors filled the long tables, their laughter and sharp words cutting through the space.

Snow trailed in from the open doors, melting into damp puddles against the stone floors.

Azgar entered, and a shift passed through the hall. Not an immediate silence—no, his men were not so easily cowed.

But there was a moment of acknowledgement, a subtle dip in volume as heads turned, watching.

He took his time walking through them. Boots heavy against the stone. 

Unhurried.

Unbothered.

Every gaze turned toward him—some expectant, some wary, some already burning with questions.

He had seen this moment coming before he even crossed the threshold.

They had already seen the girl—the way Azgar had ridden in with her slung across his horse, and later, the way she had run through the keep like a frightened animal, only to be hauled back over his shoulder like a wayward child. And now, they wanted answers

Azgar walked to the long table at the hall's centre, sat at the head, and poured himself a drink.

"Speak your minds."

The floodgates opened.

It was Varn, his second-in-command, who stepped forward. His most trusted blade in battle, and the one man in this hall who could challenge him without losing his tongue.

"You brought a southern woman into your hall," he stated flatly, not bothering with pleasantries. "Then you let her run through the keep like a wild thing, only to carry her back. Not as a spoil of war. Not as a thrall. But under your protection.

Azgar raised his cup to his lips, drinking slowly before setting it down. His voice was even. "I did."

Varn exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers drumming against the wooden surface. "Why?"

Another warrior, Ulrik, leaned forward, expression sceptical. "This is unlike you, Azgar. You don't take thralls. You don't entertain distractions. So tell us—why did you bring her here?"

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the hall.

One of the younger warriors scoffed. "She's nothing but a southern whelp. She won't last a season here."

Azgar nodded. It was true—most Southerners didn't last long in the mountains, bred for softer lives in gentler lands.

"Southern women are soft, perhaps he's trying something new?" 

"No. The Khan can never stoop so low as to bed a Southerner. This must be a mistake."

Azgar let them speak, his face unreadable, his hands steady. He allowed their objections to flare, to crest, and then, in a single beat, he cut through them with a single command.

"Enough."

The hall fell quiet.

"But you brought her here," Sigvard pushed, braver than most. "So she must serve some purpose. What is she to you?"

Azgar turned to the elder. He did not owe them explanations, but he was not a fool—his people needed to understand.

"I took the South for its wealth. Its fertile land. Its resources. Did you think I would stop there?" He let the words settle before continuing, his voice even but cutting. "The south is broken. Their lords kneel. Their warriors are scattered. What better way to ensure our hold than to take one of their own as my wife?"

A stunned silence followed.

A single breath. The distant crackle of the fire. The faintest shift of expressions—shock, outrage, disbelief.

Then the hall erupted.

"You would take a Southerner as your mate?"

"Are our women not enough?" someone else challenged.

"This is a mistake, Khan!"

"Have you lost your mind?"

Azgar tilted his head slightly, watching them.

Sigvard, the eldest among them, finally spoke once the outrage settled into a low murmur.

"Marriage is a sacred bond, Azgar," Sigvard said. "If you wished for a southern bed slave, none would question you. But a wife?" His wrinkled hands curled over his staff. "A queen?"

Azgar's lips curved—not in amusement, but something colder. "The South is mine. Why should I not take my share?"

Sigvard exhaled slowly. "You seek to tie our blood to theirs."

Azgar's smirk was razor-sharp. "The southerners war over birthrights and succession. My claim will not be questioned."

A murmur ran through the hall. Some were nodding, seeing the wisdom in his words. Others remained doubtful.

"And if she dies before bearing you a son?" someone asked.

"I will take a northern wife after," he said, voice steady, absolute. "Nothing changes. The blood of the north will run through my children. But do you think the South would dare rise against us if their woman is carrying my young? Would they retaliate when she is bound to me by law and flesh?"

Some of the warriors exchanged glances. They were conquerors, but they were not fools.

"If we take their women, let them warm our furs, they will see us as conquerors. But marry them? That makes us their equals. It makes us soft."

Azgar shook his head. "Through her, the South belongs to us," he continued. "Not just in name. Not just in fear. But in blood."

The reasoning was sound. Even those who looked disgusted by the thought of a Southern woman in their midst could not argue the logic.

One of the younger warriors, Hakon, crossed his arms. "And if she fights you?"

Azgar's lips curved in something that was not quite a smile.

"She already has," he said. "She failed."

A few men chuckled darkly.

"If she is weak, she will not last the winter," another voice called out. "She is sick already."

Azgar's expression didn't change. "Then she will either adapt, or she will die. It is no concern of mine. There are plenty more women in the south."

The people mumbled between themselves, clearly torn between seeing his vision and getting past the fact that she was a Southerner. 

He turned back to the hall. "Are there any other questions?"

Silence.

Not fear. Not entirely.

But something close to acceptance.

His warriors would not oppose him. None would dare.

This was his decision.

And his people would follow.

Azgar felt Varn's gaze lingering long after the others had turned to their drinks and murmured discussions.

He knew that look, knew his friend too well to miss the hesitation in his silence.

When the others had finally shifted their attention away, Azgar spoke without turning his head.

"Say what you want to say."

Varn didn't look at him, only swirled the dark ale in his cup before answering. "You mean to keep her?"

Azgar smirked. "That is what I said, isn't it?"

Varn's fingers tapped against the wood. "I mean truly keep her."

Azgar exhaled slowly. He understood the fear beneath the words.

Not fear of a weak alliance. Not fear of a Southern woman. Fear of something far more dangerous.

Fear that Azgar might fall. That he might lose himself in it.

Azgar turned to him fully now, golden eyes sharp. "I will not forget who I am, Varn."

Varn squinted. "You are certain?"

Azgar met his gaze. "You doubt me?"

A beat of silence.

Then—Varn grinned, shaking his head. "Not at all."

The last of the resistance faded.

Azgar stood. "Then the matter is settled."

He left them with their thoughts.

It did not matter.

What mattered was that the girl was his.

The rest would fall into place.

As it always did.

Now… let's see if his little rabbit still has any fight left in her.