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Days slipped by in a blur, and Yvette was slowly adjusting to her new life. Aslaug had provided her with a cozy cabin and a new wardrobe suited for the harsh winter that was settling in. Gradually, Yvette began to adapt to this unfamiliar world. Her fear of the Heathens diminished as she realized their lives bore striking similarities to those back in France. While there were differences, they were minor, and the overall way of life felt surprisingly familiar.
One evening, Yvette found herself walking into the hall, which was packed with mostly older Vikings. The sight of ale sloshing from tankards and men leering at women—both free and otherwise—filled her vision. She struggled to reconcile with the way these men treated women like mere objects or playthings, a fact that repulsed her.
"Shouldn't you be in your cabin? It's quite late for you to be out here," a familiar voice called from behind her. Yvette spun around to see Hvitserk standing there, a cup of ale in his hand and a smirk playing on his lips
"I—I just needed some food," Yvette stammered, chiding herself for the nervousness in her voice. The intensity of Hvitserk's gaze stirred a restless feeling in her stomach.
"Me too. Shall we eat together?" Hvitserk offered, extending his arm with a confident grin. Yvette hesitated, her stomach twisting at the thought of touching his ale-stained skin. But she reminded herself, Give this a try. You need to make it work. Her inner voice was right. If she was to make any attempt at making this marriage bearable, she needed to at least try to get along with her husband. Love felt impossibly out of reach—she could never bring herself to love a Heathen—but perhaps, just perhaps, she could manage to like him.
"With pleasure, Hvitserk," she said, taking his arm with a resigned yet hopeful smile.
When they sat down, an awkward silence settled between them. They ate their meals in quiet for the first few moments, the tension palpable.
Hvitserk glanced up from his food, struggling to break the silence but unsure of what to say. Finally, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
"So—um—how is your food?"
"Cold..." Yvette scrunched her nose, meeting his gaze with a touch of exasperation.
Hvitserk wasn't well-versed in polite conversation; he hadn't needed to be. As a prince and Ragnar's son, he rarely had to concern himself with such niceties. He fidgeted in his seat, then cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Y-you can have mine," he stammered, pushing his warm plate of food toward her. "Mine's warm."
Yvette was taken aback, unsure of how to respond as she glanced at the visibly uncomfortable man beside her. It was clear that this was uncharted territory for him; as a prince, he was accustomed to taking what he wanted without question.
"No, Hvitserk, please. I'm fine. This is fine," she protested.
"No, I insist." He pushed his plate toward her with a determined look. Yvette observed him and, for the first time that evening, her expression softened. She realized that Hvitserk was genuinely making an effort to establish a connection, much like she was. She pulled the plate closer and took a bite of the warm food, letting out a satisfied hum.
"Why now, Hvitserk?" she asked after swallowing the piece of meat. Hvitserk furrowed his brows, clearly puzzled by her question.
"What do you mean?" Hvitserk asked, taking a sip of his ale and pouring some more for Yvette. She thanked him with a small smile.
"Why are you talking to me now?" Yvette's voice held a hint of frustration. "It's been almost two moons, and we're supposed to be married by the end of this moon. But only now do you decide to speak to me?"
Hvitserk was momentarily speechless. "I—I—um..." He cleared his throat, trying to find the right words. "I don't... I don't want this."
"You think I do?" Yvette's tone was sharp but resigned. "Well, I don't either. But there's nothing we can do about it now. We don't have to fall in love—because I know that's impossible for me—but we could at least try to like each other. I don't want to hate you."
"I don't want to hate you either," Hvitserk said, his eyes lingering on Yvette. "You're very beautiful, Yvette. It would be a shame to hate someone such a beauty."
Yvette grinned, raising her goblet to her lips for a small sip. "Hvitserk, are you coming on to me?"
"You can't blame a man for trying," he replied with a half-smile.
A comfortable silence fell between them, punctuated by a shared laugh. For the first time since arriving in Kattegat, Yvette experienced a genuine moment of joy.
"So," Yvette said, her tone light and teasing, "before we get married, should I be aware of any lovers who might have warmed my bed before I finally settle in?"
Hvitserk's eyes went wide, and he spluttered, nearly choking on his ale. "W-what?"
Yvette tried to stifle her drunken giggles, nearly falling off her stool. Hvitserk quickly wrapped an arm around her waist, steadying her as he chuckled along with her.
As their laughter subsided, Hvitserk spoke up. "There have been plenty, but not one who's truly mattered."
Yvette smiled at him, finishing the last of her ale with a satisfied sip. She stood up from the table, her movements unsteady for a brief moment before she straightened her dress. Hvitserk rose to follow, but his own steps faltered, and he bumped into the table. It was clear now that both had drunk more than they realized, and they were both slightly tipsy.
"Good night, Hvitserk," Yvette said, her voice gentle but firm.
"L-let me walk you back," Hvitserk slurred, his words a bit jumbled.
"I can handle myself, Hvitserk. Goodnight," she replied, her tone firm yet softened by a smile.
