❝ Harald holds a shooting competition for the hand of his niece, the reader. When the Ragnarssons show up, there's trouble. ❞
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Halfdan was in no real rush to marry off his daughter.
But Harald, who was like your other father, thought this competition would broaden your horizons. It would give you a peek at all the fine male possibilities, he said. Not that his brother knew so much about love and women but he could agree that his daughter needed to explore her possibilities.
Your thralls pull your dress tight, lacing the cincher of your waist with enough force to cause you to stutter forward. In order to stabilize yourself, you grab Halfdan's biceps and look back to Harald.
"Uncle–" you cough, squeaking a bit when the women pull away. They move to afix the gloves you use for archery to your arms. "Is competition really necessary?"
In some places, a woman could not pick up a sword on her own accord. You were so lucky that here in Vestfold, Harald wanted his women prepared. Likewise with his men. It isn't that you don't enjoy archery, but this whole feasting and feting seems like a competition for your hand. Harald walks behind you, setting a circlet of gold upon your head. Melted from English gold, it's a divine and ironic piece set with pearl and fit for a princess.
"Did Ragnar Lothbrok shy away from competition?" Harald says, laughing in your admiration for the king– and his sons. The best of his sons to you was the young Hvitserk, who could never fail to make you laugh when Ubbe and he drank and drank until one fell off the oak bench and onto the ground.
"Of course not." You answer your uncle.
Halfdan holds out his hand and waits for you to take it. "Then we shouldn't, either."
You take your father's hand, following him on fine leather shoes. Your fathers show you toward the Great Hall, where resplendent in your finery, you sit upon the throne meant for a queen. The chair was never taken by anyone significant to your family.
The hall buzzes with the presence of foreigners from all over Norway. Men old gather there with their sons, young ambitious men who likely had less concern for you as a princess and more concern over the potential prize. Your uncle Harald, though he be like a father, was a king. One without heirs.
"Are we sure about this?" You turn into your father. Halfdan leans in, his tattooed face crinkling when his brother began to boom: welcome, friends! Surely then, this was what his brother wanted.
"Let him have his fun," Halfdan reassures you with his usual certainty, shifting your braid so that it might rest down your chest.
"As you know, my treasure (Y/N) has not married! We have, er–, lets say, high expectations for my niece. She is after all our only. And we love her." Harald bellows, turning back to you for your usual nod of encouragement. "But we have chosen to host an archery competition for the right to vy for her hand!"
