Epilogue
Isle of Mull, one month later
The great hall smelled of roasted venison, spilled mead, and the particular chaos that followed any gathering where Ivar played host.
Ragnar leaned back in his chair at the high table and watched his blood brothers.
Erik sat rigid at the far end, enduring Claricia’s attempts to get him to clap along to the music while young Thor—who’d grown alarmingly since Ragnar last saw him—stood on his mother’s lap, waving a wooden sword at the musicians with murderous intent.
Magnus was cradling baby Astrid while Ada laughed at something one of Ivar’s warriors had said.
Harald and Enya occupied the bench nearest the hearth, their newborn son sleeping against Harald’s broad chest.
And Ivar held court at the center of it all, his black eyes bright with ale and self-congratulation, regaling anyone who’d listen to his account of the battle at Mingary—a version that grew more elaborate with each telling.
“—there I was, coverin’ Ragnar’s flank—which, by the way, is roughly the size of a barn door, so nay small task—
“Ye covered me fer about three seconds before ye got distracted,” Ragnar said mildly.
“I was strategically redeployin’.”
“Ye were showin’ off.”
“Same thing.” Ivar drained his cup. “The point is, Douglas’s man came at me from the left—massive brute, face like a collapsed rockfall—and I turned, ducked beneath his swing, and—”
“Tripped over a dead man’s foot and fell on yer arse,” Freyr supplied from behind Ragnar’s chair.
“I recovered gracefully.”
“Ye screamed like a wee lass.”
“‘Twas a battle cry!”
The hall erupted in laughter, and Ragnar felt Isolda shake beside him, her hand pressed over her mouth. He glanced at her sideways.
Her hand found his beneath the table. Small fingers threaded through his, squeezing once, and the contact sent warmth spreading through his chest.
Mine.
The word still struck him breathless. Not with possession, but with wonder—that this fierce, sharp-tongued, impossibly brave woman had chosen him. Not because a king demanded it. Not because duty compelled her. But because she wanted to.
“Ye’re starin’ again,” she murmured without looking at him.
“Memorizin’.”
“Ye’ve memorized me plenty.”
“Havenae finished yet.”
Her mouth curved, and she squeezed his hand harder.
Then, the hall doors groaned open and a rider entered—wind-chapped and travel-worn, wearing the King’s seal beneath a cloak stiff with sea spray. He approached the high table, bowed, and held out a sealed parchment. “Fer the assembled jarls of the Western Isles. From His Majesty, King Alexander.”
Ragnar straightened. Beside him, Isolda’s fingers tightened.
Ivar remained slouched in his chair, his cup dangling from two fingers. But his black eyes tracked the parchment with the focused attention of a man who already suspected what it contained. He nodded to Ragnar who took it and broke the seal.
“The King sends his congratulations on our victory over Douglas Graham. The Pact stands stronger fer it, and the Crown recognizes the sacrifice and loyalty of its jarls.” Ragnar paused, letting the formal phrasing settle.
“He also writes that the final union decreed under the Laird’s Pact is tae proceed without further delay. ”
Ragnar looked up and met Ivar’s gaze across the table. Something passed between them—an acknowledgement, perhaps, or a condolence.
Every eye in the hall swiveled toward Ivar.
The Raven sat perfectly still for three full heartbeats. Then he set his cup on the table with exaggerated care, folded his hands, and said, “I’m sorry, I seem tae have gone temporarily deaf. Could ye repeat—”
“Ye’re gettin’ married, Ivar.” Magnus said flatly.
“Nay.”
“Aye.”
“Nay.”
“The King’s named the bride,” Ragnar continued, scanning the rest of the letter. “Lady Matilda MacInnes, daughter of Laird MacInnes of Strathearn.”
“I dinnae ken who that is and I refuse tae find out.”
Claricia made a sound that could have been sympathy or barely contained delight. “Och, Ivar. We’ve all been through it. Ye’ll survive.”
“Survive?” Ivar was on his feet now, gesturing with the theatrical despair of a man being marched to the gallows. “This is the end of everythin’ I hold dear! Me freedom! Me peace! Me ability tae eat supper without someone correctin’ me manners!”
“Ye dinnae have any manners,” Erik observed.
“Exactly! And I’d like tae keep it that way!”
Ada leaned toward Isolda. “He’s takin’ it better than I expected.”
“Is he?” Isolda whispered back, watching as Ivar paced, raking both hands through his dark hair. “A MacInnes. Dae ye ken what the MacInnes are like? They’re…” he turned to Harald, desperate. “Tell them!”
Harald blinked, then shrugged his massive shoulders. “I dinnae ken any MacInnes.”
“Unhelpful! Ye’re all unhelpful!”
Ragnar set the letter down.
Isolda leaned into his shoulder, warm and solid and real. “Poor Ivar. I think his mind’s gone.”
“He’ll be fine. He’s dramatic, nae fragile.”
“The two arenae mutually exclusive.”
Ragnar’s mouth curved. He turned his head and pressed his lips to her temple, breathing her in. “I love ye,” he said against her hair. Quiet enough that the words belonged only to them.
She tilted her face up, those gray-green eyes soft in the firelight. “I love ye too, ye great broodin’ stag.”
Behind them, Ivar’s voice rose to new heights of desperation. “That’s it, I’m goin’.”
“Where tae exactly?” Ada asked.
“The edge of the world if I must!”
“There is nay edge, Ivar,” Erik said wearily. “‘Tis round.”
“Since when?”
The hall dissolved into laughter and argument and the easy, raucous warmth of family that had been forged in blood and sealed in something stronger.
Ragnar laced his fingers through Isolda’s and held on.
But there’s more…
With Ragnar’s union sealed, all eyes turn to Ivar Gunnarsson—only to learn his bride refuses him, defying crown and custom alike. The king’s command is clear—persuade her family, or the Pact fails.