Chapter Text
The storm broke over Oslo with the fury of a forgotten god, wind howling through the fjords like a tormented spirit. Rain, thick and cold as seawater, lashed against the ancient stone of the great hall. Inside, fires blazed in pits along the length of the chamber, casting long, dancing shadows that made the carvings of sea serpents and longships seem to writhe on the dark wooden pillars. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat, spilled ale, and wet wool.
Jude Bellingham, Prince of England, sat on a raised bench at the high table, a position of honor that felt more like a gilded cage. The sheer, visceral energy of the Norse feasting hall was a world away from the measured, courtly elegance of Westminster. Here, men laughed with their whole chests, their voices a deep, resonant thunder that vibrated through the floorboards. They slammed heavy tankards onto the tables, boasting of raids and conquests, their faces illuminated by the firelight into masks of raw pride and ambition.
He felt like a nightingale in a den of wolves. A very small, very English nightingale. His own tunic of fine blue wool, embroidered with the white rose of his house, seemed ridiculously delicate amidst the coarse furs and worn leather of the Northmen. The omega in him, a trait he had been taught from birth to master and conceal, was screaming. It was a frantic fluttering beneath his ribs, a primal response to the overwhelming presence of so many alphas. Their scents were a physical assault: pine, steel, cold sea salt, and beneath it all, the sharp, demanding musk of dominance.
Every instinct screamed at him to shrink, to make himself small and unassuming. Instead, he forced himself to sit straight, his hands folded calmly in his lap, his expression a carefully constructed mask of polite indifference. He was a prince. He was here for a treaty, a political alliance brokered by necessity. His father, the King, had called it a “necessary step toward lasting peace.” Jude called it a sacrifice.
“This English ale is like horse piss!”
The roar came from down the table, followed by a wave of crude laughter. Jude didn’t flinch. He simply took a small, measured sip of the wine that had been provided for him, a deep red vintage from his homeland. The glass was cool and smooth against his fingertips, a small anchor in the chaos.
He was here to be wed, or more accurately, to be offered. The treaty hinged on a union between the English royal line and the most powerful clan in the North. The Snow Wolves clan. And its leader.
Erling Haaland.
The name itself had become a legend, told in whispers along the Saxon coast and in fear-filled prayers in the monasteries they'd raided. The Viking Chieftain. The Beast of the North. A warrior of prodigious strength and cunning, who had united the warring factions of Norway under his iron fist. They said he was as tall as a pine tree and as strong as a bear, that he could fell a man with a single blow of his axe. They said he was merciless.
They hadn’t said anything about his eyes.
Jude risked a glance, a subtle shift of his gaze, to the head of the table. Erling Haaland sat on a throne carved from the tusks of some great sea monster, a monstrosity of bone and polished wood. He was, indeed, immense. Broad-shouldered and long-limbed, he dwarfed the massive warriors seated around him. His hair was the color of winter wheat, falling in a thick braid over one shoulder. He wore a simple tunic of dark leather over a linen shirt, the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and crisscrossed with faint, silvery scars.
But it was his eyes that held Jude captive. They were a pale, startling blue, the color of glacial ice, and they missed nothing. They scanned the hall with a cool, intelligent predator's focus, taking in every jest, every movement. And for the last hour, Jude had felt those eyes on him. Not with the crude, assessing curiosity of the other warriors, but with a different kind of intensity. It was a measured, analytical gaze, as if the chieftain were dismantling him piece by piece, examining each fragment before carefully placing it back together.
A servant approached, refilling Jude’s wine goblet. The young man was small and nervous, his hands trembling. As he leaned over, a larger, drunker warrior at a nearby table reached out and slapped him hard on the backside, causing him to stumble and splash a few drops of wine onto the polished wood of the high table.
“Clumsy whelp!” the warrior bellowed, laughing.
The servant paled, stammering an apology, terror in his eyes. Before the warrior could grab him again, a low voice cut through the din. It wasn’t loud, but it carried with it an undeniable authority that silenced the men nearby.
“Håkan.”
That was all. Just the name. But the warrior, Håkan,froze. He slowly turned his head toward the head of the table.
Erling hadn’t moved. He still held his drinking horn, but his gaze was fixed on Håkan, his expression unreadable. The temperature in their immediate vicinity seemed to drop. The pale blue eyes were flat, devoid of any emotion except a cold promise of violence.
Håkan’s bravado evaporated. He mumbled something, bowed his head, and turned back to his own drink, conspicuously avoiding looking at the servant again.
Jude watched, his heart thudding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. This wasn't the mindless cruelty he’d been led to expect. It was control. Absolute and terrifying. Erling hadn’t needed to shout, to threaten, to brandish his weapon. His power was a given, an unshakeable fact of this world, like the mountains or the sea.
And then, those ice blue eyes shifted, settling once more on Jude.
This time, Jude didn’t look away. He held the gaze, forcing himself to meet it head on. The connection stretched, taut as a bowstring, across the length of the table.
The noise of the feast faded into a dull roar, the crackling of the fire a distant whisper. All Jude could see was Erling. The alpha's scent finally reached him, cutting through everything else. It wasn’t the harsh, aggressive musk of the others. It was clean and wild, like a snow-covered forest at dawn, with an underlying current of something else... something dark and rich, like freshly tilled earth after a thunderstorm. It was the scent of pure, unadulterated alpha, but there was a complexity to it that was unnervingly compelling.
The alpha gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t a dismissal. It was an acknowledgement. As if to say, I see you. And you are not like the rest.
Jude felt a strange, unwelcome warmth spread through his chest, a dangerous reaction to the proximity of such overwhelming power. He finally broke the gaze, looking down into the deep red of his wine, his fingers tightening on the goblet.
He had come to the land of wolves expecting to be devoured. He was just beginning to realize that the true danger wasn’t being torn apart by a savage beast. It was the possibility of being caught and held by a patient and cunning one.
—
The treaty was laid out on the heavy oak table the next morning. The great hall was empty now, the fires banked, the floor still scattered with the debris of the feast. The morning light, pale and weak, filtered through the high, narrow windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The atmosphere was no less oppressive, but in a different way - a quiet, tense solemnity had replaced the previous night's raucous energy.
Jude stood beside his father’s emissary, Lord Albright, a stern, humorless man who smelled of old books and faint disapproval. They were facing Erling Haaland and his own advisor, a grizzled, one-eyed man named Björn Ironside, who looked as if he had been carved from the same granite as the mountains surrounding the fjord.
“Clause seven,” Lord Albright said, his thin voice crisp in the vast space. “Regarding the union. The Prince of England, Jude, an omega of the royal bloodline, shall enter into a marriage bond with the Chieftain of the Snow Wolves clan. This union will cement the alliance and guarantee mutual non-aggression for a period of no less than twenty years. The children of this union shall be recognized as heirs to both the English throne and the leadership of the Snow Wolves clan.”
Jude stared at the table, at the complex knotwork of seals and signatures on the parchment. He was a clause. A bargaining chip. He had known it, of course, but hearing it stated so baldly, so transactionally, made a bitter taste rise in his throat.
“The terms are acceptable,” Björn grunted, his voice like stones grinding together. “The Haaland line is strong. It will not be diluted by Saxon blood.”
Lord Albright’s jaw tightened. “The Saxon line is one of the oldest. Your chief would do well to remember it.”
“And your prince would do well to remember he is a guest in a house built by stronger men,” Björn retorted.
“Gentlemen.”
Erling’s voice was quiet, yet it silenced them both instantly. He hadn't been looking at the treaty. He had been watching Jude. The same intense, unnerving focus as the night before.
“The terms are acceptable,” Erling repeated, his gaze still on the omega. “My agreement is given.”
A small, cold knot of dread tightened in Jude’s stomach. It was done. His fate was sealed.
“The wedding will take place on the morn of the next full moon, in four weeks’ time,” Lord Albright stated, as if confirming the delivery of a shipment of grain.
“That will allow Prince Jude to return to England for his trousseau and for the proper preparations to be made,” this was the part they had rehearsed. Jude’s escape, however temporary. A final month of home before a life sentence in the frozen north.
“No.”
The single word from Erling was not loud, but it landed in the hall with the force of a thrown axe. Both Albright and Björn stared at him.
“No?”Albright repeated, aghast. “My Lord Chieftain, the arrangements are standard. The prince must have-“
“He will remain here,” Erling interrupted, finally turning his gaze to the English emissary. “In my hall. The marriage will take place in four weeks. Here.”
The insolence of it, the sheer, unvarnished arrogance, stole Jude’s breath. To refuse a prince of England his own land for his own wedding preparations? It was an insult of the highest order.
Lord Albright’s face had gone purple. “This is an outrage! You dare to-“
“I dare to ensure my future mate does not vanish back across the sea,” Erling said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. His eyes flicked back to Jude, and for the first time, Jude saw something other than cool assessment in them.
It was a spark of possessiveness, a raw, primal claim. “He will stay. He will be treated as an honored guest. He will want for nothing. But he will stay. The treaty is not negotiable on this point.”
He was a possession to be secured. Not a partner, not a prince, but a prize that might be snatched away. The omega in Jude whimpered, a silent, internal sound of despair. But another part of him, a part he hated and refused to name, felt a dark, forbidden thrill at the Alpha's absolute certainty. There was no doubt in Erling. No hesitation. He had decided Jude was his and that was the end of it .
Albright sputtered, but he was a diplomat, not a warrior. He knew when he was beaten. “Very... very well, Chieftain. The Prince will remain.”
Erling gave a curt nod of dismissal. The meeting was over.
As Jude turned to leave, Erling spoke again. “Prince Jude. A word.”
Jude stopped, his heart leaping into his throat. He gave a slight, stiff bow to Lord Albright, who shot him a look of mingled pity and warning, before leaving him alone in the cavernous hall with the Viking chieftain and his grim advisor.
The heavy oak door closed, plunging them into a deeper, more intimate silence, broken only by the crackle of the dying embers in the fire pits.
Erling stepped down from the dais. The space between them shrank with every step he took, and the air grew thick, charged with the alpha’s potent scent. Up close, it was even more intoxicating. Jude felt a dizzying pull, a biological urge to submit that he fought with every fiber of his being. He kept his chin up, his eyes fixed on a point just over the Viking’s shoulder.
“They do not understand you,” Erling said, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through Jude's bones.
Jude blinked. “My lord?”
“The emissary,” Erling clarified, stopping a mere foot away. He was so tall Jude had to tilt his head back to meet his gaze. “He sees your title, your bloodline. He sees a fragile omega to be protected or traded. He does not see what I see.”
The statement hung in the air, a challenge and a revelation. “And what is that, my lord?” Jude asked, his voice barely a whisper, betraying the calm he was trying to project.
A ghost of a smile touched Erling's lips, a subtle curving that transformed his severe face into something devastatingly handsome.
“Fire. You sit there like a carved ice statue, but inside, you are burning. You watch everything. You miss nothing. That is not the way of a court omega. That is the way of a survivor.”
Jude was speechless. No one had ever seen past his carefully constructed facade. Not even his own father. He had been praised for his obedience, his placid nature, his ability to be unobtrusive. Erling saw none of that. He saw the rebellion, the tightly coiled resentment, the mind that worked behind the placid eyes.
“I do not know what you mean,” Jude lied, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
Erling took another half-step closer, crowding him, invading his space. He lifted a hand, and Jude flinched, a fullbody tremor he couldn’t suppress. But the alpha didn't strike him. He didn’t grab him. He gently, so gently, brushed Jude’s cheekbone. His knuckles were rough, calloused from a lifetime of holding a sword and an axe, but his touch was surprisingly light, sending a jolt of pure electricity through Jude’s body.
“Yes, you do,” Erling murmured, his gaze dropping to Jude’s lips.
“You will be my mate, little prince. My queen. You will bear my children and stand at my side. But you will not be a prisoner in this hall. You will be my partner. I do not break my treasures. I polish them until they shine.”
He let his hand fall away, and the sudden loss of contact was a physical ache. Jude's breath came in ragged gasps. His mind was reeling. This wasn’t the savage he had been taught to fear. This was a man who spoke of polishing treasures, a man who saw fire in a prince the world saw as ice.
“I... I have duties. To England,” Jude stammered, grasping for some semblance of control.
“Your duty is now here,” Erling said, his tone firm but not cruel. “With me. But you will not be idle. I will show you my lands. My people. You will learn our ways. You will learn to rule at my side. Not as an ornament but as my consort.”
He turned then, and walked over to the massive doors, pushing one open just enough to call out. A moment later, a young woman with braided red hair and a serious face entered. She was dressed simply but carried herself with an air of quiet authority.
“This is Astrid,” Erling said, gesturing to her. “She will be your personal attendant. She will see to your needs, answer your questions, and ensure you are not... bothered by those with less sense than the gods gave a goose.”
Astrid gave Jude a brief, respectful nod. “My prince “
Erling looked at Jude, a silent command in his eyes. “Astrid will take you to your chambers. They are in the eastern wing of the hall, the most private rooms. Rest. Dine. We will speak again at sunset.”
It was a dismissal. There was no arguing. Jude, feeling dazed and off-balance, could only give a stiff, jerky nod. He followed Astrid out of the great hall, away from the alpha whose scent was already imprinted on his skin, whose words had unraveled him in a way no weapon ever could.
The chambers were nothing like he’d expected.The room was large and airy, with a real bed - not a pile of furs, but a proper wooden frame with a mattress stuffed with straw and feathers, covered in clean linen. A thick, woven rug in intricate patterns covered the wooden floor, and heavy, dark red curtains hung at the windows.
A fire was already crackling in a small stone hearth, pushing back the chill of the Norwegian afternoon. On a small table by the bed sat a basin of water, a pitcher, and a goblet of wine, alongside a plate of bread, cheese, and roasted apples.
…It was comfortable. Considerate.
“This is your room, my prince,” Astrid said, her voice calm and steady. “My own is just across the passage. If you need anything, you have only to call.”
Jude turned to her, searching her face. “Why?” he asked, the question bursting out of him. “Why is he doing this?”
Astrid’s expression softened slightly. “The Chieftain is a man who values what is rare,” she said, her words chosen with care. “He has seen countless omegas, eager and pliant. He has never seen one like you. You do not bow your head. You do not simper. You watch and think. He finds that valuable. He does not want a pet, my prince. “
She left him then, closing the door softly behind her. Jude stood in the center of the room, the silence roaring in his ears.
He walked to the window and pushed aside the heavy curtain. Outside, the fjord was a sheet of grey steel, ringed by mountains capped with snow that seemed to touch the bruised purple sky. It was a wild, beautiful, and terrifying landscape.
He thought of Erling's words. You are burning.I do not break my treasures. I polish them until they shine.
The foundations of his world, carefully constructed over twenty years of training and duty, were cracking. He had been prepared for brutality, for a life of silent endurance in the bed of a savage. He had not been prepared for this. For a courtship. A slow, deliberate, and terrifyingly perceptive courtship by the most powerful alpha in the North.
—
True to his word, Erling came to him at sunset. He didn’t knock, he simply opened the door and walked in, as if the room were already his. He had changed from his leather tunic into a simple linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and dark trousers tucked into worn leather boots. He looked less like a fearsome chieftain and more like what he was: a man in his own home.
Jude was standing by the fire, having barely touched the food Astrid had brought. He tensed as Erling entered, every nerve ending alight.
“Are the rooms to your liking?” Erling asked, his voice filling the small space.
“They are more than adequate, my lord,” Jude replied, keeping his back to him for a moment longer before forcing himself to turn.
“Good.” Erling walked further into the room, stopping by the small table. He picked up an apple, turning it over in his large hand. “You did not eat.”
“I was not hungry,” Jude said. It was a lie. His stomach was a tight knot of anxiety and confusion.
Erling took a bite of the apple, the crunch unnaturally loud in the quiet room. He chewed slowly, his pale eyes fixed on Jude. “You will eat, little prince. I will not have my mate fading away before I have had the chance to know him.”
The possessiveness was back, but it was different now. It was less a claim of ownership and more a statement of fact. You are my mate, and therefore, I will care for you.
“I am not yours yet,” Jude dared to say, a spark of the fire Erling had seen in him flaring to life. A slow smile spread across Erling’s face.
“No. Not yet. But you will be. The bond is already forming. You feel it, too.”
He wasn’t asking. He was stating a truth that Jude couldn’t deny, though he desperately wanted to. He did feel it. A pull, a strange magnetic hum beneath his skin that seemed to draw him toward the alpha. An instinct that screamed safe and mine in direct opposition to every rational thought in his head.
Erling finished the apple and tossed the core into the fire. “Walk with me.”
“It’s late. And cold,” Jude protested weakly.
“The cold does not bother me,” Erling said. “And I will keep you warm. There is something I want to show you.”
There was no room for refusal. Erling held out a hand. Not a command, but an invitation. Jude hesitated for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the outstretched palm. It was a test. He knew it was a test. To take his hand would be to accept, on some level, this new reality. To refuse would be an act of defiance, of rebellion.
Slowly, reluctantly, he placed his own smaller hand in Erling’s. The alpha’s grip closed around his, firm and warm, engulfing him completely.
A shiver, wholly unrelated to the cold, traced a path down Jude’s spine. Erling led him from the room, down a dimly lit wooden corridor, and out a small side door into the encroaching night.
The air was crisp and biting, carrying the scent of pine and snow. The sun had set, but a brilliant canopy of stars, sharper and clearer than Jude had ever seen in England, illuminated the landscape. Erling guided him not toward the fjord, but up a narrow, winding path that led up the slope behind the great hall. The path was rocky and uneven, but Erling’s grip on his hand was steady, a secure anchor in the darkness. With his other hand, Erling had unhooked a small horn lantern from the wall, its flickering light casting long, dancing shadows.
They walked in silence for a while, the only sounds the crunch of their boots on the gravelly path and the whisper of the wind through the trees. Jude found himself relaxing, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he focused on the simple act of walking, on the solid warmth of the hand holding his.
The path opened up onto a small, flat clearing, a natural balcony carved into the mountainside. Below them, the great hall was a pool of warm light, and beyond it, the fjord was a ribbon of black ink under the starlight.
“This is my favorite place,” Erling said, his voice soft. “When the noise of the hall becomes too much, I come here to remember what I am fighting for.”
He let go of Jude’s hand to gesture at the sprawling view. “You see that valley?” He pointed toward a dark gash between two distant peaks. “My father’s farm was there. A small holding. Sheep, a few fields of barley. I was the youngest of five sons. Nothing was expected of me except to work the land and maybe, if I was lucky, marry the daughter of a neighboring farmer.”
Jude listened, stunned. This was not the story of a born conqueror. This was the story of a man.
“Then the raiders came from the east,” Erling continued, his tone flat, devoid of emotion. “Not like us. Not for plunder or glory. They burned everything. Killed everyone. I was in the hills, hunting. I came back to nothing. Just smoke and death.”
He was silent for a long moment, staring out at the valley that held so much pain. Jude could feel the echoes of it, a phantom chill that had nothing to do with the night air.
“So I fought,” Erling said, turning to look at Jude, his pale eyes stark in the lantern light.
“I fought for revenge. Then I fought for survival. Then I fought for the men who had nothing left but their hatred. I united them, gave them a purpose. We took back our lands. We built a new clan from the ashes of the old. We became the wolves we were called, because it was the only way to survive.”
He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “I have spent my life building, fighting, killing. I have forged a peace from blood and iron. And now, I am expected to secure it with a marriage.”
He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the line of Jude’s jaw. The touch was electric, a jolt that went straight to Jude’s core. “They brought me lists of the most beautiful, most fertile omegas in the North. Pliant girls with sweet smiles and empty heads. I sent them all away. I did not want a pretty broodmare. I wanted what I have always wanted: a partner. An equal. Someone who understands what it is to build something from nothing.”
His thumb brushed over Jude’s lower lip, a feather-light caress that made Jude's breath hitch. “I watched you in the hall last night. You sat there, surrounded by enemies, and you did not break. You watched. You listened. You were a fortress of one. And I knew. I knew that was what I wanted. Not just a treaty, not just an alliance. You.”
The raw honesty of it, the complete stripping away of all pretense, left Jude defenseless. He had been prepared for lust, for domination, for cruelty. He had not been prepared for this. This vulnerable, powerful confession from a man who held the fate of two nations in his hands.
“Why?” Jude asked, his voice trembling. “Why tell me this?”
“Because you need to understand,” Erling murmured, his face so close Jude could feel the warmth of his breath. “This bond between us, it will not be a chain. It will be a foundation. I will be your alpha, your husband, the father of your children. But I will also be your shield. And I expect you to be mine. I will trust you with my life, Jude Bellingham. I am asking you to trust me with yours.”
His name, spoken on his lips for the first time, was a physical blow. It was intimate, personal. It was the sound of walls crumbling.
Jude couldn't speak. His throat was thick with an emotion he couldn't name. He could only nod, a small, jerky movement of his head.
Erling’s gaze softened. He leaned in and pressed his lips to Jude's forehead.
It wasn't a kiss of passion, but of benediction. A seal. A promise.
“Good,” he whispered against Jude’s skin. “Now, let us return. The night grows cold.”
He took Jude’s hand again, and this time, Jude’s fingers curled around his, a tentative, willing acceptance. The walk back down the path was different. The silence was no longer tense, but companionable. The darkness felt less like a threat and more like a cloak. When they reached the door to Jude’s chamber, Erling paused.
“Rest,” he said, his thumb stroking the back of Jude’s hand. “Tomorrow, I will show you the village. My people.”
He released him and stepped back. “One more thing, little prince.”
Jude looked up at him, captured by those ice blue eyes.
“Erling,” the alpha said. “My name is Erling. I want you to use it.”