This chapter has been put up for anelle25!

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Ragnar stands inside the doorway, a goat kid in his arms. It is lighter than all of his sons. 'I have come to visit you one last time before we go.'

The seer sits back. 'One last time. Yes.' His words are as slow as a dead man being dragged through mud.

Ragnar comes and sits close to him. He does not care about the smell. 'Tell me. What will we find?'

'What will you not find?' The seer sighs, and it is like the air escaping from a dying cow.

'What does that mean? That I will not find anything?'

'I did not say that.'

The goat wriggles. The seer is not a talkative mood.

'What will you say then? Why don't you give me a story that will make me understand?'

The seer looks at his palms and Ragnar thinks of all of the people who have put their tongues there. All their belief in the gods, absorbed into this man's skin.

'Stories,' the seer says, making them sound like enemies that have been around so long that they are almost friends. 'So many stories. Stories come and go, they ebb and flow, never different, but no one the same. But they all start and end in darkness.' He gives a gloomy, long groan. 'All stories come to an end, Ragnar Lothbrok. Even yours.'

Ragnar tries to understand, and gives up. 'I have brought you a gift before I go, old man.'

The seer's words are like worn gravestones. 'I have no need of goats.' He sounds sad, and disgusted.

Ragnar hugs the little goat to his chest. 'It is not the goat.' He reaches behind him and pulls out the long seiðstafr, which has bronze woven into it. He has had it made especially. The seer has told him many things over the years, and some he has not understood until much later. Perhaps it will be the same this time.

The seer cradles the top of the staff in his hand, a thumb slowly rubbing over the gemstone at its centre. He hums quietly.

Ragnar ducks his head as he goes back into the bright daylight. He wonders if they have seers in West-er-os, and if they are telling the kings that strange warriors are coming. Or if they are doing the same as his seer – telling them everything and nothing at all, all at once. He scratches the goatkid's head, and it nuzzles him, licks his nose. He wraps one arm around it and begins to walk to where his brother is getting married today.

A gift, he thinks, incredulous. He would never give anyone this goat.

V*V*V*V*V*V

'I am happy for you, Sansa.' Lagertha was standing watching Helga braid Sansa's hair so tightly against her scalp that it hurt.

Sansa looked up at her, her skin still tingling from the steaming bath and cold-plunge she had been given. Lagertha was wearing a deep red dress that made Sansa think of blood and battle and beauty all at once. 'Thank you.'

'You are good for Rollo.' Lagertha's voice was like a warm breeze but as always her eyes were watchful, thoughtful.

Something had happened between them, long ago – Sansa knew that after Ragnar's outburst when he had shamed himself far more than he had shamed her. But Rollo had said then that it had been a different time, and he had been a different man. She knew how different one could be. It had only taken her most of a year.

'And he is good for me,' Sansa said.

She had lived by his bedside for weeks as he had recovered. His mind had seemed as slippery as a fish for a while, weaving between a dream-world and their own, the hemlock taking its grip on him. He had held her arm tightly and muttered of bridges and ninth worlds and, more than once, she had heard Siggy drift in a whisper from him. Sansa had watched as healers had fed him leek soup, applied iron and fire, and cut away the black parts of the wounds. His skin had been stitched as carefully as the sails of the boats.

She had killed a man. In the days that had followed, she had watched Rollo's chest rise and fall, and felt the jagged tearing of his almost-murderer's skin under Lagertha's dagger, again and again. The blood guttering in his throat as he lay half on top of her, before someone had found them. It had sent her running into a corner to vomit, more than once, as she remembered it. But she did not feel guilt. 'It had to be done,' Athelstan had said to her. 'Do not mourn for him.'

Now, Lagertha smiled at her. 'Tell me, what are the men like in West-er-os?'

Helga grinned and tugged harder at Sansa's hair. She must have needed hair to fill her pillows.

Sansa thought of many men in Westeros, imagining all of them gathered together in one place – the training ground at King's Landing, looking up at her, swords in their hands. Joffrey. Her father. Robb. King Robert. Jaime Lannister. Tyrion. The Hound. Ser Loras. 'They are different,' she said, quietly. 'And they are just the same.'

Lagertha gazed at her, before her eyes roamed over Sansa's hair. 'You look beautiful. Like Freya.'

Sansa turned to Helga for approval. Helga beamed. 'Good. And now for your eyes.'

V*V*V*V*V*V

She had been all winter, this frightened girl from her own North. Winter-cool and trembling like leaves that had their veins frozen with ice.

And now she was all summer. Skin a little darker, freckles like sand-grains, and sun-warmed blood running through her veins. Even with all the time sitting by your side. A Northwoman. Your Northwoman.

You had chosen to be married in the forest. Sansa had said she liked it there, and that it made her think of you. So now you stood in a clearing, your heart itching, Torstein pulling faces at you like an idiot, and Ragnar scratching at the bark of a tree as if there were secrets in there.

Your brother had waited for almost two cycles of the moon for your wounds to heal. Any more and it might have been too late to travel at all. There had never been a suggestion that you would not come – instead he had kept all these men and women from the other villages here, waiting. You had woken from blood-dreams to find Sansa at your side, a soft blue bruise on her face, and often Ragnar, somewhere behind her in the shadows.

She had killed a man for you. She had saved your life.

Your stomach grumbled. The worst thing had been not being able to eat without seeing it all again in a bucket an eyeblink later. Finally, perhaps, your appetite was finding its way back. It was like the return of Baldr after Ragnarok.

There was movement in the trees. Great white birds coming, except that they were not birds but her – her and Lagertha and Helga and two of her new shieldmaiden friends, and all you could see was her, and you were blinded by her, as if you had stared at Sunna too long.

Hair knotted and braided along the sides. A crown of straw and white and green flowers. Black around her eyes that made her gaze seem like the sky and water and forest and ice and a dagger in your throat all at once. Her wolf – who had slept at your side these last weeks, her own bruises healing - trotting at her heel, with her own little straw-crown.

Sansa. She looked like Lagertha, and she looked like Thorunn, and she looked like herself. A red wolfmaiden. A goddess, though she was not one. For a moment, you thought of all the girls you had had, girls and women, and how you would not be able to have any of them again. And then you blinked and she was there, in front of you properly, a careful, strong smile on her face, and those girls and women all fell into the sea or dissolved into the air. It was true. West-er-os could come to nothing and you wouldn't care.

V*V*V*V*V*V

Rollo had his hair tied back, the way Sansa liked it best, where she could see all of the woody edges of his face, and his beard had been trimmed a little. A small hammer was strung from his belt. She remembered him cloaking her once near here, on a cold winter afternoon when she had run away from the beheading, when she was still unsure of him. Then, as now, there was a wolf embroidered in leather onto his new tunic, which was just a shade darker than the oak-leaves.

Aslaug had had a dress made for her, the shade of the palest butter, with green ivy-leaves embroidered in falling trails on the skirts. Sansa thought of the dress she had worn as she stood next to Tyrion in the Great Sept, the cold-gleaming Lannister gold weighing down her shoulders. Now, she was in the colours of this land, these people – the winter snows and its long-growing greenness, held in the hushed woodland around them as she joined Rollo in the copse. He blinked slowly at her with a look that had returned as he had got better. Sombre and teasing at once, half-shadow and half-sunlight.

Everyone she knew here was gathered around them in a circle, their eyes kind. Helga joined Floki and their daughter next to a mound of large stones. Lagertha stood next to Athelstan, whose smile at Sansa was small, encouraging.

The gyðja, a woman that was known as a great healer in Kattegat, stepped forward, her face deeply lined with age and a soft, wise smile. 'Welcome,' she said, in a voice as strong as an ash tree. She held her hands out and Torstein stepped forward with a large, brown-pink sow on a leash. The pig huffed and squealed as he tried to tug her towards them, before he gave up and kicked it on the backside.

'I sacrifice this sow in the name of Freyja,' said the gyðja. 'So that she may bless this union with strength and with children.' She drew her small blade quickly across the sow's throat, and there was a dense, rapid scuffle and hoarse whining as the pig slumped to the ground.

The blood was collected in a bowl and placed on the mound of stones next to Floki, who was grinning his dark grin at them both, his arms folded. The gyðja returned with a bundle of fir-twigs, glistening with the blood she had dipped them in, and which she flung in a quick, deliberate movement at both of them.

Sansa looked down at the blood on her dress, feeling its warmth seep through to her skin. Three colours, then. White, green and red.

V*V*V*V*V*V

There was no family for you to take Sansa from. She had told you of her father's sword, a blade stronger than any other, and the name it had. Instead, the sword she gave you had a grained birch grip and brass twists that made you think of her hair. The more you looked at her, the more she looked like the finest, most beautiful weapon. The shield-blades of her shoulders and cheekbones. The metal gleam in her eye.

You hardly heard the gyðja, but said yes when you were supposed to, before Bjørn gave you Sansa's sword.

Your own parents' grave-mounds were far away. Instead, you had a new sword made for her, and not one from your family but one she could use. She was a shieldmaiden now, after all.

She took it from you, turning the slim blade over, looking at the birch-and-bone hilt, and you tried to imagine the son you might have, if the gods allowed it. Or - with Angrboda catching your eye as she wriggled in Helga's arms behind Sansa, a dab of pig's blood on either cheek – a daughter. Either would do.

'Sansa, this sword represents the sacred bond between you both.' She looked up at the gyðja, her face smooth as summer hills, and you knew you would slay a thousand men for her. 'Do you swear by the gods that you want to marry this man?'

'I swear by the gods -' she looked at you. 'By your gods and by my gods, that I want to marry you.'

Floki looked at his feet. You could hear his breath as loudly as an earthquake coming. You did not care. She had her gods, and she had yours. It did not matter.

V*V*V*V*V*V

Two rings, dangling on the tops of their swords. They were identical. Runes engraved on the outside, and the Common Tongue on the inside. They were close to the words Rollo had spoken when he had first opened his eyes, full of pain and fear, and the words she had said back. 'Remember me. I remember you. Love me. I love you.'

Sansa took Rollo's ring off the top of her sword, and placed it on his finger, repeating the words the gyðja addressed to her. He did the same, and his voice seemed surer than it had ever been.

'I have something else for you,' he said, gently enough that only she and the gyðja could hear, before pulling something out of his pocket.

Sansa looked at his palm. On it was the open-ended bracelet they called a torc, the metal as finely twisted as rope-twine. And at the ends were two sleek wolf's heads.

'For my battle-maiden,' he said.

Battle-maiden. Another flash of memory, of her first wedding, of how different she had felt then. The dull ache of terror and fury at being married to Lord Tyrion. Of everything she had endured at King's Landing.

She had begged Ragnar never to go back. And yet now – she looked to Westeros with a feeling that was very new, honed and carved like the dagger Lagertha had given her. Smooth and blood-drawing.

It would be dangerous. She might be killed. But she was not afraid.

V*V*V*V*V*V

She looked at you with fierce eyes, as if she was planning to eat you with turnips and sea-kale, but also with a different, faraway fierceness in her eyes.

'Thank you,' she said, very quietly.

'This union has been seen in the eyes of the gods,' said the gyðja in her firm voice, turning slowly so that she could address everyone in the copse. Lagertha. Floki. Torstein, who was trying to stop Ylva from gnawing on the pig's leg. Bjørn and your small nephews. 'And in your eyes. Everyone here is entrusted with keeping this man and woman safe, as much as they are with each other.'

There were nods and smiles. From almost everyone.

The gyðja turned to you both. 'Then you are now husband and wife.'

'No,' you said. 'Wait.'

V*V*V*V*V*V

Rollo's face was dark, darker than it should be now, at this moment. Sansa looked up at him.

His eyes locked tight with hers. 'I will not consider myself married until it has been blessed by Ragnar Lothbrok.' His voice was firm, and smooth as a boulder.

Ragnar had been standing holding Hvitserk in front of him, and glanced up as if he hardly been listening. 'You do not need my word for this, brother.'

Rollo gazed at him. 'I do.'

His brother stared back for a long moment, long enough that there began to be small, uncomfortable movements amongst the crowd. Then Ragnar opened up his arms and let Hvitserk fall to the ground, mostly onto his feet. He ambled up, and Sansa remembered when she had first heard that he was a king, this man who seemed sometimes like a servant, or a court fool, but who she knew was anything but.

Ragnar breathed in, a breath that went to his chest, his shoulders, and finally to his lips, tugging them upwards. 'Fine. I give you my blessing.' The words sent out quickly, lightly.

Sansa put her hands on both of his cheeks, and kissed him, very close to his mouth. 'Thank you, Ragnar.'

He raised his eyebrows, looking like he was savouring a wine or a new-brewed ale, before suddenly making his eyes wide. He slammed a hand against his heart, with a tiny gasp.

Rollo shook his head at him, his eyes rolling. Sansa bit her lip.

Ragnar's eyes became crushed, softening ice. They flickered up to Rollo. 'You should kiss that brother now, I think.'

And he walked away, into the trees, as she did just that.

V*V*V*V*V*V

'I'm sorry we are missing our moonful of honey.'

'Honey-moon,' you said, grinning, as you half-carried her back to your house. Not every word in your language was quite right, yet. Or maybe she had just forgotten, the words drowned in that pool of mead in her stomach. It was still hard for you to drink, though you had eaten as much of the pig as you could without feeling like it would emerge from your stitches. It had been a fine feast, if rather shorter than a usual wedding. But then, there were more important things to be doing. Ragnar had waited long enough. 'Anyway, I think you have managed enough mead for a while.'

She hummed and leant closer into you, before putting her hand on the door.

'Wait, raf refr.' You tugged her back towards you. Her face was smeared with the same blood that yours was. Blood-twins.

'Are you always going to call me that?' A nightdream-voice.

Your lips close to her ear. 'Don't you like it?'

'Yes. I like it.' She said something very slowly in her own tongue, sounding like she was already asleep. Maybe the same words. Amber fox.

'Then I will always call you it. From now until my last breath in this realm.' And you scooped her up into your arms, even though it felt like both of your wounds would open again. 'Or any realm.'

'Wait -' she said, her voice drifting. Her hand flopped down, a finger to the floor to where Ylva was standing, blinking up at you both.

You sighed. 'What was I thinking.' Carefully, still holding Sansa, you crouched down enough so that Ylva could jump into Sansa's arms, before stretching back up, kicking your door open, and walking your raf refr and her little wolf over your doorway, past the spirits, who gathered round the three of you, whispering and laughing and threatening, as spirits always did, dark and light wound together as tightly as a braid.

V*V*V*V*V*V

'I don't want you to leave.'

Aslaug's cheek is on Ragnar's chest. It has not always been easy between the two of them, but it is always like this at these moments, pressed together like two leaves in clasped hands.

'You won't come back,' she says.

He walks his fingers up her arm. 'I always come back.'

'You won't. Not this time.' So sure. She has always been right. His snake-eyed son. Ivar.

'I have sons to see.' He wonders about Bjørn, who will never marry Sansa now. Perhaps there are women in West-er-os he could marry. Perhaps there are more like her. She said her sister might be alive -

'And a wife,' she says.

He is already thinking of the sea, of the new land at the other side of it. Of great houses and the tall walls Sansa has spoken of. Rich people in strange clothes, fear and wonder in their faces. 'And a wife.'

A sigh like a gust of wind on the other side of the mountain. 'Please be careful.'

He pulls at her so that she rises from his chest, brings her eyes, heavy with slanting rainclouds, to his. 'When has being careful ever got a Northman anywhere?'

V*V*V*V*V*V

Boats. Sansa was thinking of boats again.

She had come here on a boat that had been smashed to pieces. Everyone had died. She had slept in the water, dreamt in the water. It could only their gods, Odin and Aegir and Freyja, who had brought her here, to this place, which was her old North and her new North. Her home. She was fated. They had meant her to live in Kattegat, to be with these people, to be with this one person, who was behind her again now, in front of her, against her.

Her head was rolling, her body rolling, and she was tired and happy and wanting to cry all at once. His mouth on all of her at once, which was impossible.

'Rollo,' she said, and he looked up, and stilled his fingers. 'I'm drowning.'

'Then so am I,' he said back, his voice disappearing into her throat.

And they moved together again, the boat rocking, as it would tomorrow, when they all set sail on Floki's boats, when she would stand with him on the prow, facing west, when they put themselves in the hands of the gods.

V*V*V*V*V*V

THE END

OK! So here I divulge that this all went up on the Archive of Our Own site a while ago, and that the NOT ONE BUT TWO epilogues can be found on there! Go to /works/2741813/chapters/8986138

The reason is because it's impossible to format my first epilogue on , for reasons that you'll see!

I would love to know what you thought of the epilogues and indeed the whole thing, and if you can't comment on Ao3, do leave me a review on here! Thanks for all the follows... PLUS there's a follow-up which you can either read on Ao3 or I'll start putting it up here.

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NOTES:

I have played fast and loose with wedding traditions. In truth, most weddings were contracts between families, the woman was owned, and – FUCK that shit! This is fanfic, and the show-Vikings are all modern about it, and – yeah. Can't do it. Haha.