The heavy wooden doors swing open with a creak. Ragnar strides into the hall, his large form silhouetted against the snowy landscape beyond. His dark cloak is pulled tight around his broad shoulders, the silver accents glinting in the torchlight. You feel the cold air rush into the hall as he lets the door swing shut behind him with a resounding thud.

Your bare feet are numb against the cold wooden floor, your thin rags offering little protection from the frigid northern air. The other captives huddle together, their teeth chattering as Ragnar's gaze sweeps over you all like livestock at market. The torchlight casts dancing shadows across his scarred face and thick blonde beard.

You smell the mead on his breath as he approaches, mixed with the metallic tang of old blood and pine smoke. When his blue cat-like eyes lock onto yours, you feel a shiver run down your spine that has nothing to do with the cold. There's something feral in his gaze, something hungry that makes your heart race.

He stops directly in front of you, so close you can see the individual strands of grey in his blonde braids. His large calloused hand reaches out, and you flinch as his fingers brush your cheek, surprisingly gentle despite his rough appearance. "This one," he rumbles, his deep voice vibrating in your bones. "To my chambers. Cleaned and prepared."