The townhouse hall felt smaller the moment Jagna stepped inside, like the walls were closing in, thick with the stink of burning pine logs, sour mead breath, and barely contained rage. The fire snapped loud in the hearth, throwing jagged orange light across every face turned toward him.
His mother reached him first—fast, desperate. Her fingers dug into his bicep hard enough to bruise a lesser man. "Jagna—come. Now." Her voice cracked on the last word, eyes wild with shame and fear. She yanked him forward through the crowd until his boots stopped right in front of the high seat.
Earl Haraldson sat there like a toad on a throne, belly spilling over his belt, gold rings glinting as his fat hands gripped the carved armrests. His small eyes were narrowed to slits.
Rogthar stood to the Jarl's right—shoulders squared, fists clenched at his sides so tight the knuckles showed white through the skin. The veins in his neck throbbed. He didn't look at his son with pride anymore. Only fury. Pure, father-to-son betrayal fury.
Jagna let his gaze sweep the room slow, deliberate.
There—near the side wall—Bryna.
Thirty-nine, brunette waves tumbling loose over her shoulders, full lips painted the color of dark berries, body poured into a deep burgundy dress that hugged every curve: heavy tits straining the laces, wide hips that swayed when she walked, thick ass that had felt his hands gripping it last night while he fucked her raw. Her neck still carried his marks—finger-shaped bruises, bite marks turning purple. She stood with her chin up, green eyes locked on him, chest rising fast. No tears. No shame. Just heat.
Right beside her: Berag.
The drunk fuck looked like he'd been dragged through Hel. Face a swollen ruin—left cheek ballooned black and purple, bottom lip split open and crusted, right eye puffed almost shut. Blood had dried in dark streaks down his chin and onto his stained tunic. He leaned hard on a thick staff, trembling, breath coming in wet rasps. Every few seconds his good eye flicked to Jagna with murder.
The hall was packed tighter than Jagna remembered—uncles, cousins, neighbors, a few shield-maidens leaning against pillars with arms crossed. All silent now. Waiting.
The Jarl spoke first, voice booming off the rafters. "Jagna, son of Rogthar. Two nights past, you were caught in Berag's barn. With his wife. Berag tried to stop you. You beat him near to death. Then you mounted her—right there, in the straw, while he lay bleeding and watching."
A low growl rolled through some of the older men.
Rogthar stepped forward, voice shaking with barely held rage. "You shamed our bloodline. You took another man's wife like a common raider. In front of him. You laughed while you did it."
Jagna felt the words hit like axe blows, but his face stayed stone. He looked straight at his father. "I laughed because it was funny. A man too drunk to fuck his own wife, beating her black and blue instead, then crying when someone else gives her what she needs."
Rogthar's hand shot out—fast, open-palmed. The slap cracked across Jagna's cheek like thunder. Heads jerked. Gasps ripped through the hall.
Jagna didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. A thin line of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He licked it slow, tasting copper, then smiled—slow, dangerous, tyrant smile.
"You hit like an old woman, Father."
Rogthar's face went purple. He lunged again, but two of Jagna's uncles grabbed his arms, hauling him back. "Enough! Rogthar—enough!"
The Jarl slammed his fist on the armrest. Wood splintered. "Silence! All of you!"
He pointed a thick finger at Berag. "Speak, man. Tell us your tale."
Berag shuffled forward, staff thumping. His voice came out wrecked—slurred, broken. "He… he came to my stead at night. I heard noises. Went to the barn. Found him… on top of my Bryna. She was moaning like a whore. I told him to stop. He laughed. Threw me down. Kicked me. Broke my ribs. Then he… he kept going. Fucked her while I bled. Made her scream his name. Over and over."
Tears ran down Berag's ruined face now—shame, rage, helplessness mixing into something ugly.
The hall murmured darker.
Jagna stepped forward—slow, boots deliberate on the plank floor. He stopped inches from Berag. Towered over him. Looked down like he was looking at shit on his boot.
"You left out the part where your wife begged me to come," Jagna said, voice low but carrying to every corner. "Where she sent a boy with a message: 'Tell Jagna I need him tonight. Berag's drunk again. Won't touch me. Hurts me instead.' You left out how she spread her legs the second I walked in. How wet she was before I even touched her. How she came three times on my cock while you lay there whimpering."
Berag swung the staff—wild, desperate.
Jagna caught it one-handed, twisted, yanked it free. He snapped the thick wood over his knee like a twig. Tossed the pieces aside.
Berag staggered back, tripped, fell hard on his ass. A sob tore out of him.
Jagna turned to Bryna. "Tell them. Right now. Who do you want? The drunk who beats you bloody and leaves you aching? Or me?"
Bryna stepped out from the wall. Her dress rustled. She walked straight to the center, hips rolling, eyes never leaving Jagna's. She stopped beside him—close enough that her breast brushed his arm.
She looked at her husband first—cold, final. Then at the Jarl. Then at the whole hall.
"I want him," she said, loud and clear. "Jagna. Every night if he'll have me. He fucks me like I matter. Like my body's worth something. Berag—" She spat the name. "—hasn't made me wet in years. Beats me when he's mad at the world. Passes out before he can even get hard. Jagna? He makes me scream. Makes me shake. Makes me beg. And I beg gladly."
The hall erupted.
Shouts of outrage. Some men laughed—harsh, approving. Women whispered furiously. Rogthar roared something incoherent, struggling against the hands holding him.
Berag made a broken animal sound. He crawled backward, then pushed to his feet. Face ashen. Body shaking. He looked at Bryna one last time—pure devastation—then turned and stumbled toward the door.
No one helped him.
The door banged open. Cold wind rushed in. Berag disappeared into the dusk, limping, broken, humiliated beyond words.
The Jarl rubbed his face with both hands. "Gods fucking damn it. No crime here. No rape. No force. Just a marriage gone to rot and a woman who chose better." He glared at Jagna. "But you, boy—you stir shit like it's your job. Keep this up, and blood will answer blood. Now get out. All of you."
Jagna didn't move right away. He looked at his father—still held back, chest heaving, eyes wet with fury and something like grief.
Rogthar finally wrenched free. He pointed one trembling finger. "You are no son of mine tonight."
Jagna met the stare. "Then disown me. See how far that gets you when the next raid comes and you need my axe."
He turned.
Bryna fell in beside him as he walked out. Her hand brushed his—quick, secret. She leaned close, lips near his ear. "Barn. Midnight. I'll be waiting. Naked. Wet. Ready for you to ruin me again."
Jagna's cock twitched in his breeches. He squeezed her ass once—hard—then stepped into the night.
Outside, Harald was waiting, leaning on his axe haft. "Heard the slap from out here. You good?"
Jagna wiped the blood from his lip. Grinned. "Better than good."
He looked back at the townhouse once—lights flickering in the windows, voices still raised inside—then started walking toward the barns.
This wasn't over.
Not even close.
He'd fuck Bryna again tonight. Harder. Louder. Make sure the whole settlement heard if they listened.
And when Berag crawled back—drunk, broken, desperate—Jagna would be waiting.
Ready to finish what he started.