The Thrall Queen
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 9: The Announcement
Morning came too soon.
Saoirse woke tangled in Sweyn’s arms, her body pleasantly sore, the ring heavy on her finger. For a moment, she simply lay there, listening to his steady breathing, feeling the warmth of his chest against her back.
Everything had changed. She was no longer a slave. No longer just Sweyn’s bedwarmer. She was his betrothed, a princess, soon to be his wife.
In two weeks, she would be queen.
The thought was terrifying.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Sweyn murmured against her neck. “I can feel your mind working.”
“I’m scared.”
“Good. Fear keep you sharp.” His arm tightened around her. “But you are not alone in this. We do everything together now.”
“When do we tell the court?”
“Today.” He kissed her shoulder. “My father is already sending message to Heinrich, explaining situation. We must announce to court before rumors start. Before anyone can say we hide your identity or that marriage is scandal.”
“They’ll say it anyway.”
“Yes. But we control narrative if we speak first.” He rolled her onto her back, looking down at her with serious eyes. “You must be strong today, Saoirse. You must show them you are princess, not slave. That you deserve to be my wife, my queen.”
“I don’t feel like a princess.”
“Neither do I feel like king.” He smiled slightly. “But we pretend until it become real. That is how power work—confidence first, competence follow.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. Helga’s voice called in Norse: “Prince Sweyn? The king request your presence in great hall. One hour. Full court assembly.”
“We will be there,” Sweyn called back.
He climbed out of bed and began dressing—not in simple tunic and trousers, but in formal clothing. Rich fabric, fine embroidery, visible wealth and power. The clothes of a prince about to make an announcement that would reshape Denmark’s future.
Saoirse watched, uncertain. “What should I wear?”
“Not slave clothing.” He moved to a chest she’d never seen him open, pulled out fabric—a dress of deep green wool, finely made, clearly expensive. “This was my mother’s. She was small like you. It should fit.”
“Your mother’s?” Saoirse took the dress carefully. It was beautiful—Norse style, but with intricate embroidery at the neck and cuffs. Appropriate for nobility.
“You are to be my wife. You dress as noble, not slave.” He pulled out more items—a proper belt, silver-worked. Soft leather shoes. A cloak with a silver clasp. “Today, everyone see you as you really are. Princess. My betrothed. Future queen.”
She dressed slowly, her hands shaking slightly. The dress fit remarkably well—his mother must have been similarly small. When she finished, she barely recognized herself. Gone was the simple slave shift. In its place stood a woman of rank.
Sweyn stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders. “Beautiful. And powerful.” He touched her hair, still loose down her back. “We leave it down. Red hair mark you as Irish. Let them see it.”
“I look like someone else.”
“You look like yourself. Just finally dressed correctly.” He turned her to face him. “Remember: you are Princess Saoirse of Leinster. Daughter of King Tuathal and Queen Gwendolyn. Educated by monks. Fluent in three languages. Clever enough to navigate politics that confuse most warriors.” His hands framed her face. “You are not pretending to be someone you are not. You are finally showing who you always were.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
“Good.” He picked up the carved box. “Then let us go tell Denmark about their future queen.”
The great hall was packed.
Every noble, every jarl, every important figure in Harald’s court had been summoned. They stood in clusters, speculating about why the king had called such sudden assembly. Saoirse could hear the whispers as she and Sweyn entered—confusion, curiosity, shock at seeing her dressed like nobility instead of serving in slave clothing.
Deirdre was there, along with the other household slaves, standing along the wall. Her eyes went wide when she saw Saoirse. Saoirse met her gaze briefly, tried to convey reassurance, then had to look away as Sweyn led her toward the high table.
Harald sat in his chair, looking every inch the king. He watched them approach with that amused expression Saoirse had learned meant he was enjoying some private joke.
Sweyn led her to stand beside him, facing the assembled court. His hand held hers—publicly, clearly, making a statement before any words were spoken.
Harald rose. The hall fell silent.
“My son has announcement,” the king said simply, then sat back down, giving Sweyn the floor.
Sweyn stepped forward, still holding Saoirse’s hand. His voice carried through the hall with the confidence of a man who’d commanded warriors in battle.
“Five months ago, at the feast of Jól, I claimed this woman.” He gestured to Saoirse. “Many of you saw it. Many thought you understood what it meant—prince taking Irish slave to warm his bed. Simple transaction.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the hall.
“You were wrong,” Sweyn continued. “You saw slave. I saw something else. Something that made no sense.” He began to walk, pulling Saoirse with him, forcing the court to turn and follow his movement. “I saw woman who speak like educated noble. Who understand Latin and Greek. Who think with clarity and logic beyond most warriors.” He stopped, facing the court again. “And I asked myself: why? Why would monks educate slave girl like scholar? Why would they keep her for sixteen years instead of send to convent?”
He set the carved box on a nearby table and opened it.
“So I went to Ireland. To monastery where she lived. And I asked.” He lifted out the ring, holding it high where everyone could see the gold catching firelight. “This is signet ring of Queen Gwendolyn of Leinster. Given to Abbot sixteen years ago by King Tuathal when he begged monks to hide his infant daughter from enemies who had destroyed his family.”
The hall erupted in shocked whispers. Saoirse felt every eye on her, assessing, doubting, wondering.
Sweyn raised his voice over the noise. “I have letter from King Tuathal himself, sealed with royal seal of Leinster. I have testimony from Abbot who raised her. I have proof—verified proof—that woman I claimed at Jól is not slave.” He pulled Saoirse forward. “She is Princess Saoirse of Leinster. Last surviving heir of Uí Dúnlainge dynasty. Daughter of king and queen who died protecting her.”
The noise grew louder—arguments, disbelief, excitement.
Jarl Eriksson’s voice cut through: “How do we know this is not fabrication? Convenient story to justify marrying your slave?”
“Because I do not need justification,” Sweyn shot back. “I am prince. If I wanted to keep her as concubine, I would simply do so. I went to Ireland seeking truth because I want to marry her legally. As wife. As equal.” He gestured at the box. “Any who doubt can examine evidence. Can send messengers to Ireland to verify with Abbot. Can question her themselves in Latin or Irish or Norse—she speak all three because monks educated her as princess should be educated.”
Harald stood again. “I have examined evidence. I am satisfied it is genuine. My son will marry Princess of Leinster in two weeks. Christian ceremony, as befitting Christian princess and Christian Denmark.” He paused. “This is politically valuable alliance. Irish connections, Christian legitimacy, demonstration of Denmark’s respect for nobility regardless of their current circumstances.”
It was brilliant framing—making the marriage seem like Harald’s idea, like strategic decision rather than son defying father.
“But she has no land,” someone called out. “No kingdom. What does this alliance bring us?”
“Intelligence,” Sweyn answered. “Access to Irish monasteries and Christian networks. Woman who can read and translate Latin correspondence. Understanding of Christian politics that I do not have.” He pulled Saoirse closer. “And she bring something else—proof that Denmark is not just raiders. We are kingdom that recognize nobility, that honor heritage, that protect those who have lost everything.” He looked around the hall. “That is worth more than land.”
Another voice: “The men will not respect her. She served us as slave. We saw her on her knees.”
“Yes.” Sweyn’s voice turned hard. “You saw her on her knees, and I saw man who grabbed her while she served. I took his hand for touching what was mine.” He let that sink in. “If anyone believe her past as slave make her weak, test that belief at your own risk. She is mine to protect. She will be my wife. Anyone who disrespect her, disrespect me. Anyone who threaten her, threaten future queen of Denmark.” His eyes swept the hall, cold and promising violence. “Who want to be first to test this?”
Silence.
“Thought not.” Sweyn relaxed slightly. “She is Princess Saoirse of Leinster. In two weeks, she become Princess Sweyn Forkbeardsdóttir. When I take throne—” He paused, letting that sink in. Everyone knew it was coming. Now he’d said it aloud. “—she will be Queen of Denmark. This is not negotiable. This is not subject to court approval. This is fact.” He looked at his father. “The king has agreed. I have spoken. It is done.”
Harald nodded slowly, his expression carefully neutral. But Saoirse saw approval in his eyes—his son had just announced his eventual coup in front of the entire court, framing it as inevitable rather than treasonous. Bold move.
“Any questions?” Sweyn asked the hall.
Jarl Eriksson stepped forward. He was the one whose hand Sweyn had taken for grabbing her. His stump was wrapped in bandages, still healing. “I have question for princess.”
Saoirse’s heart hammered, but she stepped forward. “Ask.”
“You say you were raised by monks. Educated as princess. But you served as slave for six months. You cleaned tables. You poured ale. You knelt beside prince’s chair and ate from his hand.” Eriksson’s eyes were sharp, cruel. “How do we know you are not just clever slave telling good story?”
Saoirse looked at him steadily. “Because clever slave would tell easier story. Would claim to be merchant’s daughter, perhaps. Minor nobility. Something simple, something hard to verify.” She switched to perfect Latin. “Claiming to be lost princess of destroyed royal house—that is not story someone invents for convenience. That is truth verified by documents, by witnesses, by Abbot who raised me and knows my history.”
She switched back to Norse. “You ask why I served as slave? Because I did not know who I was. Monks never told me. They said I was orphan they took in. I believed them. I had no reason not to.” She gestured at the box. “I learned truth two days ago. Same time you learning it now. I am not pretending to be princess. I am princess who believed she was nobody until man I love went to Ireland and found truth monks hid.”
“Why did monks hide it?” another noble called out.
“To protect me. My family was destroyed by their enemies. If anyone knew I survived, I would be killed.” She looked around the hall. “The monks kept me safe for sixteen years. Then raiders came. They died trying to protect me. I was taken, sold in Dublin, brought here.” Her voice strengthened. “I survived because monks taught me to survive. Taught me languages so I could adapt. Taught me to think so I could navigate danger. Taught me to be strong even when I had nothing.” She met Eriksson’s eyes. “You ask how you know I am princess? Because I survived everything you saw me endure and came out stronger. That is what royalty do—we survive, we adapt, we rule even when we have no power. That is what my parents taught me by example, even though I never knew them.”
The hall was quiet. Then Harald began to clap—slow, deliberate. Others joined in, uncertain at first, then growing stronger.
“Well spoken,” Harald said. “My future daughter speaks like queen already.” He looked at Sweyn. “You chose well, my son. She have fire. Intelligence. And—” he smiled slightly, “—my five-pound bag of gunpowder show her explosive power today.”
Laughter rippled through the hall, easing the tension.
“Wedding will be in two weeks,” Harald continued. “Christian ceremony. Bishop will officiate. All are invited to witness.” He gestured at Saoirse. “Until then, Princess Saoirse will be treated as member of royal family. She will have chambers in royal wing. She will be guarded. She will be respected.” His voice hardened. “Any who harm her, insult her, or disrespect her will answer to me and to my son. This is law.”
He sat back down. The announcement was over.
Sweyn led Saoirse from the hall, his hand firm on hers, his presence protective. Behind them, the court erupted in conversation—speculation, argument, gossip spreading like wildfire.
As they passed Deirdre, Saoirse caught her eye. The older woman looked stunned, but managed a small smile and a nod. I’m happy for you, her expression said. You survived. You won.
They didn’t return to Sweyn’s chambers. Instead, guards led them to new rooms—larger, more elaborate, clearly designated for royal family. The chambers had multiple rooms: a sleeping area, a sitting area where they could receive visitors, even a small private space for bathing.
“These were my mother’s,” Sweyn said, looking around. “My father kept them empty after she died. Now they are yours.”
“Ours,” Saoirse corrected.
“No. Mine are across hall. Separate, as is proper for betrothed.” At her surprised look, he smiled. “We must look proper until wedding. Christian propriety. No sharing bed until vows are spoken.”
“We shared a bed for five months.”
“Yes, but now everyone know about it, so we must pretend we do not.” He pulled her close. “Two weeks. Then I can sleep with you again properly. As husband.”
“Two weeks feels very long.”
“It will pass quickly. Much to do.” He kissed her forehead. “Today you rest. Tomorrow, wedding preparations begin. You will meet with bishop, with women who will help you prepare, with...” He paused. “You will be very busy.”
A knock at the door. Helga entered without waiting for permission, her arms full of fabric. Behind her came three other women—Norse, well-dressed, clearly ladies of some rank.
“Princess,” Helga said, her tone utterly changed from the curt commands she’d given when Saoirse was a slave. “These ladies will help you prepare for wedding. We must fit you for dress, teach you proper protocols, ensure you are ready.”
Saoirse looked at Sweyn, suddenly nervous. This was real. This was happening.
“I must go,” he said quietly. “My father want to discuss details. I will see you tonight at feast.” He squeezed her hand. “You will be wonderful. Just be yourself—clever, strong, fierce. That is all you need to be.”
Then he was gone, and Saoirse was left with four Norse women who looked at her with varying degrees of curiosity, skepticism, and calculation.
“So,” said one of them—older, sharp-eyed, dressed in expensive fabric. “You are the Irish princess who captured Prince Sweyn’s heart. I am Lady Ingrid, wife of Jarl Thorsson. These are Lady Astrid and Lady Sigrid.” She gestured at the others. “We have been asked to help you prepare to be queen.”
“Help or evaluate?” Saoirse asked in perfect Norse.
Ingrid smiled. “Both. Sit, Princess. We have much to discuss.”
The next two weeks passed in a blur of activity.
Saoirse was measured for a wedding dress—white, as Christian custom required, but with Norse embroidery and Irish knotwork incorporated into the design. A compromise between cultures, like the marriage itself.
She met with the bishop—a German priest, part of Harald’s Christian conversion effort. He was initially skeptical of a “former slave” marrying a prince, but when she spoke to him in perfect Latin, quoting scripture and discussing theology with the ease of someone educated by monks, his skepticism turned to approval.
“You are better educated than most nobles I know,” he admitted. “Even most priests. The monks taught you well.”
“They raised me to reclaim my throne someday,” Saoirse said. “They gave me everything I needed to rule. They just never told me that’s what they were doing.”
She also spent time with the noble ladies. They taught her Norse customs, proper protocols for formal occasions, how to walk and speak and hold herself like royalty rather than a servant. Most of it felt unnatural—years of training to be invisible were hard to unlearn.
But Lady Ingrid was patient. “You are small. You will always be small. But small can be powerful. Small make people underestimate you. Then you strike, and they never see it coming.”
“Like Sweyn’s five-pound bag of gunpowder,” Saoirse said.
Ingrid laughed. “Exactly. Use your size. Use your appearance. Let them think you are sweet Irish girl who got lucky. Then show them your teeth.”
Saoirse also learned gossip. The noble ladies were fountains of information about court politics, alliances, rivalries. Who supported Sweyn, who feared him, who would resist when he eventually moved against Harald.
“Jarl Eriksson hates you,” Astrid said bluntly. “You cost him his hand. He will try to undermine you.”
“He grabbed me,” Saoirse pointed out. “The hand was his own fault.”
“Yes, but men like him do not see it that way. Be careful of him.”
In the evenings, Saoirse dined at the high table beside Sweyn—properly separated, no intimate touching, everything formal and appropriate. But under the table, their feet would find each other. Small contact. Promise of more to come.
After dinner, he would walk her to her chambers, kiss her chastely at the door, and leave. The restraint was torture for both of them after months of sleeping tangled together.
“Thirteen days,” he muttered one night after a particularly heated goodnight kiss. “Thirteen more days until I can have you in my bed again.”
“Twelve,” she corrected. “And a few hours.”
He groaned. “You are not helping.”
“Good.” She smiled wickedly. “If I have to suffer propriety, so do you.”
Five days before the wedding, Saoirse received an unexpected visitor.
She was in her chambers, reviewing Norse customs with Lady Ingrid, when a guard announced: “Jarl Eriksson request audience with Princess.”
Ingrid tensed. “You do not have to see him.”
But Saoirse was curious. What did the man whose hand Sweyn had taken want with her?
“Let him in. But stay with me.”
Eriksson entered, his stump still bandaged, his expression unreadable. He bowed—slightly, barely respectful.
“Princess.”
“Jarl Eriksson.” Saoirse remained seated, asserting her higher rank. “What do you want?”
“To apologize.” The words seemed to cost him. “I grabbed you when you were serving. Prince Sweyn took my hand for it. I was...” He paused. “I was drunk. I did not know who you were.”
“Would it have mattered? If I was just a slave, would that make grabbing me acceptable?”
His jaw tightened. “No.”
“Then why apologize only now that you know I’m a princess?”
“Because now I understand I insulted not just slave, but future queen. Not just property, but woman under prince’s protection. Woman he love.” Eriksson met her eyes. “I was wrong. I admit this. I ask for ... not forgiveness. But understanding. I do not want to be enemy of future queen.”
Saoirse studied him. He wasn’t sorry for hurting her—he was sorry for the political consequences. But at least he was honest about it.
“I accept your apology,” she said carefully. “I do not forgive you—that would require remorse for right reasons, not just fear of consequences. But I will not hold grudge. You lost hand. That is punishment enough.” She paused. “Do not make me regret this mercy.”
He nodded slowly. “You are clever. Sweyn choose well.” He bowed again—deeper this time, genuine respect—and left.
When he was gone, Ingrid let out a breath. “That was well done. You gave him nothing, but made him grateful anyway.”
“Did I?”
“You could have refused to see him. Could have insulted him publicly. Instead, you show power by being gracious. That is how queen behave—strong enough to be merciful.” Ingrid smiled. “You learn quickly, Princess.”
The night before the wedding, Saoirse couldn’t sleep.
She stood on the balcony of her chambers—the same balcony she’d once frozen on rather than submit to Sweyn. Now it overlooked the palace grounds peacefully, spring flowers blooming in the gardens below.
So much had changed. Six months ago, she’d been a slave, terrified and alone, clinging to survival. Now she stood here as a princess, betrothed to a prince, about to become a wife.
Tomorrow would change everything again.
A knock at her door. Sweyn’s voice: “Saoirse? Can I come in?”
She shouldn’t let him. It was improper the night before the wedding. But propriety had never mattered much to them.
“Come in.”
He entered, also unable to sleep, still dressed despite the late hour. He joined her on the balcony, standing close but not touching.
“Tomorrow,” he said quietly.
“Tomorrow,” she agreed.
“Are you scared?”
“Terrified.” She looked up at him. “I’m about to pledge my life to you in front of God and court and everyone. I’m about to become your wife. In a few years, probably, I’ll become queen. I’m about to step into a role I never prepared for, never expected, never even knew I had the right to claim.”
“But?” He heard the unspoken word.
“But I love you. And I choose this. I choose you, I choose this life, I choose to be brave enough to become who I’m meant to be.” She took his hand. “So yes, I’m terrified. But I’m also ready.”
“Good.” He pulled her close, holding her against his chest. “Because I need you, Saoirse. Not just as wife. As partner. As equal. As woman who make me better than I would be alone.”
“You would be fine alone.”
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