The Thrall Queen
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 10: The Partnership
Spring, 984
The first month of marriage was a delicate balance between public propriety and private passion.
During the day, Saoirse learned to navigate court politics as Princess rather than observer. She sat beside Sweyn at council meetings—silent at first, listening, absorbing. The jarls and nobles initially treated her presence as decorative, speaking as if she weren’t there.
That lasted exactly two weeks.
“The Norwegian king offers trade concessions,” Jarl Eriksson was saying, gesturing at a parchment. “We should accept immediately. The terms are generous.”
“Let me see.” Sweyn reached for the document.
But Saoirse’s hand was faster. She took it, scanned the Latin quickly, her expression neutral. Then she set it down and looked at Eriksson.
“The terms appear generous on surface,” she said in perfect Norse, her voice calm. “But clause seventeen states that trade concessions only apply ‘in times of mutual peace and alliance.’ That means if Denmark ever conflict with Norway’s allies, trade stops immediately.”
The room went quiet.
“Furthermore,” she continued, “clause twenty-three require Denmark to provide military support if Norway request it. Not optional support—required. We would be bound by treaty to send ships and men whenever they demand.” She looked at Sweyn. “This is not trade agreement. This is subjugation agreement disguised as trade.”
Eriksson’s face reddened. “That is not—”
“It is exactly that.” Sweyn had been reading the document while she spoke. “She is correct. This would bind us to Norwegian interests. Make us lesser partner, not equal.” He set it down. “We decline. Politely. Offer counter-proposal with actual equal terms.”
He looked around the council table. “My wife read Latin better than most of you read Norse. She see what is hidden in pretty words. From now on, any treaty, any letter, any diplomatic correspondence—she review it first. Understood?”
Reluctant nods. But Saoirse saw calculation in their eyes. Some were impressed. Some resentful. All were reassessing what kind of queen she would be.
After the council ended, Sweyn pulled her aside. “That was perfect. You make them see your value. Make them understand you are not decoration.”
“I made Eriksson hate me more.”
“He already hate you. Now he also respect you. That is more useful than being liked.” Sweyn kissed her forehead. “Do that at every council. Show them you are weapon I can use.”
“I am not a weapon.”
“No. You are partner. But to them?” He smiled. “To them, you are my secret weapon. And that keep them cautious. Keep them afraid to underestimate us.”
Summer, 984
The pattern established itself quickly.
Mornings: council meetings where Saoirse reviewed diplomatic correspondence, identified hidden threats, analyzed political maneuvering.
Afternoons: she met with noble ladies, learned gossip, built her own network of information. Women talked more freely around other women, and Saoirse learned that Lady Ingrid, Astrid, and several others were willing to share what they heard from their husbands.
“Jarl Thorsson say Harald is weakening,” Ingrid mentioned one afternoon over embroidery. “His Christian conversion make him less popular with old guard. They think he has gone soft.”
“And Sweyn?” Saoirse asked carefully.
“They see him as stronger. More traditional. Still honor old gods even if he accept new one.” Ingrid’s needle moved precisely through fabric. “They think when time come, they will support him over his father.”
This was valuable intelligence. Saoirse filed it away to tell Sweyn later.
Evenings: she and Sweyn dined at high table, a united front. Then retired to their chambers where the public masks could fall away.
Nights: they held each other, made love, discussed politics in whispers, planned for a future that grew closer with each passing month.
“Father is making mistakes,” Sweyn said one night, his hand idly stroking her hair as she lay against his chest. “He push Christianity too hard, too fast. The jarls resist. He lose support.”
“Good for you. Bad for Denmark.”
“Yes.” He was quiet for a moment. “I want throne. But I do not want civil war. I want transition of power that look inevitable, natural. Like I am not taking throne by force but by consensus.”
“How?”
“I build support slowly. Show I am better option. Then, when moment is right, I move. Fast and clean. Father step down or is removed. I take throne. Done.” He kissed her hair. “But timing must be perfect. Too early, I do not have enough support. Too late, he make alliances that make coup harder.”
“How long?”
“Two years, maybe. By then, I will be undeniable. Father will be isolated. Transition will be smooth.”
Two years. By then, Saoirse would be twenty. Sweyn would be twenty-eight. And they would rule Denmark together.
“What’s my role?” she asked.
“Same as now. Read correspondence. Identify opportunities and threats. Help me understand Christian politics that I do not fully grasp.” His arm tightened around her. “And give me heirs. Sons and daughters to secure dynasty.”
“I’m not pregnant yet.” They’d been married five months with no signs of conception.
“We have time. And if we do not conceive, we adopt or name heir differently. But I think we will have children.” He placed his hand on her flat stomach. “I think God will give us what we need.”
“You sound like a Christian.”
“I am Christian. Sort of. I believe in Christ. But also in Thor and Odin. Why choose?” He grinned in the darkness. “Hedge my bets. Cover all possibilities.”
She laughed despite herself. “That’s not how faith works.”
“Says woman who pray to Christian God while married to Viking prince in pagan land.”
“Fair point.”
They fell asleep tangled together, planning a coup in whispers, building a future in careful increments.
Fall, 984
Saoirse’s role in Sweyn’s political maneuvering became more sophisticated.
When letters arrived from foreign courts, she didn’t just translate—she analyzed tone, subtext, hidden meanings. She taught Sweyn to read between lines, to see what wasn’t said as clearly as what was.
“The Frankish king offer alliance,” Sweyn said one afternoon, showing her the letter.
She read it carefully. “No. He offer appearance of alliance. Look here—he use word ‘consideration’ not ‘commitment.’ That mean he think about alliance, not promise it.” She pointed to another phrase. “And here—he require Denmark to prove commitment to Christianity first. He set conditions we must meet before he even discuss terms.”
“So it is worthless?”
“Not worthless. It show he is interested but cautious. We can use this.” She set down the letter. “You write back. Say Denmark prove commitment to Christianity through action, not just words. List ways you support Christian conversion. Then ask what specific proof he require. Make him define his terms. That give us power.”
Sweyn smiled. “You are very good at this.”
“The monks taught me rhetoric. How to argue. How to persuade. How to seem cooperative while actually controlling conversation.” She leaned against him. “I am just applying lessons to politics instead of theology.”
“You make me better at this. Smarter.” He pulled her into his lap. “Before you, I was good warrior, decent strategist. With you? I am dangerous.”
“We are dangerous together,” she corrected.
“Yes. Together.” His hand slid under her skirt, finding warm skin. “Now enough politics. Time for other partnership activities.”
“It’s the middle of the afternoon.”
“I am prince. You are princess. We can do what we want in our own chambers.” He nuzzled her neck. “And what I want is my wife.”
She laughed but didn’t protest as he carried her to the bed. Their partnership worked in all ways—political, intellectual, and physical. Each aspect strengthening the others.
Winter, 984-985
The first major test came during the Jól feast—one year after Sweyn had publicly claimed her.
The hall was packed with nobles, warriors, visitors from neighboring kingdoms. Harald sat in the high seat, looking older than he had a year ago. The strain of conversion, of managing competing factions, was wearing on him.
Sweyn sat beside his father, Saoirse at his side. They presented a united, powerful image—young, strong, ready.
During the feast, a visiting Norwegian jarl—Olaf Tryggvason, a powerful figure—stood and raised his cup.
“A toast to King Harald,” he called out. “Who has done much to bring Christianity to the North. Who has made Denmark respectable among Christian kingdoms.” He paused. “Though some say he has lost his Viking spirit in process. That he has gone soft.”
The hall went silent. This was an insult, thinly disguised as praise. A challenge.
Harald’s face tightened, but before he could respond, Sweyn rose.
“My father has not lost his Viking spirit,” Sweyn said, his voice carrying. “He has gained Christian wisdom without losing Norse strength. That is harder than simple brutality. Any fool can raid and pillage. It take true power to build kingdom that last generations.” He looked directly at Olaf. “As for going soft—my father rule Denmark for decades. Through wars, through alliances, through massive changes. How many kingdoms have you ruled, Jarl Olaf?”
Olaf’s jaw tightened. “I rule myself.”
“Exactly. You rule yourself. My father rule Denmark. Not same thing.” Sweyn sat back down. “But please, continue to offer your wisdom. We are always grateful for advice from those with less experience.”
The hall erupted in laughter. Olaf had been publicly diminished, and Harald defended, all while Sweyn demonstrated his own verbal prowess.
Later, in their chambers, Saoirse helped Sweyn undress. “That was well done. You defended your father while showing your own strength.”
“You notice he said nothing? Did not defend himself?” Sweyn frowned. “He let me speak for him. That is ... concerning.”
“Why?”
“Because king defend himself. If he let son speak for him, it show weakness. It show maybe son should be king instead.” Sweyn sat on the bed. “I defend him tonight. But everyone in that hall saw what I saw—that he needed defending. That he could not do it himself.”
“You think the time is coming sooner?”
“Maybe. I do not want to move too fast. But if he continue to weaken, if more challenge him publicly...” He shook his head. “We may not have two years. We may have one.”
Saoirse felt a chill. One year until everything changed. One year until Sweyn moved against his father. One year until she became queen.
“Then we prepare,” she said firmly. “We use this year to build support, to make transition inevitable. When you move, it must look like everyone agree. Like you are not taking throne but accepting what is already yours.”
“How do we do that?”
She sat beside him, thinking. “We make you indispensable. Every crisis, you solve it. Every problem, you handle it. Every question about Denmark’s future, answer point to you. By the time you move against Harald, everyone already see you as real leader. Taking throne is just formality.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It is not simple. But it is possible.” She took his hand. “We have been practicing for this. Every council meeting. Every letter. Every alliance. All of it has been preparation.”
“For what?”
“For you to become king.” She met his eyes. “For us to rule Denmark together.”
He pulled her close, holding her tight. “I am afraid,” he admitted quietly. “Not of battle. Not of taking throne. But of failing. Of not being good king. Of destroying Denmark in process.”
“You won’t fail.” She pulled back to look at him. “You have something your father does not have.”
“What?”
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