The Thrall Queen
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Epilogue
Roskilde, Denmark — Summer, 1002
Sixteen years later
The great hall was full of noise—not the chaos of battle or feast, but the comfortable cacophony of family.
Queen Saoirse s
at in the queen’s chair—her chair now, worn smooth by sixteen years of sitting in council, in judgment, in partnership with her husband. She was thirty-five years old, still small, still copper-haired though threads of silver had begun to appear. Her face showed lines around her eyes, markers of laughter and worry and the weight of ruling a kingdom.
But her eyes were still sharp, still intelligent, still the storm-touched gray-green that had first caught Sweyn’s attention so many years ago.
She was reviewing correspondence from the Frankish court—old habit, old responsibility. Even after sixteen years as queen, she still read every treaty, every diplomatic letter, every piece of political maneuvering that crossed her desk.
“Mother!” A young voice interrupted her concentration.
She looked up to see her youngest daughter, Estrid, running across the hall. The girl was ten, all copper hair and freckles and boundless energy. She looked startlingly like Saoirse had at that age—small, quick, clever.
“Estrid, you’re supposed to be at your lessons.”
“Brother Anselm said I could leave early if I finished translating the Latin.” Estrid grinned, entirely too pleased with herself. “I finished.”
“All twenty pages?”
“All twenty pages. In perfect Latin.” The girl bounced on her toes. “Can I go riding now? Please?”
Saoirse wanted to say no—proper princesses didn’t run wild through the countryside. But she remembered being ten, remembered the monastery, remembered the freedom before everything changed.
“Take guards. Be back before sunset. And Estrid?”
“Yes, Mother?”
“Stay away from the cliffs. I know you like to explore, but your father will have my head if you break your neck.”
“I promise!” Estrid was already running toward the doors.
Saoirse shook her head, smiling. Estrid was so much like her—too clever for her own good, too curious about everything, too willing to push boundaries. She’d make an excellent queen someday, if they could find her a worthy kingdom to rule.
“She’s going to give you gray hair before you’re forty.” The deep voice came from behind her.
Saoirse didn’t turn. She’d know that voice anywhere. “She already has. I hide it well.”
Sweyn came to stand beside her chair, his hand resting on her shoulder. He was forty-two now, still powerful but with silver threading through his beard, scars accumulated from sixteen years of battles and raids and the constant work of holding a kingdom together.
But his eyes were the same—sharp, calculating, softened only when he looked at her.
“The boys are at it again,” he said with resignation.
“Fighting?”
“Training. They call it training. I call it trying to kill each other.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Harald think he’s ready to lead campaign. Cnut think he’s better warrior than his older brother. Neither will back down.”
“They’re seventeen and fifteen. Of course they won’t back down.” Saoirse set down the letter she’d been reading. “Let them fight it out. They need to establish pecking order.”
“Harald is heir. Pecking order is established.”
“Not in their minds.” She looked up at him. “Cnut is brilliant, Sweyn. More brilliant than Harald, and we both know it. Harald is solid, dependable, will make good king. But Cnut...” She paused. “Cnut will be great.”
“You see that?”
“I’ve seen it since he was five and started correcting his tutors’ Latin.” She smiled. “He has your strategic mind and my education. Dangerous combination.”
“Like his parents.”
“Exactly like his parents.” She stood, stretching muscles stiff from sitting too long. “Come. Let’s go watch our sons try to kill each other. Make sure they don’t succeed.”
They walked through the palace together, easy and familiar after sixteen years of marriage, twenty years since that first night on the balcony. Servants bowed as they passed, nobles stepped aside, guards saluted.
King and queen. Rulers of Denmark. Partners in everything.
The training yard was loud with the clash of practice swords and shields. A crowd had gathered—warriors placing bets, younger boys watching with hero worship, a few brave girls pretending they weren’t interested.
In the center, two young men circled each other.
Harald was seventeen, tall and broad like his father, fair-haired and handsome. He moved with the confidence of someone who’d never doubted his place in the world—heir to Denmark, future king, raised knowing he was important.
Cnut was fifteen, smaller than his brother but faster, darker-haired, with his mother’s quick mind showing in every tactical decision. He moved like water, flowing around Harald’s attacks, looking for openings.
They were both good. But Cnut was better, and everyone watching knew it.
Harald lunged, powerful but predictable. Cnut sidestepped, brought his practice sword around in a move that would have opened Harald’s ribs if the blade were real. The crowd cheered.
Harald’s face flushed with anger. He attacked again, faster, harder, letting emotion override training.
“He’s going to lose,” Sweyn murmured.
“He already has,” Saoirse replied. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”
Cnut waited, patient, letting Harald exhaust himself. Then, when his brother overextended, Cnut swept his legs, knocked the sword from his hand, and placed his blade at Harald’s throat.
“Yield,” Cnut said calmly.
Harald glared up at him, pride warring with reality. Finally: “I yield.”
Cnut offered his hand, helped his brother up. “You fight with too much emotion. Strategy first, passion second.”
“Easy for you to say. You don’t feel anything.”
“I feel plenty. I just don’t let it make me stupid.” Cnut clapped Harald’s shoulder, no malice in it. “Again tomorrow?”
“Again tomorrow,” Harald agreed grudgingly.
Sweyn stepped forward, applauding. “Well fought, both of you. Harald, your brother is right—control your emotion. Strategy win battles, not rage.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Cnut, well done. But remember—in real battle, your enemy not as honorable as your brother. They will not wait for you to be clever. Sometimes brute force is answer.”
“Yes, Father.”
Sweyn turned to address the watching crowd. “These are my sons. My heirs. Future of Denmark. They will lead you in battle, in peace, in everything. They are strong because Denmark is strong. And Denmark is strong because we are all strong together.”
Cheers from the warriors. This was the kind of speech they loved—simple, about strength, about unity.
But as Sweyn spoke, Saoirse watched her sons. Harald was already looking past his defeat, planning how to win next time. Solid. Persistent. Would make a good king.
But Cnut ... Cnut was watching the crowd, seeing who cheered loudest, who held back, reading the political dynamics even in a training yard. That was his mother’s training showing. That was the mind that would one day rule not just Denmark, but an empire.
She caught Cnut’s eye. He smiled slightly—acknowledging that she saw what he was doing, that they understood each other in ways Harald never would.
That one will be great, she thought. That one will make everything we’ve built into something bigger.
That Evening
After dinner, after the children had been sent to their chambers, after the court had finally dispersed, Sweyn and Saoirse walked through the palace gardens in the long summer twilight.
It was their habit, carved out over sixteen years—time alone, away from crown and council, just husband and wife walking in the fading light.
“You were quiet at dinner,” Sweyn observed.
“I was thinking.”
“About?”
“About how far we’ve come. About where we started.” She gestured at the palace behind them. “Twenty years ago, I was dragged from a monastery and sold in a slave market. You claimed me at a feast. I tried to freeze to death on a balcony rather than submit to you.”
“I remember.” He smiled. “You were very stubborn.”
“And now look at us. King and queen. Three healthy children. Kingdom at peace and prosperous. Alliances across Europe. Respect from Christian kingdoms and fear from our enemies.” She shook her head. “It’s impossible.”
“You always say that. And yet here we are.”
“Here we are,” she agreed.
They walked in comfortable silence for a while, listening to birds settling for the night, watching the sun paint the sky in shades of copper and gold.
“I have been thinking about England,” Sweyn said finally.
“England?” Saoirse looked at him sharply. “What about England?”
“It is weak. Divided. Æthelred is poor king—his nobles hate him, his people suffer. England is ripe for conquest.” He paused. “I think we should take it.”
Saoirse stopped walking. “Take England? The entire kingdom?”
“Why not? We have strong fleet. Loyal warriors. Wealth from successful trade. Support from jarls. Everything we need.” He turned to face her. “Think about it, Saoirse. If we take England, we create empire. North Sea empire—Denmark, Norway, England, all under one crown. Our sons would inherit not just kingdom but empire. Cnut would have something worth ruling.”
She studied his face in the dimming light. “You’ve been planning this.”
“For two years. Quietly. Building alliances with English nobles who hate Æthelred. Mapping invasion routes. Calculating costs.” He took her hands. “But I will not move without your support. This is big decision. Bigger than taking throne from my father. This is conquering foreign kingdom, risking everything we have built.”
“When would you go?”
“Next year. Give us time to prepare properly. Build bigger fleet. Train more warriors. Secure Denmark so it is safe while I am gone.”
“How long would you be away?”
“A year, maybe two. Conquest take time.” He squeezed her hands. “I know it is long time. I know it is risk. But Saoirse—I think we can do this. I think we can build something that last for generations. Empire our children inherit. Legacy that matter.”
She was quiet for a long moment, thinking through implications. England was rich, powerful, strategically valuable. But conquering it would strain Denmark’s resources, risk Sweyn’s life, leave her ruling alone while he was gone.
“What do you need from me?” she asked finally.
“Your counsel. Your support. And your strength to rule Denmark while I am in England. I cannot do this without knowing you hold kingdom together here.”
“You trust me to rule without you?”
“I trust you to do anything.” He pulled her close. “You have been my partner in everything for twenty years. You know how to rule. You know the jarls, the nobles, the politics. You know Denmark as well as I do—maybe better in some ways. Yes, I trust you to rule.”
She rested her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. England. Empire. Legacy.
“Do it,” she said quietly. “Plan your conquest. Build your fleet. Take England and make our sons emperors instead of just kings.” She looked up at him. “But Sweyn—come back to me. Whatever else happen, come back.”
“I will always come back to you.” He kissed her forehead. “We are partnership, remember? Everything together. Even when I am in England and you are in Denmark, we are together. Working toward same goal. Building same legacy.”
“Together,” she agreed.
They stood there in the gathering darkness, planning empire, secure in the knowledge that whatever challenges came, they would face them as they’d faced everything else.
Together.
Later That Night
In their private chambers, after the planning and politics finally stopped, they lay in the massive royal bed, tangled together as they had been for twenty years.