The Thrall Queen
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 8: The King’s Answer
Harald Bluetooth sat in his private chambers, not the great hall. This was deliberate—Sweyn had sent word ahead that he needed to speak with his father privately, on a matter of “utmost political importance.”
The king looked up when they entered, his expression shifting from mild curiosity to sharp interest when he saw Saoirse beside his son.
“The Irish girl.” Harald spoke in Norse, his eyes moving between them. “You bring her to private audience with your king?”
“I bring my future wife to meet her future father-by-law,” Sweyn replied calmly.
The room went very still.
Harald’s eyes narrowed. “Your future wife is the daughter of Duke Heinrich. We have been negotiating—”
“Negotiate with someone else.” Sweyn moved forward, Saoirse’s hand still in his. “I will marry this woman, or I will marry no one.”
“You will marry who I tell you to marry.” Harald’s voice was cold. “You are my heir. Your marriage is not your choice.”
“Then I am not your heir.” Sweyn said it without heat, without anger, just flat certainty. “If you force me to marry German princess, I will refuse the throne. Let someone else inherit Denmark.”
Harald surged to his feet. “You dare—”
“I dare because I must.” Sweyn held his ground. “Father, you taught me that power without conviction is hollow. That a king must be willing to sacrifice everything for what matters.” He glanced at Saoirse. “She matters. More than throne. More than politics. More than your plans.”
“She is a slave.” Harald spat the word. “An Irish thrall you took at Jól. You would throw away a strategic alliance, throw away your birthright, for a woman you own?”
“I would throw away everything for the woman I love.” Sweyn’s voice was steady. “But I do not need to throw away anything. Because she is not just slave.”
He set the carved box on Harald’s table and opened it.
“She is Princess Saoirse of Leinster. Daughter of King Tuathal and Queen Gwendolyn. Last surviving heir of the Uí Dúnlainge dynasty.” He lifted out the ring, the seal, the parchment. “I have proof. From the monastery that hid her for sixteen years. From the Abbot who took vow to protect her.”
Harald stared at the items. Slowly, he reached for the parchment, unfolded it, read the Latin script. His expression remained unreadable.
“The Uí Dúnlainge dynasty was destroyed sixteen years ago,” he said finally. “I heard reports. The family was wiped out.”
“Almost wiped out.” Sweyn gestured to Saoirse. “One infant survived. Hidden by monks until raiders captured her last year. Sold in Dublin. Brought to your palace.” He smiled slightly. “Where your son claimed her, not knowing who she was. Not knowing that he had captured a princess.”
Harald’s eyes moved to Saoirse, really looking at her for the first time. “You knew about this?” he asked her in Norse.
“No, Your Majesty.” Her voice was steady despite her fear. “I learned tonight. The monks never told me. They said I was orphan they took in out of charity.”
“Sixteen years they kept this secret?”
“To protect me. My family’s enemies would have killed me if they knew I lived.”
Harald studied her face, then returned his attention to the documents. He read the letter again, examined the seal closely, held the ring up to the firelight.
“This could be forgery,” he said finally.
“It could be.” Sweyn didn’t seem worried. “But it is not. You can verify with Irish sources. Send someone to the monastery. The Abbot will confirm everything.”
“Even if it is true—even if she is princess—she has no land. No power. No kingdom to bring to alliance.” Harald set down the ring. “She is princess in name only. This does not change political calculation.”
“Does it not?” Sweyn leaned forward. “Think, Father. You are converting Denmark to Christianity. You need allies among Christian kingdoms. Irish princess—even landless one—connects us to Irish church, to monasteries, to Christian networks in Ireland and Britain.” He gestured to Saoirse. “She is educated by monks. She reads Latin. She understands Christian politics better than anyone in your court. She is valuable.”
“She is valuable to you,” Harald said dryly. “That much is obvious. You look at her like man dying of thirst looks at water.” He sat back in his chair. “Tell me true, my son. If I say no—if I order you to marry Heinrich’s daughter—what will you do?”
Sweyn met his father’s eyes. “I will refuse. I will leave court. I will take my supporters and my ships and I will carve out my own kingdom somewhere else.” He paused. “Or I will stay and take your throne by force. Either way, I will not marry German princess.”
“That is treason.”
“That is truth.” Sweyn’s hand tightened on Saoirse’s. “I have been patient, Father. I have supported your conversion even though I am not convinced. I have helped you navigate Christian politics. I have been dutiful son and loyal heir.” His voice hardened. “But in this, I will not compromise. I will marry Saoirse, or I will marry no one. Choose.”
The room fell silent except for the crackle of the fire. Harald looked at his son—saw the absolute determination there, the willingness to burn everything down rather than yield.
Then he looked at Saoirse—small, frightened, but standing straight beside Sweyn, her hand in his.
“You love him?” Harald asked her suddenly.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Why?”
The question seemed to surprise her. “Because he gave me choices when I had none. Because he waited when he could have taken. Because he values my mind as much as my body. Because...” She glanced at Sweyn. “Because he went to Ireland to find out who I was, even though it would have been easier to keep me ignorant. Because he wants truth, not comfortable lies.”
“And you want to be queen? To rule beside him?”
“I want to be his wife,” she said simply. “If that means being queen, then yes. But I would choose him even if he had nothing.”
Harald was quiet for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.
“You found yourself a five-pound bag holding ten pounds of gunpowder,” he said to Sweyn. “I told you this months ago. I did not expect you to propose to marry the gunpowder.”
“She is not dangerous to me,” Sweyn said. “Only to my enemies.”
“Mm.” Harald picked up the ring again, turning it in his fingers. “Irish princess. Christian educated. Intelligent enough to help you navigate politics. Small enough to look harmless while being anything but.” He looked at his son. “You chose well, I think. Better than German princess who would bring her father’s agenda with her.”
Sweyn went very still. “You agree?”
“I did not say that.” Harald set down the ring. “I said you chose well. But there are ... complications.”
“What complications?”
“Duke Heinrich will be insulted. He will see broken betrothal as personal insult. This could damage our relationship with German kingdoms.”
“Then you explain that I am marrying princess, not slave. That we are securing Irish alliance, not breaking German one out of disrespect.” Sweyn leaned forward. “Frame it as political strategy, not personal choice. Heinrich save face, we get what we want.”
“And when he asks what Irish princess bring to alliance? What land, what army, what wealth?”
“She brings intelligence. Education. Understanding of Christian church that I do not have. Access to Irish monasteries and networks.” Sweyn gestured at the documents. “And she brings legitimacy. Marriage to her shows Denmark respects Christian nobility, even when they have lost everything. Shows we are not just raiders who take—we are kingdom that protects.”
It was good argument, and Harald knew it. His expression remained thoughtful.
“There is another complication,” the king said finally.
“What?”
“You.” Harald looked at his son. “You threaten to take throne by force. You threaten to leave and carve out your own kingdom. This is not talk of loyal heir. This is talk of man preparing rebellion.”
Sweyn met his father’s eyes steadily. “I am preparing to do whatever necessary to keep what is mine. If that requires rebellion, then yes.”
“You would fight me? Your own father?”
“I would fight anyone who tried to take her from me.” Sweyn’s voice was cold. “Even you.”
Harald leaned back, studying his son with something like admiration. “You have become dangerous, Sweyn. More dangerous than I realized.”
“You taught me to be dangerous. You taught me that power matter, that strength matter, that a man who cannot take what he want is no man at all.” Sweyn pulled Saoirse closer to his side. “I want her. I will take her. The only question is whether you help me or oppose me.”
“And if I oppose you?”
“Then we become enemies. And one of us will destroy the other.” Sweyn said it without emotion. “I do not want that, Father. I respect you. I have learned from you. But I will not sacrifice her for your politics.”
Harald was silent for a very long time. Then he stood and walked to the window, looking out over the darkened palace grounds.
“Your mother,” he said quietly, “was political marriage. Alliance between families. We were strangers on wedding night. We never loved each other—we tolerated each other for sake of duty.” He turned back to face them. “I do not want that for you. I want you to have strong wife who stand beside you, not behind you. Someone who make you better king, not just useful alliance.”
“Then give me Saoirse,” Sweyn said. “She is that woman.”
Harald studied them both—his son, fierce and determined; the small Irish girl who’d somehow captured his heart and refused to be broken.
“On one condition,” Harald said finally.
Sweyn tensed. “What condition?”
“You marry her in Christian ceremony. With bishop, with vows before God, with all proper rites.” Harald moved back to the table. “If you marry Irish Christian princess, you do it correctly. This show Heinrich—and all Christian kingdoms—that Denmark is truly Christian now. Not just political conversion, but personal. My son marry Christian princess in Christian way.”
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