Ok, so while I was at Comic Con 2013, my friend (PheonixVanGarrett) dragged me semi-willingly to the Vikings panel. Best. Thing. Ever. I don't understand how I didn't know about this beforehand. Anyways, that night we sat down and watched season one and immediately I knew I had to write a story for it. It was just too perfect not to. As is typical with my stories, expect OCs and romance and lots of adventure (probably...the plot hasn't entirely revealed itself to me just yet).

Just to warn you though, much like my Almighty Johnsons story Mythos, this probably won't be updated often. With such small fandoms (in comparison to my other fandoms) it makes me nervous and afraid that i'll screw it up. Especially the characters. Though, for this one you should expect them to be a bit OOC. The characters in my head don't always match up to the ones on the show or the real-life counterparts...

Rated M because, well, Vikings. Nuf said.

Disclaimer: Vikings does not belong to me. I make no profit writing this story or any other.

Rollo ducked his head as he entered the Earl's longhouse. His brother's home. It was still bittersweet to have such a powerful brother. One who had risen above his station while Rollo was still simply a warrior. One of the best, of course, but that didn't stop people from overlooking him when Ragnar was in the room. The only thing that soothed the offenses was the fact that Rollo was still his brother's best and most loyal warrior and the Earl treated him as his most trusted advisor, even if he didn't always listen. They were still brothers, and that was what counted.

He found his brother sitting in his throne, looking around at his friends and warriors as they discussed the coming raids. Not many knew it yet, but Ragnar had made special plans for a select few. Rollo had deemed him insane, but naturally his brother had merely laughed and went off with Floki to speak of something Rollo was certain he wanted to know nothing about. Now they were gathered in his brother's home with Ragnar looking smug as always and Floki practically bouncing with excitement beside him and all Rollo can think was, this can't be good.

Ragnar stood, calling everyone to attention, "Every year, every summer we sail east in the raids. But there is an alternative." He paused, looking out at the still, tense crowd. "This year, we sail to the west."

There was an awful uproar at the announcement – some men yelling about the dangers, others eager to be chosen to go along. Lounging in his dark corner, Rollo forced himself not to sigh as he shouted over the noise, "Quiet!"

That one bark of command had the whole room silent in a second. Ragnar gave his brother a small nod of appreciation that only Floki could see if the madman was actually looking. The three men had been close since childhood, allowing a close connection that most could only wonder at.

The meeting became less and less entertaining after that. Rollo already knew the specifics, having discussed it at length with his brother the previous day. Floki had almost completed the ship that could sail across the sea to new lands. They would leave within the week with at most twenty men, fine warriors who could be trusted in battle in strange lands. Ragnar would only take those he most trusted. Unfortunately that naturally included Rollo, who had no desire to get lost at sea on some fool's quest. But his brother was determined and that meant he had no choice but to follow if only to keep said brother from getting himself killed. And there was a part of him, a small part of Rollo that was just as curious as his brother, though he would never admit it. The west was something new. Something to be conquered. If they found what Ragnar hoped to find, their names would go down in history. They would always be remembered.

A bad taste settled in his mouth. No, they would not be remembered. Ragnar would. Who would be there to remember the men who helped him? Rollo didn't even have a family to come back to, to be proud of him, to pass around stories of their great father or husband. All he had was his brother, and his weapons. Until now, it had always seemed enough. But suddenly in the face of his brother's impending rise to glory, he felt inferior – a feeling he refused to bow to. He would rise above this and become a far greater man. The only question was, how?

Temperance sat in the large window of her room, looking out over the vast sea. It had become a sort of ritual to do this every evening before bed. Sit and stare out at the sea and imagine what lands, what sort of people could lay beyond it. Her imagination however, had never been very detailed and she was forced to suffer in wandering. If only she had the means to go and look herself. Unfortunately that was not her place. (Or any woman's place for that matter) She was the princess of Northumbria and had responsibilities to her land and her people. That included marrying and having heirs.

Her father had just told her the other night that he had found a suitable match for her. She would be married off to one of his knights, a man she'd never met before, who was away fighting some pointless battle at the moment. Honestly, she hadn't really listened when her father described him to her. She was never one for fighting and wars and that was all her father seemed to deem worthy to speak of about her future husband.

And so her future was set out for her. She would not go out and satisfy her curiosity for the unknown. She would stay locked up in her gilded cage and marry a man she did not love and have heirs to her father's throne. If only her brother hadn't been killed all those years ago. Then she would have at least a little more freedom. She'd be able to leave this castle on the seaside and travel to wherever her husband lived. She wouldn't have so much pressure to be the perfect princess and future queen. Maybe she could have been more herself.

A speck on the horizon caught the corner of her eye, drawing her attention back out the window to the sea. A small black mass was slowly making its way closer, growing bigger as it cut through the water towards the cliffs where Temperance's castle was nestled. Excitement began to bubble up at the thought of visitors from another land. They never had that before. Everything was always closed off and secluded where they were. And even when they did have guests, Temperance wasn't allowed to speak with them without a chaperone. But with a chaperone she couldn't speak as freely. She could never win. Unless…

With a spark of determination, she jumped up from her seat with one last glance out the window. The ship was near enough to the shore now for her to make out the deep red sail billowed out wide as the wind pushed it forward. Assured, she hurried out the door, flying past guards and servants who were likewise rushing in other directions, too busy to heed the fleeing princess. Corridor after corridor she was not stopped as she continued to run with all her might. A stitch pierced her side and her breaths came out in ragged pants as she pushed herself forward, eager to have at least one moment with the strangers to find out as much as she could of the outside world.

Bursting out of a side door, Temperance smiled victoriously and allowed herself to slow, gasping for air. She was sure no one would stop her now, but she also didn't wish to draw too much attention either. The courtyard had many more soldiers wandering around on a good day. Now with strangers drawing close, it seemed the bulk of her father's army had come out in formation, ready to fight at a moment's notice. If she stayed to the far side she should go unnoticed until she reached the main gate. Then it was only a matter of getting past the guards always stationed there. Luckily they were both rather dim and had let her past without the king's permission before.

Just as she was about to take another step, a large hand grasped her wrist and tugged her back around. She scowled as she came face to face with the General. She probably should remember his name – he'd been the general to the army since before her father was king – but she'd always found it simpler just to call him the General. The lines on his face and his thinning gray hair belied his age even if his well-toned broad-chested body did not.

He frowned down at her, "Princess. Shouldn't you be in your chambers at this hour?"

Temperance pointedly looked up at the bright afternoon sky, "And what hour would that be, General? I often take walks at this time."

"Not today you don't." He began leading her back inside. "There are some strangers approaching by the sea. No one can recognize their ship. Until we are sure they mean no harm, you are to stay in your chambers, Your Highness." She opened her mouth to protest only to be quickly cut off, "By order of the King."

She huffed and yanked her arm out of his grasp before stomping back upstairs. There went her last chance to do something just for herself. Now all she had was her future marriage and children to look forward to. If that.

Desmond had risen through the ranks of King Aelle's army quickly in the year and a half he'd been there. It is true he is still not very high in rank, but he was young and inexperience and talent could only take you so far. It did, however, make him one of the favorites of his General. That was how he came to be part of the greeting party stationed on the beach as the foreigners marched, shields and weapons in hand, through the shallow tide up onto the sand.

He couldn't help the tingle of fear at the sight of the unkempt, dangerous looking, enormous men that made their way closer. Some had nasty looking scars proudly displayed on their faces, necks, and bare arms. There were a couple that stuck out as the most frightening – a man with a long mane of blonde hair falling to his waist and matching beard so that you could only really see his eyes, the large man with black hair and beard with a look that said he'd kill you for looking at him wrong, the thinner, more wiry man with short hair and scruff bouncing in place as if excited to be there while still fiddling with awfully sharp edged axes. But it was the one in front, the one with braided beard and hair, and eyes that held no fear and could cut glass and confident smirk, that had Desmond frozen in fear where he stood. Never had that happened before. He was a brave man, willingly running into battle whenever it was called for. So why had this man's simple glance in his direction make him tremble like a new born calf?

The General stepped forward, shaking almost as much as the less seasoned soldiers, "What is your purpose here?"

The leader's lips twitched as he scanned the twenty or so soldiers before him, then turned back to glance at his comrades. The wiry one and the big black haired one nodded in understanding as he turned back. Suddenly the leader raised the sword clasped in his hand high and swung down in a move almost too fast to see. Blood sprayed out as the blade passed smoothly through the General's neck, his head flying off and rolling onto the sand a second before the body collapsed beside it.

Shock made them hesitate too long as the foreigners converged on them, weapons swinging, battle cries piercing the air. Desmond scrambled backwards, a prayer on his lips, in a desperate attempt to get away, only to fall to the ground in his haste. Looking up from the mud, he blanched and attempted to stand as the big black haired man advanced on him, smirking and cutting down the other knights as he walked, barely giving the men he killed a passing glance. A cold knot of dread settled over his heart. There was no way an inexperienced fighter like Desmond would be able to hold his own against these monsters. Knees collapsing from beneath him, the knight remained in the mud as he watched death steadily approach.