Dyla learned quickly what kind of man Bryn was. He was strong and thus that made him right. He took what he wanted and cut down anyone who stood in his way. Any judgements Dyla might have had against this were swept away quickly. Her moral compass was spinning freely after having her old life—as she now called it—ripped away by a cult and almost having her soul fed to a demon. Now she was Bryn's and she cast no judgement on his way of life, for it was hers.

She also learned that he was searching for something. Every time they reached civilization, if it was a Jarl's fort he would stay, away muttering some deficiency it had. If it was a village he would either raze it or leave it be, again remarking on something it lacked.

As far as Dyla could tell, Bryn was looking for a home. It was like watching an animal try to find the perfect burrow. Or, she thought watching his wide shoulders ahead of her, a bear trying to find a cave for the winter.

Finally, as the first snows appeared, Bryn stopped atop a hill and looked down at the Jarl's fort nestled in the valley. A small river ran sluggishly through the land, chunks of ice starting to form on its surface. He stared down at the town where tiny people could be made out bustling along the streets.

It wasn't a large town, at least compared to some Jarl's forts. There were only maybe thirty households and it didn't have the stone wall that encircled most forts, a sure sign that it was a fairly newly formed township. Not like many down south which had been around for centuries.

Dyla stepped up and placed a hand on Bryn's arm. "Is this the one?" she asked and he smiled.

They arrived quietly. Entering, ordering a meal, booking a room for the night, and causing no trouble. But Dyla could see Bryn's eyes watching the people, his ear pricked for the threads of conversation that informed him about the town. He had never razed a fort before. They were usually too large and would have garnered too much attention. Bryn wasn't stupid, he knew that, despite his strength, the king's army would hunt him down if the Jarls called for it. A bear didn't pick fights with a pack of wolves.

At first she'd feared his desire for the town would make him take it despite the risk, but as she watched him wander through the streets, she could tell a plan was forming in his mind.

They passed a tailor's shop, a group of children playing across the street. Bryn stopped and sat on the bench outside the shop. "Go in and buy something for yourself," he said, handing her a pile of coins. His eyes were scanning the houses, but hovered on the children. She took the coins and went inside.

She browsed the store, feeling cloth and admiring patterns. She made conversation with the tailor, a thin bony woman with distrustful eyes that kept glancing at Bryn through the window. Dyla asked questions about the fabric, tried on a few dresses, and when Bryn stood up and leaned against the doorframe, she bought one and some gloves, thanking the tailor.

Before she could leave the counter the tailor asked, "Are you and...your husband staying long?"

Dyla resisted the urge to glance at Bryn for some sort of answer. Instead, she smiled sweetly, "Oh, it depends on the weather. Frost seems to be early this year, doesn't it?"

The tailor frowned but nodded and Dyla turned. Bryn was smiling but it wasn't at her. It was almost predatory and it was directed at the tailor. He nodded, turning it into a greeting but there was no mistaking the hostile air. Dyla took his arm and they left the shop.

Bryn's low rumbling laugh made Dyla turn as they left the tailor’s store behind. He pulled her closer and she looked up, following his gaze to a boy with brown hair, probably about eleven, who had just whacked a slightly older boy with a wooden sword. The boy had shot a look of hatred at the first boy but said nothing.

"Now you're dead!" The boy with the ‘sword’ said and begrudgingly the older boy lay down feigning death, his fingers curling into fists.

A girl with braids and sharp eyes watched from the other side and quickly skipped over. She knelt by the older boy, her brother it would seem, their faces similar in feature, and cried dramatically, "Oh Jorg has been slain by the mighty Harold. I must bring his body back to mother."

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She took the older boy's hands, unfurling his fist, and dragged him into their home. Harold laughed.

Bryn's low voice whispered in Dyla's ear, "Harold is the Jarl's son."

Dyla frowned at the boy. If he was part of Bryn's plan, he was going to have a hard time of it. “Though”, she thought as she watched Harold kick a cat, “if he doesn't kill him, it might teach the brat a lesson.”

They stayed for three more days, until their presence wasn't the subject of every conversation. They bought supplies, endearing them more to the shop owners, until on the third day, Bryn told Dyla he was going to see the Jarl.

"I will ask for the land by the river."

Dyla smiled at him. "Will you offer payment, my lord?"

She was a little surprised when he nodded, pulling out the small chest she had seen in his bag. She knew it was filled to the brim with gold coins, a collection he added to every raid. Now she knew what he had been saving for.

"If he says no?" Dyla asked. Jarls were infamously unwieldy when it came to selling land. They prefered to rent, in order to leave room for extorting from their tenants.

"Then I will give him time to think about it." This was said in a growl and Dyla knew that if the Jarl said no, he'd better do so politely or Bryn might not get to his plan, he might just kill the Jarl then and there.

"Am I coming?"

"No." He paused and surprised her by asking, "Did you ever have servants?"

Bryn had never asked about her past before so she stumbled a little over her words. "What? Oh, no I didn't. My father was a merchant, we were rich in objects not gold and you can't pay help with wares."

"Did you ever see a Jarl's wife interact with servants?"

"A few times."

Bryn nodded and Dyla wondered where this was coming from. She didn't get an explanation, he simply took the chest and left her in their room at the inn to try to piece together his plan.

When he came back, Dyla felt his anger fill the room. Her heart leapt, praying he hadn't lost his temper. She froze, waiting for his next move.

"The bastard wouldn't sell." Bryn slammed the chest onto the small nightstand and stood looming over it. Dyla slid off the bed where she had been rehemming her cloak. She carefully slipped her arm into his.

She too stared at the box, afraid to look at his face, afraid she might see the answer she didn't want.

"Now what, my lord?" she asked, voice steady. She didn't want to be on the run. She didn't want to ever be afraid again.

Bryn took a deep breath. "Now we leave and wait for the Jarl to change his mind."

Dyla dared breath again. The Jarl was alive. She closed her eyes with relief and Bryn felt her shift. "Woman, what's wrong?"

She smiled up at him. "Nothing. Just tell me what to do."

He eyed her with some suspicion but when she met his grey eyes and there was not just suspicion, but concern?

Bryn turned and placed his large hands on her shoulders, half-leading, half-carrying her to the bed, and sat her down. He sat next to her, not releasing her shoulders.

"Do not lie to me." It was said gently, but Bryn was not the kind of man who could remove all threat from his voice.

Dyla felt tears welling up but refused to let them fall, the effort made her shoulders shake and she knew Bryn could feel it. His grip tightened the smallest bit. Slowly but steadily, Dyla answered, "I did not lie to you, my lord. Nothing is wrong. I was worried before is all."

"Worried?" he growled, not understanding. Not liking not understanding. Dyla knew she had to be completely honest. She slowly took one of Bryns hands from her shoulder and held it in her lap, running her thumb over his large knuckles.

"Yes. I worried you would kill the Jarl. Then the king's men might come after you and we would have to flee. I do not want to be afraid. I ran for two days when the—the cult came. I was so afraid."

Despite her efforts a tear escaped and landed on his hand, running down the side. "Before that, I was afraid of bandits, afraid of wolves, afraid my father wouldn't sell enough to feed us." She wiped her eyes and gripped his hand tighter. "But since you came, I have not been afraid."

He pulled his hand away and her heart pounded against her chest. Would he think she was weak? Would he reject her?

Bryn’s hands cupped her face and tipped it up until his lips met hers. Then he pulled away, holding her face close to his, his steely eyes locked on her and said, "You are my woman."

He always called her that. My woman. Never by her name, although she had told it to him that night on the grass. She'd thought it was his way of staking claim, never before had she realized that it was his term of affection.

"I do not run from my enemies. If my strength is too weak I will fight until death claims me and you will be there to share victory or defeat. I do not fear death, do you?"

She gave a laugh, full of relief and full of love. "No, my lord, I am your woman."