Ragnar sat motionless atop his warhorse just outside the gates, his posture relaxed as if he were watching the sun set over a calm fjord rather than a battlefield drenched in blood. Body parts tumbled from the walls above—severed arms still clutching broken spears, a head with wide, lifeless eyes bouncing once before rolling to a stop near his horse's hooves, a torso split nearly in two spilling entrails across the dirt. The wet thuds and sickening splashes continued without pause as Grjötgard carved through the defenders on the walkway.
Ragnar showed no reaction. His face remained calm, almost disconnected, the grey of his eyes steady and unblinking. No twitch of the jaw, no tightening of the grip on the reins. The screams raining down from above might as well have been distant seabirds. He had seen worse. He had done worse. And today, none of it touched him.
