There was a smirk accompanied by a soft snort of acknowledgment, curt and short lived though the noise was when Thistle mentioned that they were his large sons. Ragnar had nearly all but forgotten about Crete’s conquering of Thistle, the night, ironic though it was shared in the same forest, Ravensblood, that Ragnar had planted his own seed within Thistle, taking what she had offered him that night — several times that night — because she had wanted it, too. In all of reality, Ragnar had nearly forgotten about Crete’s existence period because her one night lover didn’t matter anymore. Ragnar had earned the prize of Thistle’s love, had taken what was rightfully his, and with her forged a bond that, should he ever come traipsing back, would never be in danger of being compromised — at least that was how Ragnar liked to fancy their love, how ever harsh and barbaric it was. Ragnar had squashed out all the remaining competition until he was confident enough that no more existed. Even if Crete did by some unfortunate circumstance find himself back in the Teekon Wilds Ragnar had ensured that he would not be welcome back into Blacktail Deer Plateau by informing his leader and brother of the crimes committed — even if it wasn’t technically considered a crime; and her certainly wasn’t and would never be welcome in Horizon Ridge unless Ragnar had finally moved on to claim Ravensblood. At that point, Ragnar wouldn’t care if they let his deceased brother’s ghost it. At that time it would no longer concern or pertain to him.
Her confidence in the way she spoke of the children in her womb as his made him begin to believe it himself, all over again (they weren’t Ragnar’s but genetic specifications didn’t matter, they were his by claim and therefore his children period).