Skjaler

Hi! I’m searching for someone interested in a Vikings-inspired roleplay. I write in third person, usually quite detailed and lengthy, and I really enjoy building stories that feel immersive and emotionally engaging.

I’m totally open to OC x CC pairings, and I can also play multiple characters at once if needed to enrich the story and dynamics.

What I’m looking for:

– 18+ partner only

– Someone who matches my writing style (literate to advanced, not one-liners)

– Someone who enjoys plotting, worldbuilding, and discussing ideas together

My favorite tropes:

– Enemies to lovers

– Slow burn

– Drama (the more tension, the better 👀)

I’d love to find someone who’s passionate about storytelling and ready to create something intense, emotional, and unforgettable together.

If you’re interested, feel free to reach out 💌

I write about:

Vikings, Vikings Valhalla and The Last kingdom.

You, daughter of a great king, are married to him and the seer told you you will give him many children and Ivar tells you he wants to marry a second wife and you and him were together since you were only teens and you are not really happy about that idea that there maybe will be another woman .

I could totally understand if you dont want to write it 💓

Prophecies and Promises

Ivar the boneless x female reader!

Thank you for the request! I hope you like this oneshot. Content includes angst, drama, and themes of betrayal. Not exactly a happy ending, you've been warned!

The winter wind howled through Kattegat, carrying with it the salt of the sea and the promise of snow. From the great hall's balcony, (Y/N) watched the first light of dawn paint the fjord in shades of gray and silver. Her fingers traced the wooden railing, feeling the familiar grooves where she and Ivar had carved their initials years ago, back when they were barely more than children.

The sound of movement behind her made her turn. Ivar was there, dragging himself across the floor with the same fierce determination he showed in everything he did. Even now, after all these years, her heart still skipped a beat at the sight of him.

"You're up early," he said, pulling himself onto the bench near the wall. His blue eyes, sharp as always, studied her face.

"I couldn't sleep." (Y/N) pulled her furs tighter around her shoulders. "The gods were restless in my dreams."

Ivar's expression shifted, almost imperceptibly. There was something in his eyes she hadn't seen before – a mixture of guilt and resolution that made her stomach tighten with unease.

"We need to talk," he said, patting the space beside him on the bench.

Those words, spoken so softly, carried the weight of an ax falling. (Y/N) knew, with the same certainty that guided ravens to battlefields, that whatever came next would change everything.

The silence stretched between them like a bowstring pulled taut. (Y/N) remained standing, her knuckles white against the dark fur of her cloak.

"The Jarl Eriksson will arrive tomorrow," Ivar said, his voice steady. "With his daughter, Sigrid."

"The shield-maiden?" The words felt like ice on (Y/N)'s tongue. Tales of Sigrid Eriksdottir's prowess in battle had reached even Kattegat's shores. Young, fierce, and above all, from a powerful family whose alliance could strengthen their hold on the northern territories.

"Yes." Ivar's fingers drummed against his leg brace. "I intend to make her my second wife."

The world didn't stop. The waves below continued their endless dance against the shore, and somewhere in the distance, a gull cried out. Yet (Y/N) felt as if she'd been plunged into the deepest part of the fjord, the cold seeping into her bones.

"I see." Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears. "And when did you decide this?"

"It's not about decisions, it's about necessity." Ivar moved forward, his arms tensing as he shifted his weight. "We need the alliance with Jarl Eriksson. His ships, his men—"

"Don't." (Y/N) turned to face him fully, her father's royal blood burning in her veins. "Don't pretend this is just about alliances. How many years have we been married, Ivar? How many winters have I shared your bed?"

"Seven winters." His jaw clenched. "Seven winters without an heir."

The truth of it struck harder than any physical blow. (Y/N) remembered the Seer's words, spoken in the darkness of his dwelling: 'Your womb will give Ivar the Boneless more sons than any king before him.' She had clung to that prophecy through every moon that passed without a child quickening in her belly.

"You don't believe in the Seer's words anymore," she said. It wasn't a question.

"I believe in what I can see." Ivar's voice hardened. "I believe in securing my legacy, in strengthening Kattegat. You're a king's daughter, (Y/N). You understand the weight of duty."

"Duty?" She laughed, but there was no warmth in it. "Was it duty when you taught me to throw an ax? When we would sneak away from the great hall to watch the stars? When you promised me I would be the only queen you'd ever need?"

Ivar's expression flickered, a shadow of the boy he'd been passing across his face. "We were children then."

"We were in love then," (Y/N) corrected. She moved away from the balcony, her steps measured and precise. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps we were children. But I remember every promise you made, Ivar Ragnarsson, and so do the gods."

She paused at the doorway, her hand resting on the carved wooden frame. "I hope Sigrid Eriksdottir brings you everything you wish for."

The great hall was beginning to stir as she walked through it, servants preparing for the day ahead. None dared meet her eye. News traveled fast in Kattegat, and already they must know what was coming. The proud princess who had failed to give their king an heir would soon share her crown with another.

The arrival of Jarl Eriksson's longships painted a bold stripe of red and black across the harbor. (Y/N) watched from the steps of the great hall as Sigrid Eriksdottir strode onto Kattegat's docks, her golden hair braided with leather and bones, shield strapped to her back. Every inch a shield-maiden, every step that of a future queen.

The crowd parted for her like waves before a ship's prow. (Y/N) felt the weight of every gaze shifting between them – the two queens, present and future, as different as fire and ice. Where Sigrid wore leather and steel, (Y/N)'s dress spoke of her royal upbringing, its deep blue fabric threaded with silver like the night sky.

"Welcome to Kattegat." (Y/N)'s voice carried across the courtyard, steady despite the storm in her heart. This was the game of queens, and she had learned it at her father's knee long before she'd learned to love Ivar.

Sigrid's bow was perfectly measured – respect for a queen, but not submission. "You honor us with your welcome, Queen (Y/N)." Her Norse was clear and sharp, like the ax at her hip. "The tales of Kattegat's beauty do not do it justice."

Behind her, Ivar watched them both, his eyes calculating. He had always loved games of power, but this was no game on a hnefatafl board. These were real pieces, real lives, real hearts being moved across the board.

The feast that night was a blur of mead and music. (Y/N) sat in her place of honor, watching as Sigrid captivated the hall with tales of her raids along the Saxon coast. The warrior-woman's laugh rang true and deep, and more than once, (Y/N) caught Ivar's gaze lingering on her.

It wasn't until the moon had risen high that the first wave of nausea hit her. (Y/N) gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white against the wood. The smell of roasted meat, usually so appealing, suddenly turned her stomach.

"My queen?" Her handmaiden, Astrid, leaned close. "Are you unwell?"

"I need air," (Y/N) whispered, rising from her seat. Few noticed her departure – all eyes were on Sigrid, who was now demonstrating sword techniques with one of Ivar's warriors.

In the quiet of her private chambers, (Y/N) pressed her forehead against the cool stone wall. This wasn't the first time she'd felt ill this week. Or the week before. But she'd been too consumed by Ivar's announcement to notice the pattern.

"My queen." Astrid's voice was soft behind her. "When was your last bleeding?"

The question hung in the air like smoke. (Y/N) closed her eyes, counting back the moons. Her hand drifted to her stomach, and for the first time, she felt it – the slight firmness that hadn't been there before.

A laugh bubbled up from her throat, bitter and sweet all at once. The gods had a cruel sense of humor. After seven years of waiting, of hoping, of praying – now, when Ivar had already decided to take another wife, the Seer's prophecy chose to fulfill itself.

"Tell no one," she commanded Astrid, turning to face her oldest friend and servant. "Not a soul."

Astrid nodded, understanding darkening her eyes. "What will you do?"

(Y/N) looked out the window, toward the distant mountains where the eagles soared free. "What any mother would do to protect her child." Her hand remained on her stomach, where Ivar's heir grew stronger with each passing day. "I will ensure no one can ever use this child as a pawn in their games."

The next fortnight passed in a blur of preparations. Sigrid's presence in Kattegat grew stronger with each passing day, her influence spreading like roots through fertile soil. The warriors admired her strength, the common folk her easy manner, and Ivar... Ivar's eyes followed her with an intensity that cut deeper than any blade.

(Y/N) watched it all from behind a carefully crafted mask, one hand often resting unconsciously on her still-flat stomach. The morning sickness she hid behind closed doors, the fatigue she blamed on poor sleep. Only Astrid knew the truth, helping her conceal the signs that would soon become impossible to hide.

The night of the betrothal feast arrived with the first real snow of winter. The great hall blazed with firelight, the air thick with the smell of roasted meat and sweet mead. (Y/N) sat in her place of honor, watching as Ivar announced his intention to take Sigrid as his second wife. The hall erupted in cheers, horns raised in celebration.

"A toast!" Sigrid's father boomed, his voice carrying over the crowd. "To the alliance of our houses, to strong sons and victories to come!"

The words struck (Y/N) like a physical blow. Her hand tightened around her untouched horn of mead, watching as Ivar raised his own cup. Their eyes met across the hall, and for a moment, she saw something flicker in his gaze – regret, perhaps, or memory. But then Sigrid leaned close to whisper something in his ear, and the moment shattered like ice in spring.

"It's time," (Y/N) whispered to Astrid, who stood faithfully behind her chair. The preparations were complete, set in motion days ago with the quiet efficiency that had made (Y/N) such an effective queen.

Two trusted guards – men who had served her father and come with her to Kattegat – waited by the stables. A small boat was ready at a secluded dock, far from the usual harbor. Everything she needed was already packed, loaded under the cover of darkness.

"Wait three days," she instructed Astrid, pressing a small wooden pendant into her hand – a token that would prove the message came from (Y/N). "Then tell him what I said. Not before."

Astrid's eyes shone with tears she dared not shed. "The gods go with you, my queen."

(Y/N) stood, her movements unhurried and dignified. No one paid much attention as she left the feast – it was common for the first wife to retire early when celebrations involved the second. Outside, the snow fell thick and silent, covering her tracks almost as soon as they were made.

At the stables, she mounted her horse with practiced ease, adjusting her heavy cloak around her. The child within her was still too small to hinder her movements, but she could feel its presence like a warm flame in her belly, a secret strength.

"We ride for the eastern path," she told her guards. "Through the merchant routes, where the traders won't question another group of travelers."

As they rode away from Kattegat, (Y/N) didn't look back. The city that had been her home for seven years disappeared into the snowy darkness behind her. She thought of Ivar, still celebrating in the great hall, unaware that his firstborn child was already slipping beyond his reach.

Three days would pass before Astrid would deliver her message. Three days before Ivar would understand what he had lost. By then, (Y/N) would be far beyond his reach, carrying with her the heir he so desperately wanted – the first of the many children the Seer had promised, though not in the way anyone had expected.

Three days later, the great hall of Kattegat stood silent in the gray light of dawn. Ivar sat upon his throne, fingers drumming against the carved armrest, his mood as dark as the circles under his eyes. The celebrations had ended, but something else had ended too – something he couldn't quite name until Astrid stepped forward, clutching a wooden pendant he recognized immediately.

"Speak," he commanded, his voice hoarse. Three days since anyone had seen (Y/N), three days of searching, of questions met with silence.

Astrid's chin lifted, her voice clear despite her fear. "The queen bade me tell you this: The gods have already chosen the mother of your children long ago. The Seer did not lie."

The words hung in the air like smoke. Ivar's face remained still, but his knuckles whitened against the throne's wood. One heartbeat. Two. Then understanding crashed over him like a wave, and his roar of rage echoed through the hall. The drinking horn in his hand flew across the room, shattering against the wall.

"When?" he demanded, dragging himself from his throne with dangerous speed. "When did she know?"

Astrid stepped back, but held her ground. "I cannot say, my king."

"Cannot or will not?" His eyes blazed with a fury that had made warriors tremble.

"She carries your firstborn," Astrid said softly, delivering the final blow. "The child the Seer promised. The first of many."

Ivar's laugh was hollow, breaking like ice in spring. Of course. Of course the gods would play such a cruel joke. All his plans, his calculations, his political maneuverings – undone by the very thing he'd wanted most.

"Find her," he ordered the guards. "Search every path, every village, every—"

"She's beyond your reach now," Astrid interrupted, earning gasps from those present. "Three days' journey ahead, on routes you don't know, toward a kingdom that will protect its princess."

Ivar's hand shot out, grabbing Astrid's arm. "You helped her."

"I served my queen," she replied, unflinching. "As I swore to do."

Miles away, (Y/N) stood at the bow of a merchant ship, the wind pulling at her hair as they sailed east. Her hand rested on her stomach, where the heir to Kattegat grew stronger each day. The Seer's prophecy would come true, but not in Kattegat's halls. Her children – Ivar's children – would be born free from the politics of second wives and power plays, raised in her father's kingdom, where no one could use them as pawns in a game of thrones.

Behind her, Kattegat disappeared into the horizon, taking with it seven years of love, of promises, of a future that could have been. Ahead lay the unknown, but (Y/N) stood straight and proud, every inch her father's daughter. She was more than Ivar's wife now – she was a mother protecting her child, and in that role, she was as fierce as any shield-maiden.

The wind carried the sound of seabirds and the salt spray of the sea, but not the echo of Ivar's rage as it shook Kattegat's walls. Not the sound of his fist against wood as he realized what his ambition had cost him. Not the bitter truth that his firstborn child – the heir he had so desperately wanted – would grow up never knowing their father's name.

In the end, the gods had given him exactly what he asked for, but taken away everything he truly had.

Reader is daughter of King Harald and shes friends and in love with Ivar and she has to marry one of the Ragnarssons and they all want her and she ofc chooses Ivar and he cant believe it.

Written in the Stars

Ivar the boneless x female reader!

A/N: thank you for this request! I hope you like it!!

King Harald's fleet's sails cast long shadows over Kattegat's iron-grey waters. Y/N's fingers traced the wooden railing of her father's ship, her eyes fixed on the approaching shoreline. The familiar silhouettes of the great hall and the busy docks stirred memories that made her heart flutter against her ribs.

The salty breeze carried whispers of past winters spent poring over maps by candlelight, of shared laughter echoing through empty halls when everyone else had retired, of piercing blue eyes that saw her - truly saw her - for who she was.

"The winds have favored us." Harald's voice broke through the symphony of creaking wood and splashing waves. Y/N's fingers stilled on the railing, though she couldn't quite suppress the way her lips curved upward.

Through the morning mist, familiar figures emerged on the docks. There, among his brothers, sat Ivar in his chariot. Even from this distance, the intensity of his gaze sent a shiver down her spine. Their eyes met across the narrowing stretch of water, and five years of friendship hung in the space between them.

The ship's bow cut through the last few meters of fjord. As they docked, Ubbe's voice carried across the harbor, "Welcome to Kattegat, King Harald." His eyes lingered on Y/N, calculating and considering in a way that made her spine stiffen.

Hvitserk stepped forward, extending his hand to help her onto the dock. "Princess Y/N." His smile was warm, practiced. "The gods have blessed us with your return."

The wooden planks creaked under her boots as she accepted his assistance, but her attention was drawn to the subtle shift in Ivar's posture, the way his knuckles whitened around the edge of his chariot.

"The journey must have been tiring." Ivar's voice cut through the pleasantries like a blade through silk. His eyes hadn't left her face since she'd first appeared on deck. "Perhaps the princess would prefer to rest before tonight's festivities."

"Always so concerned, brother." Sigurd's words dripped with mockery. "Or perhaps you're simply eager to monopolize her time, as usual?"

Y/N's fingers unconsciously found the silver pendant at her throat - a gift from Ivar, carved with runes they'd deciphered together during one of their many late-night conversations. Those nights when they'd abandon the noise of the great hall, finding solace in ancient sagas and battle strategies that only they seemed to understand.

The great hall buzzed with activity as servants prepared for the evening's feast. Y/N's chambers overlooked the main square, where memories lingered in every corner. Her fingers traced the windowsill where, years ago, she'd first found Ivar alone, poring over his father's old maps.

"Your form is wrong." The echo of her younger self's voice played in her mind. She'd corrected his interpretation of the English coastline that day, earning not his usual sharp retort, but a look of genuine surprise. That was the first time he'd smiled at her - really smiled.

A knock at the door pulled her from the memory. Astrid, one of the servants, entered with fresh water.

"The sons of Ragnar are asking after you, Princess." Astrid's eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement. "All of them."

The weight of unspoken words hung in the air. Everyone knew why Harald had brought his daughter to Kattegat this time. Alliances needed to be strengthened, and marriage was the surest way.

Y/N's feet carried her to the courtyard, where she found Ubbe first. He stood tall, every inch the eldest brother, watching the training grounds with calculated interest.

"You've grown more beautiful since we last met." His voice was diplomatic, measured. He stepped closer, close enough for her to see the political ambition in his eyes. "A union between us would bring great strength to both our people."

Before she could respond, Hvitserk appeared, twirling a knife between his fingers. "Brother, you sound like you're negotiating a trade deal." His easy smile didn't quite mask the hunger in his gaze. "Our princess deserves poetry, not politics."

Y/N's eyes drifted past them both, landing on the familiar figure by the weapons rack. Ivar sat cleaning his axe - the same one she'd helped him choose three winters ago. His movements were precise, following the pattern she'd shown him: three strokes down, one across, just as her mother had taught her.

"Still pining after the cripple?" Sigurd's voice slithered from behind her. "You could have any of us, yet you waste your time with him."

The familiar surge of protective anger rose in her chest, but before she could speak, Ivar's axe embedded itself in the post beside Sigurd's head.

"Your aim is improving," Y/N said, the words falling naturally from her lips, an old joke between them. "Though you're still pulling slightly to the left."

"Perhaps I need another lesson." Ivar's eyes met hers, and for a moment, they were back in that first winter, when she'd spent hours helping him adjust his throwing technique, never once mentioning his legs, focusing only on his strength.

The feast hall glowed with firelight, casting dancing shadows across faces both familiar and strange. Y/N sat at the high table, her father's words still ringing in her ears: "You must choose one of Ragnar's sons before the next full moon."

Her eyes drifted across the hall, watching the brothers in turn. Ubbe stood among the warriors, every gesture calculated to display his leadership. Hvitserk charmed a group of shield-maidens, though his gaze kept finding its way back to her. Sigurd strummed his oud, his song carrying notes of barely concealed mockery.

And Ivar... Ivar sat in his usual corner, away from the crowds, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. The same spot where they'd spent countless evenings discussing everything from battle tactics to the gods themselves.

"Do you remember," his voice caught her off guard as she approached his table, drawn to him as always, "the night you taught me about the stars?"

How could she forget? They'd stayed up until dawn, her finger pointing out constellations while he told her the stories behind each one. She'd never told him that she'd already known them all - she'd just wanted to hear his voice, to see the way his eyes lit up when he spoke of the gods.

"You were a terrible student," she teased, sliding onto the bench beside him. The familiar scent of leather and metal wrapped around her like an old blanket. "You kept making up new constellations."

"And you kept believing them." His smile, rare and genuine, made her heart stutter. "Until you realized I was describing shapes that looked like Sigurd falling off a horse."

A comfortable silence fell between them, filled with years of shared moments and unspoken words. Around them, the feast continued, but they existed in their own world, just as they always had.

"They're all watching you," Ivar said finally, his voice tight. "My brothers. They all want you."

"Let them watch." Her fingers found the edge of the table, inches from his. "They don't see me the way you do."

"And how do I see you?" His question came out barely above a whisper, vulnerable in a way only she was allowed to witness.

"Like I'm more than just Harald's daughter. Like I'm..." She paused, remembering all the times he'd challenged her mind, valued her opinions, trusted her judgment. "Like I'm me."

The firelight caught the silver of his arm ring - the one she'd helped him forge two summers ago, their fingers working the metal together as she'd steadied his hand.

The moment of choice arrived with the rising moon. The great hall fell silent as Y/N stood before the assembled crowd, her father's expectant gaze heavy upon her shoulders. Four brothers stood before her, four possible futures stretched out like paths in the darkness.

Ubbe stepped forward first, ever the diplomat. "Choose wisely, Princess. The future of our peoples rests upon this decision." His words echoed against the wooden walls, practiced and perfect.

Hvitserk offered her a playful wink. "Choose with your heart, not your head." His charm sparkled like sunlight on water, beautiful but fleeting.

Sigurd simply smirked, his fingers still wrapped around his oud. "Though some choices," his eyes flickered to Ivar, "might be less... conventional than others."

And Ivar... Ivar remained still, his eyes fixed on the ground. She could read the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers gripped his crutch - a gesture she'd learned meant he was preparing himself for disappointment.

Y/N's feet carried her forward, past Ubbe's calculated smile, past Hvitserk's outstretched hand, past Sigurd's mocking gaze. She stopped before Ivar, close enough to see the subtle tremor in his hands.

"I choose Ivar Ragnarsson," her voice rang clear through the hall. "I choose the man who saw me as an equal before he saw me as a princess."

Ivar's head snapped up, disbelief warring with hope in his ice-blue eyes. "You can't," he whispered, for her ears alone. "You deserve someone who can-"

"I deserve someone who challenges my mind," she cut him off, her hand finding his cheek. "Someone who values my thoughts as much as my title. Someone who taught me to read the stars, even while making up constellations to make me laugh."

The hall erupted in murmurs, but Y/N heard only the sharp intake of Ivar's breath. His free hand found hers, trembling slightly.

"You've always been my choice," she continued, soft enough that only he could hear. "Since that first day when you argued with me about the English coastline. Since every night we spent planning battles and reading sagas. Since every moment you saw me for who I am, not who I was born to be."

"But I'm-" he started.

"You're Ivar," she said simply. "My Ivar. The only one who's ever matched me, challenged me, understood me. The only one I could ever choose."

Slowly, like dawn breaking over the horizon, a smile spread across Ivar's face - not his usual smirk, but the real smile she'd come to treasure. His fingers tightened around hers, and in that moment, they were back in every shared laugh, every quiet conversation, every silent understanding that had led them here.

"The gods themselves couldn't have given me a greater gift," he whispered, and Y/N saw in his eyes the same truth she'd known all along - that some choices are made long before they're spoken aloud, written in the stars they'd watched together all those nights ago.

Born Under Ravens' Wings

A Ivar the Boneless x Reader oneshot inspired by Lana Del Rey's "Born to Die".

Content Warning: mentions of blood, implied violence, dark themes.

Thank you for the request!! <3

The heavy wooden doors of the Great Hall creaked open, letting in both the bitter winter wind and the woman Ivar had summoned. Her footsteps echoed against the stone floor, steady and unhurried, despite the rows of armed guards lining the path to his throne. The air hung thick with the scent of burning wood and something metallic - blood.

Ivar the Boneless sat with the kind of stillness that made people forget to breathe, his piercing blue eyes fixed on her approaching figure. Blood trickled down his arm, staining the intricate patterns of his leather armor, yet his face betrayed no pain.

"They say you're a healer," he spoke, his voice carrying that peculiar mix of silk and steel that made grown men tremble. "That the gods whisper their secrets to you."

She held his gaze, something few dared to do. The flames from the hearth cast dancing shadows across his sharp features, making him look more like the god he claimed to be than the man he was.

"The gods whisper to those who know how to listen," she replied, her voice clear in the vast hall. Her fingers instinctively reached for the medicine pouch at her hip, where herbs and bandages waited to tend to his wound.

A smile played at the corners of his mouth - dangerous, intrigued.

"Leave us," Ivar commanded, and the guards filtered out without a word, their footsteps fading into silence. The Great Hall suddenly felt more intimate, despite its vastness.

She approached his throne, her movements measured and purposeful. The wound on his arm was deep - a sword's kiss from a recent battle. As she knelt beside him, the scent of herbs from her pouch mingled with the metallic tang of his blood.

"This will hurt," she warned, meeting his gaze again. Most healers would have lowered their eyes, muttered apologies, trembled at the prospect of causing the king pain.

Ivar leaned forward, close enough that she could see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. "Everything worthwhile hurts," he replied, voice low and rich with meaning.

Her fingers worked skillfully, cleaning the wound. If the sting of the herbs bothered him, he showed no sign of it. Instead, his eyes never left her face, studying her with an intensity that would have made most people squirm.

"You're not afraid," he observed, tilting his head slightly. It wasn't a question.

"Should I be?" She pressed a clean cloth against the wound, her touch firm but gentle. "You're a man before you're a king, Ivar the Boneless. And all men bleed."

His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around her wrist. Not painfully, but with enough pressure to command attention. The sudden contact sent a jolt through her body, like lightning before thunder.

"Most who speak to me with such boldness don't live to see another sunrise," Ivar said, his thumb brushing over her pulse point. A smile played on his lips, but his eyes remained serious, searching.

"Then perhaps you're surrounded by too many cowards," she replied, continuing her work with her free hand. "A king needs truth more than he needs flattery."

The grip on her wrist loosened, but he didn't let go. Heat radiated from where their skin touched, and for a moment, the great hall seemed to fade away, leaving only this space between them.

A log cracked in the hearth, sending sparks dancing through the air. In that brief flash of light, something passed between them - an understanding, a recognition. She saw past the crown, past the legends of his cruelty, to something raw and real beneath.

"The gods didn't just give you the gift of healing, did they?" Ivar's voice was barely above a whisper now. "They gave you sight."

She tied off the bandage, her work complete, but neither of them moved to break the connection. "Sometimes," she admitted, "I see things I wish I didn't."

"And what do you see when you look at me?"

The question hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken implications. She studied his face - the sharp angles, the intensity that seemed to radiate from him like heat from a flame. In the flickering firelight, shadows danced across his features, making him appear almost otherworldly.

"I see glory," she finally spoke, her voice soft but unwavering. "And pain. And loneliness." Her free hand moved, almost of its own accord, to hover near his face, not quite touching. "I see a man who's fought against fate itself, yet can't escape its pull."

Ivar's breath caught, almost imperceptibly. For a heartbeat, the carefully constructed walls behind his eyes crumbled, revealing something vulnerable and hungry beneath.

"Dangerous words," he murmured, leaning slightly into her almost-touch. "Speaking of fate to a man who's made his own destiny."

"Have you?" She challenged gently. "Or have the gods been guiding your path all along, as they guide mine?"

The air between them grew thick with tension, like the moment before a storm breaks. Ivar's hand slid from her wrist to her hand, intertwining their fingers in a gesture that felt more intimate than any embrace.

"The gods," he said, his voice rough with emotion, "have never given me anything I haven't had to fight for." His eyes flickered to their joined hands, then back to her face. "What battle will they demand for you, I wonder?"

A gust of wind howled through the hall, making the flames dance wildly. The shadows it cast made it seem as though the carved gods on the wooden pillars were moving, watching their exchange with ancient, knowing eyes.

"Perhaps," she said, finally allowing her fingers to trace the line of his jaw, "the battle has already begun."

Ivar caught her hand against his face, his touch both gentle and possessive. The calluses on his palm spoke of countless battles, yet his touch held a tenderness that surprised her. His skin was warm despite the winter's chill, almost feverish.

"You know what they say about me," he said, eyes darkening. "The stories. The warnings. That I destroy everything I touch." His grip tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to emphasize his words.

"And yet here I am," she replied, unflinching. "Perhaps destruction isn't always what it seems. Sometimes the old must burn for the new to rise."

A low laugh escaped him, more genuine than his usual calculated smirks. "You speak in riddles like a völva."

"And you avoid truths like a king." She moved to withdraw her hand, but he held fast, pulling her closer until she could feel his breath on her face.

"Stay," he commanded, then seemed to catch himself. His voice softened, almost to a whisper. "Stay and tell me more of what you see."

The word hung between them - not quite a request, not quite an order. In that moment, she saw their paths stretching before them like threads of fate, intertwining, beautiful and terrible in their inevitability.

She felt it then - that familiar whisper of the gods, a chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the winter air. In her mind's eye, she saw flashes: blood on snow, a crown falling, ravens circling. And through it all, their two figures, bound together in a dance of fate that could only end in flames.

"The paths that lead to you are stained with blood," she whispered, her hand trembling slightly in his. "The gods show me darkness, and glory, and pain." Her eyes met his, and for a moment, she saw understanding flash across his face. "They show me an ending written in the stars."

Ivar's grip on her hand tightened, his other hand coming up to trace the line of her throat, resting there like a promise - or a threat. "Then let it come," he breathed, his voice heavy with something between desire and defiance. "Let them try to stop what's already been set in motion."

She pulled back slightly, though every fiber of her being yearned to lean closer. "Some things," she said softly, "are meant to destroy us, Ivar the Boneless. And we walk toward them anyway."

Rising to her feet, she felt the weight of destiny settling around them like a cloak. The fire had died down to embers, casting long shadows across the hall. As she turned to leave, his voice stopped her.

"When will I see you again?"

She paused at the threshold, looking back at him one last time. In the dying light, he looked every bit the king of legends - beautiful, dangerous, doomed. "When the gods will it," she answered. "And they always will it."

The heavy doors closed behind her with a sound like fate sealing shut. In the great hall, Ivar remained on his throne, touching the bandage on his arm, his eyes fixed on where she had disappeared. Outside, the wind howled louder, carrying with it the sound of ravens' wings - harbingers of what was to come.

Some loves were born to die, after all. But first, they had to live.

Halfdan the black x female reader! Vikings era. A/N: Please excuse any mistakes - English isn't my native language! PS: I love Halfdan sooo much! Vikings / The last kingdom oneshot requests are open! Feel free to send your ideas 💕

Flames danced in the hearths of Kattegat's Great Hall, casting long shadows against wooden walls stained dark with years of smoke. The clash of drinking horns and bursts of laughter echoed through the warm air, heavy with the scent of mead and roasted meat. She sat on one of the wooden benches, her fingers tracing the rim of her drinking horn while warriors around her boasted of their latest raids.

Harald Finehair's voice boomed above the others, his elaborate braids swaying as he gestured wildly, telling tales of his conquests. Yet it was his brother who drew her attention. Halfdan lingered at the edge of the gathering, his thoughtful eyes scanning the crowd over the rim of his drinking horn. Unlike his brother's elaborate appearance, Halfdan's simple leather tunic and quiet demeanor spoke of a man who preferred observation to spectacle.

"You there!" A deep voice cut through the noise. "The one from foreign shores. What tales do they tell in your lands?"

Heads turned. The leather of her seat creaked as she shifted, lifting her chin. Her fingers stilled on the drinking horn.

"In my lands?" The corner of her mouth curved upward. "In my lands, we speak of creatures that would make even your dragons seem tame."

A low murmur rippled through the crowd. From his position, Halfdan's head tilted slightly, his attention caught like a hawk spotting movement in the grass.

Someone thrust a fresh horn of mead into her hands. The sweet scent wafted up, mixing with the smoky air.

Her voice carried across the hall as she wove her tale. She spoke of waters that turned to mist without warning, of creatures with teeth longer than swords that could snap a longship in half. Her hands carved shapes in the air, drawing invisible maps of treacherous waters and distant shores. The flames in the hearth seemed to dance with her words, casting ever-shifting shadows that brought her monsters to life on the wooden walls.

The sound of boots against wooden floorboards drew closer. Halfdan had left his corner, finding a seat within arm's reach of her. His eyes never wavered from her face, dark and intense like the depths she described.

The last words of her tale hung in the air like morning mist over the fjord. Before the spell could break, Halfdan leaned forward, the firelight catching the sharp angles of his face.

"These waters you speak of," he said, his voice lower than his brother's but no less commanding. "Have you sailed them yourself?"

She met his gaze. The flames reflected in her eyes matched the ones in the hearth. "Some secrets," she replied, lifting her drinking horn in a subtle salute, "are only shared with those patient enough to discover them."

His lips curved into a half-smile, a challenge accepted in the quirk of his eyebrow.

The crowd's attention shifted as Harald called for music, his voice carrying over the din. Drums began to pound, their rhythm matching the crackling of the flames. Around them, people moved to clear space in the center of the hall, benches scraping against wooden floors.

"Your stories," Halfdan said, shifting closer until the fur of his cloak brushed against her arm. "They speak of dangers, yet your eyes show no fear of such creatures."

She turned the drinking horn in her hands, watching the mead catch the firelight. "The most dangerous creatures I've encountered walked on two legs, not fins."

A low chuckle rumbled in his throat. "And yet here you sit, among warriors and raiders."

"Here I sit," she agreed, meeting his gaze. "Perhaps I find danger... interesting."

The drums grew louder. Harald's voice rose above them, calling for his brother. Halfdan's jaw tightened, a flash of irritation crossing his features.

"Brother!" Harald approached, his elaborate braids swinging with each step. "Why do you hide in corners when there's celebration to be had?" His eyes fell on her, a knowing smile spreading beneath his beard. "Ah, though perhaps you've found better entertainment than what I offer."

She rose from her seat, the movement fluid and deliberate. "Your brother was just about to tell me of his own adventures at sea." Her eyes found Halfdan's. "Unless, of course, he fears his tales might pale in comparison to mine."

Harald's laughter boomed across the hall. Halfdan stood, his height bringing him close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.

"My tales," he said, voice low enough that only she could hear, "are better shared away from my brother's ears." He gestured toward the open doors of the hall, where stars glittered above the sleeping village. "Perhaps you'd care to hear them under the sky your monsters swim beneath?"

Behind them, Harald called for more mead, already distracted by the festivities. The drums continued their steady rhythm, but their beat seemed distant now, secondary to the quiet tension stretching between her and Halfdan.

She took a step toward the door, then paused, looking back over her shoulder. "Lead the way, poet. Show me if your words can capture the night as well as they capture attention."

The night air bit at their skin as they stepped outside, a stark contrast to the hall's warmth. Few torches lit the pathway, leaving the stars as their main source of light. She walked slightly ahead of him, her steps purposeful despite the slippery frost beneath their feet.

"You never answered my question," Halfdan said, matching her pace. "About sailing those waters."

She arched an eyebrow. "Perhaps I didn't find the question worthy of an answer."

"And what would make it worthy?" His voice carried a hint of challenge.

Stopping abruptly, she turned to face him. "Men like you and your brother," she said, her words sharp as ice, "think you can demand stories like you demand tribute. But my tales?" She stepped closer, close enough to see his breath mist in the cold air. "They're not won through demands."

Halfdan's eyes darkened. "You judge quickly for someone who knows nothing of me."

"I know enough." Her chin lifted. "I know you sit apart, watching, judging. I know you think yourself different from the others, more... refined." Her lips curved into a taunting smile. "And I know you're burning to prove me wrong."

He moved suddenly, backing her against one of the wooden posts that lined the path. His arm rested above her head, but he didn't touch her. "You speak boldly for someone surrounded by warriors not her own."

"And you loom like a man trying to intimidate a woman who clearly isn't afraid." Her eyes glittered with defiance. "Is this how you usually charm foreign visitors, Halfdan the Black? With poorly veiled threats?"

Something shifted in his expression – surprise, perhaps, or admiration. His lips twitched. "Most foreign visitors don't challenge me quite so... directly."

"Most foreign visitors," she countered, making no move to escape his proximity, "probably don't interest you quite so much."

The tension between them crackled like static before a storm. Halfdan leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You think yourself clever."

"I know myself clever." She tilted her head, her next words a deliberate provocation. "The question is, are you clever enough to keep up?"

A low chuckle rumbled in Halfdan's chest. He didn't back away, seeming to savor their proximity. "Most who challenge me so boldly usually carry a weapon."

"What makes you think I don't?" Her hand brushed against her belt, where a small knife rested. The movement drew his eyes downward, exactly as she'd intended.

"Clever indeed," he murmured, gaze traveling back to her face with deliberate slowness. "Tell me, does your husband know you taunt strange men in the dark?"

She matched his intense stare. "Tell me, does your wife know you corner foreign women against posts?"

His smile grew sharper, more predatory. "You answer questions with questions."

"And you avoid answering entirely." She shifted slightly, but instead of moving away, she leaned closer. "Though I notice you didn't deny the wife."

"Nor did you deny the husband." His free hand came up, fingers hovering near her face but not quite touching. "Though I think we both know the truth."

"Do we?" Her voice dropped to a whisper, matching his tone. "And what truth would that be?"

"That no man would let his wife wander so far from home." His fingers finally made contact, tracing a feather-light path along her jaw. "Or speak with such... defiance."

She caught his wrist, her grip firm but not rough. "Bold of you to assume any man could 'let' me do anything."

Instead of pulling away, Halfdan turned his hand in her grasp until his fingers wrapped around her wrist in return. The pad of his thumb found her pulse point, pressing lightly against the quickened beat.

"Your heart races," he observed, satisfaction coloring his words.

"Fear does that," she countered, though her smirk betrayed the lie.

"Fear?" His other hand came down from the post, bracing against the wood beside her hip. "Is that what you call this?"

She released his wrist only to fist her hand in the front of his tunic, pulling him closer until their faces were mere inches apart. "What would you call it?"

The tension snapped like a bowstring. Halfdan surged forward, claiming her mouth with his own. The kiss was fierce, hungry, a clash of dominance that matched their verbal sparring. Her grip on his tunic tightened, but before she could pull him closer, cold steel pressed against his throat.

He pulled back just enough to see the small blade she'd somehow drawn, his eyes darkening with something between amusement and desire. "Dangerous indeed."

"I did warn you about creatures with sharp teeth," she reminded him, the blade steady in her hand despite her breathless state.

Instead of backing away, he leaned into the knife's edge. "And yet, I'm not the one who drew blood first." His thumb brushed across her lower lip, showing her where his teeth had left their mark.

"Perhaps I like drawing blood." The knife traced a path down his neck, not pressing hard enough to cut.

"Perhaps," he growled, "I like letting you."

This time when he kissed her, the knife clattered to the ground. Her hands found his hair, his shoulders, anywhere to anchor herself as he pressed her harder against the post. His beard scratched against her skin, a delicious contrast to the softness of his lips.

"BROTHER!" Harald's voice boomed across the yard, followed by his raucous laughter. "So THIS is where you've been hiding!"

They broke apart, though Halfdan kept her caged between his arms, his forehead resting against hers for one more moment.

"Your timing, brother," he called back without looking away from her face, "remains impeccable as always."

She laughed, the sound rich with promise. Ducking under his arm, she retrieved her knife from the ground. "Perhaps the gods are telling us something."

"The gods," Halfdan caught her wrist as she turned to leave, "will have to be more persuasive than that." His voice dropped lower, meant only for her ears. "This isn't finished."

"No?" She twisted her wrist free, but let her fingers trail across his palm as she did. "Then consider this a tale left untold, poet. For now."

"I will find you again," he promised, his eyes intense in the starlight.

She walked backward toward the hall, a smile playing on her lips. "I expect you to try."

Harald's laughter followed her as she disappeared back into the warmth of the great hall, leaving Halfdan staring after her, the taste of her still on his lips and the ghost of her knife at his throat.