Summary: Lagertha's gift of a daughter and Ragnar's monster of a son have loved one another for far too long. But things in Kattegat are fragile, and the two now must make choices.
Warnings: mostly spoilers for S4b
A/n: I had to break this into sections. Trust that p2 is gonna get serious real fast.
Masterlist
........................................
The Seer had been right.
Lagertha would never give Ragnar a son, never bearing one after her Bjorn. But when Earl Kalf came into her life, she suddenly found herself with child.
There was little hope that the child would make it. After all, the Seer said so.
But a daughter?
Lagertha's second chance to make up for the death of her sweet Gyda. She held the babe close.
And yet.
No one predicted that she'd one day end up in the arms of Ivar the Boneless.
…
"It seems like a death sentence," she explained to Ivar. "Suicide, even."
"My father wants me to go," Ivar shrugged. "He needs me. I can't say no to that. To the gods."
She sighed. He was beyond stubborn. A true Ragnarsson trait.
She often traveled between Hedeby and Kattegat, staying with Bjorn when here. It was a strange thing to have her around, but Bjorn was the Prince of Kattegat, so others didn't have much room to question.
Plus, the Ragnarssons didn't mind a bit.
She was neither the daughter of Ragnar or Aslaug, but because of her connection to Bjorn, she was a sister to all five of them.
Well, four of them.
Ivar's love had always gone beyond that. As did hers for him.
"What if you go with Bjorn instead?" She tried. Her hand stretched out over his. "To the Mediterranean."
His head lulled. "My brothers have always doubted me. Not my father. He knows what the gods have in store for me."
"And what if all that is store is your death?"
He ran his tongue across his teeth. "Then I will die."
"Marry me before you go," she rushed out, immediately caving in once it was uttered.
"I will not risk making you a widow before you get to truly be a wife."
She felt tears well up in her eyes. She was never the strong one around. Lagertha swore to have a peaceful reign when she became Earl. There was no need to teach her daughter the hardships of being a shield maiden. She had no need to- Lagertha on one side and Bjorn on the other always. Gyda was so soft. So kind. Y/n was no different, only older. She had a chance to grow up kind.
"Don't cry," Ivar huffed. He had no idea what to do with tears. "I'll be back soon enough."
"Swear to it."
He shook his head. "I will not swear if I don't know the will of the gods."
"Then swear you'll marry me if you return."
He couldn't stop another scoff, "woman-"
"-Ivar, please."
"Ivar!" Aslaug's voice interrupted.
The queen stepped into the room, her worry turning to amusement at the sight of the two. She'd always had an odd relationship with Lagertha. How strange was fate to bring their children together?
"Let me speak to my mother," Ivar gently waved.
Y/n nodded and stood, but her wrist was caught by him. "I swear to it," he remarked, looking her firmly in the eye.
…
Lagertha had come to Kattegat with the help of Torvi and Margerette. She hadn't dragged Y/n into the plans.
So when she took Kattegat, Y/n stood at the sidelines in shock, even letting out a shriek when Aslaug fell to the ground dead.
She wanted to feel betrayed by her mother. She should have. But she couldn't find it in herself. Lagertha had sat on the sidelines for too long as her world was taken away.
So she was torn when Ubbe and Sigurd had come to her privately.
"How are you not angry," Ubbe lectured his brother. "Our mother is dead."
"And it is for the best," Sigurd huffed. "Y/n's mother is the only one around here that knows how to truly mother. Look at Bjorn."
"Y/n?" Ubbe questioned.
She sat with her head in her hands, utterly confused by it all. "I won't choose sides."
"We all know it will come to it eventually."
She lifted her head with a heartbroken look. "Then I side with Bjorn. The side he chooses, I follow."
Ubbe nodded. "Very well. So, we wait for Bjorn."
"No," Sigurd shivered. "We wait for Ivar more."
The three exchanged nervous glances.
…
Ivar had returned first. Carried by soldiers of King Ecbert's guard, he was set onto the wooden dock of Kattegat.
She couldn't muster the strength to go welcome him. He wouldn't find out such devastating news from her.
But the next day, Ivar crawled his way into the feast hall with his picks. The entire room quieted as they waited for what the angry son of Aslaug would say.
His eyes slowly trailed from Lagertha, to Torvi, to Astrid, then finally, Y/n.
She stood to the side, a completely guilty expression strung across her face.
No one was immune to noticing the way his eyes glued themselves to her in every room.
It had been like that since her first visit to Kattegat.
It's what finally drove the stake between Sigurd and Ivar. The love Bjorn had for Y/n that he never had for his own daughter, Siggy. And how Sigurd had loved little Siggy.
Y/n's life was always a comparison to one's already dead. All did it but Ivar. Perhaps that is why she was so content to be stuck in his web.
When Largertha refused Ivar's challenge, he was becoming angrier. He knew his easiest chance to kill her was by hand-to-hand combat. Ivar was a cripple, but a damn good one.
"I will kill you, Lagertha. Your fate is fixed," he growled.
Content with his threat, he looked back to Y/n, pulling a chain from around his neck.
A ring.
She felt something in her stomach twist at the shimmer that crossed her vision. His fingers rubbed over it a few times, egging for a reaction from the girl he promised to marry.
He let the chain drop to his chest with a smirk. Especially when her eyes followed it.
…
As soon as the meeting was adjourned, she rushed out to Ragnar's old cabin. The children had found it when he'd left, and it was their designated space away from the rest of the world. Plus, that was all the boys had to live in now. Ivar would be there.
She rushed in, not caring that the other brothers were gathered around. "Ivar?"
The three others looked at one another with questioning glances before completely packing up and walking out. The brothers weren't about to intervene.
The door closed before Ivar finally spoke. "What do you want?"
"Are you not grateful to be home? To be back? To be the only survivor?" She sat next to him, her voice lowering. "Are you not happy to see me?"
He scoffed, turning away.
"I didn't know, Ivar. I swear to you."
"Seems like we enjoy making swears we don't intend to keep, hm?" He mocked.
Her eyes moved down to the chain again. She sat up straighter and brushed a hand over his chest. Over the ring. "You truly won't marry me now?" She asked softly.
His hand wrapped around her wrist gruffly. But after the initial touch, his grip softened. His jaw was clenched, his anger unchecked. But he couldn't help the flutter that still moved through his chest. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "I don't know if I want children with traitor blood."
Her fingers twiddled with the ring. "You know better than I that we don't choose our mothers. The gods do."
"And yet, you'll never help me get my revenge."
"No," she agreed. "I won't."
His eyes wandered over her face. The anger bubbled under his skin. But not at her. And that frustrated him more. "I'll still marry you. But you cannot fault your future husband when he has his revenge."
"But Bjorn will-"
"-That is my offer to you, my love. If you want this ring," he offered, pulling the chain from around his neck and setting it on the wooden table, "Then that is your choice. I have taken my stand. You know what I will do. Will you still marry me?"
She stared down at the jewelry. She'd longed for this for years now. Being his wife.
This could make or break everything.
"I… I don't know," she admitted back to him.
"You don't know?"
"I should wait. For Bjorn to come back. And Hvitserk."
He set a heavy hand on her thigh. Not menacing, but not softly either. "Will you ever choose things for yourself? Or will you wait on Bjorn hand and foot as he decides your fate?"
"Ivar-"
"-No. I do not mind if you must think on it more. But do not do what Bjorn says purely because you think it is right. He makes mistakes." His head tipped down and his gaze turned menacing. "You will choose."
She nodded. "I need time."
"Good," his voice lightened. He even managed a smile. His body leaned forward like he was thinking of kissing her, but he paused and gave a quick nod of his head in acceptance. Then he looked at the ring and her one last time before pulling himself down to the floor and leaving.
She exhaled a long breath, taking the chain and placing it around her neck, tucking it away.
…
Another feast, another problem.
Y/n wasn't far off from Torvi and Astrid, hearing them speak about something being wrong as the large doors closed.
"Like what?" Astrid asked.
"I don't know, but something."
Sigurd let out a small grunt as someone grabbed him from behind and held him at knifepoint. That began a whole group coming forward and grabbing at Lagertha's shield maidens and earls alike, restraining them all.
A hand grabbed Y/n's wrist, holding it out.
Ivar's ring was wrapped around her finger. She'd chosen.
Whoever it was dropped her hand entirely and stepped away from her, meaning she stood amidst the chaos, entirely left alone.
Everyone began to part, and Y/n tucked away towards Sigurd. Her hand grabbed the wrist of the man holding him in an attempt to pry him away.
Ivar and Ubbe approached Lagertha's throne. Lagertha was rather unfazed by it, standing and grabbing her sword slowly. She was a fighter to the end.
Ivar was impressed by her willingness to face him. He sat up with his spike as Ubbe circled around the queen.
The tension could be cut with a knife. Waiting for someone to make the first move.
The door burst open, and in walks Bjorn.
"If you kill her, my brothers," he sauntered, "you'll have to kill me too."
Y/n and Sigurd both let out relieved sighs. The argument was far from over. But with Bjorn there, the fight would not be one-sided.
"Maybe we should," Ivar warned.
"Shut up," Ubbe immediately countered. He respected Bjorn immensely, and starting conflict with Ironside was like starting to dig your own grave. "She killed our mother," he mentioned. Bjorn would see where he was coming from. Surely.
"I know. You want revenge. So would I." He took in a deep breath. "But more importantly, we have to avenge our father. That is why I came back. And that," he tapped his axe against Ivar's cheek, "is what we are going to do."
Lagertha smiled and threw down her sword, prompting the rest to follow.
As Sigurd was let go, Y/n immediately tended to him, rubbing a soft hand over his neck at the irritated skin.
Frustrated, Ubbe and Ivar left.
She was torn between following them and staying with Bjorn and Lagertha.
But after speaking to the new queen, Bjorn spotted her. That made the decision. She approached him, smoothing out her dress as she weaved through everyone.
Within a few minutes, the feast began again like nothing had happened, but Bjorn was still far from jovial.
She wasn't even sure the viking knew what that word meant.
"So, I travel all the way past Frankia, through pirated seas and storms, I keelhaul my own uncle, and still," he grumbles, "things turn to ruin here the moment I turn away."
"Since I watched her sleep with my father the first time they met, yes. Yes, I have," he complained. "But our mother has caused a rift that I'd rather not have now. I have revenge of my own to get and I need my brothers in order to do it."
"You have your brothers," she pointed out. "Of Ragnar's wrongful death, you all agree."
"I will not play guard to mother's kingdom more than I did before. I want to sail. To travel."
"Then don't."
He let out a long sigh. "This is why I love the sea. It is predictable. People are not. Like you," he pointed his cup towards her.
"Like me?"
"You wear a ring and you say nothing about it. You have not asked for my allowance. Let me see it." He held out a large hand, to which she slipped the band off and gave to him.
Bjorn flipped it in his palm a few times before a daunting thought came over him. "Where did you get this?" He questioned roughly. "Who is proposing with this ring? I'll kill him."
"Brother," she scoffed. "Why the sudden rage?"
"Does mother know?" He asked in complete ignorance of her previous question.
"No. No, and she won't. Not right now."
"I'll ask one more time," Bjorn growled, leaning across the table. "Who is proposing with Mother's ring?"
Oh.
Where had Ivar gotten Lagertha's ring?
"Our mother wore this ring until the day she and I left Ragnar. Her wedding band. Now answer the question, sister."
"Give it back, Bjorn." She tried to muster up confidence. It didn't quite work.
Bjorn's lips quirked up at that, all too amused. "I don't think I will. I think I'll hold onto this until you decide to ask for my blessing."
"That is cruel!"
He shrugged. "I don't care. Either you tell me now or he can come get it from me himself."
She let out a tantrum-like grunt and stood up, her chair scrapping against the wood. She weaved through the crowd and finally out into the cold air.
…
The journey was a little harder in the dark than she'd thought. The air was cold and frigid, and she was far from dressed for it. The wind chilled her immensely, traveling down her bones. Her chattering teeth exhaled a visible breath when she saw the cabin.
"Ivar? Ivar!" She called out as she neared.
Hvitserk was the one to come out with a concerned brow raised.
Y/n felt guilty, still not welcoming Hvitserk after the raid. She all but collapsed into his chest, wrapping her arms around him and finally relaxing.
Hvitserk froze for a moment. Touch was never his thing. "You miss me?"
"Like hell," she mumbled against his chest.
He chuckled and circled his arm around her. "Already using Christian phrases, hm? Don't let Ivar hear you. Congratulations, by the way."
It was her turn to freeze, her head tilting up until she looked straight up at him. "What?"
"You're to be married, are you not? He said so." At her hum of agreement, he rubbed a hand down her back. "You're freezing, sister. You'll catch a chill if I don't get you inside."
He guided her in. The warm air from their small fire immediately caused a shiver down her body. Hvitserk frowned and held a hand to her forehead. "Gods. I'd think you were half dead like this."
That caught Ivar's attention. His head snapped up, his entire body relaxing at the sight of her. "Did you travel this far like that?" He questioned, his hand motioning to her lack of heavy clothing.
She stepped to the fire, sitting down next to Ubbe. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, trying to transfer some of his heat. After all, he'd been scheming over the flames for a while now. He could afford to give some of the warmth up.
Ubbe gave a small glare to Ivar, effectively telling him to drop the question. "Let me see this ring Ivar said so much about."
Her face dropped. "Oh. I… it's…"
One by one, the siblings realized that something was not quite right and Ubbe should have minded his own business. In all honesty, it was a fair ask. One that usually is fine to ask to an engaged woman.
Ivar let out a long, loud breath. He seethed from his place at the table. "Where is it? I was told it was on your finger only hours ago."
How to explain that Bjorn had taken it without Ivar immediately growing angry? After all, Ironside didn't know that it was Ivar's. It wasn't personal at all. But that's not how Ivar saw things.
"Where is it?" He asked in a firmer tone. His head tilted. His tongue ran over the back of his teeth. "Did someone take it from you?"
"Don't be angry-"
"-No I AM ANGRY!" He yelled. "Tell me yes or no. Have you gone back on your word?"
"Ivar," Ubbe scorned. "Let the woman speak." He pulled a piece of hair from her face. "Go on."
She sniffled and moved closer to the fire to warm her hands. She stared at her ring finger longingly. "I do, Ivar. I want to marry you."
Hvitserk smirked widely, peering at his brother in a tease. His brother. In love.
Ivar exhaled in a hidden form of relief. "Alright."
"I did not tell Bjorn about it yet. I wanted to wait…"
"-But?" Ubbe interrupted.
"But Bjorn saw it before I could." She frowned. "Where did you get Lagertha's ring?"
Every head shot to Ivar in shock.
He shrugged. "Father gave it to me. On our way to Wessex. I told him that we would marry when I returned and he gave me the ring. Chain and all. He said he'd worn it around his neck since the day your mother left him."
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
SUMMARY: Yggdrasil meets with Bjorn, Ubbe and Hvtiserk to discuss the gods forsaken proposal, after a time...she agrees to it. Ivar's time and mind is focused on trying to forget everything about the situation but Ragnar does not make it easy as he sends all of his sons...but not Ivar to meet Yggdrasil.
WORD COUNT: 3,3 K
WARNINGS: swearing-Lagertha and Ragnar are still married-Aethelstan lives still-Gyda lives-Ivar is a silly goose-mention of unaliving someone
The rhythmic scrape of steel against whetstone filled the chamber yet again, punctuated by the occasional growl of frustration. Ivar leaned over his workbench, the muscles in his jaw tight enough to crack bone. Each drag of the blade across the stone was sharper, angrier than the last, as though he were imagining Ragnar’s face beneath it.
The door swung open without warning. Ragnar strode in, unbothered by the scathing glare that immediately burned into him. Ivar didn’t even bother to look up fully.
“If this is about the proposal,” Ivar snarled, his voice cutting through the air like a whip, “I swear to the gods, Father, I will bury this knife. In the table. Or in you. Depends on how much you piss me off.”
Ragnar smirked, leaning casually against the wall, his arms crossed. “Is that how you greet your father? I raised you better than this, boy.”
“You raised me to survive, not to suffer idiots,” Ivar shot back, slamming the knife down with a force that made the table creak. He finally turned, his cold blue eyes blazing. “So unless you want me to start sharpening this knife on something else, get to the point. And don’t waste my time.”
Ragnar shrugged, his calm demeanor only fueling Ivar’s irritation. “Oh, no point, really. Just watching. Making sure my favorite son isn’t sulking himself into oblivion.”
“I’m not sulking!” Ivar’s voice ricocheted off the stone walls. “I don’t care about the proposal, or about her, or about whatever stupid plan you think this will accomplish!”
“Oh, you don’t care?” Ragnar asked, raising a brow. “That’s funny. Because this,” he gestured at the knife, “this looks an awful lot like sulking. And sharpening your blade into nothing won’t fix it.”
Ivar clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. “What part of ‘I don’t care’ do you not understand? Let her rot in Geiranger. Let her choke on her own pride. I don’t give a damn.”
Ragnar chuckled, shaking his head. “Is that so? Because you’ve mentioned her at least three times since I came here. For someone who doesn’t care, you’re awfully passionate about it.”
Ivar’s hand twitched toward the knife. Ragnar, unfazed, straightened up and made his way to the door. “Well, no need to worry. Bjorn, Ubbe, and Hvitserk are already on their way. You can sit here, brood, and miss all the fun.”
“What?” Ivar’s voice dropped dangerously low, a storm brewing in his tone. “You sent them to her?”
Ragnar paused at the door, throwing a grin over his shoulder. “Why not? They’re more charming than you are. Probably less likely to stab her.”
Ivar grabbed the knife and hurled it with a roar. It buried itself in the wood inches from Ragnar’s head. Ragnar didn’t even flinch, his laughter trailing behind him as he disappeared down the hall.
Ragnar stepped out of Ivar’s chambers, the faint echo of his son’s rage still resonating in his ears. The knife embedded in the wall had been a particularly fine touch, he thought with a smirk. It was Ivar’s way of saying he cared, even if he wouldn’t admit it to himself.
In the dimly lit corridor, Ragnar was greeted by his daughter, Gyda, standing with her arms crossed and a skeptical expression on her face. Her blonde hair was neatly braided, and her eyes carried the sharp, observant glint she had inherited from him.
“How did it go?” she asked, her tone equal parts curious and concerned.
Ragnar tilted his head, his infamous half-smile spreading across his face. “Very well.”
Gyda raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “Very well? I heard shouting from halfway across the hall, Father. You call that ‘very well’?”
Ragnar chuckled, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “Ah, but shouting is Ivar’s way of showing affection. If he hadn’t thrown a knife, I’d be worried.”
Gyda rolled her eyes, stepping closer. “You’re playing with fire. He’s furious about the proposal, and sending Bjorn and the others to Geiranger hasn’t exactly helped.”
“That’s the point,” Ragnar said simply, his tone maddeningly calm.
Gyda folded her arms tighter, her frown deepening. “The point is to make him angrier?”
Ragnar shrugged. “The point is to make him feel something. Anger, jealousy, frustration—call it what you will. He cares more than he wants to admit, and that’s what matters.”
Gyda studied him for a moment, then sighed. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re too serious,” Ragnar replied, his grin widening. “But that’s why you and Ivar get along so well.”
Gyda shook her head, though a small smile tugged at her lips. “And what if this all blows up in your face? What if he refuses?”
“He won’t,” Ragnar said confidently.
“And what makes you so sure?” she pressed, her voice tinged with exasperation.
“Because he’s my son,” Ragnar said, his tone turning serious for a moment. “And because, whether he admits it or not, he doesn’t want to be alone. None of us do, not really.”
Gyda looked away, her expression softening. Ragnar placed a hand on her shoulder, his gaze warm but firm.
“Trust me, Gyda. This will work.”
She sighed again but nodded. “I hope you’re right.”
“I’m always right,” Ragnar said, smirking as he began walking away.
“Except when you’re wrong,” Gyda called after him, a hint of mischief in her tone.
Ragnar laughed, his voice echoing down the corridor. “That’s the spirit!”
Geiranger
Yggdrasil stormed through her chambers, her boots pounding against the stone floor. The letter from Ragnar sat on the table, taunting her. Her mismatched eyes burned with barely-contained rage.
Andora, leaning against the doorframe with her usual infuriating smirk, watched her sister’s tirade with amusement. “If pacing was a skill, you’d be the best warrior in Geiranger by now.”
“Don’t start, Andora,” Yggdrasil snapped, jabbing a finger in her sister’s direction. “Ragnar Lothbrok is a manipulative, self-righteous bastard, and I’m this close—this close—to sending his precious letter back with a flaming arrow.”
Andora shrugged, unfazed. “Go ahead. I’m sure he’d admire your boldness. He’d probably frame the ashes.”
Varun, seated quietly in the corner with her arms crossed, finally spoke, her voice low but firm. “What does he want, Yggdrasil? You’ve been cursing his name for an hour, but you haven’t told us what he actually said.”
Yggdrasil snatched the letter off the table and waved it in front of them like it was venomous. “What does he want? Oh, nothing much. Just to send his sons here to ‘discuss the proposal.’ Because apparently, my life isn’t chaotic enough.”
“His sons?” Andora raised an eyebrow, her grin widening. “Well, isn’t that generous of him? The full parade of idiots.”
Varun tilted her head. “You’ve always said they’re like brothers to you.”
“Brothers don’t arrive under the pretense of shoving you into a marriage you don’t want,” Yggdrasil shot back. “This isn’t a family reunion; it’s a raid!”
Andora plucked the letter from her sister’s hand, skimming it with exaggerated flair. “‘Your boldness is admired.’” She snorted. “Oh, Ragnar, you sweet-talking old wolf. Flattery and manipulation in the same breath.”
Yggdrasil threw her hands up. “Admired! He admires me so much he’s decided to ruin my life. That’s his idea of affection.”
Varun, ever the pragmatist, leaned forward. “Are you going to let them in when they arrive? Or are you planning to set the gates on fire?”
“Let them in?” Yggdrasil scoffed. “I should make them sleep with the livestock. But knowing Hvitserk, he’d probably enjoy it.”
Andora burst out laughing. “Gods, I missed this. You ranting about Ragnar and his sons is better than any feast.”
Yggdrasil glared at her, though a small smile tugged at her lips despite her rage. “Laugh all you want, Andora. But mark my words: if they so much as look at me the wrong way, I’ll send them back to Kattegat in pieces.”
Varun stood, placing a steady hand on Yggdrasil’s shoulder. “You’ll deal with it, Yggdrasil. You always do.”
Yggdrasil sighed, her fury softening just a fraction. “I’ll deal with it, all right. But if Ragnar thinks this is over, he’s got another thing coming.”
Andora smirked, tossing the letter back onto the table. “Careful, sister. If you’re too bold, Ragnar might send Ivar next.”
The room fell silent, Yggdrasil’s glare darkening. Andora raised her hands in mock surrender.
“Joking. Gods, you’re touchy.”
“Out,” Yggdrasil muttered, waving them both toward the door. “Before I decide to take my anger out on you instead.”
As her sisters left, laughter still lingering in the air, Yggdrasil sat down heavily, staring at the cursed letter once more. Ragnar’s sons were coming, and with them, a storm she wasn’t sure she could weather.
Three days have passed…
The halls of Geiranger were eerily quiet, save for the faint echoes of hurried footsteps and whispered exchanges. A letter had arrived—sealed with the wolf insignia of Kattegat. It bore the unmistakable weight of Ragnar Lothbrok’s words. The contents were no mystery to Yggdrasil; she had expected as much. Yet, expectation had done little to dull her anger.
Yggdrasil paced in the grand hall, her movements restless, her dark braid whipping with every turn. Her mismatched eyes—one as icy blue as a winter sky, the other as green and fierce as the untamed forest—burned with frustration. She gritted her teeth, muttering curses under her breath. Hosting Ragnar’s sons? She would rather deal with a pack of hungry wolves.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the distant sound of horses. A scout rushed into the hall, bowing his head.
“My Lady, the sons of Ragnar approach.”
Yggdrasil let out a sharp breath, rolling her eyes to the heavens as if asking the gods for strength. “Wonderful,” she muttered dryly. “The parade of fools has arrived.”
Moments later, the doors to the hall creaked open, and in strode Bjorn Ironside, Ubbe, and Hvitserk. Their presence commanded attention—towering men, each bearing the unmistakable charisma of their father. Bjorn, the eldest, had a quiet, steady confidence about him. Ubbe wore his usual half-smirk, a glint of mischief in his eyes. And Hvitserk? He looked like he was already planning his next inappropriate comment.
“Well, if it isn’t my dearest brothers,” Yggdrasil greeted them, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Come to bless my halls with your wisdom and charm, have you?”
“Careful, little sister,” Bjorn said, his deep voice calm yet firm. “Insults won’t make this easier for either of us.”
“Easier?” Yggdrasil shot back, crossing her arms. “Having you three under my roof is about as easy as swimming in full armor.”
Hvitserk chuckled, leaning casually against a pillar. “Oh, don’t be so sour, Yggdrasil. We’re here to discuss your... future.” His grin widened. “Besides, I missed your lovely personality. So warm. So inviting.”
“I’ll invite my sword to meet your neck if you don’t shut up, Hvitserk,” Yggdrasil snapped, though a faint smirk tugged at her lips despite herself. She turned to Bjorn. “Let’s not waste time. What does your father want now?”
Bjorn sighed, exchanging a glance with Ubbe. “You know why we’re here, Yggdrasil. Ragnar’s proposal still stands. He sent us to ensure you give it proper thought.”
“Proper thought?” Yggdrasil laughed bitterly. “I’ve given it all the thought it deserves. None.”
Ubbe stepped forward, his expression softer. “Yggdrasil, we’re not here to fight you. You know what this proposal means. It’s not just about you and Ivar. It’s about protection. About unity.”
“Unity?” she repeated, her voice rising. “You mean Ragnar wants to use me as a pawn to keep Geiranger loyal to Kattegat. Don’t dress it up as something noble, Ubbe.”
“That’s not true,” Bjorn interjected. “Our father cares for you, Yggdrasil. This isn’t just strategy. He knows what your presence in Kattegat would mean for you. Safety. A future.”
“Safety?” Yggdrasil scoffed, stepping closer to Bjorn. “Do you think I’m afraid? Do you think I need Ivar to protect me? I’ve survived worse than him.”
Hvitserk, ever the instigator, chimed in with a sly grin. “Survived, sure. But have you ever tried living, Yggdrasil? Might be nice to stop glaring at the world.”
“Careful, Hvitserk,” she warned, her tone like a blade. “Your charm doesn’t work on me.”
Ubbe raised his hands, trying to diffuse the tension. “Yggdrasil, no one’s forcing you. But you owe it to yourself to at least to speak to him.”
She fell silent, her gaze hard as steel as she studied her brothers. Deep down, she knew they weren’t her enemies. They were her family, in their infuriating, maddening way. But the thought of Ivar—angry, cruel, unpredictable Ivar—made her stomach churn.
Finally, she let out a heavy sigh. “Fine. I’ll speak to him. But if this goes as badly as I expect, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Bjorn nodded, relief evident in his eyes. “That’s all we ask.”
As the brothers turned to leave, Hvitserk paused by the door, throwing her a mischievous grin. “Don’t worry, little sister. If you decide to kill Ivar, we’ll help you hide the body.”
Yggdrasil couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped her lips. “Get out, Hvitserk, before I make good on that promise.”
When they were gone, Yggdrasil sank into a chair, her mind racing. She hated the situation, hated being cornered like this. But a small, nagging voice in the back of her mind whispered that maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t only about politics. Ragnar’s letter had spoken of protection, of family. Perhaps, against her better judgment, she would find something worth considering.
For now, she would prepare to face Ivar. If he thought he could intimidate her, he had another thing coming.
Kattegat
The great hall of Kattegat thrummed with its usual lively chaos. Warriors sharpened axes at the long tables, their laughter and boasts filling the air, while servants darted around carrying tankards of mead and trays of roasted meats. The hearthfire at the center of the room danced with a warmth that didn’t quite reach everyone present.
Ragnar lounged on his high seat, one leg hooked over the armrest, idly twirling his tankard of mead. He looked every bit the lazy jarl—until you caught the glint in his eye, a glint that promised mischief. Lagertha sat beside him, her elegance and composure starkly contrasting Ragnar’s rakish sprawl.
At a table nearby, Gyda sat with Athelstan, who was softly murmuring a prayer under his breath, as if he could feel a storm brewing. Gyda leaned over, her voice low. “Athelstan, you know praying won’t stop it, right?”
“It’s not for them,” he replied, shaking his head solemnly. “It’s for me. So I don’t run when the knives come out.”
The doors to the hall groaned open, and in strode Bjorn, Ubbe, and Hvitserk. They looked more like men who had just pulled off an elaborate prank than emissaries returning from an important mission. Hvitserk, true to form, made his presence known with a dramatic flourish.
“We’re back!” he boomed, shrugging off his cloak and tossing it at a passing servant.
Ragnar perked up instantly, leaning forward with a predatory grin. “And? What news do you bring from Geiranger?”
Bjorn stepped forward, exuding his usual quiet confidence. “She’s coming.”
The hall froze. Conversations halted, mugs paused mid-air, and even the crackling hearth seemed to quiet in the sudden tension.
From the far end of the room came a sharp metallic clang.
Ivar had dropped the knife he’d been sharpening.
“She’s what?” he snapped, his voice dripping venom.
“Coming here,” Ubbe said, his tone maddeningly casual as he leaned against a pillar. “To Kattegat. To talk.”
“Who the fuck decided that was a good idea?” Ivar growled, his blue eyes narrowing dangerously.
Hvitserk, ever the instigator, grinned as he sidled up to Ivar. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe Ragnar, considering he sent us to invite her.”
Ivar’s face twisted into a snarl. “Don’t push me, Hvitserk. I swear to the gods, I’ll—”
“What? Stab me?” Hvitserk teased, raising his eyebrows mockingly. “Might as well, since I’m already dead inside.”
Ragnar’s booming laughter erupted from the high seat, cutting through the tension like a blade. He slapped his thigh, leaning back with abandon. “Oh, this is better than I thought! Look at you, Ivar! You’re about to explode like a barrel of fish left in the sun!”
Ivar rounded on Ragnar, his voice rising. “This isn’t funny!”
Ragnar only laughed harder, wiping at his eyes. “Not funny? You look like a child who’s just been told to share his favorite toy!”
Athelstan groaned softly from the table, burying his face in his hands. “Ragnar, you’re not helping.”
“Oh, come on, Aethelstan,” Ragnar said, grinning wickedly. “You can’t deny it’s entertaining. Look at him!” He pointed at Ivar, who was now gripping the arms of his chair so tightly it seemed the wood might splinter.
Gyda stood, placing a calming hand on Ivar’s shoulder. “Little brother, this doesn’t have to be a battle. Yggdrasil isn’t coming to fight you.”
“She might,” Hvitserk muttered under his breath, earning a quick elbow from Ubbe.
Gyda shot Hvitserk a glare but softened her tone as she turned back to Ivar. “She just wants to talk. That’s all.”
“Talk?” Ivar spat, his voice thick with disbelief. “What in the nine realms is there to talk about? She’s probably scheming—”
“She’s bold,” Lagertha interjected, her voice thoughtful and firm. “Coming here to face this head-on. It takes courage.”
“And a lot of guts,” Ubbe added, smirking. “She didn’t even flinch when we mentioned you, Ivar.”
Ivar’s head snapped toward Ubbe, his expression lethal. “What the fuck did you tell her about me?”
“Nothing too bad,” Ubbe said innocently, though his smirk widened. “Just that you’ve been sharpening knives and sulking since you heard about the proposal.”
“Fucking traitors,” Ivar snarled, glaring at his brothers with enough fury to set them alight.
“Calm down,” Bjorn said dryly, though his lips twitched in amusement. “or you’ll visit Valhalla before she even gets here.”
Athelstan, sensing the mounting chaos, cleared his throat nervously. “Perhaps we should focus on ensuring this... meeting doesn’t turn into a bloodbath.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Hvitserk quipped, earning another booming laugh from Ragnar.
“I don’t care why she’s coming,” Ivar shouted, rising a bit from his chair. His voice cracked with unfiltered rage, though there was a flicker of something else—something closer to fear—in his eyes. “If she thinks she can walk into Kattegat and—”
“And what?” Ragnar cut him off, his tone suddenly sharp. The laughter was gone, replaced with a quiet intensity that silenced the entire hall. “What will you do, Ivar? Throw one of your tantrums and hope she runs? Scream and wave your knives like a child who’s had his toy taken away?”
Ivar’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“Exactly,” Ragnar said, leaning forward, his voice low and cutting. “You’ll do nothing. Because you don’t hate her, Ivar. You’re just afraid.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the fire seemed to hold its breath.
Lagertha, ever the voice of reason, placed a firm hand on Ragnar’s shoulder. “Enough,” she said quietly. “Let him think on it. We’ll see how he feels when she arrives.”
Ragnar leaned back with a sigh, though the amusement flickered back into his eyes. “Fair enough.”
Bjorn, Ubbe, and Hvitserk exchanged conspiratorial grins as they moved to the table.
“Five silver coins says Ivar loses it the second she steps into the hall,” Hvitserk whispered.
“Make it ten,” Ubbe replied, smirking.
“Both of you, stop,” Gyda scolded, though a smile tugged at her lips.
Ragnar, watching the scene unfold, grinned as he raised his tankard. “This is going to be the best show Kattegat has seen in years.”
Lagertha rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite hide her smile. “You’re impossible.”
“True,” Ragnar said, taking a swig of mead. “But you love me for it.”
SUMMARY: Yggdrasil finds out about the proposal and begins sulking over her fate knowing that she will have to accept it, while our dear Ivar threatens to kill anyone who wants to bring the topic again, he hates her...or does he?
WORD COUNT: 4,7 K
WARNINGS: swearing-Ivar threatens to kill his brothers (he's joking obv)-arranged marriage proposal
The Geiranger Kingdom, cradled by the fjords and kissed by the icy breath of the northern winds, was a land steeped in legend. Known far and wide as the domain of Freya’s daughters, it was a place of unparalleled beauty and danger. The nymphs, said to be born of the goddess herself, walked among mortals like living myths. They were luminous beings, their power as undeniable as the roar of the sea.
No mortal could dare meet a nymph’s gaze for too long, lest they offend the gods and invite their wrath. Stories told of men who had been struck blind or cursed to wander in madness for their insolence. Yet it was not their eyes alone that drew reverence and fear—it was their hair, flowing and unending, cascading like rivers of moonlight or the black depths of night. Their strength, their very essence, was said to reside within those strands. To touch it was unthinkable, to cut it was sacrilege. They could not be slain, save by a weapon of their own making, a secret they guarded as fiercely as their hearts.
But it was not their invincibility that made them truly dangerous. It was their power to grant immortality to mortals—a gift whispered of in longing by kings and warriors, and coveted in silence by the desperate and the dying. Yet this gift came with a price, for to earn it, one must capture not a nymph’s body, but her soul. To make her fall in love was the greatest challenge of all, and many a man had tried only to fail spectacularly, their pride shattered beneath the nymphs’ laughter.
At the pinnacle of this legendary land sat Queen Boryana, her throne hewn from yew wood and carved with the ancient runes of protection. She was a queen of unmatched strength, her rule a harmonious blend of justice and fear. Under her guidance, Geiranger had grown to become a beacon of power, its cliffs and forests brimming with the whisper of gods. But her greatest achievement was not her rule—it was her daughters. By Freya’s blessing, Boryana had given birth to three daughters: Yggdrasil, Andora, and Varun.
Yggdrasil, the eldest, was the crown jewel of Geiranger. From the moment she drew her first breath, it was clear she was destined for greatness. Named after the great World Tree, her spirit was as unyielding as the roots that bound the nine realms together. Stories of her beauty spread like wildfire across the lands, igniting tales in every hall and hearth. Yet it was not merely her beauty that captivated the hearts of men—it was her presence.
She was striking, her mismatched eyes a gift from the gods themselves. One was the icy blue of a winter sky, sharp and cutting, while the other was a mosaic of dark brown and forest green, as if the earth and woods had found their home within her. Her hair was a raven’s black, thick and unyielding as it spilled in waves to the very ground. She carried it like a crown, a mark of her divinity and power.
From her youngest years, Yggdrasil was trained in the art of war. The clash of steel and the sting of northern winds became her companions. She was taught to wield a sword with the grace of a dancer, to command a shield wall with the authority of a general. Yet she was also schooled in the duties of a woman, though she cared little for embroidery or courtly smiles. She was a force of nature, a storm bound in mortal form.
Suitors came in droves, kings and their sons eager to kneel at her feet. They whispered promises of gold, of kingdoms, of eternal devotion. But Yggdrasil wanted none of it. “I do not need a man to find my joy,” she had declared boldly, her voice ringing out like a war horn. Her words sent ripples of unease through the halls of Geiranger, for such defiance was rare among women, even among nymphs.
Yet, for a time, her defiance was indulged. She walked her path untouched, her days filled with the hum of practice swords and the call of the wild winds. She was content in her solitude, finding solace in the strength of her own hands.
But fate is seldom kind to those who defy it.
Queen’s Boryana’s Palace
The sharp clang of steel against steel echoed across the training grounds, the rhythmic song of blade and shield reverberating through the crisp morning air. It was a sound that brought fear to some, awe to others, and absolute certainty to all—it meant Yggdrasil, the eldest daughter of Geiranger, was training. Gods help anyone foolish enough to disturb her.
The young maid who had drawn the unlucky task of delivering a message stood frozen at the edge of the training field, clutching her apron as if it were a lifeline. She watched as Yggdrasil moved with a precision that was almost otherworldly, her strikes as fluid as the rivers that carved the fjords. Her black braid whipped like a serpent behind her, the thick strands heavy with the weight of their legendary power. The sight of the princess was enough to render the maid’s throat dry, but duty left no room for cowardice.
Summoning her courage, the maid called out, her voice trembling, “M-My Lady? Your mother is asking for you.”
The clash of steel halted mid-strike, the silence that followed heavier than the sound of battle. Yggdrasil held her position for a heartbeat, her blade poised and her breath steady. Slowly, she lowered her sword, turning to face the girl. Her mismatched eyes, fixed upon the maid. It was not a cruel gaze, but it was sharp enough to cut through stone.
“And did she tell you the reason for this summons?” Yggdrasil asked, her tone calm but edged with the faintest trace of irritation.
The maid shook her head quickly, her eyes cast downward. “No, My Lady. She… she did not.”
Yggdrasil let out a soft sigh, the sound carrying both exasperation and resignation. Without another word, she turned away, her hand moving with practiced ease to rest the sword against the rack by the wall. Her movements were deliberate, controlled—every gesture a reminder of the discipline that had been drilled into her from the time she could walk.
She threw her braid over her shoulder with a swift motion, its weight falling heavily against her back, and began the long walk to her mother’s chambers. The corridor stretched ahead of her, lined with tapestries depicting the gods and their triumphs. She knew every thread, every story woven into their fabric.
Her boots echoed against the stone floor, and with each step, she felt the weight of expectation settle more heavily upon her shoulders. Her training was her sanctuary, the only place where she could wield her will unchallenged. Leaving it behind always felt like surrendering a part of herself, even if only for a moment.
As she approached the doors to her mother’s chambers, she paused, her hand resting against the cool iron handle. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself. Whatever Boryana wanted, it would not be a simple matter. Her mother’s summons were never without reason, and they rarely boded well for Yggdrasil’s peace.
With a final breath, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Yggdrasil stepped into her mother’s chambers, her eyes adjusting to the warm glow of the hearth. The room was as it always was—elegant but functional, with shelves lined with old tomes and jars of herbs, their scents mingling in the air. A faint smile flickered across her face as she called out, “Mother? You wanted to see me?”
Her eyes lingered on the table strewn with pages, some bearing her mother’s intricate handwriting. She approached, her fingers brushing over the parchment absentmindedly as she scanned the scattered notes.
“I’m here, sweetling,” Boryana’s voice came from an adjoining room, and moments later, she stepped into view.
Boryana looked as she always did—like a woman untouched by time. Her dark hair fell in soft waves, her skin smooth and radiant as though the years dared not touch her. Yet, there was a weight in her green eyes, the kind that only a life lived in the shadow of both love and loss could bring.
Yggdrasil straightened, the hint of a smile still on her lips as her mother approached and placed a gentle kiss on her head. “You’ve been busy,” Boryana said, her voice light but carrying the warmth of a bond that needed no words.
“I could say the same of you,” Yggdrasil replied with a soft chuckle, gesturing toward the mess of papers. “I take it this summons isn’t for idle talk?”
Boryana smiled, but it was faint, weighed down by something unsaid. “And if it were? Can a mother not ask after her daughter’s well-being without suspicion?”
Yggdrasil tilted her head, her mismatched eyes narrowing playfully. “You’re many things, Mother, but idle is not one of them. Out with it—what’s on your mind?”
Boryana sighed, motioning for Yggdrasil to sit. Her daughter hesitated, curiosity flickering across her face, but she obeyed, lowering herself onto the edge of a sturdy chair. Boryana sat beside her, taking Yggdrasil’s hands in her own.
“A letter has arrived,” she began, her voice steady but softer than usual. “From King Ragnar.”
At the mention of him the girl smiled softly, Ragnar has been like a adoptive brother of her mother, and a father figure to her, Yggdrasil’s expression softened further. “Uncle?” she asked, her tone warming. “What news does he bring? It’s been months since I’ve heard from him.”
Boryana’s grip tightened on her daughter’s hands, her eyes searching Yggdrasil’s face. “It’s not the kind of news you might hope for, sweetling. Ragnar’s letter is… a proposal.”
The warmth in Yggdrasil’s face faded in an instant. Her hands stiffened in her mother’s grasp, and her mismatched eyes sharpened, flickering with disbelief. “A proposal?” she echoed, her voice quiet but strained. “What kind of proposal?”
“It’s for you,” Boryana said, her words gentle but firm. “A marriage proposal. To Ivar.”
Yggdrasil pulled her hands away, leaning back in her chair as if struck. She stared at her mother, her expression caught between disbelief and something far darker. “Ivar?” she said, her voice thick with derision. “Tell me this is a jest, Mother, because I might laugh if it weren’t so damned insulting.”
“Silla,” Boryana said softly, using her daughter’s childhood nickname.
“Don’t,” Yggdrasil snapped, standing abruptly. Her pacing was deliberate, her hands flexing as if itching for the sword she had left behind. “You expect me to take this seriously? Why would I—why should I—marry Ivar?” She scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “He’s Ragnar’s son, yes, but he’s also an arrogant, selfish little pup. The gods know I’ve endured him enough to know that much.”
Boryana rose gracefully, her hands clasped before her. “Yggdrasil, listen to me. This is not a matter of mere whim or convenience. Ragnar is thinking of your safety. Your father’s shadow looms large, even here, and—”
“Safety?” Yggdrasil interrupted, spinning to face her mother. “You think Ivar of all people would keep me safe? Where was his protection when I needed it? Where was he when I had no one but myself to rely on?” Her voice cracked, just barely, but she steadied it quickly. “If you think I’ll trust him now, you’re wrong.”
Boryana stepped closer, her violet eyes glinting with both sorrow and resolve. “Ragnar loves you as his own, Yggdrasil. You know that. He only wants what’s best for you. Ivar has grown—he’s not the boy you once knew.”
Yggdrasil laughed bitterly. “Grown? Into what? A man? A warrior? A shield for his father’s ambitions?” She shook her head, her braid swaying with the motion. “I love Ragnar. You know I do. But if he thinks I’ll play pawn in this game of alliances, he’s mistaken.”
Boryana reached out, her hand resting lightly on Yggdrasil’s arm. “This isn’t about alliances, sweetling. This is about ensuring you have a future—a future where you don’t have to fight every battle alone.”
“I’ve never had anything but battles, Mother,” Yggdrasil said, her voice quieter now, though no less fierce. “And I’d rather die by my own blade than tie my life to someone who wasn’t there when it counted.”
Boryana’s expression softened, but the sadness in her eyes deepened. “I only want you to be safe, my child. That is all I’ve ever wanted.”
“And I want to live my life on my own terms,” Yggdrasil replied, her voice steady but full of quiet defiance. “I owe Ragnar much, but I owe Ivar nothing.”
The silence between them was thick, heavy with the weight of words left unsaid. Yggdrasil inhaled deeply, forcing her emotions back beneath the surface. “If Ragnar wants to speak of this proposal, let him come himself. Until then, Mother, I’ve nothing more to say on the matter.”
With a final glance at Boryana, Yggdrasil turned and strode from the room, her steps firm and resolute. Behind her, Boryana remained still, her hands clasped tightly as she whispered a prayer to the gods.
Yggdrasil stormed through the castle corridors, her braid swinging wildly behind her. The chill in the air couldn’t compete with the fire raging in her chest. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind, sharper than any blade she had ever wielded.
Marry Ivar? Of all the gods-damned ideas.
She needed solitude, her chambers, a place to vent her fury. But as she turned a corner, she was met with an obstacle even the fiercest warrior would hesitate to face—her two younger sisters, Andora and Varun.
“Yggdrasil!” Andora called out, her voice light and teasing, as it always was. Her blue eyes sparkled like the morning sea, a stark contrast to her sister’s foul mood. “Where are you storming off to? You look like you’re ready to strangle someone—or did you already, and you’re running to hide the body?”
Varun stood silently beside her, leaning against the stone wall. Her green eyes didn’t sparkle—they pierced. She had the uncanny ability to see straight through Yggdrasil’s bravado, a trait Yggdrasil found both infuriating and comforting.
“Move,” Yggdrasil barked, her tone curt.
Andora gasped dramatically, placing a hand over her heart. “Move? Without so much as a greeting? Sister, you wound me.” She stepped in front of Yggdrasil, blocking her path. “Something’s clearly amiss, and I demand to know what it is. Was it Mother? Did she finally tell you you’re not her favorite?”
“Very funny,” Yggdrasil muttered, though a ghost of a smirk tugged at her lips despite her sour mood. “Now, step aside.”
“Not until you tell us what’s wrong,” Andora said, planting her hands on her hips.
Varun straightened, her quiet presence filling the space like a rising tide. “She won’t say until she’s ready,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “But something’s happened. I can see it in her eyes.”
“Which ones?” Andora quipped. “The dark one, or the icy one?”
Yggdrasil let out a sharp breath, half a laugh and half a growl. “Fine. If you must know, Mother’s gone mad.”
Andora’s brows lifted in mock surprise. “Oh? And here I thought that happened years ago. What did she do this time?”
“She agreed to a marriage proposal,” Yggdrasil snapped.
Both sisters froze.
“A marriage proposal?” Andora echoed, her voice dripping with disbelief. “For you?”
Yggdrasil narrowed her eyes. “Yes. For me. What’s so surprising about that?”
Andora waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, nothing. Except that you’ve sworn off every man who’s dared to ask. I figured Mother had finally accepted your destiny as a lone shieldmaiden with nothing but a sword and a bad temper to keep you company.”
Varun, ever composed, tilted her head. “Who is it?”
Yggdrasil hesitated, her fists clenching at her sides. “It’s from Uncle Ragnar.”
Varun’s green eyes darkened. “And?”
“And it’s for Ivar,” Yggdrasil spat, the name like poison on her tongue.
Andora reeled back as though she’d been struck. “Ivar? As in Ivar the Boneless? As in the same Ivar who used to smear mud in your hair when we were children?”
“The very same,” Yggdrasil said bitterly.
Andora let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, that’s rich. Mother wants you to marry him? She must think the gods have a cruel sense of humor.”
“Apparently, she thinks it’s my only chance at safety,” Yggdrasil muttered, the words tasting bitter in her mouth.
Varun’s gaze sharpened. “Do you believe that?”
“No,” Yggdrasil said, her tone firm. “I don’t need anyone to keep me safe. Least of all Ivar.”
“Good,” Andora said, grinning. “Because the day you let that sniveling snake call you ‘wife’ is the day I grow a beard and take up fishing.”
Yggdrasil snorted, a flicker of amusement breaking through her frustration. “I’d pay to see that.”
Varun stepped closer, her voice low and steady. “Mother may mean well, but you’ve always fought your own battles, Yggdrasil. You don’t need a man to do it for you.”
“Exactly!” Andora chimed in, throwing an arm around Yggdrasil’s shoulders. “You’re the strongest, fiercest, most bull-headed woman in this entire kingdom. And if Ivar so much as looks at you the wrong way, I’ll gut him myself.”
Yggdrasil chuckled dryly, shaking her head. “Get in line, Andora. If Ivar crosses me, he’ll wish the gods had taken him first.”
“That’s the spirit,” Andora said, her grin widening.
Varun gave a small nod, her green eyes steady and reassuring. “Whatever happens, we’re with you.”
Yggdrasil looked at her sisters, their unwavering support softening the edges of her anger. For all her frustration, she knew she could face anything with them by her side. She drew in a deep breath, straightening her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, her voice filled with genuine gratitude.
“Always,” Andora said, giving her a playful nudge. “Now, go find your chambers and brood, or whatever it is you were planning to do before we so kindly intervened.”
Yggdrasil smirked, her fiery spirit rekindled. “Don’t think this means I’ll share the mead later.”
Andora gasped. “After all we’ve done for you?”
“Not a drop,” Yggdrasil said, already walking away.
Her sisters’ laughter followed her down the corridor, a reminder that no matter what battles lay ahead, she would never face them alone.
And while Yggdrasil sulked in her chambers from the news she recieved, a certain young man in Kattegat was not yet aware of the news he will recieve.
Kattegat
Ragnar sat at the long oak table, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his weathered face. He twirled a knife absentmindedly between his fingers, the blade glinting as if it were a toy rather than a weapon. His eyes were distant, lost in thought as his mind played over the proposal. Across from him, Aethelstan sat with his hands folded, his brow furrowed in concern.
"Do you think it’s a good idea? The proposal, I mean," Aethelstan asked, his voice quiet but laced with doubt.
Ragnar shrugged, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "He is a wild one, no doubt. And by the gods, he can act like a spoiled child, throwing tantrums over the smallest things. But I know one thing for certain—those two," he gestured toward the distant lands of Geiranger, "could conquer everything, if they ever decided to work together."
Aethelstan sighed deeply, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He leaned forward, eyes searching Ragnar’s face for some sign of hesitation, something that would ease his own worries. "I understand that. But Ragnar, I know Yggdrasil. She won’t take this proposal lightly, if at all. She has despised Ivar since they were children—ten and twelve years old, for the love of Thor. There’s no chance she’ll agree to this willingly."
Ragnar paused, twirling the knife once more. His grin remained, though it was tinged with something darker, something that hinted at long experience in the ways of both men and women. His voice, when he spoke, was calm, but there was a weight to it. "And that’s exactly why it is his chance, Aethelstan. The gods have a way of making us face the things we least want to confront. Ivar may be many things, but this is his moment. To prove that he has changed, that he can be more than the arrogant child she remembers."
Aethelstan winced slightly, his mouth tightening into a thin line. "Ivar… has never apologized to anyone. Not once in his life. Since the time he was born, the boy has never once said ‘sorry’ to anyone. He doesn’t know how."
Ragnar chuckled darkly, the sound rich with a thousand battles and unspoken truths. He set the knife down on the table, his eyes narrowing as he met Aethelstan’s gaze. "There’s always a time for change, Aethelstan. Even for men like Ivar."
Aethelstan shook his head, as if the thought was too much to bear. "Change? You think a proposal will change him?"
Ragnar leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled together, his expression almost playful now. "I’m not saying it will. But sometimes, it’s the most unexpected things that force a man to grow. You of all people should know that. It’s in the struggles, in the moments of pressure, that we find out what we're truly made of. You think Ivar will just slip into this? No. He'll fight it, just as he’s always fought everything. But he won’t win this time. Not with her."
Aethelstan looked down at his hands, the weight of Ragnar’s words settling over him like a cloak of inevitability. "And Yggdrasil? You’re willing to put her through this... torment? You know she’ll resent it."
Ragnar’s grin deepened, a flicker of mischief in his eyes. "Aye, I know she will. But she’s strong. She’s always been strong. She will come to see that this isn’t just about the past, about what Ivar was. It’s about what he can become. And the gods know, if there’s anyone who can turn that boy into a man, it’s her."
Aethelstan didn’t respond immediately. He only nodded slowly, though his heart felt heavier than when he had first entered the room. The weight of the proposal hung over them both now, a heavy cloud that neither could shake.
"I pray you’re right, Ragnar," Aethelstan said, his voice low. "For all our sakes, I pray you’re right."
Ragnar picked up the knife again, tapping it idly on the table as though the conversation were already over. "The gods have spoken, Aethelstan. Now we just wait and see how they play this hand."
Ivar sat hunched over in his chambers, the repetitive scrape of his knife against the whetstone barely keeping his thoughts at bay. The blade gleamed, sharp enough to split hairs, but the edge wasn’t nearly as sharp as his mood. His brothers had been unusually quiet all day, which only meant trouble. And trouble had a way of finding him, especially when his idiotic siblings were involved.
The door crashed open, slamming against the wall with a resounding thud. Ivar didn’t look up, his lips curling in irritation. He already knew who it was.
"By Thor’s hammer, can’t you two morons knock like civilized people?" he growled.
Ubbe strolled in first, casual as ever, followed by Hvitserk, who looked like he was already suppressing a laugh. "Civilized? From the man who once hurled an axe at a servant for breathing too loud? Spare me," Ubbe said, plopping himself down on Ivar’s bed without a care in the world.
Hvitserk leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms with that infuriating smirk of his. "You look cozy, Ivar. What’s got you sharpening that knife? Thinking of murdering someone, or is this just your version of knitting?"
Ivar’s grip on the knife tightened. "If you two are here to waste my time, you’ll be leaving with fewer fingers than you came in with."
"Relax, little brother," Ubbe said, waving him off. "We’re here to... congratulate you."
That caught Ivar’s attention. He set the knife down carefully, his sharp blue eyes narrowing like a hawk sizing up its prey. "Congratulate me? For what? Outliving the pair of you morons?"
Hvitserk chuckled, pushing off the wall to saunter further into the room. "No, no. We’re here to congratulate you on your... impending marriage."
The air in the room seemed to shift, the tension snapping like a bowstring. Ivar’s face twisted into a mask of confusion and rage. "What the fuck are you talking about?" he hissed, his voice low and dangerous.
Ubbe grinned, clearly enjoying the moment. "Father’s arranged it. You and Yggdrasil. A match made by the gods themselves—or by Ragnar’s twisted sense of humor. Either way, it’s happening."
For a moment, Ivar didn’t move. Then, without warning, he slammed his fist into the table, the sound echoing through the room. "That old bastard’s finally lost his mind!" he bellowed. "Marry her? Yggdrasil?! I’d rather stick this knife through my own heart!"
Hvitserk was laughing openly now, leaning against the table for support. "Come on, Ivar. She’s not that bad. A bit sharp-tongued, sure, but at least she’s good-looking. You’ll have beautiful, angry children together."
Ivar turned on him so fast it was a wonder he didn’t sprain something. "I will carve that stupid grin off your face, Hvitserk," he snarled, his voice trembling with fury. "Don’t you dare speak about her like she’s some... gift. She’s a nightmare. A walking, talking curse."
Ubbe raised an eyebrow, his expression somewhere between amused and exasperated. "You’re being dramatic, even for you. She’s strong, smart, and she doesn’t take anyone’s shit. Honestly, she’s the only person in the world who could tolerate you."
"She doesn’t tolerate me," Ivar snapped. "She hates me. And the feeling is mutual."
Hvitserk clapped a hand to his chest, feigning shock. "Oh, the venom in your voice, brother! One might think you’re overcompensating. You don’t... like her, do you?"
The knife was back in Ivar’s hand before anyone could blink, the tip pointed directly at Hvitserk. "Say that again, and I’ll make sure you never like anyone ever again."
Ubbe sighed, standing and placing a hand on Ivar’s shoulder to calm him. "Enough, Ivar. We’re not here to fight. Father made the decision, and whether you like it or not, you’re going to have to deal with it."
Ivar shrugged off Ubbe’s hand, his chest heaving with barely contained rage. "Deal with it? Deal with her? Do you have any idea what you’re asking? She’s insufferable. Always has been. She walks around like she owns the gods-damned world, like she’s better than me. And now Ragnar expects me to... to marry her?"
Hvitserk, still grinning like an idiot, chimed in. "Well, to be fair, she is better than you. In most ways."
Ivar turned on him again, his face a mask of fury. "Do you want to die today, Hvitserk? Because I’m in the mood to make it happen."
"Easy, little brother," Ubbe said, stepping between them. "We get it. You hate her. Fine. But maybe, just maybe, you’re confusing hate with something else."
Ivar barked out a laugh, sharp and humorless. "Oh, don’t start with that nonsense. I know exactly what I feel. I hate her. I hate her arrogance, her voice, her face—"
"Her face?" Hvitserk interrupted, raising an eyebrow. "Interesting choice of words. Sounds like you’ve been staring at it a bit too much."
The knife flew, embedding itself in the wooden post next to Hvitserk’s head. He didn’t even flinch, though his grin widened. "Ah, there’s that famous Ivar temper. You know, you’re proving our point, brother. You’ve got it bad."
Ivar threw his hands up, pacing the room like a caged animal. "Get out. Both of you. Before I make good on my threats."
Ubbe clapped him on the shoulder again, this time with more force. "Think about it, Ivar. You might hate her, but you can’t ignore her. That says something, doesn’t it?"
Hvitserk chuckled, pulling the knife from the post and tossing it back to Ivar. "We’ll leave you to your brooding, little brother. Just try not to burn the place down while you’re at it."
The door slammed shut behind them, leaving Ivar alone in the suffocating silence. He stared at the knife in his hand, his thoughts a storm he couldn’t control. He hated Yggdrasil. He was sure of it. But in the back of his mind, a small, unwelcome thought whispered: If you hate her so much, why can’t you stop thinking about her?
The North was a land forged in fire and blood, a place where legends were born and lived long enough to become myths. It was a brutal land where the earth was as hard as the hearts of its people, and the icy winds carried whispers of gods and warriors. Tales of the beasts of the North spread like wildfire across the Christian world, carried on the lips of priests and the screams of survivors. These stories, heavy with dread, painted a vivid picture of a people born of chaos and steel.
The Danes were said to be bloodthirsty and merciless, their very presence heralding slaughter. But even they paled in comparison to the monsters of Norway—men raised not on the soft comforts of milk and bread but on the cold bite of iron and the warm gush of blood. They learned to kill before they could speak, their lullabies the clash of swords and the wails of the dying.
Heathens, the priests called them—demons cloaked in human flesh, a scourge sent by the devil to torment and destroy God’s children. Their warriors were said to be invincible, their shields painted with runes that bound spirits to their will. Their battle cries froze the blood in the veins of even the bravest knights, and their eyes, sharp and fierce as wolves, seemed to summon death itself.
And yet, even among these devils, one name stood above all others. Ragnar Lothbrok.
A name that rang through the halls of kings and echoed in the nightmares of the faithful. He was no mere man, but a being of legend—a descendant of Odin himself, it was said, though none who had faced him lived long enough to question it. To some, he was a warrior without equal, a king who carved his legacy from the bones of his enemies. To others, he was a god masquerading as a man, sent to remind the world of its mortality.
Ragnar was more than a man. He was a storm given flesh. His exploits—raids that toppled empires, battles that painted the seas red—were immortalized in sagas. His name became synonymous with strength, cunning, and unrelenting will. But Ragnar’s true legacy was not in his deeds alone.
It was in his blood.
He sired a lineage that bore his ferocity and ambition. Bjorn Ironside, the indomitable bear who was said to be unkillable. Ubbe, the steadfast and loyal, who tempered the storm with calm wisdom. Hvitserk, wild as the seas, unyielding and unpredictable. Sigurd, sharp and cunning, with a tongue and blade that cut equally deep.
But this is not their story.
This is the story of another.
The story is the story of youngest of Ragnar Lothbrok’s sons—a man whose name would echo across the ages, whispered in awe and terror alike. Ivar.
Ivar the Boneless.
He was no ordinary man, though the gods had marked him from the moment of his birth. The sagas tell of the day Ragnar looked upon his newborn son and saw the twisted legs that could not support him. Some whispered it was a curse—a punishment from the gods for Ragnar’s arrogance. Others claimed it was a gift, for in taking his legs, the gods had sharpened his mind and filled his heart with a fire that would never dim.
And what a fire it was.
Ivar did not rage against the heavens for what he lacked. Instead, he embraced his fate with the ferocity of a wolf denied its prey. His body might have been weak, but his mind became a weapon, sharper than any blade forged by man. He was cunning, calculating, a master of the battlefield who could outthink and outmaneuver even the most seasoned warriors.
Where others saw only obstacles, Ivar saw opportunity. He turned his weakness into a strength, proving time and again that he did not need the use of his legs to strike fear into the hearts of his enemies.
They called him a cripple, but to dismiss him was to sign one’s death warrant.
The Christians spoke of him in hushed voices, calling him a demon born of Norse savagery. His brothers knew him as a force of nature, one who could burn entire kingdoms to the ground with nothing but a plan and a cruel smile. And to those who stood against him, Ivar was something far worse—a monster cloaked in the flesh of a man, whose wrath was as unrelenting as the sea itself.
Yet, for all his ferocity, Ivar was not without depth. Beneath the armor of ruthlessness lay a soul haunted by questions only the gods could answer. Why had they marked him so? Was he chosen for greatness, or was he merely a pawn in their cruel games? He carried these doubts with him, even as he carved his path through history, leaving behind a legacy of blood and fire.
Ivar’s story is not one of redemption or regret. It is a tale of survival, of defiance, and of a man who refused to be broken by the world. He did not beg for mercy, nor did he bow to fate. Instead, he bent fate to his will, turning his pain into power and his name into a legend.
He was Ivar, son of Ragnar. The crippled king. The master of war. And the most dangerous of them all.
And so, the future legend of a king—the cunning, brutal Ivar the Boneless—would one day meet his match. Not on the battlefield, nor in the clash of swords and shields, but in the form of a woman who would unravel him, thread by thread, until the man beneath the monster was laid bare.
Her name was Yggdrasil.
They had known each other once, long ago, as children playing in the shadow of their parents’ ambitions. The memories were hazy, softened by the passage of time, but Ivar still remembered her wild laughter as she dared him to race despite his crippled legs, her fierce gaze when she defended him against taunts, her small hand gripping his as if to tether him to something gentler than his rage.
But life had a way of severing even the strongest bonds. Yggdrasil had been taken away, sent to her father Kjartan the Cruel, while Ivar remained behind to grow into the sharp-edged, unrelenting creature he was destined to become. Years passed, and the boy who once smiled for her faded into the shadow of a man who trusted no one.
Until now.
She stood before him once more, no longer the girl who had softened his edges, but a woman forged from fire and steel. Yggdrasil was beautiful, yes—but it was a dangerous beauty, the kind that could cut a man’s throat and leave him grateful for the privilege. Her eyes, still as piercing as he remembered, held no warmth for him now.
This was his bride.
The gods, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor.
To Ivar’s satisfaction—and torment—she hated him with every fiber of her being. She didn’t try to hide it. Her glare cut through him like a blade, and her words, sharp as any axe, left no doubt as to her disdain.
Her words stung in a way no enemy’s blade ever could. He was used to fear, to respect born of terror, but not this. Never this. Yggdrasil didn’t fear him. She didn’t revere him. She saw him as he truly was, and it left him raw and exposed.
But damn him, he couldn’t look away.
Where others bent beneath the weight of his gaze, she stood unyielding, her defiance burning as brightly as the firelight that danced in her hair. She was everything he had admired as a boy and everything he despised as a man: fearless, untouchable, and infuriatingly free.
And yet, for all her hatred, she fascinated him.
Their arranged marriage was meant to be a union of power, a merging of bloodlines to secure alliances and strengthen their families’ dominion. But it felt more like a battle—one fought with stolen glances, biting words, and the unbearable tension of being so close to something he couldn’t control.
Ivar hated how much he wanted her.
She became his goddess, the one he worshipped in secret and cursed in silence. His queen, though she wore no crown. His obsession, the thorn in his side that he could neither remove nor ignore.
Yggdrasil, in turn, saw through the mask Ivar wore. Beneath the cunning, the cruelty, and the sharp wit, she glimpsed the boy he had been—the boy she had once cared for. But she would not let herself pity him. Pity was weakness, and weakness had no place in her life.
Still, she couldn’t deny the pull between them, the way her heart betrayed her whenever his blue eyes burned into hers. There were moments—fleeting and fragile—when the tension between them shifted, when the man beneath the monster emerged, raw and vulnerable. In those moments, her hatred wavered, and the lines between enemy and lover blurred.
Together, they were a storm, a clash of power and passion that threatened to consume them both. And as much as they fought it, they couldn’t deny the truth: they were two halves of the same flame, destined to burn brighter—and more destructively—together than apart.
In the end, it would not be Ivar’s enemies who brought him to his knees. It would be Yggdrasil—the one woman who could match his fire with her own and remind him, with every defiant glance and searing touch, that even legends could love.
Characters: Heahmund & Ivar
Words: ~3300
Warnings: One-Sided-Attraction, Voyeurism, Hurt, Ivar will be a bit of a creep in later chapters
Summary: The day had begun quietly, unremarkable even, until a faint sound disrupted Ivar’s focus—a moan, intimate and raw, that seemed to beckon him. Compelled to investigate, he stumbled upon a scene that stoked a fire of betrayal and resentment deep within. Consumed by anger and humilation, he realized only vengeance could quell the torment now searing through his veins.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Note/spoiler/warning I guess: Chapter contains an Innocent Alicent being a unintentional perv then Ivar being a very intentional full on perv.
"Did you sleep well?" Alicent said more of as a courtesy than a question finding Ivar in the same place she left him the night before.
Sitting against the wall menacingly staring at her. He didn't answer.
"Follow me" She sighed out, knowing he was going to be difficult but despite that she heard the dragging noise that came with him. Guards followed, Ivar looked at them coldly as Alicent tried to ignore them. She hated being watched.
Ivar noticed a book, she was holding in front of her.
A cross on its front. It made him almost growl making Alicent give him a pointed look like he was a child. She's going to be annoying was Ivar's only thought making him roll his eyes, staying at her side. She was taking him to the courtyard. Whispers followed them on the walk there. Servants and peasants whispering and gossiping as they watched them together.
Alicent finally taking a seat somewhere in a corner. She ignored the stares and voices.
Ivar was used to such things, he noticed the christian girl wasn't too phased by it either. Or so it seemed.
Alicent took deep breaths through her nose, opening the Bible. She felt Ivar beside her, improperly close. Breath just breath, he's just a heathen and who cares of the words of peasants and servants. But each inhale of her nose started to become more and more difficult. More and more vile until her head followed her nose to the source.
"My goodness" She gave out an exclaimed whisper, her head going by Ivar's neck making him slowly flinch away in confusion.
"You smell awful" She kept her voice down saving him embarrassment even though she was speaking in his language and he didn't care. Himself slightly laughing and looking at her like she said the most obvious statement she could make.
"Come with me" She got up, taking him somewhere. She gave him her first pitiful look that made him look at her mockingly. This is why she pities him? Not because he's a cripple but because she thought he smelled. He was in complete humored disbelief. She took him to a large room.
"Gentlemen wait outside will you" Alicent said sweetly as she closed the doors in the guards faces before they could interject. Ivar looked around the room curiously. The pillars that surrounded a pool of water in the middle.
"Get in, I will not watch you" Alicent made a hand gesture towards the pool like she was ushering in an animal. Ivar dragged himself towarded the edge looking down. It was too deep. He sat against one of the pillars. Dipping his hands, then rubbing them against his neck.
Alicent turned around, her eyebrows knitted "What are you doing?" He ignored her.
"I thought you heathens had no modesty... you can go in with your underclothes and I promise you I have no interest in looking" She tried to sound reassuring thinking that was the cause of his reluctance but this only made Ivar snicker.
Ivar looked her straight in the eyes, leaned against the pillar and stayed unmoving. Alicent huffed out, muttering to herself going out the door. Ivar smirked thinking she left him to him to his own devices. He looked around there was only one exit and the windows were too small. He didn't have much time to think with the door opening again. She came through with a bucket filled with items, that Ivar didn't bother to look at turning from her.
"Well" She said more to herself as she took bottles and clothes out from the bucket "Athelred's clothes probably won't fit but they will have to do for now."
Ivar heard her movements but didn't look until he jumped at the feeling of a wet cloth of his face. His eyes looking at her wide, she was inches from him.
"If I'm to save your soul then how can I stand by and let you have the smell of a dog" Alicent said bluntly with a pleasant smile. Ivar's eyes bore into her as she gently cleaned his face.
She did it so throughly, even getting behind his ears. Moving to the back of his neck. Ivar almost had the most depraved thought she was making a pass at him but her eyes, her eyes he couldn't figure out. There was no lust or ill will in them nor was there in her touch. But was there in his?
When Alicent looked up at him, his eyes were so intensely looking at her. She involuntarily giggled making him look down. She paused for a moment, looking at him blankly. He was just a boy. Her hands slowly went to his shoulders.
Ivar's eyes went wide and his mouth started to open then close repeatedly. She was taking off his vest then had his tunic that felt stuck to his body after not being removed for weeks.
Alicent neatly folded them both beside the pillar even though she planned on throwing them away later. She kept her eyes lowered as she rinsed and soaked the cloth in the water before started at his collarbone. She felt his eyes on her every move.
"Why are you doing this?" His words cutting the air's tension, making her eyebrow pique but her head did not rise.
"I'm suppose to help you" Alicent said simply, staying at his upper body and his arms. Trying to keep her eyes averted from his lower chest.
She was somewhat shocked by how toned he was. Most boys his age didn't look how he did.
He had the body of a man, not a boy.
"You're supposed to convert me to your God how is bathing me, supposed to do that hmm? You're acting like a servant" He scoffed crossing his arms over his chest that looked in a way to be covering himself.
Alicent scrunched up her nose now being forced to look at his stomach and abdomen.
Well forced was a strong word.
"Or maybe you have very unchristian reasons for this intrusion, what ...like what you see christian?" He slithered onto her, his arms now at her sides. This made her turn away leaning back almost towards floor. She felt his breath on her neck, this wasn't right. No. She wouldnt cower to this heathen. Her body started to straighten, it got closer to his. She would not let him poison her mind. She faced him meeting his eye. He had the bluest eyes she ever saw.
" Last supper, The devil had prompted Judas, to betray Jesus." Alicent placed her hand on Ivar's chest. His breath stopped. He titled his head at her questionly. She gulped as she knew he was something to be reckon with. She always knew from the moment she met him yesterday. She knew by his eyes, his demonic blue eyes.
" Jesus knew that the Father had put all things under his power, and that he had come from God and was returning to God" She told it like a story, a story that lulled him slightly she thought. Her hand pressed against his chest pushing him back down against the pillar. He let her. She never broke eye contact until, she soaked the cloth again.
" So he got up from the meal, took off his outer clothing, and wrapped a towel around his waist. After that, he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples’ feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him." She recited as she started cleaning muscles of his torso. She let out a sigh as she did. Trying to get a singular thought out of her head... he didn't look like other boys.
She wouldn't allow herself to sin.
"He came to Simon Peter, who said to him-" "You're strange and boring cristian" Alicent shot up looking at him offended by him whining out his insult as if she was torturing him.
"I was merely answering-" "I don't care" Ivar didn't even look at her as she looked at his completely flabbergasted by his rudeness.
"Turn around I have to get your back"Alicent said in a monotone voice as Ivar didn't even look or respond to her statement. Ivar was done following this girls strange christian behavior.
Alicent had enough throwing the cloth on the floor.
"Do you think I want to do this? Do you think I want to be here with you? Do you have any idea how my-" Alicent stopped herself from bringing up her father, who had given hell over this arrangement over breakfast. But when it came who's orders she was going to follow, her grandfather's came first. She breathed in and out. Her eyes closed, her face clenched in place.
Ivar thought he had finally broken her by being uncooperative and he started laughing.
That was the last straw, Alicent let out an uncharacteristic growl of aggravation before suddenly pushing Ivar into the water "I've had it with you heathen" Alicent got up crossing her arms turning her back to him until she heard the frantic splashing.
She slowly turned around "boy.." She saw him struggling underwater. Was this a trick? She slowly went to the pool, looking over the edge.
He was drowning.
She frantically stripped to her shift, jumping in.
He was screaming underwater, he was terrified.
Alicent's heart ached at the sight. She wrapped her arms around him, trying to hold him up but he was heavy. She tired to prop him up, his legs would not do it and the boy was freaking out. Alicent pulled him over to the wall with much difficulty.
Ivar immediately clung to it when he reached it.
Alicent pulled herself up to sit on the edge by him"I'm sorry I did not think-"
"Of course you did not think you stupid cristian ..you couldve killed me" Ivar yelled at her facing the floor but Alicent didn't move a muscle.
"Me a stupid christian girl almost killed one of the great sons of the legendary Ragnar Lothbrok?" Alicent said mockingly insulted by his tone towards her. She perceded to ignore him ringing out her hair, loudly mumbling to herself in anger about getting wet.
Ivar genuinely thought he was going to drown this stupid cristian girl, his mouth going into a sneer before he looked at her. His jaw dropped.
Ivar's eyes landed on her body. Her body that was completely visible to him through her soaked shift. Her body was fuller than he would've expected. He didn't expect her very round chest and hips. His fists clenched together, his eyes lowering at the crease in the soaked cloth between her crossed legs. His mouth went dry from being open so long then he felt a constriction below. His face scrunched up as looked down at himself. How could this happened? And out of all the girls?
"You know you could swim if you wanted to?" Alicent looked down at him questioningly, his mouth agape and his eyes dazed. His body language on the other hand looked angry. She was trying to diffuse the situation.
"What?" Ivar snapped out, very uncomfortable physically and now being back under her gaze.
"It's how you're able to get around with just your arms, you could do that with swimming as well" Alicent said gently, the boy rolled his eyes like she said the most idiotic thing ever.
"You know move your arms in a circular motion at your sides" She tried to demonstrate in the air childishly as he dismissively waves her off.
He turned around leaning his back against the wall, his triceps then the rest of his arms sprawled out at the edge keeping him up.
Alicent eyed him, letting out a little "hm" before getting back in the water.
Ivar flinched at her passing. She went to the middle of the pool just far enough away from him.
"Filthy disgusting heathen" Alicent shouted at him "now do you see what my arms are doing" she said sweetly as she was fully capable of standing but was showing the boy the arm movement.
Ivar at first only scrunched up his face and raised his eyebrows at her before turning away in annoyance.
"What is your name heathen" Alicent asked simply realizing she didn't know it.
"Ivar" He gritted his head tilted in a mocking tone before his eyes met once again with her very full breasts. This girl had the body of a woman Ivar smirked to himself, his eyes not looking away.
Alicent did not have one depraved thought in her head that she was thinking Ivar was actually paying attention now to her arm movements because what could he be looking at so intently.
"Now Ivar disgusting foul smelling ugly heathen watch my arms and swim over here" Ivar was intensely watching Alicent's nipples hardening bobbing in and out of the water with every movement. He was panting and at the point of aching until he focused on one word.
"You think I'm ugly?" Ivar's eyes darkened looking at her eyes now, his fists clenched while his body involuntary rolled.
Alicent thinking her plan was working thought she should say yes because it would continue to rouse him but then a thought crossed her brain.
It was a sin to lie.
The pause made Ivar smirk to the point his teeth showed. And then Alicent thought of it in a different way.
"Yes, yes I do" as a person Alicent thought .
Ivar's smirk faded and he looked down, Alicent felt bad to the point but pushed it down. She splashed him.
"Come don't you want to drown me heathen" Alicent persisted and Ivar glared at her. His silence was frightening but she was not afraid and she realized something might push him further.
"You ugly harmless cripple-" She screamed at one splash of muscled arms towards her that made her do one deep back stroke that got her at out of the pool. Ivar did another movement with a growl and saw the girl smiling. Was she mocking him? He did another movement that got him out of the pool about to bludgeon her head into the stone floor.
"Ivar you swam" He looked at her face and paused. She was smiling at him and it wasn't mockingly. She tilted her head looking over his shoulder as he was only arms length from her.
"That wasnt-" He shook his head in disbelief at her but she stopped him. Looking at where she was looking, the edge he was at before and where he was now.
"Three strokes, if it was one I would agree with you but it was three" She giggled and he just leaned on his arm, shaking his head. Not noticing she was looking everywhere but him.
"I was going to kill you" Ivar said honestly and Alicent froze for only a moment.
"Huh...I taught you how to swim and self-control all in a matter of minutes" She laughed dryly while Ivar's eyes glowed at her. She laughs in the face of death.
"I think that is the end of our lesson for today" She quickly gets up "the guards will bring you back" and with that she leaves with blue eyes following her.
Ivar just laid himself out on the stone. And he laughed, all he do was laugh.
Happy 2025! (We're going to ignore its been ages since I've updated.)
Special shout-out to @cdauni your ask gave me the boost of confidence to write this chapter!
Words: 7700
Warnings: all the feels and mild smut
Series Masterlist
Warmth and softness surrounded her, a tonic to her weary heart. She wanted to stay here, live in the contentment and peace offered in her sleep.
Unfortunately, her bladder had other ideas.
Wakefulness slithered into her mind, nudging aside the residual sleep and dreams to coil around her mind and squeeze until her eyes popped open. With a muffled groan, Kari gave in. Her eyes slowly opened, bringing her fully into the land of the living.
The first thing she saw made her pause.
Lying within arm's reach was Ivar. Eyes closed. Long lashes dusted his cheeks. Mouth slightly parted. One hand tucked under his face and the other bridged the gap between them, as if seeking her out even in sleep. He appeared so serene in the moment, all the fury and fear wiped away, that impenetrable shield to protect himself was lowered to reveal a softness that was not witnessed during wakefulness.
Before Kari could appreciate the moment more, her bladder reminded her of its dire need.
Very slowly, she scooted off the massive bed, untangling herself from the gray sheets and blanket, planting her bare feet onto the cold, hardwood floor. A dim light came from one of the open doors in the bedroom. Trudging through her groggy memories, Kari thought it might be the bathroom, so she headed in that direction.
Thankfully, her guess was correct. Quietly closing the door, she flipped the light switch on and gasped at the magnificent bathroom.
The entire room was marble, with light gray marble walls, a matching light gray countertop, and dark gray marble flooring. A standing only, glass paneled shower was situated in the corner near the porcelain toilet. But it was the glorious bathtub that held her in its thrall. A gleaming white porcelain tub that appeared the size of a small jacuzzi. Even from where she stood in the doorway, she could see nodules in the tub where jets would come from.
At some point she was going to bask in that tub, she silently vowed to herself.
Finally emerging from her beautiful bathtub haze, she hurried to the toilet on the other side of the bathroom and did what she came there to do.
Standing at the bathroom sink, washing her hands in the warm water, her mind began to attempt to piece together the night before. She remembered the car crash, being at the hospital, and the reunion with Ivar. She could recall the drive back to the brothers’ house, cuddled against Ivar, biting back the tears and screams bubbling up in her throat.
Whilst in the hospital, the sun finally descended and now all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep. Once they arrived, Ragnar and Hvitserk practically dragged her and Ivar to the kitchen, forcing them to eat something, carrying on a conversation nearby which she did not mind, as she picked at the sausage, cheese, crackers and grapes that Ragnar had pulled together for them. If she felt tired, Ivar looked like he was already asleep as he mindlessly put pieces of food into his mouth and chewed. Since stepping out of the vehicle, his hand held hers, refusing to release her. Even now, sitting next to her on a stool, he kept his hand always on her, either slowly rubbing circles on her lower back or hand placed on her thigh. For her comfort or his own was debatable, but she would not deny how it filled her with a comforting warmth.
After they had consumed enough to satisfy Ragnar, the two were allowed to retire.
Asking politely where the spare room was she could sleep in, Kari was shocked by the loud snarl that erupted from the man beside her and his sharp comment of ‘fuck that’. She was equally startled by the muffled snorts and chuckles by the other two Lothbroks still in the kitchen.
Without a word of thanks to his brother or father, Ivar grabbed her hand and led her away. She tried to pay attention where he led her. Going down a hallway away from the kitchen, they passed several rooms. The only one with an open door that Kari could glimpse into showcased a couch and shelves of books. The library. Heat flooded her cheeks when she recalled what happened last time they were in that room together. Had it really been over a month ago?
They continued, turning the corner into a new hallway with only one door midway down.
Weak moonlight peeked through the large windows to cast the bedroom in shade and shadow. The poor light illuminated the massive bed just in front of the windows. Gently, Ivar led her there, guiding her to sit down. After she settled, he walked towards one of the two doors to the right of the bed, disappeared for a brief minute and then returned carrying something.
“Here.” He handed her what looked like a t-shirt. “Do you need to use the bathroom?”
“I'm okay.”
He grunted, rubbing his temple and headed there himself.
Before she could second guess herself, she quickly changed into Ivar's t-shirt, guessing it was some sort of band shirt but unable to truly tell in the low light. She made a careful pile of her folded clothes, setting them on the nightstand next to the side of the bed. As she sat down again, her eyes roamed over the shadowy bedroom. It reminded her of a studio apartment…well perhaps a large one with the amount of floor space. To the left of the bed looked like a kitchenette, with a full fridge and a few small appliances on a countertop next to it. An impressive bookshelf stood next to a huge TV, mounted against the wall across the bed. The bed itself was easily a California king size, with a large, metal headboard, making Kari wonder if she could get lost in the enormity of it.
Before Kari could snoop more, Ivar opened the bathroom door, wearing just a pair of sweatpants. He slowly walked over to the opposite side of the bed, pain etched in every step, hand braced on whatever solid object was nearby to take some of his weight. After sitting down on the bed, he unbuckled his leg braces, the clunk of them against the nightstand as he leaned them against was loud in the silent bedroom.
Without a word, he pulled the covers down, dragging himself backwards and under the covers with a relieved sigh.
“Kari. Get in bed.” He grumbled when she apparently took too long to follow his actions.
Unable to fully suppress the small smile, she mirrored his actions, slipping under the plush covers on the opposite side of the bed from him. As soon as she settled, Ivar attacked. Using his long arms, he snagged her around the waist, causing her to squeak, and pulled her flush against him, her back to his chest, tucking his face into her hair.
“Good night, Kari.” He whispered, pressing his lips to the top of her head, a large hand splayed over her stomach.
“Sweet dreams, Ivar.” She placed her smaller hand over his, entwining their fingers.
He hummed a pleased sound in response.
In that unfamiliar bed, with all the trauma of the day, Kari expected it would take a long time to unwind and be able to sleep, to ignore the memories and the fear waiting in the shadows of her mind. Perhaps it was the exhaustion of the day and weeks leading up to it that helped her drift off into a peaceful slumber. As she lay in Ivar's arms, comforted and protected, safe in his embrace and cared for, she knew her peace was attributed to the man who looked at her like he would burn the world down to keep her warm.
Now standing at the sink, she stilled, planting her hands firmly on the countertop. The draw to turn away enticed her, to refrain from acknowledging the pain she could feel in her body. Stupid, she mentally chided herself, coward. So with a deep breath, she lifted her gaze to finally look at herself in the mirror. She was not sure what she expected to see. Logically she knew the car accident was minor compared to others, but she still expected to see…well, more. The left side of her head was tender, a dull ache radiating from it. A small band aid covered the cut on her temple, begrudgingly placed there by the discharge nurse at Ragnar's insistence. A few small scrapes were scattered across her face. Tugging on the t-shirt she wore, the hem dancing along her thighs, the blossoming bruises following the path of the seat belt were just visible. As if with the reminder, a fresh wave of pain crested over her, her body sore and ached all over like she was recovering from the flu or had worked out too hard the prior day and was now dealing with the aftermath.
Her hands began to shake as the memories awoke with the review of her injuries. Images sealed in a locked part of her mind, jostled free from the car accident. The sun shone brilliantly that day, a perfect summer's day. The screeching of tires on the pavement. The crunch of two opposing forces crashing into one another. Devastation. Blood and screams. Blue-green eyes staring into hers but unseeing. Even as she cried his name, begging him–
“KARI!”
The abrupt shout of her name startled her from the spiraling her brain attempted to drag her into, forcing her to relive unwanted memories. She dragged in a shuddering breath as the memories vanished like smoke.
Immediately, she turned and opened the bathroom door, walking back into the bedroom. Whatever her mind could possibly conjure was in no way close to the sight before her eyes.
Ivar sat up in his bed, covers pooled around his waist and bare chest on display. A sight that would have been drool-worthy normally. But not now. Not with his wide eyes, panic and terror evident in them. His chest rising and falling as if in a fight for each breath. Hands clenched the gray sheets.
As soon as the bathroom door opened, panicked eyes swept to her, those blues churning like an uneasy sea.
“Kari?” He mouthed in a near whisper.
“Yeah.” She hesitantly replied, never seeing him so distraught before. “Ivar, are you okay?”
“You're here.”
“Yeah.”
“You're here. You're here.” He stared at her, speaking as if to himself, as if reassuring himself she was not a mirage. “You didn't– you're not– ohh fuck…you're– fuck!” He scrubbed his hands over his eyes roughly, the dark cast on his right hand most likely grating against his skin.
“Ivar?” She moved a step, concern drawing her in.
His eyes raised back up to her, tears filling them, chin wobbling. He raised a hand out to her, silently beckoning her closer.
And she responded with a second thought.
Hurrying across the space, she crawled back into the bed until she was next to his trembling form. Before she could apologize or question him, Ivar did something she never thought she would ever truly see. He tucked his head into the crook of her neck and began to cry. Not soft, silent tears. Not feeble cries of sadness. No, these sounded like they came from the depths of his soul. A keening of helplessness, of despair, of brokenness. With gasping breaths, he clung to her like she was a mast on a ship rolling on stormy waves, hoping to just survive.
Her arms banded around him, holding him close, feeling each ragged attempt to fill his lungs, body shaking with the force of his cries. One hand pressed against the back of his neck to keep him from pulling away. Listening to him, hearing him bleed out his pain and sorrow, how could she turn away?
How long they stayed that way, she was unsure. At some point, tears coated her cheeks as her own swirling, chaotic emotions spilled forth. Time morphed as they gripped onto one another, a safe harbor to weather the storm, to drain the turbulent emotions hounding them for weeks.
“I thought you were gone…” He choked out once his sobs lost their sharp edges. “I thought–fuck…I can't–I...” He tried to pull away, starting to lean back. She sensed that broken barrier of his attempt to rise, to separate them, to protect himself.
And she was not having that.
Not now.
Only allowing him to sit up enough so she could cup his face, she refused to let him fully retreat from her. His vivid, blue eyes swam with residual tears, red-rimmed and huge. Yet still so beautiful.
“Ivar, it's okay. I've got you.” She cooed, brushing the tear tracks from his cheeks, praying her touch soothed the cracked and bleeding edges in his soul. “I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.”
He exhaled a harsh breath as his eyes slammed shut. She could feel the fight drain from him, that need to protect himself. Once again, he gave in, surrendered to the tsunami of writhing emotions. He pressed his forehead against hers as his shoulders shook with soft sobs with the last of his tears, the purging of the final poison from the body.
“I'm sorry, Kari, I'm so fucking sorry. For everything.” The words poured forth, a dam unlocked. “I never meant— you didn't deserve that. I promised, I fucking promised! And then–” he choked on a sob, drawing it back in as his confession continued to flow freely. “I'll do anything, whatever you want. Just name it. I'll do anything. Just please…please don't leave me. I can't– I need you, I need you so much it fucking hurts. Please, let me make it up to you. Anything. Anything you want. Just don't– don't leave me alone.”
Fresh tears ran down her cheeks as she listened to his words, heard the raw pain in his voice, and was finally allowed to witness the sheer well of need and feelings he kept locked up to protect his heart. A well she had only caught glimpses of in the past, but now the gate was wide open and she was allowed to enter. To truly see and marvel at the fathomless depths of his feelings.
Ivar hissed, voice thick, as he tenderly wiped away the tears dripping off her chin. “No, no, kjære. Don't cry, not for me. I'm not worth it.”
“Of course you're worth it, you silly man!” She laugh-cried. “I care about you…so much. It's been so hard being away from you. God, I thought of you everyday. I just– I needed space but I missed you so much.”
“Kari–” he whispered.
“And even after I didn't talk to you for three weeks, you still came for me. You saved me.”
“I didn't sav–”
“You saved me!” She interrupted, tone in such a way he was unable to refuse. “I was so scared, I couldn't, I just–and then you came. And I knew I was safe. That everything would be okay cause you were there. That you wouldn't let anything bad happen to me.”
“Fuck,” his voice hard with his confession, “I'll do anything to keep you safe. I swear it. I'd die for you, Kari.”
“Ivar, no–”
“I would. I'd do anything for you to be happy, even if that isn't with– I just need you to be happy.”
“I've never been happier than when I'm with you.”
He released a shattering breath, a shiver wracking his body, as if his body fought to absorb her own confession, her own truth.
“Want to know something I learned? I think I've known it for a while but I– I was scared for it to be true?” She did not wait for his response, thumbs gently stroking his damp cheeks. “That when I think of home– it's always your face that's the first thing that comes to mind.”
He groaned, voice hitching as he spoke. “Kari, fuck, kitten, you can't- stop making me cry, fuck!”
They both chuckled wetly, foreheads pressed together, breathing in each other's presence. So longed for and finally here. Allowing their fractured, splintered hearts to begin to mend. Their touch, their words, a healing balm desperately needed.
“Kari? Can I kiss you?” Nerves and lingering fear tainted his voice as he asked. “Please?”
A million thoughts sped through her mind but only one word slipped past her guard, to touch the air and admit her need for him.
“Yes.”
Not wasting a moment, his lips brushed hers hesitantly, as if expecting her to pull away, to rescind her agreement. Once, twice, the gentlest of touches. A soft tease. A hesitant experiment. A hopeful promise.
Instead of waiting for him to take control, Kari firmly pressed her lips to his, melding their mouths together, the need for him overwhelming. Her hands tangled in his loose hair, keeping him where she wanted him. Refusing to give ground to the battle waging within him.
With the open invitation, Ivar invaded. What soft, pressing of their lips, sipping from each other's mouth, tasting what they both had desired and yearned for once again, quickly became heated. A clash of tongues and teeth. Hands tugging and roaming. A plundering. A feasting. A celebration and an apology embedded in each feverish kiss.
Under the onslaught of his affections, Kari found herself laying on her back on the bed, Ivar hovering over her like a dark guardian angel, wings of protection and adoration draped over her form.
After one more greedy kiss, Ivar leaned back, those piercing blue eyes peering down at her. “Fuck, kitten, I need you. I need– I need to know you're alright.”
“What..?” Her mind in a dizzying haze, but somehow through the fog, she knew what that typically meant. A tension replaced the languid ease, coiling in her gut as she prepared to push him away. It had not been even twenty-four hours back in his presence, she was not ready for that. She should stop th–
“I know.” He pecked her lips, silencing her worries as if sensing her insecurity. “I know you aren't – trust me, okay?”
She stared up at him, heart pounding within her chest, but unable to deny the devotion in his gaze. Somehow she knew, with every atom in her body, he would not dismiss her concern, not now. “I do. I trust you, Ivar.”
He groaned, pressing his forehead to hers. “You're too good for me.” After a moment, he sat up, hovering over her, hands gliding down to the hem of his t-shirt she wore. She tensed for a brief moment, in awe when he stopped and made eye contact, waiting for her permission.
“I trust you.” She murmured.
With that, he slid the t-shirt up her body, mindful of his cast not scratching her soft skin, and helped slip it over her head, leaving her in a purple sports bra and a black thong.
“You're beautiful.”
Tears welled back up in her eyes at the sheer adoration in his voice, the devotion in his eyes as he gazed down on her. Was this what a blind man looked like when he saw the sun or the stars for the first time? How could she not trust him? To fall a little deeper into the well of affection for him when he beheld her like that?
He gently brushed his fingers where she could feel the bruises from the seat belt begin on her shoulder. “Does this hurt?”
“Only a little.”
He hummed before tipping forward and placing a light kiss where his fingers had just touched. Instead of pulling back, his lips traveled. He placed gentle kisses along the line of bruises across her chest, only tugging her bra down slightly to kiss the space between her breasts before continuing the path downward.
Once he reached her side, he paused to meet her eyes. At that moment, she thought she could happily drown in the vastness of them, a clear sky she wanted to soar in forever.
Still gazing at her, he slid a single digit along her underwear line. “Can I?”
“Ah, s-sure.”
With tender care, he tugged her thong down her legs, making her heart race and nerves awaken with their descent, then he tossed them off over the side of the massive bed.
“Hey!” Her eyes followed their fall before snapping back to him.
“You don't need those around me.” He said cheekily, yet his gaze remained on the spot between her legs, bare for his perusal.
Nerves awoke the butterflies in her belly, making them dance and swarm. Subconsciously, she tried to shift her legs, to close them, to prevent her most intimate part from being on display.
“No.” Ivar snapped, but without heat, placing his hands on her knees to prevent her movement. He glanced up at her, watching, waiting. When she made no further movement, no denial leaving her lips, even as her throat constricted with the butterflies clambering upward, he smirked down at her like a conquering hero. “Good girl.”
Then for the second time that day, he did the unexpected.
Slowly, he slid back on the bed until he laid on his stomach, gaze never wavering from hers, keeping her restrained from moving, a prisoner to him alone.
“Ivar, what–”
But when his mouth pressed against her inner thigh, an open-mouth kiss so close to her core, her mouth snapped shut. Her eyes drifted closed as she gripped the sheet on the bed, anything to ground her from the sensation shooting through her body.
He chuckled wickedly then licked a thick, scalding line against her folds.
“Oh!” She gasped, body jolting at the new sensation, overly aware of the wetness already dampening her core.
“Gods, I've dreamt of this. So fucking good.” He murmured against her thigh before diving back in.
He teased her folds with his tongue, tasting, tormenting, driving her wild, lips occasionally moving to play and suck on her clit before returning to her core. When her legs closed against his head, it only seemed to spur him onward. Distinctly she wondered how long his tongue was as he seemed to be attempting to taste her spine through her, touching something within her that made her hips attempt to buck off the bed and infuse her moans in the air around them.
It was all she could do to remember to breathe, as he played her like an instrument he mastered. His name dripped from her lips like honey, a chanting of his name, a petition to her god. Every thought fled her body, her whole focus narrowed down to his touch, to the fire scouring her veins.
“My Kari. My kitten.” He whispered against her skin, branding her with his words, only to dive back in and feast.
She could feel that edge getting closer, that coil winding tighter and tighter within her belly, almost ready to snap, to fall into oblivion, when suddenly Ivar drew back.
“Don't you fucking leave me again.” He commanded hoarsely, biting her inner thigh, sending a wave of pained pleasure streaking through her. “Fuck, I need you, Kari.”
“Ivar, please….”
“Promise me!” He snarled, hands on her thighs, keeping her restrained, denying her the friction she so desperately sought. At her responding whine, he bit her again. “Promise me you'll stay!”
“I promise.” She sobbed, desperate for her release. Hands clawed at the sheets, the back of his head, anything to keep her from this tormenting limbo. “Please, Ivar, please!”
Then he descended, claiming her as if a man possessed, sending her soaring, seeing stars with a shriek of his name.
When she could finally open her eyes, heart still beating a rapid tempo within her chest, her gaze froze on the sight of Ivar leaning his head against her thigh, his eyes trained on her with a sweet smile on his glistening lips. Something about the curve of his mouth, the almost dazed look in his blue eyes, she realized she had never seen him look so soft, so blissful, like he had touched the stars alongside her.
Yet even in the afterglow of her orgasm, a realization of what she allowed him to do, of how she was still bare from the waist down. A flashing feeling of embarrassment and shame shot through her, but she tried to ignore it, refusing to give it the space to tear away the wonderful feeling she floated on.
“Hi.” She said, shyly.
He chuckled impishly. “That good, huh?”
Now a warmth blossomed on her cheeks. “I'm not sure I can move.”
“Mmmm…good. I don't plan on you going anywhere.” He crawled up her body, planting a smacking kiss to her lips then flopped on his back next to her. After a long, silent minute, he spoke up again, confidence wavering like candlelight in his voice. “Was it– did you like it?”
She almost laughed, turning on her side to face him. “Could you not tell? Gods, that was…”
“I've–” He huffed, running a hand through his hair as he stared up at the ceiling. “I've never gone down on anyone.”
“What?”
He started to open his mouth then snapped it shut and only shrugged, refusing to remove his gaze from the ceiling.
She leaned up slightly, just enough to fully see his face and catch his gaze. “Ivar, that was incredible. I think I'm still seeing stars.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She was charmed by his boyish pride, that twinkle in his eyes and the tilt of his lips upward, he looked so pleased with himself. “What…what about you? I mean, do you need–um…”
He laughed, carefully grabbing her hand and bringing it to his crotch. Instead of having her pull his cock out, he placed her hand on the fabric of his sweatpants. Immediately, she yanked her hand back, mouth open in shock at the large wet spot she had touched.
“What–”
“Apparently, I enjoyed it too. Fuck, I don't know the last time I cumed in my trousers. You were so fucking sexy though. Gods, I can't wait to do it again. I need to hear you moaning my name at least one more time today, preferably twice.”
“Oh my gods, Ivar! You can't-you can't say stuff like that!”
“What? That I found you moaning my name the fucking sexiest thing I've ever heard. Wait! Can you do it again and I'll make it my ringtone?”
She laughed, even as she ducked her head, pressing it to his shoulder with the wave of embarrassment crashing over her. “You wouldn't.”
His lighthearted chuckle was music to her ears. “No, those sounds are for my ears alone. I'm selfish when it comes to you. Only I get to taste you, to hear you moan, to hold you. And I won't apologize for being a fucking selfish asshole about it.”
Leaning back up on her elbow, she reached over and traced his Mjolnir necklace laying on his chest, biting her bottom lip as fresh thoughts raced across her mind.
“What?” He asked.
“I…I want us to work. I want an…I want an ‘us’. I want to be your girlfriend.” As his mouth started to open, she placed a finger over his lips. At his slow nod, she withdrew her hand and continued to trace the necklace, eyes on the swirls and markings on it. “But there's conditions. First, we need honesty between us. I know there's certain things with your work that you can't tell me about. And that's fine, I get it. But in regard to us, to our relationship, I need to trust you. You hurt me, Ivar. More than– like…ugh, it hurt. But I am trusting you won't do that again. That if something comes up and you question me and my feelings for you, that you'd come to me first instead of taking the accusation at face value. Okay?”
“I promise.” The agreement held a tone of reverence, as if vowing to her and his gods. It sent a shiver down her spine.
“Good, and one more thing.” She snapped her eyes up to bore into his. “If you ever lay your hands on me again like that, I will walk away and not come back.”
“I know, min skatt. It won't happen again.”
“I'm serious, Ivar. I won't– I can handle a lot but that…”
Somehow he seemed to understand what she meant. Tugging her hand away from the necklace, he pressed her knuckles to his lips. “I don't want you to be frightened of me. I never wanted you to be scared because of me. Others, yes. It's– it's a way to maintain control, to have others terrified of what you'll do in revenge. But not you, never you.” With his casted hand, he brought it to gently run the back of his fingers over her jaw, gazing at her in what could only be described as wonder.
She fidgeted under that look. “What?”
“You–you're too good for me.” He huffed out a chuckle. Carefully, he guided her to lay back down, both of them now laying on their sides facing one another. “I had planned to grovel for your forgiveness. I was willing to do fucking anything. Buy you whatever you want. I would even kneel to beg for your forgiveness, to beg for another chance to prove I can be better.”
“I don't need you to buy me things.”
“What can I do? How can I prove it?”
“You did already.” She whispered, losing herself in the sincerity of his voice and the pleading in his eyes. “You came for me. When I was terrified, you came. My hero.”
He laughed wetly. “My Kari, my beautiful girlfriend.” With an devious smirk, he leaned up slightly to slot his lips over hers, stealing a kiss. “Mine.” He declared before stealing another kiss. “My girlfriend.” Another kiss. “My sweet.” Another kiss. “Mine.”
She laughed, pulling away from his searching lips, to trace them with her fingers. “And you're mine. My boyfriend.”
“Fucking finally.”
“Ivar…”
He nuzzled into the crook of her neck, making her squirm, even as he snickered. “You think I was possessive before? Shit. I'm never letting you out of my fucking sight now. I'm going to keep you in my bed forever. There's no need for clothes, since I plan on having you over me…or under me as often as possible.”
She laughed, then squeaked as his hand traced up her bare thigh and grabbed an ass cheek. “Ivar!”
“I can work on my laptop. You can do your yoga next to the bed, then immediately get back in. We'll watch fucking good shows, not your romantic shit. Hvitserk will deliver us food. Hmmm…on second thought, he'll eat it. I'll pay someone to bring it in here.”
“You're being ridiculous. What about my wor– oh gods! Lydia!” She abruptly sat up, dislodging him in her frantic movement. “Oh crap! She's probably worried. I'm supposed to be at work right now! And I have my other job tonight. Oh no. Crap, crap, crap.”
“What other job?”
She scanned around, trying to remember if she had her phone. “What? Oh, I got another job in the evenings.”
“Why?”
“I…I needed it. My rent went up, so, yeah.”
“Kari,” he sighed out her name, trailing a hand down her arm, “I would have paid for your rent. All you had to do was ask.”
“I know, Ivar. I didn't want to. I can figure it out. It's fine.”
“Please, Kjære, let me help.”
Releasing a slow exhale, she shifted to look down at him. “I–I'll think about it. First I need to call Lydia. I need to tell her I'll be late.”
“You're not going in today.”
“I have too. I need the paycheck.”
He audibly growled, rising up beside her, nostrils flaring and jaw clenched. “Kari, you were in a goddamn car accident yesterday and had a concussion. You're out of your fucking mind if you think I'm going to let you go to work. And if I explain this to Lydia, I doubt she'd let you come in too.”
Kari hesitated because honestly, Ivar was right. Even after the pleasurable sensations from her orgasm, her body still felt sore and exhausted. It was that ceaseless drive to prove to herself that she could make it on her own, that she did not need anyone to take care of her. Looking at him though, with the way he seemed ready to tie her to the bed and force her to stay, she wondered if maybe this once it was okay. To lean on him for support and help in more than just friendship.
“Okay…” She caved, “I still need to call her and let her know. Do you know where my phone is?”
“Use mine.” He carefully scooted over and grabbed his from the end table, unlocking it and handing it to her. “We'll ask Hvits if they got your phone at the hospital. While you're calling, I'm going to clean up.” He placed a reassuring kiss on her forehead, a silent thank-you for her change of mind. Dragging himself back to his side of the bed, he swung his legs over the side and grabbed his leg braces, buckling them on.
Mesmerized by his movements, she could only watch his broad back, those tattoos she loved to trace on his skin, his muscular arms, which held her so tenderly, and strong hands that touched her as if she was a priceless gem. He put on the braces then pushed off the bed to walk to the closet door, slipping inside for a minute before coming out with new clothes in hand.
“See something you like?”
She startled, not realizing she was still blatantly ogling his form as he walked across the room. “Yes, I love your body.” She blushed after the words spilled out on their own conviction, as if yanked from her mind without permission.
With eyes widened momentarily, clearly stunned by her easy statement. After that split second, he stomped back over and leaned over the bed to drag her into a drugging kiss that had her gasping into his mouth and fire singing in her veins once more. “Gods, you're perfect.”
“Ivar…” she mumbled, her lips chasing his.
He chuckled, drawing back. “Make your phone call, then I'll take of you.”
She watched him walk into the bathroom and close the door before finally turning her attention to the phone.
Her conversation went as Ivar predicted. She called the main line of the yoga studio, then with Sasha answering, she got Lydia on the phone. Hearing about the accident and concussion, Lydia immediately told her to take at least the rest of the week off and to rest. Kari tried to say she did not need that much time but Lydia insisted and to call her if she needed anything.
Taking note of the morning hour, Kari realized she would have to call the clothing store later to let them know about her accident. They would not even be open for two more hours.
While talking with Lydia, Kari finally dragged herself out of the stupidly huge and comfortable bed to find her scattered clothing. Her black thong was on the ground beside the expansive bed, as if attempting to hide from her. Instead of putting on her own clothes from yesterday, she slipped back into the band t-shirt of Ivar's. In the morning light, she could see the skull on the black fabric and what must be the band's name printed over the top, she thought she recognized the name from one of Ivar's music rants. Next she wandered over to the kitchenette having spied the Keurig. A cup of hot coffee sounded delightful right now, but she became distracted by the dozens of photographs she had somehow missed last night with her initial snooping of his bedroom. She glided over barefoot to the wall of tacked pictures on a cork board almost as tall as her.
Most of the photos showcased stunning scenery, mountains seeming a favorite focal point. A handful of scattered photos were artistic shots of a gorgeous woman. Barbed wire tightened around her heart as she thought of Ivar keeping photos of a different woman, someone clearly important. At closer inspection, she realized it was actually Aslaug. With the revelation, she wanted to slap her own head at her jealousy, yet another part of her wilted at seeing another beautiful woman in Ivar's life. What was he doing with someone as mundane as her? He was in another league compared to her. She shook her head, a futile attempt to dislodge her own insecurities.
The creak of the bathroom door alerted her to Ivar's return but she continued to scan the photos, absorbed in the wanderlust they unearthed within her.
Without a word, he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his bare chest, apparently only changing into new boxers and a pair of gray sweatpants that felt soft against the back of her legs.
“Mmmm…you look good in my shirt.”
She hummed as Ivar pushed her brunette hair over her shoulder and tucked his face into the crook of her neck. Before she became too distracted by the handsome man holding her, she gestured towards the wall before them. “What are these?”
“Pictures.”
She rolled her eyes at his deadpan tone. “I figured that, thank you. I mean, who took them? They're stunning.”
There was a long pause before he answered, voice muted as if sharing a secret. “I did.”
“Really?”
“Surprised?”
“Yeah,” she answered truthfully, “you never told me you did photography.”
He shrugged behind her. “It's not something I do as often anymore. My mother tried to have me enter some contests when I was younger but I didn't want to.”
“You would have won, without a doubt. These are fantastic. Where are they?”
“All over. Locations I've visited and some of my favorite places.” He pointed to a picture towards their right, an audible edge of excitement infused in his voice as he spoke next. “That one I took at Floki's, it's the fjords behind his house. If you look at the bottom there you can barely see where he builds his boats.” He pointed to another a little higher. “That one was from a family trip to Switzerland. My brothers tried to ski and Ubbe ended up almost breaking his arm.” Next, he pointed to one on the left, just above her eye line. “That's of my mother with the Mediterranean in the back. We took a trip, just her and I when I was nineteen and had finally had my last fucking surgery. She wanted to do something extra to celebrate. It was just us for several days…it was nice.”
She tilted her head back to kiss the underside of his jaw, wishing she could soothe the longing, the nostalgia in his voice. “Thank you for letting me see these. These are…wow, I'm in awe. They're so beautiful.”
“Hmmm…” His lips caressed her ear as he whispered, “my favorite one is my phone's background.”
She dropped her head, practically melting against him as warmth flooded her cheeks. It was hard not to notice before she made her phone call earlier. It was a photo of her from several weeks ago, one she had forgotten about. They were out to eat, one of the many restaurants Ivar wanted her to try. Her gaze was focused off screen, having been listening to a man propose several tables away. Her soft gaze translated into the picture, a joyous undertone as she watched two people's lives change due to the love they shared. Her diamond studs and simple diamond pendant necklace caught in the flickering candlelight from the table making her sparkle. After the proposal, she had caught Ivar with his phone out, but instead of confessing to snapping a picture, he teased her the rest of the night about her love of romantic shit.
He pressed a slow, syrupy kiss to the back of her neck, making her shiver under his touch. “My girlfriend.” His lips trailed to the side of her neck and up to the sensitive spot behind her ear. “My Kari.” He tugged on her earlobe with his teeth. “My beauty…mine.”
Before he could start something, she turned around in his arms, placing her arms around his neck loosely, feeling his hands settle on her hips. Silently, she scanned his face, noting the bruise-like bags under his eyes, seeing the crease in his forehead, the tension in his jaw.
“Ivar, how have you been? Really? Are you in pain?”
“I should be asking you that.”
“Ivar.”
He inhaled sharply, dropping his head to press his forehead against hers. “I don't want to talk about it. Can't we just focus on now?”
“Hvitserk told me…”
“What did that useless brother say now?” He snapped as her voice trailed off.
“Be nice.” She reprimanded without any heat. “He said you were drowning yourself in either alcohol or work. Or something like that.”
“That little shit. Can't trust him with fucking anything.” He grumbled, thumbs rubbing back and forth along the patch of skin beneath the hem of her shirt.
He did not answer right away, so she waited. She could be patient. Something she had noticed about him was his disdain for speaking about when he was in pain, physically or mentally. It would be easy to attribute that to his childhood, to the constant pain he endured, but somehow she knew it was more than that. Her hand massaged the back of his neck as she waited, almost hearing the gears turn in his mind as he debated on what to say. How much deeper to allow her into his inner world.
“Why do you want to know?”
An undercurrent of fear coated his question, that somehow she would turn his turmoil and fear against him. It fractured her heart anew for him, that it was so instinctual for him to have to protect himself, to never show any kind of weakness. That his only option was to be strong.
Instead of answering his question, she decided to share a glimpse into their time apart, hoping it would encourage him to do the same. “I thought of you everyday. Multiple times a day, if I'm being honest. I appreciated that you gave me my space, even if I hated it sometimes…but I needed it. It gave me time to realize how much better my life is with you in it. That I had already forgiven you after you ordered the food for me that next day.”
He cleared his throat before his words emerged like a confession, slow and halted. “Those first days away from you…I– fuck! I did everything possible to forget that I'd fucked everything up. That I'd lost the best thing in my life. Gods, I was so sure you'd never want to see me again, that you hated me. I even fucked some girls from a club to try and…well.”
She stiffened at his words but did not pull away, allowing him his space, allowing him to be vulnerable, even if it stung like a jellyfish's tentacles were wrapped around her body.
“I know, I know it was stupid. I don't even remember them, I was high on some strong shit to try and– I wasn't okay.” He sighed, pressing his forehead harder against hers like it would allow his words to seep into her brain, to prove his remorse. “Floki finally hit me a few times over the head, seemed to knock some sense into me. Don't tell him I said that, that damn asshole. After that, I threw myself into working. In the past week I've been mostly living in our business airplane. Gods, I'm–I'm fucking exhausted. It's a damn miracle I haven't broken anything. I feel like I've barely slept the past three weeks. And my legs…ah, fuck, they've been killing me. But I couldn't stop, I–I had to do something, keep moving, or I'd–”
She could see how hard it was for him to admit, like each word out of his mouth was a fight, a struggle to release the bonds keeping his weakness hidden and allow her to peer past the façade, to see how hard it had been the past three weeks.
“And your cast?”
“That night after you left…I broke my hand on a punching bag. Forgot to wrap it. Fucking stupid.”
“Oh, Ivar.”
“I want– even with those others at the club. They meant nothing. They are nothing! It was always you I thought of. It's always been you. Ever since that night in the club where you kissed me, it's always been you. And I promise, I'll always take care of you.” His voice caught in his throat, forcing him to swallow thickly to continue. “Please, kitten, please believe me.”
And she did. Gods forgive her but she did. It was in the way his hands clutched her hips, his anguish coloring the air around them, the way he begged for her forgiveness. He would do anything to repent for his sins, any penance she asked, he would comply.
But all she wanted was him.
“I do. I believe you.” She slid her hands down to cup his face to tilt his face to meet her gaze so he could see the honesty in her eyes. “It's been you too, since that night. I haven't even been able to look at anyone else like that. I think you've bewitched me.”
“If anyone has been bewitched, it's me. Fucking hell, got me crying and begging.” His lips grazed hers, a whisper of a kiss, a silent acknowledgement, a heartfelt promise. “Can you stay? I just want to hold you and rest and pretend the world doesn't exist. I just need you. Only you. Please?”
With her heart feeling three sizes too big for her chest, she silently guided him back to the bed and crawled in, cuddling into his warm body as he wrapped his arms around her.
For how could she refuse when he was looking at her like she was his whole world, like he would carve his own heart out and give it to her if she asked, like she was the peace in the midst of his hurricane.
Summary: Dark clothes, dark aura and powers. Where you came from, or who you were, not even Aslaug was sure anymore. All she could recall is that she promised to wed her son to you. And now, the Devil had a wife.
"I said you will marry her and this is the last I want to hear anything from you Ivar!" hearing his mother yell, Ivar knew, he lost this battle.
He was to marry this unknown woman.
He hated the idea.
Ivar will just simply kill her, he needs no wife.
He said, but the next day, just when Kattegat woke up, there stood a woman.
She was dressed in a black, her smile was kind, too kind for someone dressed so dark.
"My name is Y/N. I came for my wedding."
Everyone was confused. Aslaug ended up showing you around and introducing you to your future husband.
Ivar Ragnarson.
A strong man with an even stronger will. His legs were the proof of it. He never backed down, not letting anything get in his way.
You liked it.
The determination. The fire.
It is just what you need in a husband.
You smiled at Ivar as you two were wed.
Now, you had him.
---
Everyone knew the name Ivar the Boneless. Everyone feared Ivar the Boneless.
The fearless Viking known for his intelligence and insanity.
But then, a whisper came with the wind.
A whisper of his wife.
A woman, explained as the Darkness herself.
The Christians referred to her as Satan's Wife.
Would that make Ivar Satan in their logic?
Everyone wondered how could Ivar be so fearless, how could he know so much.
The answer was simple, his wife.
You, with your powers inherited throughout the generations of women in your family.
You, the dark sorceress who fell madly in love with a not so simple Viking.
It was always you.
People who survived Ivar's wrath often said it was as if he had a dark figure standing behind him. The figure was tall, and had long arms and eyes that glow red like blood.
Overexadiration, but not far from the truth.
One of your many beings.
Sentenced to follow and help Ivar in his fights, the being didn't have a name. It was simply black and tall.
Ivar swore sometimes he could see it from the corner of his eye.
It made him recall a time when he first saw one of your... pets.
It was very late, the fire has nearly gone out, both of you sleeping under furs.
Ivar woke, his mind fuzzy with sleep when he saw someone or rather something in the corner.
But as his eyes focused and he woke up with a start, the thing vanished.
"What is it, Ivar?" you asked, being awakened from your slumber.
"I saw someone." you looked at the corner he kept on staring at.
"I will deal with it, sleep now." you smiled at him as you stood up and walked towards the entrance of the house.
Ivar followed you, crawling as you opened the door, his words failed him.
You stood a couple steps from the door, looking towards the darkness. You turned to your left, then to your right. As if you saw someone you spoke up, just as Ivar found his way towards the doorway.
"Let him sleep! You are scaring him, I told you before." you said, to him it looked like you have gone mad, then you turned to him. "I told you before, they wouldn't hurt you, don't be afraid of them, Ivar." you said and Ivar swore he saw something move to his right. He quickly looked and saw a pair or long fingers on the wall, the... thing right around the corner, Ivar felt frozen.
Then he saw it.
The face of a being, not human. Illuminated by the light coming from the window, Ivar's pair of blues met with black eyes and skin so pale, Ivar never seen anything like it before.
"It won't hurt you." you said with a lower voice as you watched Ivar. He then looked back at you, you saw his confusion. "They won't hurt you." you said once more and this time, Ivar believed you.
But never after that night did he ever want to see any of your creatures.
---
You were a rather light sleeper.
There were occasions when nothing could wake you, and other times where a simple movement from Ivar made you wake up. This was one of those nights.
You were awakened by his simple movement, you couldn't fall back to sleep and so, you decided to just sit by the fire and watch it and Ivar.
Ivar woke up hours later, it was still dark outside and he looked at you.
"Are your demons haunting you again, Wife?"
"Quite the opposite, My King. I'm haunting them." you smirked and Ivar moved to the edge of the bed.
You stood up and stood still a couple steps away from him.
"What would you do for me, Ivar?" you asked and he looked into your eyes.
"I would burn the entire world. Kill every last person just to get to you. Kill every last demon just to have you with me again." you moved onto the floor, crawling over, you placed your hands on his knees.
"Would you run for me?" you watched his eyes switch.
You offended him.
You corrected yourself.
"If I give you the ability, would you run to me, run to save me, run to kill them? Would you?"
"C-Can you?" he asked, eyes filling with hope.
And you nodded.
A simple nod.
"Will it hurt?" came his next question.
Another nod.
"It would be worth it. Standing beside you, as the proud husband I am. Run to you? Without a question." he ran his fingers through your hair.
You sealed your deal with a kiss.
---
Everyone in Kattegat woke up with a feeling of dread.
Then they all saw.
Ivar walking around like nothing happened, as if his legs always worked.
The Devil could walk.
And it terrified everyone.
They only could imagine what his enemies would think, given how his own people were terrified of him.
His brother always knew Ivar's wife wasn't a regular woman. They had this feeling about her, as they said, there was a darkness around her.
And upon seeing their brother walk, there was no more doubt about it.
She made him walk.
So, was is actually that Ivar married the Devil? Would it actually be the Devil and her husband?
One thing was for sure, now whenever someone looked into the dark of your eyes, they could hear people crying and begging.
And just like with many names in history, yours and Ivar's were eventually melted into one.
It was no longer Ivar the Boneless and his wife.
Soon, all people remembered was the fierce Viking, Ivar the Boneless.
Summary: You shared a secret friendship with Ivar during your childhood. Your parents had forbidden any contact with the Ragnarssons since they didn't want you to get involved with violence. After you finished to build your own treehouse to be independent and live alone, Ivar surprised you out of nowhere.
Note: At first I was a little stuck with this prompt but I figured it out. I'm very satisfied with it, but I didn't proofread it yet.
You were a child who wasn’t taught to fight or have success in wars. Your parents had strived to ensure you lived a peaceful and joyous life, far from the clutches of bloodshed. Their utmost care and concern for your well-being came at the cost of your friendship with the Ragnarssons. Any interaction with them was strictly forbidden, and you'd receive a scolding if they ever caught you conversing with the brothers. In spite of your compliance, you could count your true friends on one hand.
Despite your loving family, the children of Kattegat often ridiculed you for your pacifist upbringing. You couldn't wield a weapon or engage in combat, making you an outsider among your peers. Your inability to partake in their games and activities only fueled their exclusion of you.
Over the years, your closest companion was a fellow girl who, regrettably, often made fun of your innocence. Her company was welcomed, though you felt empty fulfilling the dream your parents wanted you to achieve. Your only strength was your talent in building steady constructions. Floki was your secret aspiration and you desired to become as important and skilled as he was. Since you were a child, you had observed him closely, meticulously noting every detail of his work.
In the past year, you'd undertaken a secret project that no one else knew about. Knowing that your parents would soon arrange a marriage for you, you decided to seize your independence and create your own sanctuary away from Kattegat. In this endeavor, you began constructing a treehouse, a personal haven where you would learn to sustain yourself, free from the expectations of others.
It was your declaration of independence, a rebellion against the sheltered life your parents had envisioned for you. You had failed many times to build it this high up in the trees and of course, you had fell down more than once. The pain and effort was worth it though as you watch your craft coming together.
The only things lacking were some furniture, pillows, and your personal belongings. You had already transported some of your belongings to the treehouse, making it a livable space.
As you rolled out a rug on the floor of your new sanctuary, you heard rustling leaves on the ground below. Curiosity piqued, you gazed down, only to discover two legs sitting beneath your treehouse. You cautiously descended the ladder and found Ivar, a mixture of surprise and apprehension flashing across your eyes. Your interaction with the Ragnarssons was strictly forbidden, and you knew engaging in conversation with one of them could lead to disaster.
“Hello there, y/n,” Ivar greeted you with a soft smile, his presence both unnerving and intriguing.
You swallowed nervously, stepping down form the ladder and watching him in silence. You yearned to break free from the constraints imposed by your parents, yet you felt choked with anxiety at the prospect of talking to Ivar.
Ivar noticed your reluctant behavior and said, “You can talk to me. Your parents are nowhere around.”
You raised an eyebrow and scanned your surroundings warily. Fortunately, no one was nearby to witness your interaction, but the risk was undeniable.
“How did you find me here?” Your soft voice asked him fiercely, demanding an answer from him. Ivar looked at you with his blue eyes.
In truth, you had often chatted with Ivar while venturing through the woods alone. As children, you both had sneaked away to play and enjoy each other's company. With the passing years, your feelings toward Ivar had evolved, but your parents' suspicions had intensified. They had correctly surmised that something had transpired between you and one of the Ragnarssons. Although they hadn't discovered the full truth, your last interaction with Ivar had been months ago.
“I've been watching you for a while," Ivar confessed calmly. "I thought we could talk here.” A calmness normally not usual for the man.
You nodded, sighing in distress. "I'd love to talk to you, Ivar, but my parents are constantly monitoring my every move.” You replied, coming a little closer to Ivar.
He looked at you with a little disappointment. His eyes examined you and he wished it would’ve been easier to get closer to you.
“Do you think we can get me up there?” Ivar asked, looking at you earnestly. Your gaze widened in surprise, and you chewed on your bottom lip, deliberating.
“I don't want to hurt your legs while helping you up,” you protested silently, as you knew how fragile his legs were. He shook his head, disagreeing.
His voice, which you greatly missed, reassured you, “You won't. Let me feel like a normal human. I've never been in a treehouse.”
Your heart ached at his desire to experience normalcy, and you agreed to assist him. You helped him climb the ladder, pushing him up carefully. Ivar grabbed onto the ladder with a strong and firm grip, whereas you pushed his legs up carefully. With some help, he managed to crawl up to your new home. Though the space was limited, it housed a bed, a small kitchen, and a tiny bathroom. Yet, your project was remarkable as you practically made it on your own. He looked around, admiring your talent.
“I’m pleasantly surprised,” he whispered, smiling at you as you entered through the bottom door.
“Thank you, Ivar,” you responded, pulling up the ladder and closing the door to maintain your privacy. “Do you like it?”
“Oh, I do. I like it even more with you inside it,” he flirted with you, which obviously worked.
A hush of blush rushed over your face. A slight smile on your lips. Your heart ponded fast, you hoped Ivar wouldn’t notice your awkwardness as much. Whenever you were alone with him, your deepened feelings came to the surface, drawing you closer to him.
“You can come whenever you like,” you mumbled shyly.
A flush of warmth crept over your cheeks, and you smiled shyly, feeling the intensity of your emotions as you stared into his piercing blue eyes. It pained you that your parents denied you the love of a Ragnarsson. Yet, it was a secret you were determined to keep from them.
Your shared treehouse, a sanctuary for your hidden desires.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Hii 👋🏼
Can you do an Ivar x floki daughter?
They were raised together and she was his only friend when he was younger because she wasn't scared and he'll always protect her.
Older she become a healer of the village, and one day floki want her to marry ubble/hwitserk and Ivar become very very jaloux..👀
You can make fluff/smut/ angst as you want!
thank u 🤍☺️
Sorry for my English it’s not my first language
Jealous Games
Ivar the Boneless x fem!reader
Summary: One day, your father enters your room, unveiling that your parents want you to marry Ubbe. Though, the past years you grew feeling for another man: Ivar. You never told anyone about your true feelings for the man but now that Ubbe is supposed to be your husband, you feel utterly broken down. Refusing the offer, you leave the scene, only to discover a life changing secret...
Note: Thank you SO much for this request. It was a lot of fun writing it. I enjoyed writing this particular request more than I should've. 🤍 I hope you'll like it!
Warnings: slight angst (nothing graphic), forced possible marriage, mentions of anger issues, detailed kissing scene
Genres: slight angst, fluff
word count: 2.445
Ivar's childhood was shrouded in a tapestry of dark grays and blacks, a period marked by relentless bullying, discrimination, and a stark absence of love. love. Amid this harsh environment, Aslaug, his devoted mother, stood as one of the few adults who genuinely embraced him. Yet, even her unwavering love couldn't quell the relentless growth of his simmering anger. But, within these somber times, there existed a glimmer of hope - a hope that emerged when you entered his life.
Ivar adored Floki, viewing him as his own father and protector. Whenever the cruelty of both children and adults bore down upon him, Floki served as a steadfast anchor, and so did you. Your friendship started with a shy hesitation.
Helga and Floki, your parents, had taught you to always accept others, no matter how they looked like. You watched your father engage with Ivar, teaching him the art of weaponry and regaling him with Nordic sagas. You had shared them whenever you wanted company and as a result, the two of you became friends.
As the years passed, your bond with Ivar deepened. He shielded you from any unwelcome advances, such as nasty men, while you provided solace during his most challenging moments. Together, you embarked on hunting expeditions, sharing meals at Ivar's dwelling with his family.
Fortunately, his mother held you in high regard. She possessed a strict demeanor when it came to the women who orbited around her beloved sons, yet she understood your unshakable bond with Ivar. With open arms, she welcomed you whenever you graced her home with your cherished friend.
Of course you faced discriminating comments and remarks from time to time because of Ivar, though you stayed by Ivar’s side. You were the only woman who glimpsed Ivar's vulnerabilities, the only girl who had witnessed his anguished tears and experienced the gentleness that lay beneath his hard exterior during your shared childhood.
You knew him, cherished him, and secretly, perhaps even loved him. Yet, you concealed your affections, carrying them within your heart, as your father saw you both as siblings. Sure, you grew up together and were basically one person, but you could also love him, right?
You kept your adoration hidden and you honestly were fine with it because you remained close to Ivar but you always faced struggles when a woman tried to seduce him. You were a strong and loving woman, supporting a man whom few understood or respected.
In recent years, you had devoted your time to the study of science and honed your skills as a healer. Your knowledge extended to various herbs and methods to mend any kind of injury. Ivar sought your counsel frequently, valuing the conversations you shared.
The atmosphere between you was one of relaxation, love, and kindness, something that Ivar rarely encountered in his tumultuous life. He harbored deep emotions for you, but fear held him back. Rejection had been his constant companion throughout life, even from his own father, Ragnar Lothbrok. This fear of rejection crippled him, making him hesitant to express his emotions to you.
One day, your father entered your room with an unusual expression. You initially assumed he was about to share one of Floki's eccentric ideas, as was his habit. Therefore a bright smile creeped over your lovely face, greeting your father. However, what he proposed was far from comforting; it shattered your heart in a matter of seconds.
“I've been thinking about arranging a marriage between you and Ubbe,” he said, his words falling like lead..
You raised your eyebrows, believing that he joked at first but his serious expression remained - he meant it.
“Uh, father. I don’t know if I-,” you began, only to be interrupted by his eager explanation.
“I thought you’d remain close to Ivar and find a man who truly treats you right. I know Ubbe is a good man who will respect you,” he continued.
You pondered his words briefly, acknowledging that Ubbe was a compassionate and respectful man who held women in high regard. During your childhood, you had formed a fondness for him, but it was far from romantic.
No, you truly despised the idea.
“Father, I don't wish to marry," you protested vehemently, rejecting Floki's wishes, which he met with displeasure. You couldn't fathom joining hands with a man you didn't love, especially if it were your true love's brother. The thought left you with an overwhelming sense of unease.
“Child, you've reached a point in your life where you need a man to protect you. You're all on your own, and we're concerned," he voiced his genuine worries. While you understood his concerns, this request felt like an intrusion on your own autonomy, a call you couldn't embrace. You preferred making your parents proud and being a memorable member of Kattegat, but this wasn’t your true faith.
You were bound to none other than Ivar the Boneless, a man whose depths you knew better than your own skills as a healer. As you sat there, Floki's hand swept across his weary face, his gaze avoiding yours as he delivered the unimaginable truth.
“Ubbe has asked for your hand in marriage, and we've already agreed with Aslaug. The decision has been made, my dear," he disclosed, a heavy burden of heartache settling upon you. Tears welled in your eyes, and your cheeks flushed with the ache of this revelation.
“No, Father,” you protested, your voice quivering from the shock of their decision, made without your consent.
“We only want you to be happy," Floki tried to bridge the emotional chasm, but his words fell on deaf ears. You were consumed by fury, your emotions tearing at you, digging a chasm within your heart.
“I’m not!” You cried out, finally allowing your pent-up emotions to pour forth. "I'm not happy, Father. You have a woman you love, and Mother loves you too. Why can't I?” You shouted while tears ran down your soft skin, falling onto the ground. You sobbed uncontrollably.
“No, don’t think that,” Floki tried to console you, his heart aching as he witnessed your distress. After all, you were his beloved daughter, a sweet and loving child he cherished. Right now, you feared the fatherly connection was breaking apart.
“I’m not marrying Ubbe! I’d rather die,” you declared, your voice barely a whisper but loud enough for your father to comprehend. With those words hanging heavily in the air, you rose and fled the room, leaving your father behind. As you left the building you came across Ubbe, who of course knew about the idea before you did, though you rage signalized that you weren’t enlightened.
Floki followed closely, calling your name, but your steps quickened with each utterance. Ultimately, you ran away, seeking refuge in the familiar embrace of the Kattegat forest, a place you knew intimately. You spent a lot of time in the forests and fields to collect herbs and plants, sometimes even staying overnight in summer. With your father, mother, Ubbe, and the impending marriage fading into the background, you retreated into the solitude of the woods. Little did you know your secret significant other just found out about the marriage through Sigurd.
“You’re telling me, y/n is going to marry my brother?” The crackling fire of the fireplace represented Ivar’s slight rage as he received the information.
Sigurd understood that you were Ivar's soft spot, and while he relished the opportunity to tease his brother, he also conveyed the truth. Aslaug had kept this secret from Ivar, knowing precisely what she was doing.
“Yes. Ubbe is the eldest among us brothers, so it only makes sense for him to claim one of the town's most important women, Ivar,” Sigurd explained while deftly carving a sculpture from wood.
Ivar despised the idea entirely, his lips chewed raw as he gazed out the window. It was not Ubbe's right to simply take any woman, especially not you. He believed Ubbe was not meant for your delicate being, no matter how loving, respectful, and kind he might be. At least in the eyes of the Ragnarsson, Ubbe would never be worthy.
As the evening progressed, Ubbe and Floki entered the brothers' home. Ivar remained silent, seething with anger and disappointment. However, he was not Ubbe's primary concern.
“Ubbe, she ran way. I cannot force her,” Floki implored Ubbe to reconsider.
“Floki, it’s not your fault. I love her though, and you know it. I’d treat her with everything she desires and I’ll love the children she will bear,” Ubbe explained, greeting Sigurd and Ivar with a small nod.
“You don't love her if you'll force her to marry you," Ivar's words were cold and stern, his anger barely contained.
“Excuse me?” Ubbe was taken aback by the accusation.
Finally, Ivar’s jealousy piqued and he looked up to his brother, “You heard me. She doesn’t love you. She never will!” His words struck like a shock.
Sigurd, joining the conversation, couldn't resist a taunt, “Oh, are your little feelings hurt because she won’t hop in bed with you? Poor Ivar.”
Oh, how much Ivar hated these people, these cruel brothers who always take his hope away. They rob him of his freedom, his excitement and love. They always seemed to achieve everything, while Ivar was left with nothing but solitude and heartache. As the tension simmered within the dimly lit room, Ivar's words hung heavy in the air, causing a palpable rift between the brothers.
“Ivar, you have no right to dictate her heart. She's a woman with her own choices," Ubbe retorted, his voice carrying an air of defiance.
Ivar scoffed as a response to this unsolicited statement. It wasn’t Ivar who was trying to force himself upon you, it was Ubbe. All his life Ivar did nothing to pressure you or force you to do something. You had been safe around him, no burdens dragging you down when you had spent time together.
Sigurd, needing to provoke Ivar further, leaned in with a sly smile, "Is that so, Ivar? Or are you just afraid she might choose someone else over you?"
The youngest among them decided to not react to the jokes Sigurd made as he intentionally tried to fuel Ivar’s anger. While Ivar was torn between his immense longing for you and the realization that he might never be able to offer you the love and protection you deserved, Ivar couldn't help but feel that marrying Ubbe was wrong. The young Ragnarsson decided to leave the situation, searching for you.
They didn’t, but Ivar did.
Meanwhile, you had found safety in the forest, away from the prying eyes and expectations of your family and the town of Kattegat. There, you wandered aimlessly. As you reached a small, shallow river, you placed yourself on a rock. The silence and peace gave you enough room to reflect on the horrible decision of your parents.
You couldn’t deny your love for Ivar anymore. Whenever you thought about becoming Ubbe’s wife, Ivar’s face popped up on your mind. He was the fragile yet strong man you truly desired with your whole heart.
Tears still covered your face, seeking their way down into the cold water of the river.
It was in this melancholic moment that you spotted a familiar face among the shadows. Ivar’s presence unveiled itself on the other side of the river. His intense blue eyes, filled with a mixture of longing and despair, locked onto yours.
“Y/n,” he called your name out, his voice heavy with emotion.
You blinked a few times and a broken, yet warm smile rushed over your lips. You stood up, jumping over the small width of the river, getting closer to Ivar.
“Ivar…,” you whispered, seating you down next to him.
Even though you appreciated his company, your heart couldn’t bear to look into his loyal eyes. Alone the fact others think you and Ubbe would be a suitable couple made you feel dirty.
Ivar’s eyes remained locked on you, his voice filling the silence between you, “You… you don’t want to marry my brother, right?”
You frantically shook your head as an answer.
Ivar came a little closer, his eyes never leaving yours.
"I can't stand the thought of you being with him," he confessed, his vulnerability laid bare. Jealousy or not, his emotions were genuine and Ivar thrived for your love. Yet, he never told you.
“Ivar,” you whispered, contemplating whether you should reveal your intimate feelings. “Ubbe isn’t the man I want to call husband. Of course he’s intelligent and a wonderful fighter, though…”
Ivar’s soothing voice interjected, “I want you to stay by my side.”
Finally, a massive amount of weight released the both of you, and you widened your eyes in surprise. His confession lightened a fire inside you that you had guessed was already banished. A smile lingered on your lips while you replayed his words again and again in your mind. He asked you to remain his, not to become Ubbe’s woman or anyone else’s.
His eyes expressed his fear of rejection, since you two had shared a unique relationship he couldn’t put together. Your beautiful smile warmed his mind though, letting his hope grow little by little.
Your heart quickened in response to the significant magnetic pull between you. Softly, you said the words you had longed to say the past years.
“Ivar, I love you.”
Without a further word, Ivar reached out, his hand gently cupping your cheek. His touch was both tender and possessive, as if he wanted to memorize every inch of your face. He never held you like this - a whole new level of trust and intimacy unveiled itself. His passion and your admiration mixed together.
Slowly, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, tentative kiss. You didn’t know how a kiss normally feels like, but you knew his kiss was the right thing. His lips were warm and inviting, and his breath mingled with yours, creating an intimate connection that defied the existence of everything but your shared love for one another.
It was a kiss filled with unspoken promises - the weight of unexpressed emotions that were kept hidden for many years. It was a kiss that spoke of a love that had always been there, just waiting to be acknowledged, waiting to bloom, waiting to emerge.
When he gently pulled away, your hearts were racing, and a breathless silence hung between you.
Ivar's eyes stared into yours, filled with a raw intensity that left no room for doubt. He loved you too.
“No one will take your hand, except for me, Ástvinur.”
SUMMARY: After helping one of the northern Jarls, the Lothbrok brothers attend a celebratory feast. There, they're faced with a tradition of warriors catching flower crowns that belong to young women. How surprised Ivar is when you almost shove your crown into his hands.
WORDCOUNT: ~ 2.1k
Ivar is tired.
Of course he's glad that Jarl Thorstein came out victorious. And that his brothers are fine. Still, he feels weary as the adrenaline leaves his body. His legs start to ache. Ivar downs the rest of his mead in hopes it makes him a little more deaf to his mood.
The upbeat, bright music fills his mind like an obsessive thought. His heart beats to the rhythm tapped by the feet of dancing women. They spin, jump and run around with flower crowns sitting atop their heads. How the wreaths remain immovable, he can't quite say.
Ivar is also angry.
As the local tradition entails, when the song ends, all the dancing young maidens will throw their flower crowns to the crowd. Whoever catches it, is believed to be the girl's lover chosen by the gods. However, whether the couple indulges and trusts gods' judgement is a different story. But if the wreath falls to the floor, the girl is said to remain unmarried for the next five years.
Ivar knows the chance of him somehow catching one of those is near zero. He's sitting quite far from the dancers. Even if he did catch it, he's disillusioned about the imminent dissatisfaction of the flower crown's ownert. Not only is he disabled in a way that almost entirely excludes him from fighting but he's also infamous for his ruthless nature and vengeful heart. Hardly a man who invokes desire. Still, some naive piece of him remains hopeful that maybe he's wrong. Maybe he can be terrible and loved all the same.
He shakes those weak delusions away from himself before they sour his mood further.
His piercing eyes have been following one of the dancers for the better part of the song when he catches himself. Her movements look effortless even when the musicians pick up the tempo. Clearly, she's done this dance one too many times to have any doubts about what she's doing. Joy beams from her in a way that makes her appear almost shining. The wreath on the top of her head is mostly green with white and red flowers. It makes Ivar think of the woods surrounding Kattegat; it makes him think of home.
Ivar leans toward Oddleif, one of the Jarl's men, who's sitting next to him.
"Who is she?"
Oddleif looks at Ivar out of the corner of his eye. He scoffs, takes a large sip of his drink and only then decides to answer:
"If you're thinking of catching her flower crown, don't." His blond braids dance slightly as he shakes his head. There's a hint of laughter hiding in the back of Oddleif's throat. "Half of the surviving army wants it."
"I have no care for flowers," Ivar lies through his teeth. "They have no use. They wilt and die and soon no one remembers them. I am simply curious about her."
"Her father is the blacksmith. You might have seen him in the battle, swinging that damned sledgehammer." Ivar silently nods. He remembers that man - tall as a pine tree and wider than a stable. The blacksmith invokes respect even when he's not decimating enemies like a troll equipped with a tree trunk. "He said once that he'll let any man marry his daughter but only if he can lift an anvil. Tried it once myself. Not that I had any success as you can imagine." Oddleif laughs bitterly and continues drinking. His eyes are glued to the dancers but Ivar knows that right now, the two of them are admiring the very same girl with a flower crown like a forest.
The melody continues to quicken. Despite being out of breath, you don't want it to end. Your feet ache but they do not falter nor do they stumble. It seems that their muscles know the dance better than your mind. There are a dozen girls dancing with you but you do not see them. Not really. They appear worlds away from you and the song of bagpipes and strings.
And then appears he.
A slouched, dark figure flies before your eyes as you're doing another pirouette. The man simply sits there, in the corner, but his presence is overwhelming. Or so you think. He does nothing and yet he tears his way into your microcosm of quick footwork, turns and lively polka.
You recognize him. Of course you do. Many whispers, equally frightened and amazed, have spoken of him. You have believed in all of them until the moment you met his gaze for that split second. Right then, somewhere between blinks and breaths, you renounce every gossip you've ever heard about him. A voice in the back of your head, a trickster or an oracle, nags at you to learn the truth yourself.
When the lively, fast melody comes to a stop, you find yourself shaken awake from the thoughts about Ivar the Boneless. The end of the song seems somewhat abrupt to you as you've been letting your fantasy run wild without paying much attention to what's going on around you. Dancing the last part purely by the memory of your muscles. The moment musicians stop playing, a small crowd begins to form in front of you. Men of different class, age and ancestry reach out their hands. Each one of them is more determined than the other to catch your wreath. They start to yell something but considering that the inside of the long hall is awfully loud anyway, you can't make out any words. Reading their lips, you can only tell when they're exclaiming different variations of your name.
They're only pushing towards you, shoving each other away. You keep taking steps backwards but the distance you create with each step is quickly shortened with the men calling out to you. You knew there would be many of them in front of you but never assumed that many. Instead of somewhat flattering, the siege is terrifying and imposing.
Looking for help or advice, just something that will ease your tension, you silently look around the long hall. Your gaze falls on the same slouched, dark figure. Strange peacefulness washes over you when his eyes meet yours.
The dim candlelight seems to bend around Ivar, making his corner appear darker than anywhere else in the long hall. He's simply sitting there. Maybe he's not interested? But the way he's staring at you shows nothing if not burning curiosity. The sons of Ragnar aren't know for their patience. No, they're said to take whatever they want the moment their desire sparks. Despite that, the youngest of them, and arguably the most famous, appears to be waiting. But for what exactly?
The fresh pine needles prick your skin. You furrow your eyebrows. Your gaze falls to the wreath and then comes back to Ivar. Could it be...?
It isn't much of a throw, really. You toss the flower crown towards him without looking anywhere else but into Ivar's eyes. Without as much as blinking, he catches the wreath with ease as though he has been prepared for that. Low murmurs hit your ears but quickly the sounds of disappointment fall silent as it's made clear who caught your wreath. Despite their initial determination, the men who had been reaching out to you suddenly disperse like fog does in the early morning. They knew better than to get under the skin of a Lothbrok. Especially that one.
"I believe this belongs to you."
Ivar is holding up the wreath. Despite his words, he makes no effort to offer it back to you. His eyes are bright and glistening, the corner of his mouth is tugged ever-so-slightly upwards. He appears amused.
At first, it was nice to finally sit down after dancing for what seemed to be hours on end. But now, when you're facing the consequences of your spur-of-the-moment decision, the tension sets in once more. This time, however, it doesn't feel threatening. In turn, the nervousness is somewhat welcome like the jittery state before a surprise is revealed.
"If I wanted to keep it, I wouldn't have thrown it," you answer in a light tone.
"And why should I keep it?"
The blue eyes study you for a moment. It's a strange feeling - you can't help but think that the longer you are in Ivar's presence, talking or not, he's reading your mind and soul. He stares at you in a way that tells you he already holds all the answers but wants you to confirm them.
"It's said to bring good luck." You shrug your shoulders. "Until the wreath wilts and dies, Freya and Freyr will look after you."
Ivar looks at the flower crown again. Only now, when he's holding it, does he realize that for a flower crown, there aren't many flowers. A few sandworts and poppies, yes, but the wreath is made mostly of evergreen plants. It might take weeks until the crown wilts.
The microcosm seems closed again. Now it's not you and the bagpipes but you and him. It's strange and it's new but it's not threatening. It's not the kind of presence a man of his infamy should have. Or perhaps you've simply fallen for his honey trap.
"Why did you throw it to me?" Ivar tries to make the question seem unimportant, just curiosity brought to light. But he can't quite convince himself that he doesn't care. There's a hint of something vulnerable and genuine when the words roll off his tongue. It's easy to miss like a dandelion clock carried away by a gust of wind.
You wish you knew the answer yourself.
"I don't know really," you say honestly. "Perhaps it was one of the gods that threw the flower crown for me." You make a pause. Ivar's face is unreadable. "Or perhaps I have no interest in urgent, desperate men."
Ivar chuckles. A deep shadow is covering part of his face, making him appear kind of sinister. For a moment, you question whether he's laughing with you or at you.
"And what exactly makes you think I'm not urgent or desperate?" he continues. You notice his smile is growing wider. That glint of amusement in his blue eyes has changed in mischief. "What if I'm worse than all of them? You surely know who I am."
"Of course I do, Ivar the Boneless," you drone the words. In a barely noticeable fashion, he clenches his jaw when you say his name. It makes him feel a strange, burning sensation in his stomach but Ivar is left unsure whether he likes it or detests. "The whispers of your ruthless character are unending."
"But you're not afraid?" he asks with both disbelief and suspicion. A girl with a flower crown doesn't necessarily strike him as fearless in any way. Or this whole strange situation is a little too good, too dream-like, for him to accept it at face-value.
Ivar's smile falters when your face takes on a confident, maybe even arrogant, expression. He's taken aback.
"I'm a woman of the North," you say while leaning towards him on the table. The distance between your faces shortnes. "The only person I fear is my own reflection."
The sudden closeness makes Ivar inhale sharply. The strong smell of pine needles fills his nostrils. For a moment, his imagination runs wild but it's not his fault - he has no grasp on it:
How those big eyes glistened in the semi-dark of the long hall as you were staring at him. Your smirk, somewhat challenging and beckoning him to push on. Then, the smell of conifer that shakes all senses awake. His fantasy leaves the northern snows and travelles to forests, to him brushing pine needles from your hair and your naked, flushes skin smelling of evergreen trees.
But quickly his shaken awake, to his utmost displeasure, by you:
"Well, if you don't want it, I suppose I should take it back, no?"
Your hand unsurely reaches out for the wreath in Ivar's hand. He's quick to pull his arm back.
"It's bad luck to take back gifts," he states plainly. In an act of nonchalance, Ivar is playing with the wreath, spinning it around his finger. "I should like to keep it."
Sometimes you come back to the night you've met the infamous Viking, when you're rendered sleepless while he's calmly breathing next to you, getting the rest he desperately needs. How funny all of it seems - that a flower crown in bloodied, merciless hands could lead to having a genuine crown on your head. Maybe you were right, after all, and it really was the hand of one of the gods that threw the wreath for you.
A/N: You can read it as a part 2 to The Wanderer, but works as a standalone too.
The camp is a mess. Some of the warriors are still wild, with the adrenaline pumping in their veins, while others are loud with pain and sorrow. And most of them are drunk on victory and ale. The place smells like mud, blood, and alcohol. The mix fills your nostrils. It’s heavy and familiar. It feels like home. Your gaze scans the circle of tents, jumping from warrior to warrior, knowing a few healers and not caring about the thralls. The crowd is illuminated by the orange lights of the sun going down on the horizon. The gentle hue highlights a few details in front of your eyes as you continue your search. The sharp blades of the swords, for example. Your fingers twitch in reflex, wanting to feel the grip of your own weapon. Your muscles are still taut because of the memory of the battle.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming