#soft!ivar

You learned a long time ago, after you were brought to this place, before Ivar was called king to be proactive when he was in one of his moods. He could merely be contemplating murdering you instead of outright planning it, so best to stay on his good side. Whichever side that was at the time?

"Why are you so slow today?" Ivar drug the words out in an exhausted manner, as if merely watching you go about your usual business was boring him. Perhaps next he'd ask you to perform some mundane task while walking on your hands and using your feet to play some instrument for his amusement.

"I am sorry my King, I do not mean to be slow, I- I will do my best to be more... expedient in my chores."

Another sharp pain from your abdomen made you press the heel of your hand into the lower portion of your belly. You were colder today than any other say so far this fortnight, thus you'd piled on another layer and a shawl despite that winter had not come in full swing to Kattegat.

Ivar wasn't wrong about his watching. You'd been lingering closer to the fire. And anything you could bring closer to the fire you did - from there your chores were being done. Rarely, Ivar noticed what you were doing. He wasn't unkind, in his own way - but he never let you forget what you were. A slave. It meant little to you. It was all you knew.

"Bring me more mead than. This has a taste of stale horse piss."

He tapped the pitcher with his finger.

Ivar, for whatever reason, with his words, almost always made you smile or laugh, though you tried to hide it. He had a - colorful - way with his words and you did not always know when he was being serious or if he was joking. You didn't openly laugh - the last thing you had wanted for was Ivar to think you were laughing at him.

"I will be happy to, my King."

You gathered your skirts, pulling them up so not to trip on them as you climbed the dais to retrieve the offending item and get it out of his sight.

When you lifted the full pitcher, your stomach cramped, but what you took notice of was Ivar's hand caressing the slight swell of your belly. You were always a little extra. Where other ladies were thin or knobby and the shield maidens seemed as muscular as the Viking men, you were soft in their hard places and round in the shoulders with plump little arms and legs. Some men had been keen to call you 'stocky'. Your hips always seemed to swell outward to meet the heavy base of your thighs. They resembled flesh made tree trunks. Or at least that was how you saw them. And your belly, it pouched in a manner that was most unpleasant to you.

You'd have made a dairy farmer a fine wife. That was what your mother said when you were twelve and she sold you to the slavers. A work horse, best used in hard labor.

"So warm."

Ivar had most peculiar eyes, so blue they could make the deepest ocean jealous. There was an old tale that said Ivar's eyes became even bluer when he was in danger. You supposed since they were still calm and had not turned stormy today, he wasn't in danger of a sneak attack.

His broad hand flattened over your middle, palming the soft roll of your belly.

He contemplated you a second longer before he withdrew his hand and waved you off. "Go on then."

You turned and moved faster than you had all day.

The casks of mead had been depleted the night before. Events in the great hall were plentiful. It always seemed that your king had a desperate yearning to be seen as anything other than what he was perceived to be. A cripple. You had seen cripples before in your life. Often men but there had been a few women - those pitiful creatures had been thrown to the dogs, but the men somehow made themselves busy. They couldn't even use a crutch as Ivar did, or drag themselves around. They lacked the upper body strength. You didn't see Ivar as incapable or cripple but perhaps deep down that was the drive, the means of his motivation. He would always see himself as the crippled boy.

Hurrying with your task, you replaced all the casks of mead from the night before and hammered in their taps before finding a fresh pitcher and filled it. You even found a clean cup. It wouldn't matter much if the mead was fresh if it was being poured into a tainted cup. The matter took more time than you realized as you hurried back but Ivar was not where you'd left him.

Concerned that this spelled trouble for you, you got busy, ignoring the limitations you wanted to yield to. How would you ever believe you could be like a shield maiden, regardless that you were a slave, if you never pushed yourself? Deep inside a small voice begged you to at least try. You fluffed the pillows and furs on Ivar's throne and cleaned away any unsightly debris that could make his foul mood of the day worse.

"What took you so long?"

Ivar stood, leaning on his crutch. Demanding.

His appearance had changed.

The braids in his hair were loosened until his shoulder length hair touched his shoulders and he'd removed his shirt.

You'd seen men shirtless before, but Ivar. You glanced and then quickly looked away, directing your gaze more purposefully on what you were doing as your cheeks flushed.

The many intricate tattoos that slipped from his back and over his shoulder onto his chest were beautiful. Markings of his voyages and the many battles he'd won. Because of his particular disability, it gave him a certain edge.

"I...I'm sorry my King. I should have hurried."

Ivar wouldn't be interested in an excuse so you didn't bother offering him one.

"Were you just dragging your feet and hugging your belly, or is there a reason you took so long?"

His crutch thumped on the scarred hardwood as he came closer.

His height was always something that surprised you when you entered his presence and he chose to stand. Even leaning on his crutch his height was noted. The top of your head reached just below his shoulder.

"No. I wasn't."

You trembled slightly. How could he stand so comfortably in this chill? The temperature further from the fires seemed to bother him very little while his crutch thumped closer and you could feel the heat of his chest close to your shoulder and that side of your body.

"Then what were you doing, slave? Answer me."

You opened your lips to speak -

"Look at me."

Your eyes snapped to his.

Ivar had moved so close that you almost stumbled back but his hand, one not holding his crutch grabbed your hip and steadied you, if that, he pulled you even closer. Until your abdomen pressed against the groin covered laces of his trousers.

"I did as you asked. I ...went to get a fresh pitcher of mead but the casks from last night hadn't been replaced yet so, I replaced them and then, I wanted to get you a clean cup because it...seemed like a fruitless effort to bring fresh mead and not a fresh cup too."

As you spoke, your arms curled up against your chest, fingers tangling in the loose hair and braids of hair that fell around your shoulders and breasts. A protective instinct.

His brow pulled down, inspecting your face, for what felt like forever he was holding you, seemingly taking you apart with his eyes.

"Are you afraid of me?"

Blinking, you didn't know how to answer him. Was his question a joke? It seemed like everyone both loved and feared Ivar. Mostly feared but no one considered a revolt, the mere notion seemed to hazardous an endeavor. And if you killed one son of Ragnar, there were four others to take his place - sullen as they may appear at times toward their brother, familial bonds would assure vengeance.

"I...don't like it when you're angry with me, but...I don't think what I feel is fear."

"Then what is it you do feel?"

You swallowed, feeling tired against the warmth his body gave. If you could close your eyes a moment, just to clear the fog in your mind but he was waiting for an answer.

"I don't know." You said dumbly.

Dumb as it may be, it was the only appropriate answer you could give him. You didn't like it when Ivar was angry with you because it turned sullen and dejected. His eyes would darken and his brow would crease as if something was giving him great mental pain. When he was in a more jovial mood, his eyes sparkled, his whole face light up with something akin to real joy. He was capable of great conversation; he had ideas, things you'd heard no one else speak of and when he was like this, you enjoyed lingering closer to listen.

"I want a bath. Come on."

Ivar gripped your hip a little more roughly before pulling you beneath his arm, using your shoulders to brace himself against your body. You had to wrap your arm around his back, the other around him so that your hand rested on his upper abdomen as he walked back to his private chambers.

Another slave was pouring a heavy bucket of steaming water into a tub in the corner, but she didn't look at Ivar or you. She poured the water and left through another door as if she'd never been there.

Ivar moved to the side of the tub, settling on it as he picked and pulled at the rawhide laces of his trousers.

"Pull them off my legs."

Gulping, you removed his shoes and gripped the ends of his pant legs as he pushed them down his hips. His cock was impressive. You knew it was. Others talked. Sometimes he ordered his slaves to stay when he entered the tub. To wash him, his hair. He enjoyed being touched, but the events usually ended with Ivar shouting at them to leave him and then pulling himself from the tub and dragging himself to his bed before shouting for mead.

They talked about rumors they heard but couldn't be confirmed though they made their own assumptions about their King.

The poor crippled King who would likely never marry and never have children.

His cock didn't work. You likely reasoned that the rumors came from his brothers. That because of his legs, he couldn't satisfy a woman with his cock. You knew nothing, but it didn't seem to make sense. What did his legs have to do with his ability to make love?

You stripped his legs, his thighs seemed to be well muscled, calves as well. It was not an issue of muscle, but the bone itself. That's why they called him Boneless.

"Come here." Ivar said, holding his arm out to hold on to your waist as he turned, placing one leg and then the other into the tub. You didn't offer to help, that wasn't what he asked you. He could do it himself and he released a sigh as he sunk into the heated waters depths.

"Take your clothes off."

Inhaling slowly, you shook your head.

"I can't."

Ivar's lips curled at the corners. The same leer you'd seen directed at others stared directly back at you.

"You've all your limbs, hands, fingers, toes. Of course, you can. Take them off."

You pressed your lips together, pinching them between your teeth.

"My King I'm -"

"Bleeding? I know. Take off your clothes, then get into the bath. If you aren't afraid of me, this shouldn't be an issue."

He knew?

Air whistles through your teeth as you took your shawl off, tugging at the lacings of your dress, letting it slid down your shoulders and pool at your feet. Save for the menstruation belt at your waist and covering you, you were naked. Vikings did not bother with angst of their bodies, but this was your King. And you hesitated before your fingers picked at the soft wrapped straps that clung to your hips before you slipped out of the belt and inhaled quickly.

You moved in such a way that you were not quick, but you weren't slow, either. Stepping into the tub, Ivar moved his legs.

"Right here, sit so your back is against my chest."

You swallowed, turning your back to him before lowering yourself into the water. Almost as soon as you stretched your legs out and eased back, Ivar's hands were rested on your abdomen, almost massaging as the heat from the water eased the cramping and tension from your back and legs. The pain in your abdomen eased, and you felt relaxed.

Ivar's chin eased to your shoulder as you watched his hands on your stomach beneath the water.

"The heat has always helped me when I was in pain, its not possible to stay like this - but... if you need this from time to time, you don't need to hide it or endure it always."

You thought for a moment, nodding gently. The free women didn't use the communal baths when they had their blood. They didn't hide it but they bathed in their homes - you didn't have a home, so going to the communal baths wasn't optional and you stayed clean as well as you could. At least no one had ever mentioned you needed a bath.

"I apologize if... perhaps my smell was offensive. I clean, as well as I can, during this time." You admitted as much, though you felt him shaking his head.

"You weren't."

"Thank you."

You murmured under a breath, cautioning yourself, though the act happened just as easily as you held his hand.

"We found her in the caves, helping women to escape by underground tunnels," affirm the guard holding your arm firmly. You kept your head down looking at your feet when he throws you forward his master. 

He was sitting on a simple chair, braces around both his legs, a crutch near him. You heard multiple times the name of a certain Ivar The Boneless, a ruthless Vikings, leader of a Great Heather army. Judging by their clothes, and the foreign language is spoken by the warriors, you surmise, the cripple in front of you was, indeed, Ivar. 

"You don't like our company?" The leader asks in Saxon's language. Wasn't it the first time he came?

You decide to stay silent as long as you could.

"Did you cut her tongue?" Furiously ask the Vikings speaking to the soldiers that came in with you.

"No," "So why isn't she replying?!" He gets angrier, taking your silence as defiance.

His rough and callous hand stuck under your chin, lifting your head to him. At your sight, his eyes widened, a gleam burning in them. He even shifted his position in the chair, standing straight. Eyes locked together, he felt his heart fluttered, and as if you felt it too, you stop moving, paralyzed, or submerged by a flow of unknown feelings.

Even the atmosphere changes, the air seems to move slower as rays of sun point out dust whirling around your bodies, creating a space where you two are alone. At the mercy of the flow of feelings drowning you slowly. Your skin burns of desire to be touched by his fingers that curled around the edge of the armrest while your lungs are crying for air.

"Leave, all of you!" He screams, vigorously dismissing them in a hand movement. 

The warriors were used to the Ragnarson falling for each and every woman that would stand on his way, even more, if they were slaves or seems defenseless for it was an occasion for Ivar to show mercy or act as a hero. How many slaves did he free, how many women did he spare when on raid? His soldiers lost count, not that they even tried to count them. What they didn't realize, was that Ivar wasn't delusional this time, something happened between two people, at first sight.

Waiting for them all to get ou the room, Ivar furrowed his brows, watching from afar, giving you time to breathe and let go of the stupid sparkling explosions in your tummy.

As soon as the wooden door closes, his facial expression changes. His brows lift up, tenderness occupying his scintillating eyes. 

"What's your name?" And once again you remained silent, starting to get on his nerves. "Why won't you talk?" His broken voices echoed in your ears. He looked down, his hand changing into a fist encountering the armrest of his chair out frustration.

Regardless your feelings at your first eye contact, it's been forever since you put your guards down or let anyone in, it wasn't now that you'll let a human get close enough to hurt you. If he was waiting for you to be all sweet and soft, he was wrong.

"I know who you are, whichever you are striving to do. The women are promptly secured, it is solely what matters, take my life if you must, I do not object," you harshly grit your teeth. 

Ivar attention for you grew back, the fingers that once lifted your chin, gripping now your neck in a hurry. "What do you mean?" His furious loud question, resonate in the entire room and probably within all the castle. 

He did not understand the sudden change in your looks, all he was capable of when taken by surprise was act angry, so he did.

"Ivar the Boneless, head of The Great Heathen Army, Son of Ragnar which was the direct descendant of Odin, the All-father himself," you comfortably started to enumerate when his grip got tighter, making your voice trapped in your throat.

"I know who I am!" His face neared yours, rage burying wrinkles on his forehead. You glance at it, then lower your sight to his piercing azure eyes. "Do you?" You quietly ask, head tilted. The fact you weren't showing any signs of fear even when being well-aware of the fury filling his body aroused his craving for killing you. But deep in his heart, something warned him this would undoubtedly be another great mistake.

"Are you aiming to kill me?" You asked out of the blue, knocking him off his thoughts. "No," He brutally turns his head to the side, avoiding your eyes. 

He wanted you, not kill you.

When he let go of your neck, you stay still, tilting your head, wondering what was happening in his mind at this precise moment. 

At least three entire minutes have passed before he breaks the silence, turning his head toward you, a hand under his chin with his elbow on the armrest. "You are no normal maid, aren't you?" His fingers pointing your simple and dusty dress.

"Negative," you shrug.

"How do you know so much about me? And Father? What about that accent of yours? Why so many formalities, and still familiarity with me?"

"You ask too many questions," you got up, turning your back at him. 

You had exactly what you wanted, you now knew what was running on his mind. You opened a trap, and he willingly fell into it. If it was thousand of years ago, you would've probably laughed at how easy it is to trick a human. But now is no longer time for jokes and laughs.

"Where are you going?" He firmly asks.

"You are not intending to kill me, you have said," you continued to walk towards the door.

"I can keep you alive by taking you as a prisoner," the Viking replied with haste. He wouldn't keep you as a slave, he knew you would tempt something to free the others. 

You stop walking and turn to him, lowering your head, passing one hand on your face, already annoyed by his behavior.

"Are you keeping me as a captive?" 

"No," he almost spitted, biting the inside of his cheek and avoiding your stare. You silently walk back to him, and when in front of the man, place both your hands on his knees and dangerously leaned toward him. 

He followed your every movement with his eyes, not knowing what to do nor what you intend to, you seal your lips together in urge. When you break the kiss, you sensually pass your tongue on your mouth, eyes squinted. 

Ivar looked at you with incomprehension and reluctance, about the kiss, your intentions, and the fact you succeed at breaking free, just like that. His eyes twinkle with the desire to have you again while you straighten back up, still staring into his heathen soul. You glanced at his redden cheeks and started to slowly walk backward, you were too absorbed by him to break the eye contact.

"Now, if you would excuse me," you motioned your hand as in a bow, except, you didn't bow, and you were making fun of his helplessness, or so you faked. You breathed out and turn around, truly aiming for the door this time. 

Your fingers hassled to your parted lips, reminiscing the fruity flavor of his, the sparkles as well as the chills running down your spine, and even the flash in his eyes right after that kiss. 

Even if your face was now out of sight, he knew a smirk drew on it, he could stake his life on it, and he was right.

***

Curiosity, being one of the many personality traits he and his father shared, in battle, when that man was being defeated by his soldiers, Ivar stopped the execution. He spared the life of the man he heard habitants calling "Bishop". 

At the sight of a cross pendant dangling on the man's chest, he surmised "Bishop" was a Christian title. His impatience of asking questions when the man will open his eyes couldn't reach any higher stage.

It was that same day that in the streets, at the center of a crowd you caught sight of Heahmund, crawling in the dirt trying to reach for his crutch. Too bad the men around him kept shooting at it so he couldn't grab it and stand up. He raised his head to the cripple standing in front of him, no other than Ivar The Boneless. A chuckle escaped your throat at that scene. What an irony, him, that was once crawling in the dirt with no crutch, making fun of a man in that same situation.

"Y/n, Y/n...? How-" He was cut off by a blow in his stomach. Ivar's laugh got stuck in his throat when he realized the Bishop was looking at you when calling for a name. His eyes instantly changed colors to a vivid blue. Despite the grey sky, dark clouds, and even the crowd, you glimpse perfectly his stare heading right at you. 

With a hand, you fold down the piece of fabric that was hanging around your neck on your head and face before the Vikings could do anything, you vanished behind another man screaming and laughing among the other to Heahmund's fate.

***

"Her name's Y/n, search for her everywhere! Anywhere! And bring her, but to me, but if you touch only one of her hair I will kill you myself," the Viking ordered. The guards left him alone, seeing them dispatch at the crossroad you approach the doors of the Hall and push them.

"Here you are, I have sought after you wherever," you scoff at him. Ivar turned around and his eyes widened and clouded with fury and desire. Both towards you, he indeed sends his guards fetch you but he didn't think they would find you. He thought you already left town, seeing you before him surprised him as much as it relieved him. He didn't lose you.

But you have the guts to show here after you escaped from his grip the first time as if you were the one owning the place, and he wasn't okay with you acting such way. Why didn't you left town or something? Why staying here, to mock his weakness?

If so, you've won. 

Ivar's thoughts were running wild in his head, too fast for him to follow each one of them, but you were in his every thought, that was for sure.

"I overheard you scream and I came, you oftentimes scream," you lift your brows at him. "Do you want to die?" He asked without screaming, only because you've said he did so a lot. "Conceivably," you motioned your head side to side, pouting. He rolled his eyes. "I wanted you to know we have your friend," his eyes turned to the side, a darker part of the room. 

Looking closely, you notice Heahmund, sat on the ground back to the wall. "I heard your name is Y/n, or should I call you Merlin?" Ivar spoke as if he had discovered the biggest plot of his life. "Y/n is sufficient," you retorted. "Should I offer you a sit, now?" "Offer? A sit?" you confusedly ask, brows raised high. "We found all the women you helped escape, they are emprisoned," he proudly declared. 

You scoffed, gritting your teeth, your fingers folding one against the other, forming a fist.

"Even from you, that is shallow," "Stop talking as if you know me! You don't, and it's confusing," he loudly groaned. "Here, you scream again," you boldly point him with two fingers. "Come on, Y/n," you heard Heahmund pleading from the shadows. Your sarcasm was funny for a moment, now things were serious, you needed to get your things together. But how could you with your body crying for proximity with the Viking? When he was occupying your then-vacant head since you met him? 

"I do not want anything to have to do with either of you alone, so you both? No thank you," you stubbornly stated. "I think you didn't understand, you don't have a choice.” Ivar shook his head, "And it's only about me, not him. I will soon kill him," "Well, you should hurry to do so," you motioned your head forward, eyes wide, encouraging him to act.

"So, what do you say?" The Ragnarson ignore your remark, even if he had more than one question on why you wanted Heahmund dead. "My throat's dry," you coughed, making Ivar rolled his eyes again. 

***

"Who you think I am?" "Y/n or Merlin, whatever," he shook his head on why he would even respond to your query, watching you grab the cup off the table and raise it in the air. "What about my age?" He started to get confused. "Around mine," "Do you consider me as attractive?" His lids fluttered, cheeks reddened while glancing at you, leaning back in his chair as he tried to get more comfortable. "Well..." He pondered, but his face already responded to your question. "Yeah, you're right, I am charming," you nodded after choking on your drink. No need to mention you were drunk. He placed his hands on his eyes squeezing them, he wondered why he gave you that ale.

"So you got the women," you suddenly muttered with a concerned look. "I do." "Then what is it you want from me?" Your simple question makes his lids fluttered once again, as he leaned backward to put some distance between you. 

You choose to ignore his behavior, you would give your life for those women. You promised to help them when you got here and you will not fail. 

"For you to come with me," "Where?" "Everywhere." You stayed silent. 

"You ride for me, and I free them instantly," He added seeing no reaction from you. You drop the cup you were holding on the table in a thud, blankly.

"You want my life," you murmured conceding what that means. This time Ivar stayed silent.

"What did Heahmund told you about me?" You helplessly stare at him.

"Besides your name, nothing...  I refused to know more." The Viking reluctantly finishes, murmuring. "Why?" You loudly ask. He was surprised, you always seemed calm, what has changed?

"Why?" You ask with a lower voice. His eyes encountered yours and he thought he saw worries in them. "I want you to tell me who you are," "Yeah," you scoffed, not trusting a word he was saying.

He exhaled deeply and cleared his throat. 

"Would you come with me if I simply ask you to?" 

"No,"

"Right, that's why I had to have those women. To bargain with you,"

"No, to bargain me," you rectified. "What do you want me to say, I-I-" He tried but stop himself, nothing he would say will be able to make you change your mind. 

"I know what you are thinking, that there something connecting us, but it is non," you shook your head both sides, still not looking at him. "Huh.." was the only thing able to left his mouth and he cursed himself for being such a weak man. 

"So, you want me to tell you about me, I will, this way you have all of me. When you, humans, know everything about someone or something you lose interest in them anyway, so," you shrug. 

Ivar looked at you, not quite sure he understood clearly what you meant, but you got something wrong, he was sure.

"But not here, I want you to tell me more about you when you ready, when we'll be on raid, watching the ocean on our boats or... I don't know," 

"I'm a magician, I was called Merlin a long time ago, in Camelot. I served a King there and people depended on us, him and me. But humans are so fragile, kingdoms even more... And around six hundred years later, I end up here."

"A-a magician, you're six hundred years old..." His brows rose, looking at the table, then further away. He waggled into his chair for a moment.

Here we go again, he will either try to use your magic or either he will let you and the woman go because he got what he wanted, humans are predictable.

"You've chosen Y/n as a new identity, or is it also your name?" His question eventuated in your brows to join, while your eyes meet his. They were filled with something you couldn't surely describe, envy? curiosity? care?

"It's my name. Merlin is my magician name, but-" you stopped. 

"What?"

"What are you doing, is that the only thing you want to know?"

"Why would I want to know anything else?" He retorted, glancing at you as if you asked the most stupid thing he's heard in a long time. He grabbed your cup and his and purred some more ale in them.

"Since I've seen you're not so drunk. I truly thought you were somewhere else," he declared.

"I'm a ma-gi-cian," you articulated, nearing your upped body to him over the table. 

"And I'm a cripple," he lightly responded.

"Yeah, I sure did notice that," you choked on your drink, leaning back against the chair. He glared at you, a wrinkle appeared on his forehead when he knit his brows. 

"Stop frowning, wrinkles don't match your charming fa-" You begin, stretching your arm to his face, the tip of your fingers, fondling his cheek. 

As soon as you realized how close you were to him, you stopped and looked into his eyes as if you were searching for something in there. Ivar looked back at you with the same intensity, until you started to move backward. He grabbed your wrist and maintained your hand on his cheek.

"Y/n," his lips succeed at spelling, but you "Shhh-" him while sliding your gingers on his mouth, which was now the center of your attention. 

He swallowed sharply and you choose that exact moment to peck his lips, gauging for his reaction, he looked into your eyes, then your lips and crashed his on yours in a hurry. Both your hands joined his cheeks that you stroke before slowly sliding to his mane, tucking your fingers in his braids. 

The sparkles in your lower belly spread to your arms, shoulders, and eventually your face and head, making you feel dizzy. Or was it the need of air in your lungs that made you feel giddy? You pulled away from his lips and took a deep breath before kissing him more passionately this time, needier. His response was to place a hand on your neck and pull you towards him even more whereas his free one dawdles on each part of your body it encountered during its course to your hips.

"I've lost my magic," you let out, in between two kisses. "I'm sorry," he responded before coming for another kiss. You move your head back and he stopped moving, confusion animating his eyes. "That's all you have to say?" You questioned, a bit taken aback. He stayed silent, not wanting to say anything wrong.

"You think too much," he finally let out, pulling you close to him. He pecks your nose, making you smile. 

Ivar needed more of you but wasn't so sure how to dance with you as anything could trigger you for no specific reason. He'll try to get closer with humor, as it seems you quite liked sarcasm.

"What are you doing," you giggled in response to his teeth lightly closing around the point of your nose. You lightly hit his chest trying to get away his grip but he held you tight.

“But you really need to let go of those women, they are the last magicians’ left of Camelot,” you said out of nowhere. “Wha-t?” He roared.

---------------------------

When they found her she’d been locked away, dressed in nothing but thin, filthy, nightdress. The room was cold and empty minus the bed and furs covering it. She’d been in a corner-- not quite cowering but seemingly preparing for someone to attack her by the time he’d arrived. Despite the amused looks on the Vikings faces as they lowered their own weapons she held hers at the ready- a bloodied piece of almost sharp wood she had pried from her headboard and now clenched tightly in her fist. The blood from her hands had run in small rivers down her wrist to her elbow and had already begun to dry, the rust colored rivulets a stark contrast against her pale skin.

King Ivar and the others certainly hadn’t intended to find her, they never really expected to find people locked away, but he’d been going through some of the rooms with a few of his men and.. there she was. Practically waiting to be found. He had been one room over when they’d broken through her door at first, she’d started screaming as his men had entered the room and he had gone to find out what the commotion was about. The click of his crutch on the stone echoing loudly as he entered the now silent room.

“What’s your name?” He’d asked sharply, but she either hadn’t understood him or was refusing to answer. Trying again in what he thought may be her language, tone clipped as the word slipped from his lips, he asked her, “Name?”

After a brief moment of hesitation she’d finally responded. “Sansa” she’d said quietly, eyes to the floor while a mess of fiery red tresses hung down to hide her face. Between the dirty strands he could see the heavy bags beneath her eyes, almost purple against her fair skin. “The Lady here?” But he got no response despite what he was sure had been the right words. Settling on to the crutch tucked under his arm he looked her over curiously. As he went to approach her the movement seemed to set her off, she came at him quickly but he stopped her. She was soft, worn down from whatever she’d endured in this cage of a room, and he knocked her to the side easily with the hand not tightly gripping his crutch. He hadn’t intended to hurt her, but she had tried to stab him. It only seemed fair enough. As she hit the ground the blanket slipped away and he could see the angry tips of thick welts along her shoulders, disappearing beneath the thin and bloodied material trying to cover her. When a few of his men stepped forward he shook his head, a sharp ‘no’ cutting through the silence.

One of the men that had found her stepped forward, eyeing the seemingly wild girl splayed on the ground, “King Ivar... what do you want to do with her?” It was a good question and he searched for an answer, considering the things he’d heard in their days leading up to the attack on Winterfell. He knew the Lord had a wife, but they assumed like the others before him they would send her away, off to her family to be protected until the heathen threat had gone.  

Ivar chewed the inside his cheeks for a moment, eyeing the girl on the ground while she watched him through the safety of her hair. They appraised each other in a loaded silence, each trying to gauge just how much trouble the other might be. When the king found nothing but sadness in her eyes he tore his own away, looking past her to the bed once more. “Take her to my tent at the camp, keep her safe,” he said quietly, turning on the man after a moment to give him a serious look. “Give her your cloak and don’t let her out of your sight. Go.” Turning away from the confused looks he received he left the room, moving on to the next one. No one would be bold enough to question his motives in the moment.

-

Back at the camp Ivar rounded up a few of the thralls he’d collected along their journey- the war the Saxons were waging amongst each other had made their last couple of raids easy and they’d been blessed with several bountiful ones that season already. It made selecting the girls to tend to his guest easy, though he did choose them each for specific reasons. Two had come from within the Earl’s home of the first kingdom they’d attacked upon their arrival and had been tending to him since. The third had come from the village before they’d reached Winterfell, if there really was a language barrier he’d hoped she would be the one to overcome it.

Inside of his tent she sat beside the bed, back pressed against the edge of it as she stared at the furs beneath her feet. Taking a seat at the table a good ways away from her he waved a hand at the man at the doorway, sending him out. Pointing at the girl he’d found nearest to her city he motioned her over to Sansa, she would relate to her the most, maybe know who she was, the other two he directed to the wash basin. One went off to fetch the water while the other gathered the supplies they would need to clean her up.

Looking back to Sansa and the thrall he watched the low-born girl whispering to her, trying to coax her up, but the so-called Lady wasn’t budging. What did she think was happening? She needed to bathe, to eat, they needed answers from her— who would be looking for her, who would pay for her. Ivar slammed a fist down on the table, pitcher and glasses rattling from the motion. As the thrall returned with the first bucket of water and filled the basin Sansa finally looked up, looking from the basin, to Ivar and back to the girl kneeling in front of her. She murmured something to the slave and the girl gave her a sheepish look before crossing the room to Ivar. “Sir, your majesty...” the thrall struggled with what to say, considering her words carefully, “she’s... she’s shy, she says she doesn’t want you to see her.”

A strangled laugh worked its way out and he shook his head, “Tell her to get in the fuckin’ tub or this is the last polite thing I will do. Remind her that the only people that care she is a Lady are...” he motioned around the room as both girls watched him speak, “not here.” When the thrall hesitated he hit the table again and she hurried back across the room. He was still unsure why he was concerned with her well-being, but something was telling him he had to be.  

Ivar watched as the thrall got the other girl to her feet, shushing the protests she was whimpering out and trying to wipe the rapidly falling tears from her face. The slave girls' reassurances were falling on deaf ears, she just kept repeating the same phrase, ”He’s nice, he’s nice,” and wiping at eyes that wouldn’t stop weeping. Leading her across the room as the other two girls finished putting the bath together, the thrall paused, a hand on the other girl's back as she urged her forward, looking back to the king to see if he saw what she did. The bloodstains that scattered the back of her gown varied in color and size, from shoulder to knee, welts and lacerations still peeked from her collar. “I know,” was all he said on it, nodding at her to continue despite the girls sobbing. If it was as bad as he presumed the bath would be good for her, they’d clean her up then they would bring someone in to treat it in the morning.

It would take all three of the girls to get the gown off of her as she struggled, one of the girls going to leave to wash it. Ivar stopped her, beckoning her over to take it from her hands. He’d just begun to unfold it when he’d caught sight of her bare skin as the remaining girls helped her into the tub. His lip curled back in disgust and he looked to thrall, away from the painful sight of the girls back. “Find her a new one, something suitable to travel in,” It had been worse than he’d thought, they weren’t old, not all of them. Most were fresh, some had split in the centers of bursts of overlapping bites from whatever they had taken to her and there was no mistaking the carefully carved characters in her skin for the normally hand printed letters he had seen himself in the Christians texts. “Who?” He demanded, leaning forward in his seat as he waited expectantly for an answer.

The thrall that had gotten Sansa to the tub knelt down beside it with her now, wiping at the girl's face once more as her own eyes watered. “He wants to know who did this to you...” she whispered, reaching into the tub to pull one of the girl’s hands off her shoulders and into her own. While the king had lashed out a time or two since she’d been with them, she hadn’t seen him act out with downright cruelty, not like what was displayed on the girls back. Maybe a swat at her ass when he was drunk and a compliment in poor taste, a bit of yelling when something was done wrong, the ruthless treatment of the Christian men, but never cruel with her or the other girls.

A distressed whimper left Sansa’s lip and she leaned on to the edge of the tub, “He was supposed to be my husband,” she whispered, squeezing the thrall’s hand tightly in hers, “he was supposed to be a Lord.” From across the room Ivar could see the reaction to his guests’ words and his brow furrowed as he waited to be filled in.

“It was the Lord there,” the slave girl repeated, looking past Sansa to the King again, “His name was Bolton. Ramsay Bolton.. I knew of him before..” she shook her head, trailing off, that didn’t matter now. Focusing back on Sansa she picked up a rag, joining the other girl in tending to the woman.

Ivar stayed quiet, processing the information before collecting his crutch and rising from his chair. Disappearing out of the tent he tasked the man currently stationed at the entrance with finding out if the offender was alive or dead and few follow up instructions for either outcome. It didn’t matter that she was a Lady, not really, that didn’t guarantee anyone would pay for her, but as he took his seat back at the table and watched the bathing with a morbid curiosity he considered why he was invested. The absolute and utter cruelty behind it all? The time that was put into it? He couldn’t be sure, not quite yet. Not until he saw the man— whether it be alive or dead with his head on a spike. They’d certainly need something to leave behind for the others to find.

As the thralls started on her hair he snapped his fingers at them for their attention, watching as they paused on the knots they were working at. “Do something with it when you get her out, we’ll leave tomorrow,” he’d intended to find her people at first, bargain with them for a reward, but now he was not sure that it would be worth it— for himself or Sansa. The slave girls shared a look between each other— they had observed the customs over their few days of being around the Vikings, they knew that braids were only meant for shield maidens preparing for battle and those that were married. Did The King have a plan?

“Where are we going?” Sansa whispered from the safety of the tub to the thrall’s, arms wrapping tightly around her chest once more. “To Kattegat,” one whispered back to her, “he is the king there…” they had all glanced back at him at the mention of it and he attempted to return their stares with a soft smile, though his eyes were still narrowed and dark. A chill ran down her spine despite the warm water and she looked away, thankful to see the missing thrall returning with what looked like a fresh dress.

-

As the girls were finishing up with Sansa in the tub there was a commotion outside of the tent and Ivar had to wave a hand at the thrall’s to get them to keep moving. “Get her out of there, take her to the bed, get her dressed and finish up,” he snapped, hoisting himself up from his position in the chair and herding them to the back of the tent as they dried off his guest. In a mix of eagerness to see her attacker and a bit of desire to humor her earlier request that he not watch he turned away from them, only glancing back once to make sure they’d dressed her before calling out to the people outside. Off the table he grabbed a fairly large knife, clenching the handle tightly in his grip while they brought in his newest visitor. This one seemed to be struggling more than the other, he’d expected him to be a better sport.

At the sight of Ramsay Bolton in the flesh Ivar couldn’t help but sneer, he’d seen the man fighting, spotted him across the field before he’d retreated to the castle. In comparison to the beginning of his day he looked as though he were from a different life— blood matted his hair to the sides of his head, an eye had swollen shut and he’d been stripped to almost nothing; no sword to save him, no armor to protect him, no tunic to cover him. He had been tough, but not smart enough to get away and Ivar intended to make him regret all the wrong decisions he’d made.

“Put him on the ground, I want to see his back,” the king instructed and the two men that had brought him flattened him to the ground. One held his hands while the other held his feet, the prisoner cursing to himself as he refused to look at any of them. With another glance over his shoulder at Sansa and the thrall’s he turned back to Ramsay, tossing the crutch aside and using the table to lower himself to the ground, knife still firmly in hand as he focused back on the task at hand. On his stomach Ivar crawled the distance between himself and Ramsay, bringing himself face to face with the so-called Lord as the girls stopped their braiding to watch him. A wicked smile twisted his lips as he poked at the man's swollen face with the sharp tip of his knife, barely eliciting a squeal from him. “This is on behalf of the Lady,” he told the room, the tip of the knife poking a cheek once more, drawing a fat dab of blood this time as the two men locked eyes. With his free hand he grasped a handful of the offending man's hair, turning his head and pressing a cheek against the ground so he had no choice but to look at Sansa in the bed. One of the thrall’s was trying not to watch, fingers working quickly as she began to braid back the bulk of Sansa’s fine hair, but even she couldn’t help but peek.

Sansa was crying again, though even she wasn’t sure as to why. Her face was numb, brain simultaneously overwhelmed with emotions and void of them as she tried to decide how she felt. Ramsay had been no prize-- the time leading up to their marriage had been just as bad if not worse… and of course he deserved to die. Or whatever it was that was happening before her, but who was this King? It was enough to assume they were the Vikings she’d heard about, there’d been plenty of shouting about it when they’d arrived... but why take care of her? All the men in her life so far had used her for something, hadn’t they? He’d be expecting something in return, she knew that much. The idea alone made her tremble and in return a thrall draped her in furs as they all watched the display, mistaking her fear for a chill.

On the ground Ivar had moved his body away from the man’s face, making sure he had a clear view of the girls in the bed as he set to work. From the base of his neck to the far edge of each shoulder he drug the blade down and across the man’s back, a thick line of blood bubbling up from each sect of split skin as the knife punctured it. Then, from the same starting point as the others, he carved out a line right along the spine to form a large Teiwaz rune. It seemed only fitting, all things considered.  

Silent for the most part since he’d been brought into the tent Ramsay was trying to restrain himself, but there’d be no fooling his captors. Despite his already battered appearance his one almost good eye had squeezed tightly shut and he was clenching his jaw so hard it was turning the unbruised parts of his pale face a deep shade of crimson. When he wasn’t holding it he was sucking in shaky breaths, body and limbs rattling with effort. Ivar had expected a bit more dramatics from him, he found men that consistently chose women as their victims were never quite as tough as they seemed. Reaching to the man’s face he pried the good eye open and miraculously it stayed while the other seemed to leak an endless stream of bloody tears.

Unsatisfied with the reaction he was getting the king stuck the tip of the knife into the man’s side, giving it a sharp twist as he did so to draw the perfect squeal out of his victim. One of the girls on the bed— he wasn't sure which— sucked in a sharp breath, another stifled a shriek. Their reactions seemed to snap something in the man beneath his blade and he struggled against the men restraining him despite their superior size and strength, cursing at them as he did so.

That was more like it…

-

Once Ivar had his fill— long after there was no more usable canvas left—  he’d had the man taken away. While there wasn’t much left of Ramsay, there’d be less before the night was over as his wounds steadily leaked blood. He’d sent the two men away with explicit instructions on what came next for his work of art. They wouldn’t outright kill him just yet, suffering seemed appropriate, should he make it to the morning they would kill him and do something to set him on display for whoever came upon the castle next. Deciding just what would be the difficult part. For now they would keep an eye on him, try to keep him awake and miserable if they could.  

With just himself and the girls left in the tent he turned to them from his spot on the floor, bloody knife still tight in his grip. “One of you come here, clean me up,” he ordered, dragging himself back to the chair at the table. After he was seated he wiped the blade on his sleeve and tossed it onto the table, looking at the remaining girls on the bed but never breaking focus from Sansa’s horrified expression he sighed, his own expression neutral. While he’d gotten carried away, that hadn’t been quite the reaction he’d hoped to get from her. He finally looked away as the thrall set a large bowl of water on the table and helped him strip his top layers away. After draping the clothing across another chair she began to wipe down his bloodied face as he rinsed his hands and arms before leaning forward in the chair so she could move on to his neck and decorated shoulders.  

Being exposed to brutality was not new for Sansa, certainly. If the man only knew the extent of what she’d seen and endured maybe they would better understand each other, but she wasn’t sure she could share those details with him- or anyone. Not yet. Instead she watched from the current safety of the bed as he was tended to, enjoying the change of roles for a brief moment before the nervousness set in. The girls had finished up on her hair but the two he hadn’t summoned remained on the bed with her, smoothing out the baby hairs along her crown and adjusting the soft dress they’d found for her. It had come out of a chest taken from the first Earl’s home, something they’d taken out of one of the ladie’s rooms that had been left behind. It was soft, colored a deep purple and would only be suitable for the night. In the morning they would have to bring her a new one and find her a cloak if she stood any chance of holding up against the wind on the water when they set sail. It had been refreshing to be in something other than what she had been, but she was unsure if it was a sign of what was to come or not.

Finally free of the blood and sweat that had coated his skin the thrall brought Ivar something to dry his face before clearing the mess away. Taking the crutch under his arm once more he rose from the chair, waving the remaining girls away from the bed as he made his way over and took a seat on the edge, back to Sansa as he laid down the crutch and began on the braces secured to his legs. One of the girls had lingered, moving towards him to offer help with the contraptions, but he shot her a dark look- she blew out all the candles but the one beside him and left the two alone instead.

With the others gone a silence fell over the room, the only sounds filling it the quiet grunts escaping Ivar as he worked the braces off. The day had been easy enough, the pain no better and no worse than usual, and he silently thanked The Gods for that. He was still unsure why he’d brought the girl back with him, why he intended to take her back to Kattegat, but he felt as though they knew something about it as well and thanked them for her too. There were other places she could have stayed, with the thrall’s or in a tent of her own even, but something told him she wouldn’t be safe. Her status and state when they found her marked her as an easy target, he knew that. He knew better than that. If anything were to happen to her he would feel obligated now, having taken her out of one situation to bring her into a worse one.

Braces discarded to the side he let out a heavy sigh, happy to be out of them despite the sense of normalcy they brought him on a daily basis. It had been easy enough to get out of them that night, The Gods must have been listening to him. Though while he wasn’t expecting anything out of their night together, Sansa seemed to be convinced he did as she scooted herself to the far edge of the bed. With his pants still on he folded back the furs covering his side of the bed and lifted his legs in, one by one, before laying the furs over them and settling back against the pillows. Patting the spot next to him he cleared his throat, “It is okay…” he whispered, “you are safe. He can not hurt you anymore,” he had made sure of that.  

Sansa had flinched at his words, but looked over at him nonetheless. “What will you do with him?” The question was quiet, murmured down at the bed as she couldn’t bring herself to look her apparent savior in the eyes just yet.

Raising a questioning brow at her he patted the spot again before holding out a hand to her, waiting for her to take it and come closer to him before answering her question. He folded back a few of the furs for her to climb underneath, making sure to keep his own legs carefully swaddled. She took his hand, closing the space between them before pulling her hand back to her lap. While she let him cover her she stayed upright, not sitting back against the pillows just yet. When she finally met his eyes he began to speak, “We will put his head on a spike, left out front for the next men to find. To let them know what happened there. It is almost what he deserves…” though simultaneously too good for him at the same time. What he had done to her was uncalled for, no matter the imagined crime he was sure the man had justified it with- because certainly there had to be a reason for something so cruel. The silence was back, Sansa had broken their eye contact and focused on the fur in her lap, fingers running through it for a moment. Finally looking up at him she sighed, steeling herself and setting her face to keep the tears that threatened to spill again from coming out, “You should feed him to his dogs,” she told him, voice cracking as she settled back against the pillows beside him and leaning into his chest. Ivar wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer as she tucked into the nook that was formed. “That’s what he deserves,” she muttered, turning her face into his shoulder as the tears broke though.

He settled his cheek against the top of her head and sighed, eyes slipping close in the comfort of the moment. This is all he had really wanted out of the night, the closeness. Of all people he understood her desire to not be seen, the feelings of being disfigured, and for that he wanted to protect her.

“Then that’s what he’ll get…”