Chapter Text
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If you stared hard enough, you could see ships dotting the horizon.
“My nephews will arrive in time for the feast.”
You turned away from the balcony as soon as you heard the familiar voice, immediately dropping to a curtsey.
Duke Rollo sighed, waving a hand around before gently gripping your forearm.“None of that,” he said, helping you up with ease, “twenty years in Normandy and still, I am not used to such formalities.”
You smiled and turned back towards the sea, watching the tiny specks bob over crystal waves. “How long are they to stay at court?” You asked in practiced Norse, watching how the duke’s smile stretched from ear to ear at the sounds of his mother tongue. He’d taught you well.
“By Autumn’s end,” he answered back, “more than half a year.”
“And are they truly as terrible as the noblemen say?”
“Worse,” he grinned, “they are beasts.” There was a fondness in his tone that spoke volumes.
“Tell me about them.” You insisted.
Rollo chuckled, gently placing a hand over your hair as he so often did with his small children.
“Hvitserk had always been my favorite,” the duke admitted, “he reminds me of myself in my youth, wild in battle and searching for glory." A moment passed before he continued. "And he eats like a pig.” You burst into a fit of giggles, your hands pressing against the cool stone railing of the balcony.
The breeze carried fresh spring blossoms in the air, and you caught a few petals in your palm before asking your real question, the one that had burned in your mind for quite some time. “And what of King Ivar?” The name slipped past your lips like a secret.
“He is my brother’s son,” Rollo shrugged, grasping a petal between his fingers, “an unnatural force.”
You did not need him to explain further.
You knew the stories, the murders of the Saxon kings, the pillaging of York. So much destruction seeped from his name alone, and yet, the duke welcomed him with open arms to Normandy, ignoring the growing tensions at court against it.
You glanced up at Rollo, tracing the lines of his profile, his aging eyes, and his dull skin. For all your searching you never found what made him heathen. It seemed impossible to view him as anything but a Frankish nobleman.
Gisla had always been vocal of Rollo’s beginnings as a duke.
His mannerisms were atrocious. He drank wine like a man dying of thirst and he ate like every day was his last. He kept his hair braided in his early days at court before cutting it short and assimilating into Frankish society. You weren’t old enough to remember him as a heathen but you liked to imagine it.
Sometimes, his silver pendant slipped out from underneath his tunic, the foreign trinket settling against rich fabrics. You questioned him about it as a child and he proudly displayed it to you, turning the silver trinket between his fingers to make it shine in the light.
Mjölnir is what he called it. The word twisted on your tongue for days, the unfamiliar sounds making you giddy.
“Do you miss being Viking?” You asked him curiously.
For a moment you thought Rollo hadn’t heard you. Perhaps it was something he did not wish for you to know.
He turned to you, a smile hidden behind his graying beard.
“Come,” he said, speaking to you in Frankish again, “we must get ready for the feast.”
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You understood why Rollo considered Hvitserk his favorite.
The young man enjoyed a good feast. He was quite lean despite all the food he consumed and could handle his drink almost as well as Rollo could. He was lively and boisterous, able to light every candle in the hall with a smile if he wished it so. With him, the duke seemed like an apparition from his past. You believed it was enough of an answer to your question from earlier. Rollo was still a Viking at heart.
Then there was Hvitserk’s brother, King Ivar the Boneless.
It was a strange title to you. You descended from a line of kings that earned titles of admiration — Charlemagne the Great and Louis the Pious — to you, “boneless” was not a title of admiration. It was in reference to his legs you realized, though you assumed the stories were an exaggeration before Rollo confirmed them.
You had watched him disembark his ship, the crutch he used to help him walk seemingly glued under his arm. If he felt any pain, he hid it well.
An unnatural force, Rollo had called him.
His features were striking but hard as stone. While his brother was lean and golden-haired, Ivar was much broader with thick shoulders and hands, and a large chest covered in leather. He seemed to be dressed for war. His dark hair was long, braided back tightly towards the nape. His fingers were wrapped around a golden cup of wine as if to take a sip but he never did. His eyes shifted around the hall, observing, memorizing every corner, searching for deceit.
So, this was a heathen?
Suddenly his gaze fell upon you. You felt your heart race but whatever was in the wine that night made you courageous. You refused to look away. His eyes, such a distinctive shade of blue, held a brightness to them. The look alone was powerful, commanding respect. You had grown up at the heels of powerful and respected men. Such a look did not intimidate you anymore.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the king turned away. You did not miss the smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips.
You quickly looked down, fiddling with the forgotten fruit on your plate. Your curiosity had peaked, and after a few moments of contemplation, you stood.
“Where are you going?” Gisla asked immediately, eyes shifting from her plate to you like a snake. She had been in a mood for the entire morning once it was announced that Rollo’s nephews would be arriving, spitting venom at whoever was within her reach. She was particularly of ill humor towards her husband, snapping at him like one of his hunting dogs for most of the day.
“To greet our guests.” You barely managed to say the words before your cousin glared, her short brown hair brushing against her shoulders as she shook her head in disagreement.
“Absolutely not. Sit down.” She reached for you, ready to grab your wrist and force you back into your velvet seat. You swiftly moved away from her, a victorious grin on your face when a subtle scowl clouded her usual blank features.
Your hands began to moisten as a servant pulled back a chair beside the heathen king. You took it, rubbing your soft palms over your knees. You asked for your glass to be filled with wine. You know you’d be needing it. You searched your mind for the right words before leaning toward the northern king and uttering:
“Welcome to Normandy, King Ivar.”
He turned to you. There was a look in his eyes and a twitch to his brow. You were the last person he thought would speak his tongue.
“Princess.” Your royal title sounded as smooth as butter, his voice hidden within the chords of the music echoing throughout the hall. It was all he said to you before turning back to his wine as if already bored with your presence.
“I’ve heard many tales of your late father,” you found that he was in no mood to engage in conversation but still, you pressed on, hoping to garner a reaction from him, “that he was a great warrior for your people.”
The king paused as if deciding whether to entertain the conversation or not.
“That is true.” He nodded slowly, his icy eyes following the dark wine he swirled in his cup.
“But,” you took a delicate sip of yours, “I hear that you are even greater.” Your words were like honey over a succulent pastry. To this, the king gave you his full attention. The corner of his lips twitched into something you could not fathom to be a smile or a grimace.
“That...is also true, princess.”
You pursed your lips, watching as he finally decided to reach over and rip a piece of roasted boar. He pressed the meat past his lips, and you followed the movement of his angular jaw as he chewed.
“Rollo seems quite fond of you.” He pointed a greasy finger toward his uncle, animatedly speaking with Hvitserk.
“He is like a father to me, my Lord.”
The king snorted at the title with a shake of his head. Did all heathens hate formalities?
“I assume your cousin is not pleased with our arrival.” From a distance, the duchess glared at the pair of you. It was another look you had grown used to.
You answered him as politely as possible.“In very few words, my Lord, no.”
“It is a shame, we’re quite friendly people.” You could hear the amusement clear in his tone.
“I do not think friendly is the right word.”
“No?” His smile grew. You marveled at how it seemed to change his face, like a fire pit roaring to life. You leaned towards him a bit, just enough for his eyes to widen at your sudden boldness.
“No.” You answered back. You felt your lips curving upwards in a genuine smile. Having heard all the stories of recklessness the man beside you had committed seemed to vanish. Somehow, the proximity did not bother you. It didn’t seem to bother him either. “May I be honest with you, my Lord?”
“You will come to know, Princess, that I greatly appreciate honesty.” His brows curved in anticipation.
“You are not as frightening as everyone claims you to be.” Your revelation resulted in a choke of laughter, short but airy.
“Looks can be quite deceiving.” He remarked.
You stood suddenly, careful not to overstep your boundaries, though you thought perhaps you had already done so. “Indeed.” You said to him with a curtsey, your silky skirts whirling about your ankles as you took your place beside your cousin again.
Ivar lowered his head with an amused huff before taking a small sip of his wine.
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The first month of their visit was uneventful, much to your dismay.
Court was always dreadful during the wet season, the sky shedding its tears in the form of rain showers.
You mostly spent your time indoors, as all good princesses do, partaking in needlepoint circles with the other ladies. Such tedious work made the hours long and filled with endless gossip surrounding the heathen brothers. Nothing pleased you more than to escape such miserable duties, disappearing down empty corridors instead.
You often found yourself seeking out the Northern king, hoping to catch a glimpse of him whenever you could. He mostly sat brooding, keeping to himself while the duke and Hvitserk prattled on about things of the past.
Ivar knew who his uncle preferred.
Sometimes he played chess with Rollo in silence, ivory pieces scraping across the board as the game progressed.
But it seemed you were not the only one seeking him out.
On nights when storms raged over the countryside and the court was drunk off imported Burgundy wine, you found that his eyes sought after yours, too.
The skies cleared significantly by the second month.
Hunting parties were organized weekly as a way to explore the surrounding terrain. Stags and rabbits were in abundance and no one was left hungry at the duke’s table. The fresh air did the court some good and the warmer weather resulted in a change of wardrobe.
You wore your absolute best, picking colors you thought suited your skin. Your hair was now adorned with jeweled diadems nestled neatly into thick strands.
“This is terribly unlike you,” Gisla commented one morning over an early meal.
“What is?”
“Your hair, your dresses,” she listed, “who are you so besotted with?”
“You presume, cousin.” You simply said, your delicate fingers plucking a piece of dried fruit from an elaborately painted bowl.
“Since when did you care about which crown matches with which necklace?” Gisla eyed the stones that adorned both your head and collarbone. She knew you well enough to know the answer.
“I always have.” You defended weakly.
Your cousin tilted her head, giving you one final look before accepting your answer. “You look lovely.” She finally said.
You beamed.
You hoped Ivar thought so too.
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You were beginning to think the heathens had grown quite tired of their dull visit by the third month. They didn’t pay you any mind, or at least, it felt that way.
Hvitserk was kind enough, gracing you with a bow and a polite smile whenever your paths crossed. He went out of his way to keep his distance. It was in great contrast to the talk at court.
He was a womanizer.
He had one too many dalliances with several of yours and Gisla’s ladies, and every other night, gentle sobs could be heard from the antechambers that connected one room to the other.
You were royalty; perhaps he did not want to tread on such dangerous waters, not that you’d allow him to approach you in such a way. A lady-in-waiting was much easier to fool around with than a princess.
Not that it mattered.
But what did matter to you was Ivar, and only the Lord knew the reasoning behind your quiet fascination with the king. The fascination continued when Rollo had insisted on training with his nephews, claiming old age would never take him.
You had never seen the duke fight. He had given up his sword the moment he married your cousin, something that had apparently displeased him for years. It was hard for Rollo to accept his protected life as a duke after a lifetime of war.
You would watch them from the balcony.
The sword was a particular favorite of Hvitserk’s. He reminded you of a skilled dancer with the way he moved in swift circles around his uncle, light on his feet. The older man easily lost his breath every time.
And Ivar, you noticed, favored the bow.
As soon as an arrow was placed in his hand, he would make his mark in seconds and every time he did, he looked up towards the balcony knowing you’d be watching him.
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“Do you play?”
You looked up from your old parchments, the Latin you were practicing disappearing from your mind without a second thought. A hand reached out toward you, a chess piece in a loose fist.
You blinked only to find King Ivar towering over you, his body leaning heavily on his crutch.
"Not very well." You admitted, finally finding your voice.
"Let's change that."
You found yourself in front of Rollo’s chessboard, a gift from your uncle, the King. The duke was not fond of the game, leaving the polished ivory board to collect dust for years. That is, until very recently.
Your hands began to moisten as you both set the pieces in silence. A moment more and the game commenced rather quickly, Ivar ruthless in his strategy.
“Who taught you to play?” You demanded, watching Ivar's quick fingers snatch away one of your pawns.
“Someone far more capable than whoever taught you.” He teased, easily advancing closer to your side of the board.
You flushed but released a huff of amusement. “I’ll be sure to let my tutor know you are not impressed with his methods of educating his pupils.”
Ivar chuckled. It was something short but sweet and enough to warm you with a sense of accomplishment. He wasn’t so tough, now was he?
“And this person who is far more capable, who are they?”
“King Alfred.” He answered.
“Of Wessex?”
“Mhm.”
"He’s king now?" You were intrigued. You felt like you knew Alfred well despite never having met him. Many of your ladies once served in the court of Wessex, bringing with them stories from across the English channel.
Whatever look took hold of your features did not seem to please Ivar.
"Fairly recently," he shrugged, "he’s a rather lousy king."
"Impossible," you scoffed, stealing a pawn of his, "I hear he was a beloved prince."
"I get the impression that you hear all manner of things." His expression didn't reveal much but you were aware of his ongoing teasing.
You smiled, moving your eyes from his and back toward the board. Stories of other kingdoms were what entertained you. Normandy had always been such a bore.
"I do," you answered, quickly clicking your tongue as Ivar's knight approached your rook, "and I hear your brother is breaking the hearts of many ladies at court." You wanted to burst into a fit of laughter, watching how Ivar suddenly pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. You held your composure if only for the etiquette lessons forced upon you from a young age.
He sighed, drumming his fingers over the ancient stone table.
"Hvitserk was never a subtle man—" he began to explain.
"—I hadn’t noticed," you interjected, another of his pawns in your hand.
Ivar paused, the corner of his lips twitching into a smile. "Unfortunately," he finally said, momentarily ignoring the game. His gaze was intense, enough to make anyone squirm in their seat, but you held firm, staring right back. "Hvitserk was ordered to keep his eyes elsewhere."
"By whom?"
"My uncle."
"Duke Rollo?" You had stopped paying any mind to the game long ago, you weren't going to win anyway. "Why?"
Ivar rolled his eyes, an unbecoming gesture that would normally bother you if it came from anyone else, but not him. "He views you as one of his own. A dóttir. "
Ahh. Of course. You smiled, idly fiddling with your rings. "He is the father I never had," you agreed, repeating the same statement from the night you met.
Ivar nodded, releasing the smallest noise of understanding. "It explains why he doesn’t want you to be my brother's plaything."
"And does that order fall on you as well?” There was that boldness again, rearing its head at the sight of the Northern king squirming in his seat in the way he wanted you to.
He paused again, chess piece hovering over the board. It would have been a checkmate if he put his bishop down to claim your king. When had he gotten to your queen? You hadn’t noticed.
"I like to think I am above such orders," he gently placed the piece down, pushing aside your king much gentler than you thought he would ever be. "Checkmate."
"You win," you sighed, leaning your chin on your hand. “We both knew you would.”
His lips twitched again and pride bloomed over his features. “You will learn in time, as I did.”
“Meaning you’d like to do this again?” You asked, ignoring the hopefulness that ran thick in your tone.
Ivar shrugged, moving his hands over the board to rearrange the pieces into their rightful place.
“I suppose something can be arranged if you ever plan on beating me, hmm?”
“One day, King Ivar.” You smiled.
He nodded before grabbing hold of his crutch, hoisting himself up with little effort.
“I’ll leave you to your…” he motioned toward the parchments beside you, long forgotten.
“Latin.” You finished.
“Right.” He took one final look at you, a proper one that had heat creeping up your neck, burning your cheeks. Blue eyes traveled from the strands of your hair down to your shoulders, stopping at your collarbone to observe the ruby-encrusted cross that hung right above your bodice. His brows knitted for mere seconds as if the Christian symbol caused him discomfort but it disappeared and was replaced with something else. He quickly cleared his throat, turning away from you.
“Red suits you, princess.” Ivar inclined his head toward you in respect. You could hear the stab of his crutch and the scrape of his boots against the stone floor.
You turned to watch his retreating figure, pressing your fingers against the cross with a smile.
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By the fourth month, the heathen king was more than happy to seek out your company, even if it was in the most unlikely of places.
The chapel.
You were sleepless that night. Your mind fizzled with inappropriate thoughts that had your skin heated under cotton sheets. Your fingers had inched down toward your abdomen, slowly reaching the bud that was desperate for touch.
Pleasure exploded within you, hard blue eyes appearing behind your closed lids.
A smirk. The imagined touch of calloused fingers.
It was enough to push you over the edge, throat fighting to release choked whimpers.
You had done this more than a few times, fingers exploring places you knew you shouldn’t. But this time was different, this time you felt overwhelmed with a burning lust that felt like flames searing your skin.
With a sigh, you dressed in your night robe and made your way toward the court chapel. You supposed you should atone for such unnatural thoughts toward a heathen. Perhaps, then, you would sleep.
The chapel was empty as expected, save for the priest that walked around extinguishing dozens of candles. Christ on the cross was now shrouded in darkness.
You debated repenting your sin to the priest but decided to pick a pew closest to the door.
He bid you goodnight with a bow before you were left alone with your thoughts once again.
You didn’t know where to start. You held your rosary beads between your fingers, rhythmically pushing past each bejeweled bead while reciting prayers of forgiveness you were taught long ago.
Something wasn’t right.
You found yourself unable to properly repent as you recited the practiced words. You did not feel any guilt. You had a few minutes of silence before the door opened and the familiar scrape against the stone floor echoed throughout the small chapel.
Ivar sat beside you with a grunt, leaning his arms on his crutch.
You turned to look at him, already feeling your blood boil beneath your skin. You dropped your rosary in your nervousness, the beads landing beside Ivar's feet.
"I didn't mean to frighten you, Princess." He leaned forward, grabbing the rosary and handing it over to you.
"You didn't frighten me," was your immediate response, snatching the rosary from his outstretched palm.
He smirked but said nothing more.
"I never imagined you willingly entering a chapel." You commented, your nervousness slipping through your icy act. You wanted to appear nonchalant, not like a besotted princess, though you felt you were failing miserably.
"I did once," he said, "in York."
You knew exactly what he meant and snorted at his apparent disregard of the horrors of a day that was well documented.
“Ivar the Boneless, youngest son of Ragnar Lothbrok, poured molten gold into Father Alwin’s mouth, sending the beloved priest into the arms of the Lord.” You easily recited the Saxon words written on parchment, a document hidden away in the Frankish king’s library.
Ivar eyed you curiously.
"I wanted to make an impression," he shrugged, turning his eyes back to the crucifix that hung above you both. "Why are you here, Princess? You never seemed particularly...religious."
"I could not sleep."
"Why?"
You paused. "Intrusive thoughts." You chose your words carefully.
He hummed, jabbing his crutch gently into the ground.
"And why are you here? Was I unaware of your baptism?"
Ivar scoffed with a gentle shake of his head. His hair was not intricately braided but loosely tied back, dark strands moving against his equally dark tunic. "Don't be ridiculous. I was in the corridor and I saw you entering the chapel…so I followed.” A shrug ended his explanation.
“Roaming the corridor at this hour?” You pestered him with more questions, silently enjoying his growing irritation.
“I could not sleep either.” It seemed he had more on his mind but was holding back whatever it was he meant to say.
"Why?" You placed your hand flat against the pew, the coldness of the stone not enough to cool your heated hands.
“Intrusive thoughts.” He repeated your phrase, eyes peeling away from scrutinizing the crucifix to look into yours. Despite the moon draping in through glass windows, Ivar’s eyes reflected the dark shadows within the chapel, almost appearing black. You normally couldn’t read his expressions, he guarded himself well, but you thought perhaps you could decipher this look.
Longing.
One of his hands released its grip on his crutch, placing it dangerously close to yours.
You didn’t need wine to encourage you this time. You looked down, letting your fingers carefully curl over his with bated breath. It was exactly how you had imagined his skin to feel. Rough to the touch from what you assumed was a brutal upbringing, but it was no different from Rollo’s hands, or the king’s.
You pulled your fingers away almost immediately but he stopped you, gently intertwining thick digits with yours.
You gasped at the action, lifting your eyes to find that Ivar was already looking at you, searching for any sign of discomfort. When he found none he seemed to release a breath he’d been holding in.
“Before your arrival,” you began softly, “I asked Rollo about you.”
“I’m sure he had nothing but good things to say.” The statement was sarcastic but you could hear the amusement hidden within his words.
“He called you an unnatural force.”
“Did he?” His fingers danced over the skin of your palm before taking your hand in a reassuring grip.
“Mhm.” You hummed.
“Does it bother you?” His thumb settled over the pulse point on your wrist, feeling how fast your heart was beating.
You knew he could easily snap the fragile bones of your wrist, that was no mystery, but you knew at that moment it was far from his intentions. Your breathing settled when you looked at him.
Insecurity swam in his eyes, brows curving down in an unfamiliar look that left him vulnerable.
You smiled, and with your heart ready to pound out from your chest, you shifted to peck his lips.
It was quick and soft. His lips had slightly parted in surprise when you pulled back slowly.
“I find it to be quite attractive.” You whispered over his lips with a smile, your eyes closing as you felt the tip of his nose gently brush over yours.
He released a chuckled breath through his nose. “I’m relieved to hear it.”
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