Work Text:
England
“You are not listening to me!” Ivar shouted in frustration.
“I am listening, I just disagree,” Bjorn countered. He made an effort to sound calm, conscious of their audience, but his jaw tightened with anger.
Ivar was not interested in similar efforts. “You disagree? Well, that makes you stupid,” he shot back nastily. “Your plan is a waste of time. The Saxons will have predicted it.”
“And your plan is a waste of warriors,” Bjorn countered. “We will lose many men trying to take that gate—”
“Oh, were you planning to die in your bed an old man?” Ivar scoffed. “We take the gate, we take the city, before the Saxons can send for reinforcements. Which probably saves lives in the end,” he tacked on, not knowing or caring whether this was true.
Bjorn did not agree. Most of the leaders gathered in the tent did not agree. That never stopped Ivar, though. Even as he was limited to just sitting in one spot, the force of his personality, his will, was strong enough to keep the argument going. He might even persuade some people to change their minds, or at least get everyone worked up into such a frenzy they would fight even those they agreed with. Such was Ivar’s brand of madness.
“Bring his wife,” Ubbe murmured to someone, as Ivar and Bjorn continued to discuss the issue, in increasingly rude tones. Bjorn, as the oldest brother, wanted to seem reasonable, but Ivar appealed to those for whom reasonableness was dull and inglorious. Which was a fairly high proportion, when it came to warriors who had sailed across the see to avenge a legend’s death and were continuing to raid for riches and honor. The insistence on all weapons being left outside seemed like a good one now, as Ivar surely would’ve hurled any number of axes and knives at people in his frustration.
“And are you going to be leading this attack, running across the open field in full view of their archers?” Bjorn snapped.
“I will take my chariot and be the first through the gate,” Ivar snarled back. “The rest of you may wait if you are afraid. I will signal when it’s safe!”
Ivar had his back to the tent opening, but the others saw when Sansa entered, her eyes darting from one voice to another. She couldn’t understand much of the words, but the tone and body language were clear. Ivar felt her presence, tipping his head slightly towards her.
Sigurd seized his opportunity. “Quit with your crazy plans, Ivar, and go sit at home with your wife,” he sneered.
That was not exactly how Ubbe had hoped Sansa would be used; now Ivar growled low in his throat, furious at everything she had been made witness to. Sansa was not easily intimidated, however, and she marched up to Sigurd with defiance in her eyes.
“Do not speak to my husband so disrespectfully,” she snapped at him, her voice like a slap. She trusted he would understand the tone if not the exact words. “You are a prince, have some manners!”
Ivar’s eyes had widened in surprise at first, and he wasn’t the only one; as she spoke his expression turned smug, which Sigurd clearly saw. Sigurd’s face turned dark red and he smacked Sansa, hard enough to send her tumbling into the table.
If Ivar could have gotten up quickly, he would have been at Sigurd’s throat. But Sansa herself was faster, rolling back up and using her momentum to smash Sigurd in the nose with her fist. The dagger Ivar had given her glinted in the firelight, as several people tried to figure out how to intervene without getting something important cut off. Ivar sat back down to watch.
Sansa drove the dagger through Sigurd’s hand into the tabletop, then threw herself at him, kicking and screaming. Hvitserk helpfully pulled the dagger out, which let Sigurd collapse on the floor, while Ubbe tried to pull Sansa off his younger brother and got an elbow in the face for his trouble. Bjorn stayed well out of reach, rubbing his face tiredly.
“Ivar! A little help here?” Ubbe demanded in irritation.
“No, I think she is doing fine on her own,” Ivar responded, with great pride.
Between them Ubbe and Hvitserk finally pried Sansa away and shoved her towards Ivar, who caught her on his lap. “Hey, hey, hey,” he soothed, wrapping his arms around her to contain her, as her eyes shot pure animal fury at Sigurd. “It’s alright, it’s okay, my love.” She wiped away a trickle of blood from her nose. “Perhaps, I should take my wife home, so she does not upset anyone else,” he suggested, with nauseating smugness. “We can talk more about this plan tomorrow, when you have had time to reconsider my idea.” Generously he implied that was all it would take to bring them around.
He tapped Sansa to signal her to get up, and was greatly amused when mighty warriors considerably larger than her quickly jumped out of her way. She held her head high, like a queen, and for once Ivar didn’t mind that he had to limp slowly after her. It was a fitting exit for them, he thought.
They were a few paces away from the tent when she started to tremble. “Keep it up,” Ivar warned her. “Our tent is not far. Go on ahead, if you like.” But she kept pace with him until they entered the relative privacy of their own tent.
At that point she collapsed on the pile of furs and started to cry. Ivar had to stop and take his braces off—his instinct was to rush to her, but really, it was probably better to let her get some tears out first. Finally he lowered himself to the floor and crawled over to her, taking her in his arms.
“That was so amazing!” Ivar praised her, brushing her hair back. “You were so beautiful and fierce! Are you hurt? Let me see.” He examined her face and hands in the firelight, carefully dotting some salve on the bruises and scratches. To a warrior they would be nothing, but Sansa was not a warrior, so he treated them as serious battle wounds obtained in a glorious victory. “Did you see Sigurd’s expression? Well, he will not open his mouth around you again! And Hvitserk, you know, stupidly gaping like a fish.” That was what he imagined, anyway; in reality he hadn’t taken his eyes off his wife the whole time.
“I was just so angry,” Sansa confessed wetly. “I don’t know what he said, but it wasn’t right—” Rage had welled up in her like a hissing snake at his tone, so sneering and disrespectful, as Sigurd so often was to Ivar.
“No, it wasn’t right, Sigurd was being an a-----e again,” Ivar agreed wholeheartedly.
“When he hit me, I just—I lost control, I was so angry,” she repeated helplessly, and Ivar held her close. He didn’t completely understand what her problem was, and was too delighted in her behavior anyway, but he could see that she was upset.
“It’s okay,” he tried to reassure her. “Your anger is good, it is strength. That’s what my father told me. We just have to use it in the right way.” Like keeping a cooler head in the next planning debate, so he could make the case for his plan logically.
“He just made me think of all the men in the past who thought they could put me back in my place, because they were stronger,” Sansa admitted.
“He will not think that anymore,” Ivar predicted confidently.
**
“What were you thinking?” Ubbe asked Sigurd sharply, as the healer bandaged his hand carefully.
“I was thinking what we were all thinking, but everyone else was too afraid to say,” Sigurd snapped, wincing as his wound twinged. “That Ivar is crazy, and his plan is crazy, too.”
“Well, now he has a crazy wife, so I don’t think you helped anything,” Hvitserk commented dryly.
“You should not have hit her,” Bjorn pointed out seriously. “That was not appropriate.”
“She was rude to me!” Sigurd protested. “Humiliated me in front of everyone!”
But the others scoffed. “Please, that hardly justifies it,” Ubbe informed him.
“It was just to get your attention,” Hvitserk added, smacking Sigurd on the back of the head in illustration.
“She is not a warrior,” Bjorn shrugged. “It was not honorable.” Sigurd merely grumbled and downed his mead, a bit desperately.