Work Text:
England
Ivar felt more comfortable on the floor, so that was where he lay, perusing the maps before him with a frown. He had to come up with not just a good plan, but an interesting one, but yet not so interesting that his brothers would reject it as implausible. The curse of working with other people—if he was the sole leader of the Great Army, certain things would be much easier. Some things would be more difficult also, like… Well, he couldn’t think of anything right now. Must not be important.
He glanced over at Sansa, who was sitting closer to the fire, using its light to mend one of his shirts. There was something very steady and comfortable about her presence; Ivar would not previously have associated those words with something he found positive, considering them boring instead, but he had had cause to change his mind lately. She was comfortable like a hot bath on a cold night, soothing away the rough edges.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asked her, breaking the silence.
She met his gaze but then went back to her sewing; she was at a tricky spot, and wanted to do it well for him. “No.”
“Lucky,” Ivar snorted, and she smiled a little. He shoved the maps aside, needing a break. “Come here and tell me a story.”
“I am almost done, and then I will,” Sansa assured him, but that was not what Ivar wanted to hear.
“Put it down and come here now.” Sansa gave him a long look, until he turned away and growled. He knew he had taken the wrong tone just then, but there were so many rules to remember in this new game, of figuring out his soulmate. He wanted to be good at the game, but too often he still felt like an impatient child who angrily knocked all the game pieces to the floor. “If you please,” he added, apologetically.
Sansa made a few final stitches, then bundled everything neatly together and set it aside. She crawled across the furs to Ivar, tipping his chin up to meet her smile, and leaned down to kiss him. It was only supposed to be a brief kiss, but they could do as they liked, with no one to tell them otherwise. Ivar found the kiss comfortable, too, neither hesitant nor urgent, which was somehow a luxury.
“You are a prince, and I want you to look nice,” she explained when they parted.
“I have slaves who can do that job,” he countered, but in a more careful and appreciative tone.
“I want to help.”
“You do,” Ivar assured her. “Tell me a story.” Nobody else seemed to know stories like Sansa’s, or maybe they just wouldn’t tell him. He understood he could be a little intimidating to some people.
She settled down on the furs, propping her head up and smiling at his curious expression. “You’re sure they’re not boring to you?” she checked. “You’re not just tolerating them?”
“I am not very tolerant.”
This, Sansa accepted. “When I lived with my grandmother in the woods, she used to tell me this story,” she began. Ivar squirmed around to get comfortable. “One day a girl was walking through the woods to her grandmother’s house, when suddenly a wolf stepped into the path. He said, ‘Where are you going, my child?’ And she said, ‘I am going to my grandmother’s house.’ And the wolf asked, ‘Where does your grandmother live?’ And the girl answered, ‘She lives just down this path, over the stream, past the tree that was struck by lightning, in a little cottage.’ And the wolf said, ‘Well, thank you, have a lovely day, my child,” and he let her keep walking.”
Ivar found this behavior suspicious and frowned, but he had learned to save his comments for the end. He reached out and caught her red braid, glimmering in the firelight, and let the silky strands twirl between his fingers.
“So the girl went on down the path,” Sansa continued, “but the wolf thought, this is how I can get an easy meal! He took a shortcut through the forest and got to the cottage before the girl, and he surprised the grandmother and gobbled her down in one bite!”
This made sense to Ivar and he nodded along—the inevitable consequence, really.
“Then, the wolf put on the grandmother’s gown and cap, and got into her bed under the blankets,” Sansa went on, which was a twist Ivar had not been expecting. “The girl came to the cottage and went inside and saw her grandmother in bed, or so she thought. She said, ‘Grandmother, why are you in bed now? Are you not feeling well?’ And the wolf said, ‘No, my child, I am not well, come closer.’ The girl came a little closer and said, ‘Grandmother, your ears are so big today!’”
Ivar laughed, imagining a wolf pretending to be an old lady. Though he could see things weren’t looking good for the girl—someone usually died a horrible death in Sansa’s stories, and not always the designated villains.
“The wolf said, ‘Yes, so I can hear you very well, but come closer,’” Sansa narrated. “The girl came a little closer and said, ‘Grandmother, your nose is so big today!’ And the wolf said, ‘Yes, so I can smell you very well, but come closer.’ Now the girl was very close beside the bed. She said, ‘Grandmother, your teeth are so big today!’ ‘Yes, so I can eat you very well!’” Sansa lunged playfully at Ivar, who caught her with a grin. “The wolf jumped at the girl, but she got away just in time, and then she grabbed her grandmother’s axe and cut off the wolf’s head! And then she cut open the wolf’s belly, and out came her grandmother, still alive. That is the end,” she concluded.
“That is a very dark story to tell a little girl who lives in the woods with her grandmother,” Ivar observed, still holding Sansa close.
She nodded, brushing strands of his hair idly. “My grandmother said it meant, you should not tell strangers your business, because they might use it against you. And, always keep your axe sharp.”
“That is very wise,” Ivar agreed, toying with the ties of her gown. “But how could the grandmother survive being eaten by the wolf?”
“Perhaps it was a miracle,” Sansa suggested, but Ivar didn’t like miracles—they seemed too Christian to him. “Well, there is a talking wolf, so I suppose it is a fanciful story,” she conceded.
“The talking wolf is not so strange,” Ivar dismissed. Sansa crawled over him to get a drink and he ran his hands lightly over her back and hips, still reveling in the ability to do so. “I think the grandmother must be dead,” he judged, harsh but true. “But the girl is very brave and strong, to kill a wolf,” he added more positively. “She will win great renown among her people when her deeds become known.”
Sansa shook her head as she sat back. “I don’t think so. We don’t have women warriors here,” she reminded him. “My grandmother said, in the ancient times, there were warrior queens who fought the Romans. But only men fight now.”
Ivar rolled his eyes, thinking this a foolish waste of resources. “Well, what happens to the girl, then?” he wanted to know. “She is brave and strong, at least.”
Sansa shrugged. “I suppose she will have to marry someone, because she is all alone now,” she suggested, playing with the collar of Ivar’s shirt. She tsked, noticing a tear. “I will have to sew this tomorrow.”
He caught her hand and kissed it. “You did not marry anyone, after your grandmother died,” he noted.
“No,” she agreed, scooting closer to him. He was not used to people finding comfort in his arms. “I did not want to marry someone who was not my soulmate.” He traced the soulmarks he could see on her arm, under her sleeve, irrationally worried that one day they would change and no longer match his. “I had to go a long way, to York, and find work instead.”
“I am glad you did,” he murmured in her ear.
“So am I.”
**
Sansa heard the warriors returning, but they seemed strangely subdued, and she waited in the tent with a sense of foreboding. Perhaps the raid had not been successful, or someone important had been seriously injured or killed. Not Ivar, though; she would know if something had happened to Ivar.
There was commotion outside the tent and Ivar burst in, stiffer than usual on his crutches, fury radiating from his body. He was covered in mud and blood, as if he had had to leave his chariot in this fight, and he threw himself down in a chair with a snarl. Servants and slaves fluttered around him; Sansa decided to kneel on the floor out of the way, quiet and still.
Within seconds Ivar’s temper broke. “Stop it! Get out! You’re all f-----g useless idiots!” he shouted, among other insults Sansa didn’t fully understand. The cup he hurled hit a retreating back dead-on; the knife missed, but only by a fraction. The tent cleared rapidly and Ivar still seethed, every muscle clenched as if to spring at the next person he saw and beat his anger into them.
Sansa made no movement, and when Ivar’s gaze settled on her, he let out a sigh and uncoiled slightly. “I did not mean you,” he conceded, of the insults.
“I know.” She stood slowly and moved towards him, pushing between his unbound legs even as he tried to move away.
“Don’t, I’m filthy—”
Sansa caught his face in her hands and kissed him, tasting the sweat, mud, and blood of the battlefield, smearing it over her arms, her cheeks, her dress. At first he tried to avoid touching her, but soon he gave in and pulled her even closer, his hands further sullying her clothes and hair.
They broke apart panting, Sansa’s forehead resting against his. “What do you need to do?” she asked him simply.
“I need to think of a plan for a counterattack,” Ivar replied, gritting his teeth in frustration, “before my brothers decide to retreat and give up the ground we’ve gained!”
She straightened, pillowing his head against her midsection and cradling it gently. “Then take a breath, clear your mind, and do it,” she instructed. For long moments there was silence in the tent, except for Ivar’s strained breathing, which gradually evened out. Sansa felt his body language change, thrumming with excitement rather than anger. “Do you have it?” she questioned softly, stroking his sticky braids.
Ivar looked up at her, blue eyes blazing, but this time with a maniacal grin that she traced with her fingers. “Yes,” he assured her. “We will turn wolves into grandmothers.” Sansa smirked a little at that.
Reluctantly he leaned back and she moved aside, retrieving the crutch he’d tossed away; time was obviously of the essence here, and he pushed himself up, limping to the tent flap. “Don’t wait up,” he called as he left. Then he reversed and stepped back in. “Do wait up,” he countered, eyes gleaming, “but don’t clean up.” Then he left again.