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Kattegat
Ivar was about to get his a-s handed to him in this game. But he hadn’t realized it yet.
It was wintertime in Kattegat; not much was going on. So the ongoing game between Ivar and his pregnant wife was a topic of conversation, albeit one best had outside Ivar’s hearing. They played in short bursts in the Great Hall, and Ivar had forbidden anyone to touch the board in their absence—blood had been shed over this. No one dared to get too close as they played, but everyone was keeping an eye on it.
Sansa reached out and moved a piece. “Why did you do that?” Ivar asked immediately.
“Is it allowed?” she checked. She was still a little shaky on the rules.
“It is allowed, but it is stupid.” Sansa sat back and gave him an unimpressed look. He reset quickly. “I mean, it is very curious,” Ivar corrected. “What is your strategy?” He moved a piece quickly.
“I told you, I do not have a strategy,” Sansa repeated, gazing over the pieces carefully. “I am going to move this over here, because I think it will be pretty.”
Ivar scoffed, not for the first time. “That is very foolish.”
“Well, play with someone else then,” Sansa told him. “There are many people here you could play with.” As soon as she looked around, however, everyone in the hall turned away and pretended to be very interested in something else. Few could stand up to either Ivar’s skill with the game or his temper.
Ivar knew this very well and snorted, then refocused on the board. He made a move. Sansa made a move. Ivar thought a long time, then made a move. Sansa made a move, always so quick and sure of herself, and sat back with her hands resting on her growing belly. Ivar’s gaze flickered across the table at her, assessing. He made another move. Sansa made a move. At that point, Ivar saw, with sudden clarity, the corner he had worked himself into, that he couldn’t get out of, due to her “pretty” arrangement. He let out a snarl and knocked all the pieces to the floor.
“Ivar, that was very rude!” Sansa chided angrily. Sullenly, Ivar flipped the board game onto the floor as well. Breaths were held all over the hall. “Are you a child, to throw a temper tantrum over losing a game?” Sansa continued hotly. She had instinctively switched to her native language, but from her tone it was easy to guess what she was saying. “What kind of example does that set for our child?” She sat back with a disgusted huff.
Ivar’s bubbling fury settled into frustration, then mild annoyance, then something that was merely a bit interesting, as he stared across the table at his soulmate. It was not an instant change, but it was novel that he could make it happen, and it pleased him when she noticed it as well. He reached a hand across to her. “Apologies, my love,” he told her as she took it. “I did not mean to scare you.” Collectively the Great Hall exhaled.
“You did not scare me,” Sansa assured him with a smile.
“I do not scare you, hmm?” Ivar asked teasingly.
“No. Are you meant to?”
“No,” he promised. He had no wish for Sansa to be afraid of him. “Pick that up,” he said to a nearby slave, of the game pieces.
Sansa still spoke in English, which far fewer of their listeners could understand. “I forgot we had an audience,” she admitted, not looking at them. “I did not mean to yell at you in public.”
“You may yell at me in public as much as you like,” Ivar allowed expansively. “It is good for a man to have a strong wife.”
“It is good for a man to not lose his temper over a game,” Sansa countered pointedly, and Ivar laughed, a real laugh.
“That is very wise,” he agreed. “Are you ready to go home?”
Sansa was usually ready to go home, away from the prying eyes of all Kattegat, far sooner than he was—a prince had to make appearances, after all. “Yes,” she confirmed, rising awkwardly from the chair; her slave Edith hurried to help.
Ivar let himself down from his own chair—crawling was messy in the current weather, but much safer and faster than crutches. “Good. Let us talk more about this strategy of yours,” he decided.