#what if rowan had viking braids

[soothsaver]

could  that  really  be  PIHLA,  the  HEALER  of  WINTERFELL  entering  the  keep  ?  king’s  landing  is  sure  to  benefit  from  the  thirty  four  year  old’s  ability  to  be  adaptative  but  beware,  whispers  also  say  they  have  been  known  to  be  mysterious.  their  loyalty  belongs  to  THE  NORTH  and  are  indifferent  to  the  ruling  of  house  targaryen  throughout  westeros.

i.  dossier

full name: pihla (/ˈpiç.lɑ/) meaning: rowan tree title: none alias(es): the soothsayer, the witch from frozen hells age: four and thirty  birthdate: unknown; supposedly between the fifth and the sixth moon of the westerosi year 24 ac. gender & pronouns: cis woman & she / her   orientation: heterosexual, demiromantic   religion: the old gods  languages spoken: the old tongue, the common tongue  occupation: woodswitch healer allegiance: the north

ii.  physicality

notable features: tall and dark colored but extremely pale, she is fairly unremarkable amongst other dark haired northerners, a trait she takes pride on. height: 5’7, 170 cm   build: tall and very slender eyes: black hair: dark brown, recently cropped short and now falling to her shoulder blades. usually worn in braids so when let loose it is wavy.  wardrobe: she is not picky with clothing, nor the most fashionable. will wear any scrap of fur she finds, and always lines her clothing with it; besides fur, leather and cotton are her most worn textures and she tends to wear darker clothing in the shades of blacks, browns, greens and blues. 

iii.  ties

father: asmund of skagos mother: thistle siblings: none known marital status: unmarried   children: unnamed babe (dead in the cradle c. 55 ac) relatives: none of note; considers her companion wildlings as kin 

iv.  personality

abilities: although she carries no supernatural ability that she knows of, her kinship to healing and herbology akins her to a wise woman, and her queer knowledge rumors claim her as a dark woodswitch; she can also sail through rough waters and chart the stars. moral alignment: tba positives: tba negatives: tba pass times: tba wields: always carry with her a pouch of herbs, two vials with one sprinkle of poisonous herbs and another of dried herbs for good doing; also carries a dragonglass blade on her waistline. inspirations: mr. & mrs. everdeen ( the hunger games ), alys rivers ( asoiaf ), freydis eriksdotter & leif eriksson ( vikings valhalla ), the soothsayer ( varangian ), iseult ( the last kingdom ).

v. background

tw : death, infant death, illness, religion.

born from a skagosi who wandered through rough waters beyond the wall and a wildling woodswitch, pihlalearned of love through the veils of temporarity — it is never to last, not even that of a woman and man, or mother and daughter. still, she learned as much as she could from both mother and father until they were both to part — father for a trip that he never returned to, and mother from death’s arms. from her father, she learned the language of the stars and of the sea, of the common tongue and of the world beyond; from her mother, an old seer, she learned of the old gods, of the old tongue and of the old world, of plants and of their proprierties. through the world, she learned of its people and what they expect of you, not always in the sweetest way possible.

her mother's so called witchcraft kept her partially safe in those early years of life. people came for her for their future and for their past and for their present, and, soon enough, they would also come to trust on pihla to help them with the same, though she would think of herself less remarkably accurate than her mother. still, she noted on what her mother said, of what would one day come. she was never wrong, even if she was sometimes fuzzy.

when the woman was long passed and pihla had done well in estabilishing herself as a woodswitch and a wise woman around her parts, a man in black came to her doors. nearly dying, she took him in and healed him until they became one, over and over. he would come to tell her more about the other world, the one she knew only so much about. about lords and kings and crows and dragons; she was taken with him as much as he was with her, or so she had assumed. love is not to last, and he returned to the watch, leaving his dagger with her and a seed within her.

the babe was born during a rare warm day. pihla's world stopped and she thought no more of prophecies and of the gods, only of her beautiful son and of the life they were to lead together, forever. she was not wise, of course. the gods are demanding and took her child, a sprout dead before its time. those were her mother's words. run when the sprout is dead, she had said. run to your father's world before the chill catches you too. although heartbroken, she did as she was told; garnering supplies and making her way to the edge of the world she knew, where the great rough seas meet snow. throughout the path, she told of what she knew, and those who believed the old seer's words followed her.

with a handful or two of people, they built a sturdy ship and made their way to skagos. from skagos, to eastwatch by the sea. flocked by crows, they were only able to survive the day because pihla spoke of her own man in black, showed his words written on rough paper. that was enough for an audience with the head crow, and with the king of the north — nay, the lord stark. the chill, my lord. the dead with it, they pleaded for reprieve from the world across the wall. somehow, the lord stark's heart softened and they were given refuge; for however long his heart remained soft, that is.

though a small path of land was bregundingly given to the refugees by the watch, pihla could not bear to stay in lands infested by crows — her heart still ached for what she lost and there was a whole world to see that she had one day dreamed of. so she was allowed to accompany the stark retinue out of the wall and, alone, she perigrinated through northern towns, offering her gifts to those who would have her. the illness that coarsed the north did not touch her — she had already seen and survived it before, and knew how to see and survive it again. many, many did not. she touched and healed those she could, as best she could, yet the number of those who perished was great.

when she was summoned by the lord stark, his wife was one of those who did not survive. pihla knew so as she saw the woman, but she was able to bring the stark child back to life and their life tied with hers; his survival was enough to keep lord stark's heart soft towards her. for now. going further south is not something she had expected, but she abides to her new sire's words; she has always been heedful, after all. for as long as this one lasts.

[swankii-art-teacher]

More please...

“This will never end because I want more-“

CW- graphic injury, cauterization

Part Two~

Rowan breathes heavily as he continues his mad race through the unfamiliar forest. Any pursuers had long since lost their trail, but he couldn’t be too careful. The men he’d seen in King Hjamel’s village barely passed for human, and he couldn’t allow them to catch up. His diversion’s had granted them an escape from the village, but Rowan was humble enough to know he couldn’t take an entire hunting party of northmen alone.

Keep reading

[where-our-stories-start]

Tortall Fancast Series - Beka Cooper

Beka is five feet eight inches (5'8") tall, muscular, and slender. She has light blue-grey eyes that are unsettling when she glares. Mostly people dislike her eyes and Dale Rowan once even described them as "ghost-eyes". However, Hansevor Remy once compared her eyes to moonstones. She has dark blond hair which she tight-braids from the crown of her head and braids a spiked strap into so as to surprise opponents who try to grab her hair in a fight. Beka's hands are callused from regular baton work and also show several scars from knife-wounds.

Normally she wears breeches and a tunic, even in daytime when she isn't on watch. On duty, in the Magistrate's Court and on other official events she wears her uniform, which consists of a black tunic with breeches and boots of the same color. In her year as a Puppy a white trim is sewn to the hems to show her status as a trainee. Seldom Beka wears a dress like when she visits her brothers and sisters at Provost's house or when she plays the role of a loose Dog on the investigation concerning the false coins. At that occasion she was described by several men as being pretty, but didn't like it very much because she had the impression that people who call her pretty don't think that she can do good work as a Dog. (x)

Beka is 15 when her series starts and 19 when it ends.

RACHELLE HENRY - MODEL

Rachelle Henry is a model who has done several photoshoots, some of them in medieval and renaissance clothing. The pictures above were taken when she was 14. Although the armor is more appropriate for a knight than for a Dog, it’s still within the realm of what Beka wears in dangerous situations.

RUBY O’LEARY - GYDA (VIKINGS)

I can’t find an exact age for Ruby O’Leary, but her character on Vikings is 14, so I feel comfortable placing her in the appropriate range for pre-series or Terrier Beka. She frequently wears her hair in braids. Viking costume design, obviously.

FRANCESCA ISHERWOOD - FLAVIA (ROMAN MYSTERIES)

At 16, Francesca is the perfect age for Beka, although she’s a little further from Beka’s aesthetic than many other fancasts. She primarily wears Roman tunics and dresses, which potentially fit Beka off-duty. Mostly I like her as a fancast because she’s got a similar bit-between-her-teeth energy to Beka’s.

LEELEE SOBIESKI - JOAN OF ARC (JOAN OF ARC)

Leelee Sobieski was also 16 when filming this movie. Again, she’s “knight” more than “guardswoman,” but oh well. Her face is very similar to what I picture for Beka, and she matches her energy really well. I usually use her (with short hair) for Kel, but she makes a good Beka too.

FREYA ALLAN - CIRI (THE WITCHER)

At 18-19, Freya is more appropriate for late-series Beka. Mostly I chose her because she has Beka’s striking blue eyes. Medieval costume design throughout, and look, it looks like for Season 2 she’s got some good medieval fighting gear!

TIERNA SKOVBYE - ROBIN/MARGOT (ONCE UPON A TIME)

At 22-23 during filming, Tierna Skovbye is technically a little old for Beka, but her face is almost exactly what I picture. She wears more browns than blacks in her fairytale scenes, but otherwise her clothing is also a decent fit for Beka, particularly while tracking the prince in Bloodhound.

Well, now we’ve got all our heroines done! As usual, the full series can be found here, and I’m always happy for requests and/or additions!

[a-dark-kiss]

Erika Sigvaldon’s Biography

Basic Information:

Name: Erika Sigvaldson. Gender: Female. D.O.B: Winter 994AD. Species: Vampire. Physical Age: 28. Actual Age: 1,027. Date of Transition: 1022AD. Sire: Kol Mikaelson. Sexuality: Bisexual.

Physical Description:

Height: 5ft 7inches.

Weight: 70kg.

Build: Strongly built, yet still agile.

Skin: Quite pale or ‘fair skinned’, even when well fed.

Hair: Despite it being styled very differently over the years, Erika’s hair has always stayed it’s natural golden colour. These days it falls down to just below her shoulder blades and often has small, thin braids in it.

Eyes: Generally a deep shade of mossy green, unless she’s starving or is about to feed.

Significant Marks/Scars: There are various thin and pale scars all over her body from her time as a warrior when she was human. But there are a few far more noticeable ones. As a child, when living in the same settlement as the Mikaelson family, Erika was also attacked by a wolf in the surrounding forest. Four thick scars line the back of her left thigh, where Erika was mauled whilst lost in the dark on a full moon. The witch Ayana used herbs and powerful magic to cleanse the infection that soon had taken root in the flesh, but these left grizzly scars behind. Some years later (at 14 years old), after fleeing back to Norway with a nearby settlement, she was whipped ten times as punishment after stabbing a man in the groin when she was caught stealing leather armour. The scars from those lashings are not as thick, nor as grizzly as the ones on the back of her thigh, but they are much longer. The worst of which starts at the back of her left shoulder and goes diagonally all the way down to her right hip.

Personality:

As a human Erika was generally a kind hearted and thoughtful person, but her temper was known throughout her adult life as a silent storm of hatred and sometimes even cruelty among the people in the town she fled to in Norway. When she was turned her already unpredictable temper was amplified. But so was her compassion and her kindness. 

Hobbies:

Despite reading thousands and thousands of books over the centuries, Erika continues to have a deep love for books. Her home in London that she has had since the late 1700s has an entire floor dedicated to the books that she has loved the most and collected on her travels around the world. She did try her hand at drawing for a while, but she found that it didn’t soothe her soul the way reading did. And then, during the first world war Erika took it upon herself to find new and exciting ways to use the rations that were passed and traded between human hands. Whilst choosing not to eat herself, she fed those around her and became quite a good cook in the process, which soon developed into a passion for baking.

Abilities:

Being nearly as old as the Original Family has given Erika extreme strength and speed, along with very heightened senses. As with most vampires that have a steady diet of human blood she is skilled at Compulsion. Whilst she was a human, she had an affinity for animals and this only became stronger once she was turned, leaving her able to soothe a distressed animal with ease.

Weaknesses:

Erika always wears a silver necklace that has a lapis lazuli crystal embedded into the small locket pendant that protects her from the sunlight. Without it, she can be killed when in direct sunlight. Vervain will weaken her if she ingests it or is injected with it and if it touches her skin it will burn her just as badly as a ray of sunshine would.

Backstory:

In 997AD, when Erika was only a few of years old, she and her father, along with the Mikaelsons, travelled to a settlement in the New World. Her earliest memories are of running around the large white oak tree in the village – it was bigger than any other tree she’d ever laid eyes on. As she slowly grew up, she became closer to the youngest Mikaelson sibling; Henrik. When one of the other boys in the settlement pushed her into the mud, he was the first to defend her and they were nearly inseparable after that.

After Henrik’s death she withdrew into herself, not wanting to speak to anyone or do anything aside from walking through the woods as they had done together. Not long after he was killed, the Mikaelsons enlisted Ayana’s help in creating a faster and stronger being that would not need to be afraid of the werewolves. After the Mikaelsons had transitioned and were given the ability to walk in the sunlight, Erika’s father took some clothes and provisions and tied them up into a bundle, gave them to his daughter and told her to run as far into the forest as she could with the moon on her right shoulder. He told her that she would find another village, with people that would protect her if she told them her name.

Reluctantly, she did as he asked and waited for him to join her for days, until the leader of the new settlement decided that they were no longer safe, with the wolves coming every full moon and vampires that now had the ability to walk in the sun, they needed to get away. Rowan Sigvaldson was not heard from again.

After travelling for many weeks, they arrived on the shores of Norway, the country that she had been born in. Thankfully the family that had taken care of her in America had decided to take her in as their own. And as she blossomed into a stunning young woman she trained with the other shieldmaidens until she was just as good as their fiercest fighter. At twenty-two years old she was caught stealing leather armour from the tanners of the town, with the notion that she would use it when the other warriors went raiding. Instead, she was tied to two whipping posts and received a lashing for each bronze coin it would have cost to buy the armour outright – ten lashings in total. After the punishment, she was held there in the square for ten days as penance for the life she had taken when Erika had stabbed the man who owned the tannery in the groin with a thin dagger. But they did not break her and nor would they, no matter how many times she was ridiculed.

When she was finally untied, she fell to the ground and stayed there for hours; her body weak from starvation and exhausted from having to stand there for days on end. When she finally willed herself to move, she stumbled to the small home she had and had her closest friend rub a salve into the wounds on her back and then helped Erika bind them with cloth.

The next year, when the Vikings went raiding again, she bought a set of armour with what coin she had left from selling herbs and joined them on their journey. She was well known for her vicious brutality on the battlefield and her strength in a shield wall. From then on she was always taken with them, and continued to go wherever they went.

The years slowly went by, and when she reached the age of 28 a new threat had arrived nearby. Known only for it’s beautiful face and it’s curious habit of draining it’s victims of blood. People made offerings to the Gods, to help them overcome this new fear, but it had very little effect. More and more of them started to go missing; husbands, wives, brothers, daughters… Even the children. Erika had decided that she would not be afraid of this new creature, and she braved the dark to find it. When the face that revealed itself to be the monster, she saw him plainly and she knew him well. It was Kol. One of the Mikaelson brothers. She backed away slowly with her sword in hand, and her emerald eyes almost aflame as she watched him cautiously.

In the end, it didn’t matter how skilled she was with a sword. It didn’t matter how fast she was or how much courage she had. And the last thing she saw was a pair of fangs sliding out from his gums… And then she was surrounded by a black nothingness.

When she awoke the following morning, the sunlight felt like it was burning into Erika’s eyes and her skin, that was somehow even more pale than before, felt like she had sunburn all over her body. As the day went on, her stomach growled and felt as though she hadn’t eaten in weeks and her mouth and gums began to ache. Eventually - as she began to get too tired to fight it, she attacked a woman that had a grievous head wound and was bleeding. As she stood over the woman, who was then crouched down and whimpering, her eyes strayed to the graze on her head… And then she knew. Kol had fed her his blood and then killed her in cold blood. She knew enough about the vampires to know that she needed to feed soon, or she would just fade away.

Erika pulled out the dagger she kept down the inside of her boots and sliced through the flesh of the woman’s neck, grabbed onto her and then let the blood gush into her mouth. Instantly she felt the aches in her mouth stop, and the more blood she consumed the stronger she became and the hunger in her stomach died down. Once the lady was empty, Erika went to leave the hut but instantly flew back inside, the skin on her arms blistered from the exposure to the twilight sun. She looked around with a puzzled expression. The Mikaelsons had been able to walk in the sun, so why couldn’t she do it?

As soon as the sun had set, she dashed out of the hut and came upon the body she had drained to complete her transition and a man that had discovered it. Wrecked with guilt over the killing, she felt the blood rush to her eyes as they darkened. The man that was leaning over the corpse glanced up and yelled for help as he saw her. And in no time at all, she managed to find the mark of his carotid artery and bit into it with ease, satiating her hunger.

After her transition in 1022AD it took her nearly forty years to come across a witch that was willing to help her gain the ability to walk in the sunlight. After taking care of a few of the witch’s problems she was more than happy to enchant the lapis lazuli locket pendant she owned.

Over the last millennium Erika lead an extraordinary life, travelling all over the world and assisting in many wars. In the late 1800s, with money she had earned and saved, she bought a large house in London, with three floors, a courtyard and a grand garden. In this house, she has kept treasures and souvenirs from various time periods; including jewellery, gold coins and handwritten texts and rare prints of books. She spent the last few years back in Norway but has finally decided to return to her London home; the only place she ever felt truly safe in.

[barberwitch]

Witch Tip Wednesday 1.23.19

The Blasting Rod

I received an ask about how to make a blasting rod a while back, and through a series of events, I delayed answering so I could gather some additional information because this tool has a very powerful mystique, coupled with a relatively simple premise.

I’ll start off with some possible ways to make a Blasting Rod aka Black Rod before I delve deeper into some of the references and my ramblings. One thing that seems clear to me, but seems obvious is that to make a blasting rod, that must be your intent. It isn’t simply a wand made of blackthorn (powerful enough on its own) but one made with the intent to utilize it for both beneficial and malefic magic. In European/Celtic tradition it is made of Blackthorn, though other sources do not specify the wood needed. Designate it as a blasting rod, include iron, thorn, or bone, and connect to it as an extension of yourself. It is called a blasting rod, because of its use as blasting the witch’s power in the direction it is aimed, alternatively named a blasting rod for the fact that it will blast or destroy if that is the witch’s intent. Aside from that, I believe the further fabrication of it should be personal to the one creating it. If that is including an inscription, a symbols or sigil of power, or a glyph that represents the witch or the possible workings. The blasting rod should mirror the witch as an inanimate representation of how the witch works, how they view themselves, and the endless possibilities that encompass the witch’s work.

There are of course specific rituals one can do to make the rod, but their validity is again an issue that one must sort through to find what is someone’s idea of how it was done traditionally, someone’s own creation, or a remnant come to light from times gone by. I’m not going to police you and tell you that it must be done one ritual is more valid than another, especially because I’m not going to share my own ritual for crafting a blasting rod. My goal is to provide some context, food for thought, and to show that it’s not as simple as spouting some universal truth in the matter of crafting it.

Top: Blackthorn and bone blasting rod. Middle: Bone and rosewood wand. Bottom: Bone and rosewood want with fossilized belemnite tip by traditional witch Gemma Gary.

Another blasting rod from the Museum of Witchcraft (Cornwall) Braided blackthorn.

More Below the Break!

The blasting rod is a tool used in witchcraft that can vary greatly depending on the creator. It has a history of being used for multiple purposes, but it is eclipsed by the possible malefic usages. It is known to be able to purify, banish, protect of course, but it also used to wither crops and wombs, cause illness, accident, break up storms and divert lightning. Absorbing clouds and controlling spirits and demons alike, as well as being a tool that can intimidate or offend the Fae.

Most times when it’s described, it’s made of blackthorn. Prunus spinosa, or the blackthorn tree, sloe berry etc is a perennial plant that grows in Europe, notably in Ireland, Scotland, and England, though it is also found in the United States near the coasts. It’s a relative of Rowan and Hawthorn, but unlike the other two, has a notable penchant for more “aggressive” magics. All accounts can agree that whether or not you have a sensitivity to energies, or spirits, care must be taken when working with the plant because on the mundane front, black, vicious thorns sprout from the branches. Left untreated, the wounds have been known to fester and grow septic. For this, and the history of burning witch’s with their rods, canes and walking sticks, as well as tossing additional blackthorn wood, the reasoning that it is a purifying wood may come from that.

I’ve spoken at length with several other witches about the ins and outs of blasting rods and changed my opinion on their creation more than once. The conclusion, I have trouble deciding to this day. While mentioned in traditional witchcraft based on European, especially Celtic traditions, it is almost inexplicably tied with blackthorn. It’s possible that it has that connection because of the common practice of having blackthorn staffs, canes, and shillelagh, but in another famous text (although the origin is a bit dubios), blackthorn is not mentioned.

According to the French text “The Grand Grimoire”, it is described as a hand wand that has two forks, capped with magnetized steel. This text, supposedly written in 1522, but researches place the text as written most likely in the 17th and 18th centuries, also claims that the blasting rod is an ancient tool that harkens back to the Garden of Eden, being the tool that God gave to the Angel when Adam and Eve were driven from paradise. Further account says that the blasting rod was used to smite the rebellious angels and condemn them to the pit.

Whether through this text, other folklore, or individual’s experiences with their own rods, it is known as a tool with an affinity for banishment and control of spirits and demons through intimidation. One could assume that, similar to lore of vampires being afraid of the sign of the cross, demons and spirits fear the replica of the tool originally used to seal their fate…again, simply an extrapolation if you go off The Grand Grimoire.

There is another story that I read ages ago that, apologies, I know I’m missing some details, but included a man who had business to attend with The Good Neighbors, or the Fae. He had a blackthorn cane as many did, but to conclude his business, he had to lessen his terrible weapon, by removing the iron tip. Only then, by lessening the fatal nature of the blasting rod, was he allowed entry under the hill to ask his favor.

From this story, and common practice of having metal at the tip of the cane for stability, another aspect of the blasting rod is revealed that mirrors that of the Grand Grimiore. Rather than a forked wand with magnetized caps, it is a simple cane of blackthorn with an iron tip.

Another supposed traditions from an article, claims that to make a blackthorn anything into a blasting rod or black rod, the rune Thurisaz is inscribed or burned into it. This may be some holdover from viking or Norse interactions with Ireland and the British isles. Speaking with some traditional witches I know of various backgrounds, an iron blade is attached to the rod, preferably from a knife that the witch had used previously. Some say that it is in the harvesting of the plant that the rod gains its power. By communicating with the plant spirits, either an agreement is formed where witch and wielded work together, or by infuriating the plant enough to lend its power to the witch through the gift of a branch. Either are valid depending on your tradition, and this is where I get stuck myself on the creation.

The Blasting rod in Celtic tradition is always made of blackthorn, though in other texts, the blackthorn is not listed specifically. Does that mean that this powerful tool gains its power through any baneful plant, or that blackthorn is the catalyst? Does that make it a blasting rod if you use any thorned plant, or do you follow the tradition of utilizing metal and forked branches. I’m not quite sure, to be honest. It could be a case of creating a powerful tool that has those usages, but referring to it as a “Blasting Rod” is a misnomer. Similar to referring to the magistellus flora of a plant as an “Alraune” when it’s not made of mandrake.

What I can surmise from wand lore, folklore, tradition and locale, is that a branch with some marking, whether metal or burned into it, is ritually consecrated to connect to the witch. It is from a woody plant that has import and history, connected to power, purification, and a connection to the land. If a metal is included, it is of iron, or a metal that is magnetized, and it must be treated with care. Of course, there are variances, as there is with any tool crafted by the witch. Some examples keep the thorns, an outward symbol of its offensive power, others are disguised as simple walking sticks, what is agreed is that it is a powerful tool if it is in fact a blasting rod and not just a wand. If made with the proper intent, it can be your greatest ally, or worst enemy. And after seeing more than one post about someone’s pet being found eating their “blasting rod” I urge you to refrain from trying to make one if you can’t be responsible.

The last thing I will say is that I believe that a tool like this is crafted once, and not created again until broken. Let me clarify, I think that you can have multiple blasting rods of various sizes, and possibly purposes if one seems to meld better to a specific type of magic. I’ve seen people talk about making wands of 12 different woods, and some with crystals, and some with wire, and some with feathers. Don’t make it if you aren’t going to use it. Spend time getting it right the first time, instead of abandoning it as soon as you find a “better” piece of wood. But who am I to tell you what to do? You do you, but this is my answer to a question I received and my rambling opinions.

🦋Cheers, Barberwitch

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[dreamwritesimagines]

Faint of Heart [Ivar x Reader]

A.N.: Hi people!  I hope you all enjoy it and don’t forget to tell me what you think please? kisses!  ❤️

Summary: Nothing good comes after midnight.

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Warnings: Explicit language and violence, please read with care. Also, friendly reminder that  I don’t condone any of the messed up stuff happening on the show.

Word Count: 2901

@nympha-door-a @theskytraveler @i-blogaboutstuff  @mamaraptor  @asongofmarvelanddc @vikrone @blackcoffeeandgreenteaforme @enchantingcupcakecollectionfan @delicious-cupcake-jellyfish  

Gif’s not mine

You never really liked the formalities that came with the throne.

You hadn’t liked it back at your country and you didn’t like it now in this completely new Viking land either. It was even more intimidating when you were alone. Ivar was off to see the raiders on the other side of the Kattegat and that meant you would be alone with this group of newcomers for at least an hour if not more.

And that alone was scarier than you thought it would be.

“You don’t look very happy,” Hvitserk said and your head snapped up before you tried to smile.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Written all over your face,” he motioned at you as he sipped his drink, “I thought you would be happier for sure.”

“Why?”

“They’re your countrymen, aren’t they?” Hvitserk asked, “The group that’s coming to visit. Did you not miss them?”

You shook your head, “No.”

“No? I distinctly remember you comparing us to them and calling us… what was it?”

You tried to control your laugh, “Hvitserk!”

“No, I’m trying to remember. Something along the lines how we were all…”

“You’re terrible,” You made a face at him, giggling and he snapped his fingers.

“Barbarians,” he pointed out, “You were screaming at the top of your lungs in fact.”

You covered your burning face, then lowered your hands, “You will never let that go, will you?”

“No,” Hvitserk grinned like a boy, “And look at you now.”

“Look at me now,” you repeated, looking down at yourself with a sigh. Even though it had been difficult beyond words, you had to admit that you looked like a proper Viking now.

Except for your hair. You were still learning how to braid it. Ivar tended to tease you about that but considering it had only been a month since you got there, and everything was relatively new to you, you dared to say you were doing pretty well so far.

Until now.

Oh God.

Sorry. Gods.

Whoever it is up there.

“Y/N?”

You snapped out of your thoughts, “Hm?”

“They’re here.”

“Okay,” You took a deep breath and fixed your crown, “How do I look?”

“If I didn’t know you, I’d think you were a proper Viking.” Hvitserk shrugged, that playful light gleaming in his eyes. You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to control your laugh and walked past him to the throne room, with him following you like a shadow and you stopped at the door, then turned to Hvitserk.

“I changed my mind,” You said, your heart beating in your ears, “No. I can’t do this.”

“I repeat, these are your countrymen.” Hvitserk tried to sound reasonable, but it was highly sabotaged by the cup he was holding, filled with ale.

“Yes Hvitserk, and do you know what that means?”

“They will be very friendly with you?”

“No, they will report everything to my brother.”

Your brother, who had lost no time using you for his political strategies as soon as he was crowned. Hence where you were now.

Hvitserk rolled his eyes and leaned back to the wall, “So what?”

“So plenty,” you hissed, “Do you know what will happen if they report back any mistake?”

He scoffed, “Nothing. We have the most powerful army in the world, and Ivar doesn’t like disrespect.”

That was assuming Ivar actually cared about you, an issue you still had no clear answer to. There were times you thought you saw a spark there but…

Considering you hardly spent any time together, and in addition to lack of-

You felt your cheeks burn and you cleared your throat, while Hvitserk shot you a look.

“Y/N. Come on, you can’t be intimidated by them. Where’s the girl who made a fuss and screamed in the throne room of her palace that she would marry no heathen, hm?”

“Actually ended up being married to a heathen,” you said slowly and licked your lips, “Okay. Okay, you’d save me if it got weird, would you not?”

“My sword is at your service.”

“Alright then,” You threw your shoulders back and walked into the throne room, the familiar noise of the crowd greeting you and the man standing in front of the small group that had different clothes than the rest of the hall.

“Well well, if it isn’t our beautiful Y/N,” he said and you tried to smile. The truth was, you had never really liked him, not even back at the palace. He was always way too condescending, and that night before everything started, you had heard him talking to your brother, and he had made his opinion about you clear;

Let her be the heathen’s whore if that’s what will save our skins.

You shook your head, trying to shake off the thoughts and let him kiss you on the cheek.

“Rowan,” you greeted him, “Had a nice trip, I hope?”

“Sea was merciful.” Rowan stated, “And all the troubles disappeared now that we’ve seen your beautiful face, Y/N.”

Liar.

“Gentlemen, you remember our little Y/N.” he held your hand as you both turned to the group, “But of course, she’s a Queen now. Who could’ve seen that, hm?”

Hvitserk’s hand was still on the handle of his sword as you sat down on the throne, now wishing more than ever that Ivar would be back already.

“How is my brother?”

“Praying for your health day and night,” Rowan said and you tried not to scoff at the blatant lie, “He misses his little sister terribly.”

Mm hm.

Almost convincing.

“Well I would appreciate it if you could tell him I pray for his health and the victories that will follow him surely,” the lie left your lips almost too easy and Hvitserk cleared his throat, as if trying not to laugh. Rowan turned to the men listening to you both closely.

“We have heard that Vikings entertainments are quite… different,” he said, “May I ask if we will be attending any?”

“Why of course,” you said “It would be cruel to keep such a thing hidden from you.”

“And do you still dance, your grace?”

You smiled slightly. “Yes, sometimes.”

“I remember one time-“ Rowan turned to his men with a smirk on his face, “At a masquerade, she danced all night,” his eyes turned to you, “Yet again, I assume you put your dancing skills to use on top of your Viking King now, do you not Y/N?”

Your eyes snapped up to his as you felt your jaw drop, and Hvitserk shifted his weight beside you.

Of course. That was what everyone thought. You were pretty sure even Ubbe and Hvitserk did not know about you and Ivar’s… lack of intimacy.

Everyone had told you so many fearful things that the first –and the last- night Ivar had tried touching you ended up with you almost hyperventilating, holding onto sheets for your dear life and sitting at the corner of the huge bed, your heart beating fast enough that you thought even he could hear it from the other side of the bed. If it were your own country, everyone would insist on the marriage to be consummated, but as you would figure out later on, Vikings couldn’t care less. Contrary to what you had heard about Vikings, Ivar didn’t seem to want to push you, and that was when your unspoken agreement began. The next morning at the breakfast, you would bury your burning face to Ivar’s arm, an embarrassed smile playing on your lips enough to boost his ego and make every doubt of his brothers –who had kept making innuendos- disappear.

You hadn’t really talked about it for the whole month, and now to think of it, you didn’t really spend so much time together anyway. Ivar seemed less than interested in you which made you think he only saw this marriage as a business came with the crown but…

But it did not mean that your brother’s messenger could be that outspoken with you.

“I hope you’ll like it here, Rowan,” you forced yourself to smile calmly, your cheeks burning with both embarrassment and fury, “We will surely do our best to keep you entertained.”

He bowed before he made his way to his men, and you gritted your teeth, then whirled around on your heels to go to your and Ivar’s chambers.

“Y/N-“

“Don’t,” You said through your teeth and you stormed into the chamber, slamming the door behind you but Hvitserk opened the door to get inside.

“I can just kill him if you want.”

“You can’t kill the messenger Hvitserk, it’s not very diplomatic.” You pulled the crown from your hair and tossed it on the table, while Hvitserk heaved a sigh.

“He humiliated you,”

“I’m well aware,” You tried to regain your composure, but it felt way too difficult and you started to work on your hair “I just need a moment, leave me be please.”

“If Ivar found out-“

“Ivar knows how diplomacy works, he wouldn’t care.” You told him and Hvitserk’s eyes focused on something over your shoulder before you heard that familiar drawl along with the sound of his crutches.

“And what exactly would Ivar not care?”

You closed your eyes for a moment before opening them and turning around to see Ivar as he sat down the sofa at the corner of the room , his leg braces half done as if you had just interrupted him undoing them. Hvitserk sighed behind you.

“Hello Ivar.”

“Hello brother,” Ivar’s lips turned upwards, “Wife. What’s happening?”

“Tell him,” Hvitserk told you “I’ll be outside in case we decide to kill him. Ubbe is back too, Ivar?”

“He must be in the hall right about now,” Ivar answered without taking his eyes off you, and you shifted your weight as Hvitserk left the room. This was one of the very rare moments you two were completely alone and for some reason, your stomach flipped with excitement before you gulped.

“You’re back.” You said weakly, taking a step towards him and he nodded,

“Mm hm. Just. What’s happening?”

“Nothing.”

He raised his brows, “Y/N.”

“Do you need help with…?” you motioned at his braces and he shook his head, crossing his arms.

“Who humiliated you?”

“It’s not important, Ivar.” You muttered as you sat across him, then reached out to help him out of the heavy arm plate but he grabbed your hand and stopped you, making you hold your breath as your eyes snapped up to his piercing blue ones.

“I think I deserve to know if someone upset you,” his voice was low and you bit down on your lip, holding his gaze for a couple of seconds before you averted your eyes.

“My brother’s messengers arrived,” you mumbled, “They do have a strange sense of humor.”

“Meaning?”

You shrugged, “Rowan, one of his closest men, he… made a bawdy comment.”

“Bawdy?” he repeated, as if he didn’t understand the word and you forced yourself to find the word in his own language, but came up empty, seeing that you were still learning his language.

“It means-“ you paused, “It means suggestive in a quite indecent way.”

Ivar’s brows pulled together and he nodded, “I see.”

“It’s nothing serious,” you tried to laugh it off, “It’s just… I have been away from them for a while, I’m sure he didn’t mean-“

“Did he make you uncomfortable?” he cut you off, as if the possibility just crossing his mind and you shrugged.

“To be honest, he has made me uncomfortable ever since I heard him and my brother talking about…” you motioned between you two, “He called me- um-“ you shook your head “Does not matter, really. I was thinking maybe we could throw a feast or-”

“What did he call you?”

“Ivar-“

“Y/N.” his tone was serious, “What did he call you, hm?”

“He didn’t know I was listening.”

“That’s not the answer to my question.”

The bitter taste appeared in your mouth but you tried not to make a face as you took a deep breath.

“Heathen’s whore.” You mumbled with distaste and Ivar’s brows rose, as if he was surprised to hear such a word leaving your lips.

“Did he now?”

You took a deep breath, then tried to pull yourself together,

“It honestly does not matter,” you attempted to smile, “But um- we should go out soon, I think. It’s not very polite to keep people waiting.”

Ivar nodded, then slowly, very slowly reached out to touch a strand of your hair, as if he was afraid you would push him away. When you didn’t move or even breathe with the concern of ruining the moment, he seemed to gather the courage to gently tuck it behind your ear before his fingertips slipped down to your neck and he withdrew his hand. You swallowed thickly, the sensitive skin of your neck which he grazed his fingers against tingling, almost burning.

“I like your hair like this,” he mumbled, as if speaking to himself, “Perhaps you could- you could maybe wear it like this more often?”

If you didn’t know better, you could swear this was as close to saying please as Ivar could get and you bit on your lip, your cheeks burning.

“I would like that, actually,” you spoke silently, “I don’t think I’m very good with braids and girls will grow weary of helping me soon I’m afraid.”

That seemed to make him breathe out a chuckle, “Is that so?”

“It’s very complex.”

“Not really. You can speak five languages and you think braiding is complex?”

“Four and a half,” You corrected him “I still don’t understand more than half of what your brothers say.”

“I don’t think my brothers understand more than half of what they say,” Ivar shrugged, making you giggle.

“That’s not very polite.”

“I’m not very polite,” Ivar rubbed his fingertips together, as if trying to make the feeling last longer, “And I could teach you.”

“Your language?”

“That. And braiding.”

“You would grow tired,” you made a face, “I’m a terrible student and you’re not very patient.”

“I can be very patient,” his voice was low, as if he was hypnotized but that lasted only for a second before he pulled himself together, “And you’re not a terrible student.”

You snorted “You all laughed at me when I couldn’t lift that sword. Even Ubbe.”

“Yes, because Ubbe said we should get you a smaller sword until you got used to it.”

You made a face, “No thank you. All shieldmaidens will make fun of me.”

“No one can make fun of you.”

“You do,” You shot him a mischievous look and Ivar shrugged before he made himself busy with his braces, then grabbed his crutches.

“I’m going to the hall, are they still there?”

“My brother’s men?” You asked and nodded, “Yes, they must be. I will be with you in a second, I just-“ You fanned your face with your hand, “I’ll be with you.”

“Alright,” he said as he left the room and you sat down in front of the mirror to look at your reflection, then pressed your fingertips on your neck, biting at your lip hard enough to make it hurt.

You had about five seconds of peace before the sounds coming from the hall distracted you and you pushed your chair back to rush to the hall, then covered your mouth as soon as you reached the entrance and saw the view.

Two men were holding Rowan by the arms as he struggled against them while the rest of your brother’s men looked too terrified to move. Contrary to them, all the Vikings in the hall seemed to have great fun as they watched Rowan while listening to Ivar, and you took a step but was stopped by Hvitserk.

“Hvitserk-“

“Told you he wouldn’t like it.”

“What-“ You swallowed as you tried to make sense of what Ivar was saying but he spoke way too fast and you could only understand a word or two.

There was something about his maker, and a Queen.

His queen.

“What’s he saying?”

“Did that man really call you a heathen’s whore?” Ubbe asked you and you looked between Hvitserk and Ubbe.

“Ubbe, what’s Ivar saying-“

It happened in a second. Ivar drove his sword right through Rowan’s chest, making you gasp and Vikings cheered before Rowan dropped to the ground, eyes open. You covered your mouth, unable to keep your eyes off him as Ivar stepped over, his face splattered with blood.

“We’re killing messengers now?”

“If need be.” Ivar answered his brother while you could only stare at him, your heart beating in your ears.

“You were saying something about a feast, yes?” Ivar asked you “Let’s throw a feast, it was about time,” he grinned, “Ubbe, Hvitserk. A word?”

They left your side and Ivar lingered behind only for a moment before his fingertips grazed your cheek. You could feel the sticky, warm blood on your cheekbone but you couldn’t even wipe it off as your arms felt too heavy all of a sudden and you felt as if the hall was spinning around you. You dug your fingernails into your palms, trying to regain your composure and he left the hall to follow Ubbe and Hvitserk.

And you watched as two men lifted Rowan’s body and carried it outside while you stood there completely frozen.

“Oh God.”

Read Chapter 2 here!