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❛ pairing | hvitserk x reader
❛ type | oneshot
❛ summary | hvitserk is forced into marriage– but misses his fiance too much to let her go.
❛ warnings | forced marriage, threats, adultery.
❛ sy's notes | i used Freydis because everyone hates her anyway.
He is a prince. The benefit of being a prince isn't without its drawbacks. For Hvitserk, the main drawback is freedom. Not the state of being unable to go where he pleased. He raided the Mediterannean with his brother and found pleasure in foreign and delicious women. The freedom he lost means more to him than what to dick and what not to dick.
It's loud. The men gather and drink with their women, or women they wish to be their women, while telling outlandish tales. You sit between his brothers: Ubbe and Ivar roaring in your laughter. Ubbe's arm is slung over the back of your chair, hand on top of the knob. Ivar leans over his chair, hand interlocked in yours while you both drink from the other's horn.
"We'll have a child within the year," says a voice beside him. "A boy. Or perhaps twins, isn't it so Hvitserk?"
"My son will fill you." His mother says. "Now that you are married you must both breed well."
The ale in your horn must have gone dry. You lower it down, laughing and laughing. His eye centers Ubbe's hand, slipping down between your legs where he could not see. His muscles tense.
"Hvitserk?"
Hvitserk!
He snaps to attention, shaking his head and looking toward his bride. He leans out, taking her pale hand to his lips to cover what stupidity he had just a moment ago.
"I'm sorry, Freydis," he catches a breath, ignoring the annoyance in his voice. The knowledge of knowing... something would occur that night. His bride leers behind her blonde braid, glaring as if it would rectify the surge of emotion in his gut. He leans in to plant a chaste kiss to her lips, tracing her lower lip with his plump thumb. "Gather your heiman fyglia... so that we might consummate. I'll wish the men goodnight and gather witnesses."
It was a ploy.
A ploy to gain time because as Freydis's chair scratched across the wooden scratches across the surface, Hvitserk knows he has a thin window of time. He fumbles over his chair not forgetting his mother's crass frown, thumping down the stairs toward where you sat with his two brothers. Instead of asking his brothers, he pulls you up by your elbow, sinking into the shadows of the Great Hall and behind leathery curtains.
"What are you doing?" He asks.
Your hand comes into your hair, turning a beautiful lock of your hair around in your fingertips. "Seeing if I might find a husband too."
