❛ summary | when his brother takes a pick of women in york, ivar realizes that he recognizes a certain princess. what better to do with her than further his goals? through marriage– if it must be.
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Screams burst through the firm double doors of the church. The heathens burst in, killing the men, and dragging the women by their skirts. For once you are no different, fists tight over your dress as a young and handsome prince grasps your upper arms. His body was flush behind your back, raking your silk violet skirts up over your naked bottom. He flicks the golden hem away, grabbing handfuls of your flesh in appreciation. Your hand falls from your dress as you are shoved onto the ground, supporting your body on the cobblestone floor.
God help me, you sob, this Heathen boy is about to take you here, in a church, of all places.
"Tsk, you're hurting her, Hvitserk."
A soft swathing over the floor reveals a young man. When you turn your head up, you recognize him. And he you, staring about the rich circlet that sits atop of your curls. His fluffy black hair is raked back from bright eyes.
"Stop," He holds out his hand, talking in a tongue your father taught you. "I know this girl."
"Seriously?"
"She is Ecbert's princess. Aren't you?" The boy holds out a hand toward you. You cautiously take it and slide from under Hvitserk's clutches. Your heart rhythmically drums under the piercing wails from your people, and you think yours has stopped when you sit in front of him.
"He is my father. Queen Judith is my mother. I— I remember you. You're Ivar the Boneless."
Hvitserk makes some bout of annoyance when he realizes he will not get sex here. His leather boots squeak over the stone ground. Ivar bobs his head, perhaps cocky that you remembered his name.
"I am."
"That man he..."
"That was my brother Hvitserk. He loves beautiful women to a fault." Ivar remarks.
Most of his men were. You can barely stand look around; for the men here took their war prizes by force. The church soiled by spilled blood and screams that would not make it to the heavens. You tug your torn silk dress over your shoulder. Ivar's hand makes a loose collar behind your neck.
"You should be my thrall. I don't think your brothers would enjoy that, hm, would they?" His hand slips from behind your neck, dropping underneath your heavy skirts. The soft pads of his fingertips twist from your calves, tracing a circle around your knee, and up higher. His fingertips trace over your thighs, swirling just short of your womanhood. His knuckles rest beside the soft curls.
