#sigtryggr fanfic

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Little Warrior

Pairing: Sigtryggr Ivarsson (The Last Kingdom) x F!Reader Warnings: Canon typical violence and death, kidnapping, slight Stockholm syndrome, attempted sexual assault, sexual tension, coercion, corruption kink, talk of religious beliefs, female masturbation, loss of virginity, smut. Word count: 4.6k

Summary: When Sigtryggr and his men seize Winchester he takes a special interest in one of their captives (I have essentially yeeted Stiorra from the story and adapted the storyline of how her and Sigtryggr become an item to suit my own). Based on this request.

Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

They come in the night. As Winchester sleeps, the Danes descend upon it.

She is woken by the blood curdling shouts and screams of the townspeople, accompanied by the acrid stench of smoke from nearby burning buildings.

Her heart lurches in her chest, panic causing bile to rise in her throat as she acts purely on instinct, scrambling from her bed and out of the house wearing just her nightdress. The only thought in her mind is that she doesn’t want to die trapped in her home as it’s burned to the ground.

Once she is outside, she watches wide eyed with horror at the destruction around her. Buildings are ablaze, people lay dead and dying upon the ground, the thick coppery scent of blood makes her want to vomit.

It’s only when the coolness of the night air begins to chill her skin that she realises just how perilous her situation is - a thin layer of cotton is all that separates her flesh from the horrors around her. She worries about what these Heathens will do to her if they see her in such a state of undress.

She trembles at the thought, dread gnawing at her insides. It’s too risky to go back inside, her only option is to hide. She takes her chances beneath an overturned farmer’s cart, crawling beneath the gap and cowering, waiting for the chaos around her to die down.

Clutching the cross around her neck, she sends up a silent prayer to God to keep her safe. Her destiny is in his hands now.

The aching in her joints for having been crouched for so long is beginning to become unbearable when the noise eventually quietens. She wonders if the Danes have left, if King Edward will return to rescue Winchester or if they have managed to capture it in his absence. Where are the Wessex guard?

She freezes when she hears the sound of approaching boots upon the ground, her heart hammers wildly against her ribcage when they come to a stop in front of the cart she’s hiding under.

“I can see your feet, Christian”, comes the voice of a man. He speaks softly and quietly, and it sends shivers down her spine.

Too paralyzed by fear to do anything, she remains as she is, her breaths coming quick and shallow, a rapidly dying hope in the back of her mind that he might give up and leave her alone. But there is no such luck.

“You will come out,” he commands, “or I will drag you out, the choice is yours.”

She clamps a hand over her mouth to muffle the frightened whimper that escapes her, attempting to force herself further back against the wooden confines of her misguided hiding place.

A large hand appears beneath the cart, reaching towards her before wrapping itself around her ankle.

She shrieks, thrashing against the hold it has on her as she’s dragged out. She lays wide eyed on the cold earth, her breathing erratic, as she looks with terror upon the Dane that towers above her prone form.

His long brown hair is wild and unkempt, half of it pulled back, and a ragged scar runs the length of the left side of his face. He regards her with mild amusement and she becomes aware again of her state of undress.

The thought that he might rape her sends her senses into overdrive, pure adrenaline driving her decision making. She knows she’s in no position to run, her only other option is to fight him, so as he crouches down towards her, she lunges upwards, slapping and scratching at his face and shoulders.

He is quick to overpower her, pulling her to her feet and twisting her arm behind her back.

“A fearsome little warrior, she is,” he chuckles, keeping her arm taut behind her as he gently urges her forward. 

He guides her towards the front steps of the King’s estate, where several people are kneeling before a group of Danes. As they draw closer she recognises a few of them; King Edward’s sons and a few of the Wessex guard.

She is certain she’ll be killed. The man presses on her shoulder, urging her to kneel beside the other captives. She takes up her position, the stone step is hard against her knees, and she is all too aware that she is the least valuable of everyone gathered there.

“Send them to where they keep their dead King,” the man says, looking at Edward’s children and then nodding towards the chapel.

“We need to send a message to Edward,” a dark haired, heavily pregnant woman says, as two of the Danish men pick up the boys and carry them off. “We must force him to yield Winchester to us.”

It makes her shudder to think that this woman will be a mother, when she is capable of such atrocities. 

“And what do you propose, Brida?” He responds.

Brida regards her with a look that makes her blood run cold. She has never seen anyone look at her as though she is worth less than nothing, her brown eyes are filled with utter contempt. “Send him her head,” she tells him, “it is more shocking to Christians when you are prepared to kill women and children alike.”

She gasps audibly, stricken by terror at the notion that they intend to behead her, until she feels his hand upon her shoulder.

“You will not touch her,” he says cooly, “slaughter the men, but she stays with me.”

“And what will you do with her?” Brida asks, raising an eyebrow.

“That is for me to decide,” he responds dismissively.

He makes a cut throat gesture at the Danes that flank Brida, then nods towards the kneeling guards, before pulling her back to her feet and directing her inside of the King’s estate.

She winces as she hears the sound of blades making thick, wet impact upon flesh, followed by dying screams of agony. Despite her shock and disgust, she cannot help the twinge of relief that lightens the feeling in her chest that that is not what destiny has in store for her, at least not yet.

The room that he brings her to is what she assumes is a study. It is filled with books, maps and writing materials, the space is occupied by a wooden writing desk, a chair and a settee.

As her eyes travel around the room, taking in her surroundings, she’s startled out of her reverie when her gaze settles back upon him. He is standing so close, silently observing her, his expression unreadable.

Once more she is reminded of how little she is wearing, and now that she is alone with him, fear of what he might do to her returns in earnest.

“S-stay back,” she stammers, backing away, eyes scanning the room for something, anything, that she can use as a weapon.

He smirks, unmoving, as he looks her over from head to toe. “Be calm, little warrior. Do you know who I am?”

Her face contorts in confusion. “No…”

He straightens, tilting his head slightly, clasping his arms behind his back. “I am Sigtryggr Ivarsson. I am a Dane. If I wish to hump a woman I do not need to do so by force.”

She softens slightly, fear does not grip her heart quite so icily as before. His name is meaningless to her, but she is relieved that he means her no harm.

Sigtryggr leans in, his breath tickling the shell of her ear. “But make no mistake, little warrior, I will have you, and you will beg me for it.”

She draws back quickly in disgust - not at his words, but at the reaction they elicit from her. The way warmth pools in her lower belly fills her with immense guilt. This man has invaded her home and killed people she knows, people she loves, she should despise him.

Swallowing thickly, unease prickling at her, she elects to change the subject. “What have you come here for?”

“To take what I am owed,” he says simply.

“And what is it you believe you’re owed?”

“Land. Your people drove me from mine,” he explains, anger lacing his tone, “your boy King will give back what he stole, or I shall keep Winchester and send him the heads of his children.”

She inhales shakily, feeling like she wants to cry. “A-and…how do I factor into all of that?”

He softens, shrugging slightly. “You don’t, but I can’t imagine your King will yield quickly, and it is always nice to have company. You are brave, for a Christian.”

“So I am your prisoner?”

“No, little warrior. You are free to leave any time you’d like, and take your chances with Brida.”

The implication is not lost on her. Her freedom is an illusion when the alternative is death. Sigtryggr is her only guarantee for safety.

“Shall we find something else for you to wear?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

She looks down at the thin material of her shift, seeing how dirty it is from having been crouched beneath the cart, dragged out and then forced to kneel on the steps of the estate. Her cheeks heat up with embarrassment.

“Yes, please,” she whispers.

He nods. “Wait here.”

Sigtryggr leaves her alone in the study, not bothering to lock the door behind him - a sign of his confidence that he knows she won’t try to escape.

He returns a few moments later with a white cotton shift that is similar to the one she is currently wearing, She assumes it belongs to Ælflæd, something he has found within a bedchamber.

“Where is the rest of it?” She asks.

“What do you mean? It’s the same as what you have on, and it’s clean,” he says simply.

“Yes, but this is meant to go under–” she sighs, “nevermind.”

She takes the shift from him and begins to change, noting the way that he turns from her, keeping his eyes fixed on the shelves of books that line the walls of the room. The small mark of respect makes her smile. She had not anticipated such manners from a Heathen.

He pulls a book from the shelf when she is finished, flipping through its pages. “Can you read?”

She nods and he hands the tome to her.

“Read to me.”

“Can you not read?” She asks with a raise of her eyebrow.

“I can,” he says with a smirk, “but where’s the fun in that?”

She sighs, settling into the chair in front of the writing desk, while Sigtryggr sits upon the settee a few feet away, and she reads to him.

Over the next few weeks their days are spent much like this. She reads aloud to him, though none of the books are particularly interesting, mostly religious texts and historical records of Wessex. She’s not convinced that he pays any particular attention to the words, but he seems to enjoy the sound of her voice.

They find a Hnefatafl board and Sigtryggr teaches her how to play. They while away hours strategising ways to remove each other's pieces from the board. He has a sharp mind, is calmer and more analytical than any other Dane she’s ever met. He bests her with his cunning multiple times, until she finally begins to get the hang of it and he begins to lose to her.

“Another game?” She asks. “How many have I won now?”

He shoots her a sideways glance, a faint smile upon his lips. “I am not keeping count.”

She giggles. She is beating him, but he does not seem to mind.

They sleep upon furs and blankets that Sigtryggr has brought down to the study and fashioned into a makeshift bed. Her stomach flutters at laying in such close proximity to him, but true to his word he never touches her. Shame blooms hotly in her chest as each of the days pass and she finds herself yearning for it.

He brings her food, and the hopelessness of the situation looms over her as with every meager meal the bread tastes more stale.

“Read to me, little warrior,” he requests, reclining on the settee, his forearm slung over his forehead.

She grouses, hunger pangs causing her stomach to rumble painfully. “I cannot concentrate,” she whispers.

“What is the matter?” He asks, sitting up to look at her.

“I am hungry. I’m always hungry.”

He nods, stepping towards her and offering her his share of the bread.

She looks from his outstretched hand to his face uncertainly. “What will you eat?”

“I will manage, and you will read to me,” he tells her, as she takes the offering and he settles back down.

She smiles to herself at the gesture, warmth spreading throughout her. So she eats, and she reads to him.

Sigtryggr disappears each day, leaving her alone in the study. She only leaves to bathe and to relieve herself, but she is perfectly happy to stay put and await his return, especially when she is all too aware of the alternative.

Each day when he returns he brings news of the continuing siege. King Edward and the Wessex guard surround the walls of Winchester, but will not attack as his sons are being kept captive in the chapel. They have yet to yield to Sigtryggr’s demands for land.

She fiddles with the cross around her neck, eyeing the Mjölnir that sits around his carefully. “Can there not be a peaceful resolution?”

"It is more difficult to live peacefully with enemies than to fight them,” he tells her.

“But we live peacefully,” she retorts.

“We are not enemies, little warrior.”

The sentiment makes her heart flutter, though there is the lingering question in the back of her mind; what are we?

He leaves her alone again as usual one morning and she busies herself poring over maps to pass the time.

She turns when she hears footsteps, expecting to see Sigtryggr but instead it is a man she does not recognise. He appears Saxon, so she cannot understand why the Danes have allowed him to move around the estate so freely.

The stench of ale upon him as he draws closer is nauseating. His eyes hold malicious intent as he advances towards her, and her blood runs cold at the sight.

She stands, backing away from him. “Whatever you are planning to do, please reconsider,” she pleads, “Sigtryggr will punish you if anything happens to me.”

“I have allied myself with the Danes,” he slurs, “but at what cost? They treat me like a dog, while Sigtryggr coddles you. Tell me, whore, is your cunt really that good? Perhaps I ought to find out for myself.”

She yelps as he lunges for her, grabbing her and pinning her against the desk. Fury flashes through her as she struggles against him, attempting to free herself from his hold.

“Whatever treatment they give you, you have brought upon yourself, traitor,” she spits.

Her head snaps to the side, a sharp sting spreads across her cheek as he strikes her.

She barely has time to adjust her focus before she feels him forcefully being pulled off of her.

“Eardwulf!” Sigtryggr snarls angrily. “Fucking coward!”

His fist makes impact with Eardwulf’s face knocking him to the ground, before he is dragged away.

She curls up on the furs, shaking as tears stream down her cheeks, waiting for her heart rate to calm. What could have happened to her if Sigtryggr had not returned when he did doesn’t bear thinking about.

She is unsure of how much time has passed when he returns.

“Are you alright?”

She turns towards the sound of his voice, gasping when she sees he’s covered in blood. Rushing towards him, she places her hands upon his face. “You are hurt…”

Softly he grasps her wrists, keeping her hands where they are. “This blood is not mine, and Eardwulf will not hurt you ever again.”

Her lips part in shock at the thought that he has killed for her, saved her life twice now. She studies his face, taking in the stormy blue of his eyes, the fullness of his lips.

She allows her gaze to linger there for just a moment too long, embarrassment making her hot, eager to distract herself. She traces a finger over the scar that runs the length of the left side of his face.

“How did this happen?”

“A man tried to take my eye during battle,” he explains softly, “so I took his life.”

“But you were hurt.”

“Injured, yes. Left with a scar, yes. But very much alive.”

“As am I, thanks to you.”

She drops her hands from his face and he steps away from her, pulling off his blood soaked light armour and clothing.

She feels her throat run dry at the sight of his bare torso, all lean, lithe battle hardened muscle, adorned with scars. She longs to trace her fingers over each of them.

Looking away, she feels ashamed for harbouring such thoughts and desperately tries to ignore the throbbing ache in her core.

As night falls and Sigtryggr lays asleep beside her, the feeling that lingers between her legs has yet to subside. It is maddening, robbing her of rest. Every time she closes her eyes the image of him stood bare chested before her enters her mind.

She has never touched herself before, it is impure to do so, yet she needs relief or she is sure she will go mad.

Sparing a glance in the darkness towards Sigtryggr, she makes sure his eyes are closed before reaching a tentative hand between her legs. She lets out a shaky sigh as her fingers make impact against the sensitive flesh.

She is not quite sure what she is supposed to do, but finds that a combination of rubbing the area and bucking softly against her hand feels most pleasurable, so continues to do that, holding her free hand over her mouth to muffle the sounds she makes.

There is a feeling that builds within her, a zenith that she feels she must press towards, so she continues in earnest, until finally she feels something within her release and her entire body shudders, a soft moan stifled against her lips as white hot pleasure rolls through her body.

Laying there afterwards she does her best to calm her breaths, feeling guilty for having done something so depraved.

She is startled by Sigtryggr’s voice beside her. “If only you’d beg, little warrior, I could do that for you.”

Her breath hitches and she quickly turns away from him. Not knowing what to say, she feigns sleep, clutching her cross and praying silently that he’ll forget.

She is grateful when he speaks of it no further, and life goes back to normal, or at least what normal is for them.

That is until a couple of weeks later when Brida storms her way into the study, clearly having grown impatient with the lack of progress being made.

“It has been more than thirty days since we captured Winchester, and your negotiations with the Saxon King are not working, Sigtryggr,” she glowers at him, “the time for talking is over. We are killing more captives.”

She does not miss the way that Brida’s eyes linger upon her as she says this, a shiver of fear causes her skin to break out into gooseflesh.

“I will choose who we execute, not you,” Sigtryggr tells her.

“You cannot protect this Saxon forever,” Brida retorts.

“Oh, but I can,” he says, placing himself protectively between her and Brida. “She is mine, and I will decide what happens to her.”

Brida scoffs, turning and leaving. Sigtryggr follows, leaving her alone to ponder the fact that he has once more saved her life.

When he comes back several hours later, he looks so tired. The expression he wears is one of defeat and she feels her heart ache for him.

“Read to me,” he says softly, sitting heavily upon the settee.

She regards him quietly, she wants to comfort him. She wants to comfort herself. She has grown weary of denying him.

Before she has time to think about what she’s doing, she crosses the room, and places herself upon his lap, her thighs astride his.

“What are you do–”

His words are cut off as she presses her lips to his eagerly, before pulling away. “I’m begging, Sigtryggr, please. I–”

He surges forward, kissing her again, his mouth possessing hers hungrily as he grasps her hips, lifting her as he stands to deposit her onto the makeshift bed upon the floor, his body caging hers in against the furs.

“I knew you’d give in, little warrior,” he whispers against her neck, kissing his way down her throat to her collarbone.

His fingers toy with the hem of the shift she wears, a silent plea for consent in his eyes as he looks at.

She swallows thickly and nods, nervousness and excitement fluttering ceaselessly in her stomach.

He pulls the garment over her head, throwing it to the side before sitting back on his haunches to admire her.

“Gods…you were worth the wait. So beautiful,” he whispers reverently.

She squirms beneath his gaze, turning her head away at the intimacy of the gesture, feeling shy and uncomfortable.

“Look at me,” he tells her softly. His fingers grasp her jaw, turning her face back to him.

Slowly he undresses, until he is as naked as she is. She feels the familiar ache between her thighs as she drinks in the sight of him, chiseled and battle hardened.

“Now we are equal,” he reassures her.

He reaches for the cross around her neck, toying with it between his fingers, before giving a quick, hard tug, causing the cord to give way. “What we are about to do is no business of your nailed god,” he tells her, tossing it to one side.

He kisses her once more, slower this time, their mouths saving the feel of the other’s against it. Trailing featherlight kisses down her body until he reaches her breasts, he wraps his lips around one of their hardened peaks, sucking gently.

The sensation causes her to moan, a pleasurable sensation shooting through her body, pooling into wet warmth between her legs as she arches against him. 

Sigtryggr repeats the motion on the opposite breast, before descending further down, leaving wet kisses in his wake.

She freezes up when he grips her thighs, placing them over his shoulders so that his face is level with her most intimate of parts.

“What…what are you doing?” She asks anxiously.

“I’m going to taste you,” he says matter of factly, making pointed eye contact.

“You cannot do that,” she protests weakly, “it is an unclean thing to do.”

He grins at her, shaking his head slightly. “Christian,” the word leaves his mouth as a half hearted insult, before he presses forward.

The first swipe of his tongue against her folds causes her to gasp, her hands burying themselves in his hair as he uses his grip on her thighs to pull her closer, his tongue moving against her firmer, deeper, faster.

A groan of satisfaction rumbles in his throat, the vibrations causing her insides to clench as she bucks against his face, chasing the edge of oblivion that his tongue is pressing her towards.

He sucks at her pearl, before laving his tongue over it and she cries out as she spasms against his mouth, ecstasy numbing all of her senses as he continues to lap at her.

Once she relaxes, he pulls away, sitting back between her legs, his chin slick with her juices. His fist runs over the length of his cock as he takes in her blissful state and her eyes widen as she sees the size of him.

He is thick, long and slightly curved. She has never looked upon anyone’s manhood before and she trembles as she wonders how it will possibly fit inside of her.

Sensing her trepidation, Sigtryggr caresses her cheek with his palm. “Relax, little warrior, I have prepared you well.”

He presses the head of himself against her entrance and she braces herself, but then he stops. Her eyes flit to his questioningly.

“Beg for it,” he whispers.

She whines, wanting to hide her face in furs that they lay upon.

“Beg,” he says again, more insistently.

“Please,” he pushes forward, aided by her arousal and release, “please,” he pushes forward again, more of her swallowing him up, accompanied by the sensation of stretching and the slightest of stings, “please,” he pushes forward once more, finally sheathed fully inside of her.

She realises as he settles on top of her, giving her a moment to get used to the feeling of him, that this was merely a means to distract her so that she wouldn’t focus on the possibility of it hurting and grow tense. She smiles, stroking the wild tresses of his dark hair. Always so cunning.

He withdraws his hips slowly, before carefully pushing forward again. He repeats the motion several times, watching her face carefully.

As her breathing quickens, her brow relaxing as her jaw begins to slacken, he increases his pace, hips snapping against hers faster and faster, their kisses frenzied as they pant into each other’s mouths.

She feels him throb inside of her, the sensation pushes her back towards the precipice she’d fallen over earlier, but before she reaches it he is pulling out, spilling pearlescent ropes of spend across her belly.

He wipes her clean with a blanket, discarding it before laying down beside her and pulling her into his arms. A satisfied ache settles within her, she feels she could fall asleep like this, but his voice lulls her back to full consciousness.

“I have released the King’s sons back to him,” he tells her quietly.

“What will happen now?”

“He is sending a warrior named Uhtred into Winchester to negotiate terms, if I accept those terms then my men and I will move on.”

Her heart sinks. She cannot bear the thought of him leaving, not now she knows what it’s like to be in his arms. “Oh,” is all she is able to muster, pressing tighter to him.

They fall into a quiet doze, until he gently squeezes her shoulder. “I must go and speak with Uhtred.”

She watches sadly, quietly, as he dresses. He leans down to kiss her before he leaves and she pushes her lips eagerly to his. If he is to abandon her then she will cling to every last moment until he does.

When Sigtryggr returns later, she is dressed in her shift again, though her cross remains discarded. She is seated by the window, staring listlessly out of it.

He carries a bundle of clothing in his arms and she looks at him curiously.

“To keep you warm,” he explains, deepening her confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“I have discussed terms with Uhtred and we have reached an agreement. I will leave Winchester, on the condition that you accompany me…not as my prisoner, but as my woman.”

She grins, running into his arms and wrapping her arms around his neck.

As they ride away from Winchester, side by side on horseback, she does not feel as though she is leaving her life behind. On the contrary, it has just begun.

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[viking-chaos]

Of Irland, Chapter 24

Chapter 1 \\ Chapter 23 \\ Series Masterlist

Instead of being taken captive in Winchester, Stiorra leaves for Irland with a friend of her father’s. There she meets Sigtryggr, a Dane, the grandson of Ivar the Boneless.

Chapter 24: Ships and more Ships

Chapter Warnings: Language, threat, nothing serious really. Words: 3507 AO3 A/N: My heading layout has changed because I am using a different app.

“So, when will the ships arrive?”

“They will arrive when they arrive, Ivar, as I told you the last fifty times you asked.”

“But it hasn’t arrived yet!”

“I said it should arrive today. I didn’t say I knew what time exactly it would arrive. How am I supposed to know that?”

“You are a fucking seer! These are the sorts of things you’re supposed to ‘see’. So why can’t you just ‘see?’”

“Because it doesn’t work like that!”

This was the argument that greeted Sigtryggr and Stiorra as they made their way down the stairs to breakfast. Sigtryggr gave her hand one last squeeze before they parted. It was best for both of them that Ivar didn’t find out. They would keep their relationship a secret as long as possible.

“That is exactly how it is supposed to work!” Ivar said indignantly.

Drifa sighed, putting her head in her hands. “Ivar, I see death, life, grief and love. I do not see the exact time and place an enemy will approach. I do not see whether or not it will rain or snow. I certainly do not see the exact time that a ship will arrive.”

“You're not much of a seer then, are you?”

Drifa gave a defeated groan and turned to the newcomers, sitting themselves at the table.

“How was your night then?” she asked, a wide grin on her face.

Stiorra choked on her morning porridge. 

“My night would have been better if I knew a ship or two would arrive safely today with supplies and goods,” Ivar interjected.

“I wasn’t asking you,” Drifa retorted. 

This back and forth must have been going on for some time, as Drifa sighed and put her head in her hands. “And I have told you. The bloody ship arrives today. I don’t know what time.”

“What she means,” Asvard called out from a table across the room, “is she doesn’t give two shits about the ship. And you’re not even worth one!”

“Asvard!” Drifa admonished, but Stiorra could see her smiling. 

“You can go look out for the ship,” Ivar ordered. 

“You are not my king or my jarl, “Drifa reminded him, standing.

“You serve my family.”

“I serve Bjorn Ironside, Ivar. He is the king back home, or have you forgotten,” Drifa said, standing.

Stiorra froze. Bjorn Ironside. The brother of Ivar the Boneless? Drifa had often mentioned her king back ‘home’, wherever home was to her. But to have Bjorn Ironside as a king?

“But I will go.”

Ivar nodded. “Good.”

“Partly so she doesn’t have to look at your slimy shit-face countenance again,” Hæfnir piped up.

This time she didn’t even bother yelling at him. Just shook her head and left the hall.

“Bjorn Ironside?” Stiorra whispered to Sigtryggr. “Her lands were given to her by Bjorn Ironside?”

“No,” he answered. “They were given to her by his father. And my grandfather’s father.”

Stiorra sighed, flopping back in her seat. “Everyone seems to be related to everyone,” she grumbled.

___________________________________________________

After a rather tense and silent breakfast, Ivar ordered both of his brothers to make their way down to the docks to await the ship. Stiorra went with, partly so she would not be left alone in the Great Hall with Ivar. Rognvaldr vanished somewhere on the way. 

They found Drifa staring pointedly down the river. 

“What are you doing, my friend?” Sigtryggr asked, trying to figure out what she was staring so hard at. 

“I am following orders, Sigtryggr. I am ‘looking’ for the ship.”

Stiorra giggled. Trust Drifa to find some way of annoying Ivar.

A small crowd had started gathering around the dock, all eagerly awaiting the arrival of this ship. It was strange to Stiorra that one ship could gain so much interest, but given where it was coming, it almost seemed reasonable.

“Has this ship come straight from Fjall?” she asked. 

“No, the one before that never arrived did,” Drifa answered. “This ship came from the Mediterranean.”

“The where?”

Drifa chuckled slightly. “The Mediterranean is a sea. The Roman Empire once held sway over the lands that surrounded it. The ships that come from there are often laden with spices and silk, herbs, linen, many things. Anything that comes from there tends to be the best of the best. The lands there are rich in resources.”

As Drifa spoke, the crowd surrounding the docks swelled. People were jostling each other, trying to see if the boat had come. Fear of Drifa probably kept from coming too close.

A laugh from behind turned Stiorra around to see Sigtryggr laughing with his friend, Alvin, Arnas? She couldn’t remember.

Whatever his name was, he did not seem particularly pleased at his friend's hysterics.

“What did you do this time, you half-wit?” Drifa teased.

The red haired man rolled his eyes. “She was complaining that her back hurt, so I reminded her of the time I jumped off the walls in a snowstorm and landed back-first in a pile of snow,” he mumbled, now looking more ashamed of himself. “So she whalloped  me with one of her skirts.” 

Drifa, like Sigtryggr, burst out laughing. 

“Why would you jump off the walls in a snowstorm?” Stiorra asked, giggling herself because it sounded so stupid.

“Because I dared him too,” Sigtryggr answered. Stiorra’s jaw dropped. There was no way, Sigtryggr, of all people, would dare his best friend to do something so ridiculously idiotic. He was too responsible, level-headed, and intelligent.…

“I was young and foolish once, too, Stiorra,” he said, seeing her expression. He stepped closer and placed a finger under her chin, applying the barest of pressures until her mouth was shut.

They stared in each other's eyes for what seemed like an eternity. A small pool of wetness grew between her thighs.

The moment lasted until Sigtryggr’s friend swung his arm around the much taller Dane and whispered conspiratorially in his ear, “Are you humping her?”

“Anlaf!” Sigtryggr snapped back at him. Anlaf (that was his name then) held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. 

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I won’t be telling Ivar. He scares me more than he scares you.”

Sigtryggr scoffed. “Ivar doesn’t scare me.”

He was lying. Stiorra could see it in his eyes. Ivar scared them all. 

Drifa walked up to them, having apparently abandoned her ‘efforts’ to search for the ship.

“Anlaf, you should try being pregnant sometime. When you wake up, you need to pee, to get up, you have to roll over. You have to be careful not to roll on your overly large belly that swells in front of you, while that same belly prevents you from rolling yourself over.”

Anlaf sighed, rubbing his forehead.

“When you finally do get up and pee, your back hurts. You sit down and you need to pee again. Your arse hurts, your breasts have swelled and they hurt,” she continued. “And on top of that, you have a husband who complains that you're always hurting, because you are, you never satisfy his needs because you’re too tired. You have your own needs, which your husband is too afraid of hurting the baby to satisfy, and he still expects you to cook his meals, and clean the house he pays for, and clean his clothes, make the bed, mend his shirts among other things. All of which you are too bloody pregnant to do.”

Everyone just stared at her for a moment. 

“Have you ever had a baby, Drifa?” Anlaf asked, shocked, “because I can’t for the life of me figure out how you know all of that without having any children.”

“Perhaps I have had children and you just don't know about it,” she joked. No-one laughed with her. Stiorra almost believed it for a moment. “Because as the midwife who checks on your wife every week, that is what she tells me.”

Anlaf nodded, looking, if it was possible, even more ashamed of himself.

“It is also what every woman tells me when I visit. They tell me their husbands do nothing to help. That they’re useless. Some husbands do not care to help.”

“Tell me what I can do, Jarl Drifa?” Anlaf asked. “What can I do to help her?”

“You can help look after your daughter, you can help her with whatever tasks need doing around the house. Let her rest, put her feet up.”

“You could rub her feet,” Sigtryggr suggested out of nowhere. Stiorra looked at him blankly. How does he know that?

Seeing her confused expression, he smiled. “I also help in the hospital sometimes.”

Suddenly someone yelled, “SHIP! THERE’S A SHIP!”

The crowds jostled impatiently. Drifa signalled to some of her men to keep the crowds back. Stiorra was searching frantically for this ship.

Drifa’s ships were somewhat famous. As a traveller, she had to take a large enough ship to carry as much supplies as possible, as well as the men and women she’d bring with. She never wanted to bring a whole fleet, just to carry supplies. And so once, not long before she set on an extremely long voyage, She designed an enormous ship, large enough to carry around two-hundred men. The only problem was that many were built before she realised she didn't need dozens of ships that could carry an army twice the size of the army she already commanded. So she loaned them out to traders in return of a particular tax and a particular set of rules. This route went all the way from her own lands in Fjall, through Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and over the North Sea to Lunden and Wessex, places in Frankia, Espana, all the way through the Mediterranean. And of course, Dyflin. The route even connected to the Silk Road that led all the way to China. All places Stiorra had never been to, or barely even heard of. This venture earned her a lot of money, as well as the taxes she received from Fjall itself. There was a theory that she was the richest person in the entire world, although that would never be confirmed.

As the ship finally entered view in the harbour, Stiorra was finally able to see the true size of these things. She’d never seen one of these ships up close. Even the one they’d used to get to Dyflin had been a regular longship. And it was enormous. The hull itself was taller than even Sigtryggr. This boat was longer and wider than any ship that had ever been built. Stiorra even wondered how it was afloat. It finally came to rest at the docks, docks that had been specially built to accommodate the sheer size of it. The bright red sail appeared to be made of at least four regular sails stitched together. 

“Four times the size of your regular knarr. Can hold four times the amount of cargo, yet with a very similar amount of crew,” Drifa said proudly and the gangplank was lowered.

A dark haired man wearing a bright red cloak like the sails stepped down the plank. He had a bushy beard that obscured half his face. His bright blue eyes just peeped out from the tangle of his hair.

“Ornulf!” Drifa called, waving to him. The trader, Ornulf, walked slowly down the plank, limping as though he had been wounded. “What happened to you?”

Ornulf stumbled off the end of the plank as though his legs were not used to standing on unmoving ground. Sigtryggr, the hero he was, caught him before he hit the ground. “Pirates happened.” 

Sigtryggr then guided him over to a bench, where the trader sat, rubbing his leg.

“So, you know what happened to the previous ship?” he asked.

“I do, Lord.”

Men started to unload the large ship, but all eyes were on Ornulf.

“We had just arrived in Cookham for Yol, as you instructed, Jarl,” he began. “Lord Uhtred told us about the ship. And he said that two of the pirates had gone into town, gotten themselves drunk, and they foolishly boasted about their conquest. Lord Uhtred informed me that they apprehended the men in question. I offered to bring them here to you for judgement, given it was your ship they sank.”

Ornulf signalled to two of his men.

“Did these men say who they were?” Drifa asked.

“One was called Hermand, the other Anlaf.”

A struggle on the deck caught the attention of those watching. Two of Ornulfs burlier men were dragging two younger smaller men down the ramp.

The first was tall and muscular. His dark hair was long and braided. His face was covered in intricate tattoos that extended down his neck into his armour. Most curious though, was the pendant in the shape of a bear around his neck. Most warriors wore a hammer to represent Thor.

Stiorra glanced at Sigtryggr and noticed him grip his sword tight. She laid a gentle hand on his arm, hoping to calm him.

“That man there is a berserker, like Hæfnir,” he whispered. 

“But Hæfnir doesn’t wear that pendant,” she whispered back.

“People call him a berserker because he fights like one, in a crazed trance, but he is not a true berserker in the way most think of it. He is called that for a joke.”

The second man was not quite as tall or burly. His face was long and thin, his hair was long, as was the fashion, but unbraided and wild. As he came closer, Sigtryggr relaxed his stance and sighed audibly. He muttered something in Irish that sounded like a swear word.

Once both were standing in front of him, he approached the berserker. “Hermund,” he said by way of greeting. “I am sorry about your wife.”

Hermund snapped to look at him in shock. “Did you not hear?” Drifa said. “She died giving birth to your son, Ingilmundr. The boy is here, he has been cared for by his uncle Anlaf.”

Stiorra looked at him. Anlaf was tense as well, holding onto the axe strapped to his belt.

“Brother,” he called over. 

Sigtryggr moved onto the other. “Nephew,” he said.

Stiorra froze. Nephew. One of the raiders was his nephew? But Ivar doesn’t have any children.

“Take them both to the Great Hall. And someone tell Ivar,” Sigtryggr ordered.

Stiorra raced after him as he started to walk off. The crowds surged forwards now the fun was over, wanting various items from the immense ship.

“Sigtryggr!” she yelled after him. He stopped and grabbed her hand to pull her through the crowd safely. 

Once they were both out of the crowds, she was able to ask him the question on her mind.

“You never said you had a nephew,” she said.

“His father is Ivar’s older brother, Guthfrith,” he explained. She remembered Drifa saying something about him, that he left Dyflin many years ago.

“Around the time I was born, Guthfrith had a falling out with Ivar. I was only a babe, so I don’t know much about it. I only know it was bad enough for Guthfrith to leave with his wife. Five years later, his wife came back, heavily pregnant and covered in bruises. Drifa was there at the time, creating a trade deal with my father. Guthfrith’s wife gave birth a week after she came back and died, but she was alive long enough to name her son Anlaf, and to ask my father to raise him, which he did.

“Five years ago, Anlaf left with his best friend, Hermand, who is my friend, Anlaf’s brother. They both left to find his father, and we haven’t heard anything since. Hermand was married, and his wife was with child. She gave birth six months after they left, dying ten days later, after begging her brother-in-law’s to raise her son.”

There was silence between them at the end of his story. 

“Your friend has another brother?” she asked tentatively.

“Yes, his name is Skoll Grimmarsson,” he answered, “and he is Ivar’s best friend.”

A loud clanking turned both of them around. Drifa was walking towards them, Asvard beside her carrying a large box.

“And Skoll Grimmarsson is one ugly pain in the arse,” Drifa added. “We don’t like him.”

Who could be surprised? A friend of Ivar’s was likely to be just as bad as him.

“It is a complicated family,” she sighed. “First you have two Anlafs. We call the nephew Anlaf, Other Anlaf.”

Stiorra giggled. 

“Then there’s the fact that yous two are cousins.”

Stiorra gaped at her. Sigtryggr looked as though she was mad (which she was).

“It’s true!” she insisted. “Gisela was the daughter of Harthacanute, who was the son of Sigurd Snake-Eye, who’s brother was Ivar the Boneless. You’re second cousins once removed, I think.”

Still they stared.

“It’s not incest!” she protested. “It doesn’t count!”

“Not like them,” Asvard said. 

“Oh, yes, them.”

“Who’s them?” Sigtryggr asked, exceedingly confused.

“Them who shall not be named are famous for the incest. But, they shall not be names,” Drifa said, tapping the side of her nose with a finger. “Besides the point,” she gestured to Asvard, “a present from Lord Uhtred of Cookham to his daughter.”

Asvard presented the box to Stiorra. Drifa hit him on the head. “Take it up to her room, you oaf, it’s heavy.” Asvard grumbled as he walked off in the general direction of the Great Hall. "You're welcome," she added. 

"Umm, thank you?" Stiorra said quizzically. She wasn't really sure that being told she had humped her cousin had been at all necessary. 

Sigtryggr tapped her shoulder and whispered, “You should go back to the room and open your presents. Drifa and I have to have a little talk,” he finished with glare in the skald’s direction.

_______________________________________

Back in the Great Hall (Ivar had mercifully left to deal with the arrival of the ship), Asvard was just coming down the stairs that led to the bedrooms. He held out an arm to stop Stiorra from going any further.

“Lady, um” he started, “I’m not sure how to say this, but the roof to your room collapsed.” Shit. That was not good. She distantly heard Asvard say something about leaving the box in Sigtryggr’s room, which was probably for the best. Ifhe had it his way, he would never leave. She managed to let out a thank you to the man before continuing on her way. 

She could see her door at the end of the corridor open. She glanced briefly. The damage was extensive. She would not be sleeping there for a good while.

Now, then, what did my father send me for Yol. She would worry more about her room after she’d seen what she got.

The box was sitting at the end of Sigtryggr’s bed. Stiorra hesitated before opening it, remembering how her father (or more often, whoever was not drunk) had to stop Finan from giving her something inappropriate for Yol. He would often drag poor Osferth (who would be too drunk to even realise what was going on) with him.

Poor baby monk. He’d been so innocent once (or so she had been told).

But then, her father would never have let this box out of Cookham without checking it thoroughly first. She opened it, and began to pull out the contents one by one. There was a trinket from Osferth, a string of beads. Finan had sent her a small flagon of ale. Sihtric had sent a drawing that appeared to have been done by one of his children. 

And then there was Uhtred. He’d gifted her a knife. A sensible gift. A note was attached. “I hope you never need to use this.”

Tears started leaking out of her eyes. She hadn’t seen any of them for months now. 

The door opened softly behind her. It was Sigtryggr. She could tell by the careful footsteps.

There was a light metallic clatter as he removed his sword and belt. Then his arms came around her.

“Has something happened, my love?”

Her heart gave a jolt as he said those two words. It had only been a few days. She wondered if she’d ever get used to hearing them from his mouth.

“Everything is fine.”

“You’re crying.” Damn him for being so observant. “What’s wrong?”

He turned her around to face him, gently wiping away her tears.

“I miss home, my father, my ‘uncles’.”

“Even the ones that get each other in trouble,” he smiled, trying to cheer her up.

“That would be Finan dragging poor Osferth into his schemes,” she chuckled through her tears. 

“Osferth, the baby monk?” he confirmed. Stiorra nodded. 

“I hope I get to take you to meet all of them, one day,” she mused.

“Hmm,” he’d said. “I may be rather afraid.”

“Why? From what I’ve seen, you’re afraid of nothing.”

“Just think about what would happen when the Dane-Slayer finds out that a Dane is humping his daughter.”

She hadn’t thought of that.

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[timetravelingpenguin1066]

Of Irland, Chapter 1

Series Masterlist

Instead of being taken captive in Winchester, Stiorra leaves for Irland with a friend of her father’s. There she meets Sigtryggr, a Dane, the grandson of Ivar the Boneless.

Chapter 1: Let Me Go

Chapter warnings: Drinking, Language, Mentions of SA Words: 3977 A/N: This was originally posted on AO3, now being added onto Tumblr. AO3

“Drifa please,” she begged. “Please let me come with you.”

“I cannot,” Drifa sighed. 

They’d been going around in circles for what must have been an hour. Simply put, Stiorra was bored with her life in Coccham. She yearned for adventure and excitement. Things that Coccham did not offer. She’d been surrounded by the same men for years on end, forced to have a Christian education. But she believed in the gods. Stiorra had no intention of remaining in Coccham where, one day, possibly soon, she’d be sold into marriage to a man she despised. It had happened to Aethelflaed. She did not want it to happen to her.

Drifa was leaving for Irland to help the Danes who were in trouble there. She’d once served Young Ragnar there and helped him make a name for himself. Drifa had been at Ethandun and at Dunholm, which was where she met and befriended Uhtred. Then Ragnar was killed, and she’d spent a few years in her home far across the sea in Norway. She held land and was a Jarl there. When she came back, she’d brought some men with her. And now they’d stopped in Coccham on their way out to Irland, to adventure, which was exactly what Stiorra wanted.

“I will not risk your father’s wrath,” Drifa said. She was not afraid of Uhtred, but that did not mean she wanted to lose his friendship. “Irland will be very dangerous. A war zone. It would not be sensible to take you there.”

“I can defend myself,” Stiorra insisted, drawing her knife. “Anywhere is better than here. Please!”

“Stiorra, you are the Dane Slayer’s daughter. I am going into a nest of Danes. If they find out who you are, half would want to hump you, and the other half would want to kill you as vengeance.”

“I can defend myself,” she repeated. 

Drifa sighed, running out of excuses. They had ranged from not enough room on the boat (“I’m small, I won’t take up much room.”) to not having enough horses (“I can ask my father to give me a horse”). 

“Please, Drifa. I want to live amongst my mother’s people, to find the part of myself that died when she was taken from me.”

 Drifa did not have a good counter to that. Gisela had been her friend. 

“Please, Drifa,” Stiorra pleaded. “ Let me go .”

Drifa groaned, turning towards the window, and leaning on the frame. She sighed, conceding. Stiorra would make a good politician. “Fine,” she growled, grudgingly, not happy to be admitting defeat. “You may come.”

Stiorra jumped up in victory. 

“But,” Drifa warned. “But.” 

Stiorra stopped jumping. 

“You will follow my every order. You are one of my people now.” 

Stiorra nodded. 

At that moment, Finan’s voice called up the stairs. “Unless you want us to eat all the food, you two better come down here!”

“Not on your life, Finan,” Drifa joked to the Irishman. “Not on your life.”

“Then hurry up. I’m starving.”

Drifa looked back at Stiorra, who’d been giggling, her face turning serious. “I will tell you all you need to know on the journey. And Stiorra,” she told her. “You had better remember it all.”

“How’s the food, Drifa?” Uhtred asked.

“Delicious as always, Uhtred,” Drifa said. “My compliments to whoever made this.” She was just being polite, as always, Stiorra could tell. The stew was disgusting.

“It was Finan who made it,” she informed. 

“Well, in that case,” Drifa began. She swallowed another spoonful, and grimaced. “You need to find yourself a woman,” she spluttered. 

Everyone began to laugh. 

“I have no idea how you’re even alive if this is what you eat.”

"So, Drifa," Uhtred said, when the laughter had simmered down, "tell us a story from Irland. I'm sure you have one you have not yet told." 

"Oh, always, Uhtred, always," she chuckled.

"Well, then," goaded Finan, "tell us a story from home."

Drifa put her spoon down and thought for a moment. “Which one do you want me to tell?” she questioned.

“Innis dhaibh am fear mu dheidhinn a 'phut,” proposed Asvard, Drifa’s best friend and advisor.

“Chan eil mi cinnteach gur e deagh bheachd a tha sin,” she said, raising her eyebrows in a jokey manner.

“Would it kill either one of you to speak a language we can understand?” Finan said exasperated. 

“Just tell the story!” encouraged Sihtric. 

Drifa nodded. She downed her cup of ale and set it down.

“One night,” she began, “I was walking the streets of Deflyn. The moon was out, the stars were shining. It was peaceful. I was walking to the tavern, in need of ale. And, I hoped, to watch the world go by. I’m almost there, just around the corner, when I hear this noise.” 

At this moment, Asvard let out a large snort. She glared at him murderously and he quickly changed his laugh into a cough. Stiorra began smiling. Drifa’s stories, at least the funny ones, always led somewhere inappropriate. She silently hoped her father would forget she was there and not tell Drifa to stop.

After she was finished glaring, Drifa continued: “Now this noise, it sounded like a dog. And I do not really like dogs, so I went to investigate.” 

Hæfnir had most of his fist stuffed in his mouth, desperate not to laugh. Jomar was staring fixedly at his plate, a smile teasing the corner of his mouth. 

“I drew my knife.” 

Another poorly concealed snort. Stiorra was staring to giggle herself now, in anticipation. 

“I walked to the door. I slowly opened it.” 

A small chorus of snorting. Everyone on the edge of their seats. “And I was confronted by this magnificent, wonderful, beautiful view of a…” she paused for dramatic effect. “A butt.” 

A massive snort came from her men. Asvard had his face in the crook of his elbow. Stiorra choked on her drink.

“WHAT?” Uhtred shouted, perplexed. 

“You heard me!” Drifa said indignantly. “A butt, an arse, a buttocks, bum. Derrière, if you’re a Frank.” She paused for a breath. “A butt!” She took two chicken legs and two bones laying them on her plate like a butt… but with something else. 

Stiorra began to understand.

“You mean to say,” began Sihtric. “That you walked in on someone… um,” he stopped, not wanting to say the word in front of Uhtred and in the presence of his daughter.

“Humping?” Stiorra said, innocently. There was silence. You could have heard a pin drop. 

Uhtred’s eyes widened. “Stiorra!” he admonished. 

The silence began again. Then all hell broke loose.

Hæfnir fell off his chair, taking his wife, who’d been sitting on his lap, with him. Sigbjorn fell face first in his food, prompting Ingemar to laugh at him so he shoved Ingemar’s face into his food. Asvard fell back off his chair. Finan and Sihtric clung to each other. Osferth had stopped with his spoon halfway to his mouth. 

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait,” Finan spluttered. “What did you do?”

“Well, what do you think I did? I turned tail and ran.” 

They started to laugh again. 

Drifa held up a hand. She was not finished. “And I spent the rest of the night at the tavern trying to forget what I had just seen.”

“Well, did you know who the arse belonged to?” asked a puzzled Osferth. 

There was a snort from Sihtric.

“I knew exactly who it belonged to. The funny part is that when I woke up, he was coming out of a house. But not the house I’d walked into.”

“So,” Finan sputtered, “are you saying he humped two different women in one night?” 

Everyone looked at her.

“That is precisely what I am saying.” 

Silence followed her words. When the hilarity exploded this time, Stiorra half expected soldiers to come running with how loud they all got.

When everyone had calmed down, Drifa spoke again. “Bear in mind that this happened a few years ago, when he went through a…” she paused, thinking of the right word, “rebellious streak.”

“Must have been one hell of a rebellious streak if he was humping two women in one night,” Finan joked.

“Oh, yes. His brothers gave him hell for that.”

“He reminds me of Hæfnir,” Unn recalled. 

Mutual agreement spread through the table. Hæfnir was still picking himself up off the floor.

Another hour of feasting, laughing and joking flew by. Drifa began ordering her people to bed (“To sleep ,” she emphasised) and Stiorra, exhausted, followed suit. 

She collapsed on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. Tomorrow, she would be riding away, far away from here. Riding to Irland.

Stiorra was woken the next morning by someone shaking her. She opened her eyes, finding herself staring back into Drifa’s blue-green ones. Her eyes almost seemed to glow, even in the half-light of dawn. Seeing she was awake, Drifa left the room, her footsteps barely audible. 

Stiorra rubbed her eyes and glanced out the window. There was barely a sliver of sun visible on the horizon. Yawning and stretching, she got up, dressed, and tiptoed downstairs. Drifa’s men also seemed tired but were busily packing a few remaining things. Stiorra followed suit.

They crept out of the house, trying not to wake anyone. Drifa left a note on the table for Uhtred. They mounted their horses and rode off. They rode long and hard. There wasn’t much conversation, the noise of the horses was too loud. The wind whipped through Stiorra’s hair, stinging her eyes, but she kept them open, not wanting to miss one bit of this incredible journey. 

She was leaving home. She was going to Irland. 

She’d be able to live amongst her mother’s people, the people that had raised her father. She was no longer tied down and stuck in Coccham, waiting, and dreading the day she’d be forced to marry someone she despised. 

She was free.

They stopped only once, partly to relieve themselves and partly to eat. That was at midday. The next time Drifa called a halt, it was dark. 

Stiorra was exhausted. She almost collapsed getting off the horse. 

Unn cooked a stew for supper. It was eaten in silence, everyone too tired to talk. 

Once all the bowls were clean, Stiorra laid down on her bedroll and slept.

She was awoken the next morning by Drifa. Again. The sun was barely up. Stiorra groaned, leaving the warmth and softness of her bedroll for the cold hardness of the saddle. 

And again, they rode. Long and hard. Onwards and onwards. The trees and grass and hills seemed never-ending. Wessex was so much bigger than she had thought. They rode so fast; Stiorra was surprised that they had barely stopped. Drifa seemed desperate to get to Irland.

By evening, the party came to a stop at a port town called Bristou. Drifa arranged lodgings for the night while everyone else secured their horses. Stiorra was tying her horse in the stables when Thora, Frida and Mœid appeared at her shoulder. 

“We’re going to the market,” Thora informed. “Would you like to come?”

Stiorra eagerly accepted.

The market was bustling, even as the sun went down. There were stalls selling all kinds of things, things Stiorra had never seen before. There was gold jewellery from the Far East, swords and fabric from Frankia, furs and axes from Scandinavia. 

Stiorra was surprised. 

Danes were free to trade here.

She turned her head, left and right, not knowing where to look. 

Frida was looking at the Frankish linen, Thora and Mœid were admiring the jewellery. 

Stiorra could have sworn she saw Hæfnir at one of the stalls, buying something for his wife.

The fun ended too soon. Asvard came and told them that it was time to eat and then to sleep. “There is still another leg of the journey.”

The Innkeeper did not seem particularly happy about so many Danes sat at one of his tables, but Drifa’s silver kept him quiet. She seemed to have an endless supply.

 Stiorra wondered how she got it all. 

Over supper, Drifa finally told Stiorra why they had rushed so quickly to get there. “The Danes in Irland will need help if they do not already. Cnut should be going to help them, but I do not trust him. He is slippery.”

“Who’s in charge in Irland?” Stiorra asked. She was sure Drifa had mentioned it before, but she could not remember.

“Irland was conquered by Ivar the Boneless. It was passed to his son, Ivarr and now it is ruled by his sons: Ivar, Sigtryggr and Rognvaldr.”

“What are they like?”

“Ivar is… stupid, ugly and an arse. Rognvaldr is less ugly, but drunk and an arse. Sigtryggr is…” she paused. “Sigtryggr is smart, like his grandfather.”

“She paused because she thinks Sigtryggr is han-” Drifa’s cousin, Asfrid began.

“You shut your mouth!”

Asvard spat out his drink.

Much later, Stiorra lay on her bed, thinking about Irland. Thoughts were whirling round and round her head. What would Irland be like? What would its rulers be like? She’d said Ivar was stupid. Was he like Cnut? And Rognvaldr, a drunk. A drunk she could imagine. And then there was Sigtryggr. Smart as his grandfather. He had to be a formidable warrior.

Stiorra shook her head, trying to empty her mind of these thoughts. She couldn’t start obsessing over people she had never met. One last leg… That last leg on a boat. She’d never been on a boat.

Only a few more days until she stepped on non-English soil.

Stiorra threw up over the side of the boat. The wind blew some of it back in her face. 

Ingemar laughed. “Still have to find your sea legs!” he jeered. 

She glared at him while the others joined him in laughing. 

Drifa let out a small smile. She stood at the prow of the ship, looking out for Irland. 

Stiorra found that she liked a boat even less than a horse. A horse left pain in your head and your arse. A boat left waves of dizziness, followed by bouts of sickness. If she had to choose, she’d take the horse. When she did not feel sick, she gazed around her. If she squinted, she could see Wealas on one side, and a part of Irland on the other, barely a ghost on the horizon.

The sea churned beneath them again. Another vomiting session. The boat sailed further West. Soon enough, land was properly in sight. They docked on a beach near a village called Trá Mhór. 

“I will go in,” Drifa was saying. “We don’t know what has happened these last few years.”

“So, we stay on the boat?” Stiorra asked Thora.

“We stay on the boat,” she said, “and let Drifa find out what has happened. Then we will sail on to Deflyn.”

Drifa was gone until long after dark. When she came back, she told them that a rebellion had started forming. “They’ve raided a few villages, but apparently nothing serious enough to get Ivar’s attention.”

“Ivar ignores his people being killed?” Stiorra said, confused. What man did not care for his own people.

“Like I said. Stupid. Maybe I should have added another stupid,” Drifa joked.

“Ivar Ivarrsson does not give a shit about his people,” Asvard said. “As long as the Irish are not bothering him, safe in Deflyn, then no, he does not care.”

“Not all men are like your father,” Unn told her.

The boat began to move again. The sickness returned. By the afternoon of the next day, the end of the journey was in sight. 

“Feast your eyes on Deflyn!” Drifa announced. 

Deflyn was a small city, far smaller than Winchester. Its walls were made with wooden logs. Small watchtowers were dotted around the city. A few scouts were visible in the trees, but they did not bother the ship.

The ship was docked, and the group walked into the city of Deflyn. It was messy and crowded. There was a market street, traders shouting, showing off their wares. All kinds of things were sold. The market was almost as busy as Bristou had been, perhaps more so. Taverns were everywhere. Men already deep in their cups. Women sitting on their laps. A few people waved at Drifa. One man stumbled up and cheered, forgetting the woman who was now picking herself up off the floor. She punched the man in the face. The man, drunk as he was, tried to hit her and ended punching someone else. A tavern brawl in earnest.

This was what freedom looked like. What being a Dane looked like. This bustling city, with its wooden houses and noisy people. 

Stiorra loved it.

The party walked on to the Great Hall. It was easily the largest building there. Danish carving decorated the door frames. There were many windows all over. It was like a palace. The inside of it was full of smoke and rather stuffy. 

Stiorra could make out the vague shapes of men sitting at the long tables. Suddenly, the smoke cleared. She glanced at Drifa. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted back. She had used her magic to clear the smoke. Stiorra turned her attention to the raised dais at the back of the hall.

A long table was perched on top. There were many seats, but only three men were actually sat there. The one on the left had long brown hair and a pointed face. A small beard covered his chin. Stiorra suspected that this must be Rognvaldr, particularly as the next thing he did was pick his mug of ale and drink deeply. 

She could not see the one on the right. He was shrouded in shadow. 

The middle one had stood, glaring warningly at the newcomers. He stomped around the table, and towards Drifa. Up close, Stiorra could see that he was large. His hair was red and long. His beard thick and streaked with grey. His eyes were a cold blue.

“Who are you, stranger?” he said, his voice harsh.

“I am many things. If it is my name you want, then ask for it,” Drifa retorted. “Otherwise, I shall go into the long meandering ramble of who I am.”

“Then your name.”

“My name is Jarl Drifa,” she told him. “And what might your name be?” 

He glared at her. 

She glared back. Then she broke into a wide grin and started laughing. 

His harsh expression shattered too, and he joined in. “She’s back!” he called to the Hall. The men too began to laugh. “Come, sit, eat, drink,” he offered, leading Drifa and her people to the table. 

Asvard pulled Stiorra along with him. He dumped her unceremoniously in the seat next to the man in the shadows. She turned to speak to him, but he got up and left. All she saw of him was the back of his head, his long mane of hair.

“So, tell us, Jarl Drifa,” Ivar was saying, “what new stories do you have to entertain us this time?!”

Rognvaldr noisily swallowed his food. “It had better not be another version of the story of my brother’s arse!” 

Asvard snorted into his ale.

“I could tell you of your own arse!” Drifa joked.

“You could tell us of this woman you have brought with you,” Ivar suggested. 

Stiorra did not like the way he was eyeballing her.

“Leave off the eye-fucking,” Jomar told him. 

Ivar raised an eyebrow at his language.

“Jomar,” Drifa sighed, “I swear, that one of these days, I am going to kill you.” She took a deep breath, and then yelled, “SHUT IT WITH THE LANGUAGE!” 

Asvard choked on his ale.

“Like you have any control either,” he spluttered.

“Faodaidh tu do bheul beag inneil a dhùnadh agus a bhith nas lugha de tholl asail,” she jabbered.

“Like I said.”

“What did she say,” asked Ivar.

“I told him to shut up.”

“You do know asail actually means donkey.” 

At this, Drifa splashed her ale in his face, to which he responded by punching her. The men cheered, egging them on. 

Stiorra half expected Ivar to put a stop to the fight, but he too joined in the egging.

Danes, she thought.

The feast lasted for many hours, and there were many more drinks and fights. A man, very drunk, tried to get Drifa to hump him. 

She replied by kicking him in between his legs. At some point, Drifa stumbled over and suggested that she take herself back to the house. 

Drifa had pointed out the street that she and her warriors lived on, and Stiorra was confident that she could make her way there. She lurched up, a little drunk herself, and began to slowly walk.

The night air outside the Hall was cool. Stiorra hadn’t realised how hot it was in there. She took a few deep lungfuls of the soothing air, and began to walk. Well, stumble. She was drunk enough that she did not look where she was going. Then she collided with something hard. 

That something hard turned out to be a Dane. This Dane turned to see what hit him and found himself looking at a small, drunk girl. He sneered. 

Stiorra started to back away. “Where are you going, woman?” he slurred. “Are you lost? I could help you find your way.”

Stiorra kept moving back. “I am going home. I know where I live.”

“It is not safe for a woman to be alone in these parts.” His hand shot out, catching her wrist. 

Stiorra struggled, trying to break free. 

“Stop fighting!” he ordered. “It will do you no good.” The Dane dragged her into an alley. 

She tried screaming, but he blocked her mouth. She wriggled, viciously, trying to dislodge herself. But the Dane was strong and huge. She heard a ripping noise. And she begged the gods to save her.

A whoosh, then a thwack, and the Dane was pushed off her. Stiorra fell face first into the ground. She glanced behind her, wondering who her saviour was. 

The Dane who’d tried to attack her was getting up on his feet, but there was another Dane. Her helper punched the man again. And again. And soon, the Dane who attacked her was no longer moving. 

The other rose, turning his attention to her. He came towards her, and she backed away. But he knelt down, holding his hand up. “ I will not harm you, ” was all he said. 

Stiorra stopped moving. 

She could only see a sliver of his face, an eye. An ice-blue eye. Like Ivar’s. Only this one was warmer. 

He held out his hand to her and she took it. His hand was warm and rough. His eyes (for she assumed there was another) looked her up and down. He released her hand and shrugged out of his tunic. He held it out. 

She took it, pulling it down over her own head. It smelled of leather and iron. A nice smell. 

He offered her his hand again and pulled her up. She stumbled slightly, and strong, muscled arms caught her. He picked her up and carried her. 

She still said nothing, wondering at this handsome stranger who saved her. Her drunkenness was causing her to become dizzy, so she still could not see his face.

He carried her to the houses that Drifa had mentioned. 

Stiorra wondered if this was perhaps one of her other men. The ones who’d been sent before. 

He knocked on a door and it opened to reveal Torgärd. 

She gasped at seeing Stiorra’s beaten and bruised state.

Stiorra faintly heard her thanking the man and began pulling her inside.

“Wait,” Stiorra said. “Who are you?”

She turned around to see him better.

“I am Sigtryggr.”

#sigtryggr #sigtryggr imagine #sigtryggr the last kingdom #sigtryggr TLK #sigtryggr ivarsson #the last kingdom #TLK #sigtryggr fan fiction #sigtryggr fanfiction #sigtryggr fanfic #sigtryggr fan fic #the last kingdom fan fiction #the last kingdom fanfiction #the last kingdom fan fic #the last kingdom fanfic #stiorra #stiorra the last kingdom #tlk fic #the last kingdom fic

[mommytauriel]

+ · 。~ favorite physical touch

pairing.uhtred, finan, sihtric, osferth & sigtrygger x female reader |genre. fluff, reactions? Idk what to call this | warnings. Touching and some kissing | wc. 692 |

synopsis. some sexy tlk men’s favorite physical touch with there girl

request. no

note. I got this cute idea when I was watching kitchen nightmares, weird right? i really want to write more for other characters, just need some suggestions 👩🏻‍💻 this is kinda short, but it’s sweet. Maybe I’ll make a part 2 in the future!

☆ UHTRED

laying his head on your chest

Uhtred loves laying his head on your chest, for multiple reasons. One, because it's very comfortable, being able to lay down and just close his eyes, feeling your warmth. The second reason is because he loves being able to hear the soothing beat of your heartbeat. He has lost so many people that he's loved in his life, so being able to have you close to him and knowing that you're there, that you're safe…that you're alive. It's very special to him. The two of you don't even have to talk, just lay in silence; in bliss in the bed, you two shares. It's very intimate. 

☆ FINAN

cuddling

Finan absolutely loves cuddling with you, he loves how close it makes the two of you become. It doesn't matter what position, as long as the two of you are as close as you can be, he's fine with it. Finan doesn't mind showing some public affection but the two of you mostly cuddle at home, in bed or his favorite place, the soft fur rug in front of the fireplace. Finan’s favorite part of his day is when the two of you wind down, and cuddle on the rug in front of the fire, drinking some ale and talking about your days. Sometimes he would even interrupt you to place a few kisses on your skin that was illuminated by the fire. It was peaceful, it was warm. 

☆ SIHTRIC

hugging you close

It was hard for sihtric to really find his favorite physical touch, there all his favorites. But the more he thought about it, he realized that hugging you was his favorite. He hugged you when he was sad, when he was upset, when he was happy. He loved hugging you; he loved being able to pull you close and wrap his arms around you. He loved the smile that would spread across your lips when he pulled you close to him, or how flustered and shy you would get when he would lean to whisper flirty comments in your ear. Either it was hugging you from behind or the front, he loved it. He also hugged you and left a kiss on your forehead before he would have to leave (and ofc a breathtaking kiss). There was just something about hugging you that gets him going. 

☆ OSFERTH

resting his head on you

Osferth is a shy boy, at first that is. He was too shy to show public affection towards you around others, so he left all that for when the two of you were alone. But he started noticing something that he did in public and private without realizing, and that had quickly become his favorite thing to do. And that was resting his head on you. When the two of you sat next to each other, he would rest his head on your shoulder and watch your side profile, taking in every detail about you that he could. He also liked resting his head in your lap, looking up at you or the sky, listening to you talk or just quietly relaxing to the feeling of you playing with his hair. He loved it so much; it was just so comforting to be like this with you. 

☆ SIGTRYGGR

kissing you

Okay, Sigtryggr is a very touchy lover, so it's hard to pick just one. But thinking about it more, he realizes that kissing you is his favorite physical touch. He does it quite a lot, like a lot. In the mornings he wakes you up by placing soft kisses all over your face and neck, he loves the way your nose scrunches in confusion and your eyes flutter open, only too sleepily smile when you realize what's happening. You would lose count with how many times he would kiss you through the day, on the lips, on the cheek and even on your hand. He likes to surprise you and kiss you on the cheek, alerting you of his presence. He likes grabbing your hand in his and kissing it gently as he keeps his eyes on you, he likes kissing your shoulder and neck from behind. And let's not forget the breathtaking kisses the two of you share. 

note: this was fun to write omg! This was my first time writing something for osferth, uhtred and sigtrygger. I want to write more for them, I have some ideas 👩🏻‍🍳

I’m honestly just re-falling in love with sigtrygger like omg 😩🤭

I know I haven’t gotten a full fic out in a whileee, but I just have been having trouble really focusing on a fic. But don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll get my grove back!

Like I said at the first note, this is pretty short but maybe I’ll make a part 2 in the future.

I hope you guys enjoyed this!

Please comment and tell me what you think of it, I would love to hear your thoughts.

Likes comments and reblogs are very much appreciated!!

taglist: @clairacassidy @mads-weasley @bubblyabs @sihtricfedaraaahvicius

copyright © 2023, all rights reserved. you can't copy, translate, reproduce, repost my fic, use my plot or layout.

#the last kingdom #the last kingdom x reader #the last kingdom fanfic #uhtred x reader #finan x reader #sihtric x reader #osferth x reader #sigtryggr x reader #finan the last kingdom #uhtred the last kingdom #sihtric the last kingdom #osferth the last kingdom #sigtryggr the last kingdom #ewan mitchell #the last kingdom fluff

[sabbqj]

how dare you...kill my baby monk and Sigtryggr in one season...HOW COULD YOU

#sigtryggr #baby monk #osferth #osferth x reader #the last kingdom #the last kingdom x reader #tlk fanfic #tlk fandom #tlk #tlk season 5

[idksmtms]

The Last Kingdom Masterlist

Uhtred Ragnarsson Masterlist

Sihtric Kjartansson Masterlist

Finan Masterlist

Osferth Masterlist

Sigtryggr Masterlist

Ragnar The Younger Masterlist

AUs

Coming Soon...

#the last kingdom #masterlist #sigtryggr #osferth #finan the agile #sihtric #uhtred #ragnar ragnarsson #ragnar the younger #uhtred of bebbanburg #uhtred ragnarsson #tlk fandom #tlk season 3 #seven kings must die #sihtric kjartansson #sihtric x you #the last kingdom fanfic #the last kingdom fic #tlk fanfic

[mrsalwayswrite]

Pillows and Promises (Sigtryggr x Reader)

Summary: A childhood activity leads to a revelation. 

This is my second entry to the Hot Pie Summer Fic Challenge hosted by the always-lovely @deans-ch-ch-cherrypiee! You're the best! <3

Prompt- Building Forts

Words: 2k

Warnings: All the fluff....a little spice but all the fluffy goodness.

All pictures are from Pinterest

Silence was the first thing your mind registered. An unusual sound. A slightly disconcerting sound. Your home was never quiet except when all its inhabitants were asleep or gone. 

Carefully, you set down the grocery bag just inside the front door and kicked off your shoes. Your mind whirled with questions and unhelpful answers, attempting to puzzle together why your home was so unnaturally quiet. 

"Sweetheart?" You called out, only to be met with further silence. "Boys?"

Confusion and the first tendrils of worry slithered into your mind, corrupting the peace and joy you had initially arrived home with. Glancing down you could see your boys' favorite pairs of rain boots sitting next to each other. Something they, currently, would never leave the house without. You checked your phone one more time, wondering if you had missed a text from your husband. Nothing. He always informed you if he was spontaneously taking the boys to the park. Maybe he forgot? But that did not feel right, he never forgot. 

With your stomach twisting and anxiety dripping into your veins as if from an IV bag, you set your phone and keys down before heading to the hallway to investigate your missing family. 

Thankfully, it did not take long before you could hear them….and what worry and fear attempting to curl around you like a creeping vine immediately fell away. 

You stood outside the kids' bedroom door, just out of sight. A smile blossomed on your lips as you listened to the imaginary game being played. Hearing their yells, you had to cover your mouth to stifle your amusement, wondering who proposed this particular game. It could have been either boy or your husband, at this rate. 

"Watch out!" 

"Daddy! It's Jörmungandr!"

Then your husband's voice arose in a loud shout. "Kill him!" 

The shout was echoed by two little war cries and what sounded like jumping and something being thrown. You hoped it was only a pillow. There was no follow-through of a shattering sound, reaffirming it was most likely a pillow. Hopefully. 

"We did it!" The boys screamed happily. 

"Land ahead!" Your husband announced. "Prepare the ship."

At this you came around the corner and leaned against the doorframe. Your eyes scanned the complete renovation that had taken place in the boys' shared bedroom. The two single beds had been pushed together into the center of the room. What looked like every blanket in your house was either now draped strategically across the beds or spread out on the floor. Pillows were strewn everywhere, but most seemed to be stacked on one another to build…were those walls on either side of the beds? 

And of course, all three of the room's inhabitants were shirtless, only wearing some form of joggers. Both of the boys had their wooden shields and swords in hand, and their 'Viking' helmets given to them by their uncle Rognvaldr last Christmas. You smiled at your boys, amused by their newest favorite costume and how cute they looked. 

That amusement morphed to something else more distinctly heated and inappropriate around your children as your eyes swept over the sculpted form of your husband. It did not matter how many years the two of you had been together, the sight of his muscular and fit body and the knowledge of what that body was capable of still made you salivate on the spot. Not that you needed to tell him that to boost his ego anymore. 

"What's this? Did you build a fort with daddy?" You teased, dousing the kindling of a fire in your belly.  

"No, mommy." Your four year old wrinkled his nose in disgust. You were tempted to reach over and boop it just to make him giggle. 

Your oldest, at six years old, clarified happily.  "We built a Vikings ship! See! We even have a carving to scare our enemies!" He gestured to the stuffed dragon that had been tied to the front of the 'ship'. Poor thing looked like it was being strangled with yarn. 

"Oh, how silly of me." You chuckled, heart swelling at how happy your boys looked. "Daddy must have been telling stories again."

"Yeah! We're Vikings!"

Finally, you glanced up to meet Sigtryggr's brilliant blue eyes, sparkling with amusement as he stared down at you. He stood on the 'ship', holding a broom handle in what looked like a mimicry of steering a rudder. "Are you now?'

"Yes, and what do we do, boys?" He replied with a growing smirk. 

"STEAL THE PRINCESS!' They cried in unison. 

It was as Sigtryggr leapt off the bed and raced toward you that your mind clued into the plan. "Oh no…wait!" You held your hands up but barely had any time to react before your husband scooped you up in a bridal carry, earning cheers from the boys and laughter from you. 

He brought you to the 'ship' and placed you down, not before groping your ass lovingly, in the process. You smacked his arm with a mock-glare, but he just winked at you then leapt back up with dramatic flair to his prior position "Where to now, my warriors? We have our prize!" 

"Wessex!"

"Valhalla!"

Your six year old groaned dramatically. "No, stupid, you go to Valhalla when you die. Remember?"

"Don't call your brother 'stupid'." You reprimanded. 

"Well, he said something stupid."

"Doesn't mean he is." You shook your head, deciding to change the subject. "Do Vikings take ice cream breaks?"

"ICE CREAM!' The boys screamed like banshees. Immediately they took off out of the bedroom, still holding their wooden swords and shields and chanting 'ice cream' like it was a magic spell that would make the desired treat appear faster. 

You peered up at your husband, once the boys had vacated the room. "I'm the stolen princess, huh?"

"Yes, but not 'stolen' for long."

At your raised eyebrow, he chuckled and after a quick glance towards the empty doorway, sat down next to you on the bed, placing one arm slightly behind your back. 

"How would I not be 'stolen' for long?" You questioned. 

"Because, my lady, you would desire me." He smirked at you with a purely smug look. 

You rolled your eyes, even as that fire in your belly started to rekindle. "Uh uh. I highly doubt that. I would probably try and run away screaming."

He chuckled. "You may fleetingly think about it, but you would not. No, for I would be a great warlord, coming to explore and conquer new lands. And you would be the local king's daughter, with fire in her eyes and the call of the sea on her soul. I would find you walking along the shore, and you would not resist when I led you back to my ship."

"Oh, I wouldn't?"

"No, because once our eyes met, you fell madly in love with me."

You laughed. "Madly in love? At first sight?"

"What can I say? You were quite taken with my handsome face and charming personality." 

As you opened your mouth to retort something to knock his ego down a notch or two, you suddenly found yourself laying on your back, with him hovering over you. 

"Hmmm…." He hummed, blue eyes dancing merrily as he stared down at you. "You would find me irresistible."

Staring up at him, you could not stop the smile gracing your lips. "Okay, say I did, Mr. Warlord Irresistible. What then? Would you ransom me back to my father?" You asked, as you walked your fingers up his smooth, bare chest, to intertwine against the back of his neck. 

"That would be my plan." He pushed a few stray tendrils of hair off your face, his fingers then glided over your bottom lip. "But as we waited for your father's reply to my demands, you would bewitch me with your kind soul and your laughter."

Then a wicked smirk grew on his face, sending an answering shiver down your spine. "And after the first time we made love, and hearing how beautiful you sounded chanting my name–"

You tried to smack his chest but he caught your hand and brought it to his lips. 

"--it was then I knew I could never give you up. For your soul was meant to bond with mine. Your love was the missing piece my heart yearned for."

A wave of love crashed over you as you read the truth in his eyes. His words turned your brain to mush and made your heart flutter rapidly. "Sig, sweetheart, kiss me please."

"Yes, my lady."

He closed the gap between your lips and you sighed in bliss. Your hands threaded through his hair, tugging him closer. When his lips parted, you followed his lead, allowing your tongues to stroke slowly and dance a waltz that built a slow simmer of heat in your core. Your mouths unlocked but instead of drawing away, his lips trailed down your neck leaving feather-light kisses. Automatically, you tilted your head, providing more canvas for him to paint his love on. Your breathing sped up when his lips traced your exposed clavicle, that simmer being stroked into a flame. He nipped at your skin, only to soothe it with his tongue. 

Somehow his touch, his attention and affections, it all just reiterated to you what he had spoken. For even if he used a silly story to illustrate it, he captured the essence of the truth. That in this life, or in a past one, the two of you would find each other. Your souls would know and recognize its other half. And under his touch, you would burn even more for him. So why would you try and flee? Why would you wish to abandon the one your soul longed for? He was your love, your husband, your best friend…in this life and in all others. 

"Sweetheart…" you murmured, wrapping your leg around his, needing him closer, wanting him closer. 

"Hmmm? What does my lady need?" He purred, the sound stroking all your nerve endings. 

Gently, you guided his face upward, forcing his gaze to meet yours. "You. It's always been you."

His eyes softened at hearing your words, and you knew he understood you meant more than in this moment. "How can I–"

"MOMMY! He spilled ice cream all over the floor!" The shout reverberated down the hallway, like an unexpected siren. 

And what heated, smoldering moment your husband and you were enjoying was doused with freezing water. 

Sigtryggr dropped his head to your shoulder with an aggravated groan. You bit your lip to keep the amused chuckle at bay, and unwrapped your leg from around his, ready to go see what mess your boys had created. Instead your husband continued to just lay on you. 

"I should probably check on them." You prodded his side when you decided he may need some encouragement to get moving. 

"That would be wise." He batted your hand away. 

"That means you have to get off of me."

"Later."

"Now."

"No."

You huffed, feeling the self-satisfied smile he was wearing, even if his face was still against your shoulder. Well two could play that game. 

"Well," you began, trailing a hand down his back, "what if later you demonstrate how you would take care of this stolen princess and seduce her onto your ship?" You ended the question with a squeeze of his ass. 

Of course, he perked up. Molten eyes met yours and you knew you were getting a special treatment tonight. 

"Later." He confirmed before stealing a heated kiss that threatened to leave you boneless on the bed.  

You joyfully laughed as the two of you finally rolled off the bed and headed towards the kitchen, walking hand in hand. You both debated the threat level of the disaster that certainly awaited you there and if in a past life, your children were as destructive forces of nature as your current boys were. 

Tag List:

TLK (all)

@geekandbooknerd @trenko-heart @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @solinarimoonn @errruvande-2-0

#mz writes #mz edits #the last kingdom #the last kingdom fandom #the last kingdom fanfic #the last kingdom imagine #sigtryggr ivarsson #sigtryggr ivarson #sigtryggr ivarsson x reader #sigtryggr x reader #sigtryggr #cherry pie’s hot fic summer

[rubimoon45]

UN MENSAJE DE DIOS 1/2

You only need to translate the text to read it!

Pairing: Sigtryggr x fem!reader

Sinopsis: cuando los daneses asedian la capital de Wessex con Dynah dentro, no queda otro remedio que rendirse. Así hacen, separan a la familia real de la clase baja. Aún con esas, el líder de los daneses parece atraído por la idea de aprender.

-----------------------

Valhalla.

Una palabra con tanta fuerza, pero a la vez vacía. Poderosa, para aquellos que desafiaban las órdenes de la hermandad y la palabra de Dios. Con tanta profundidad como lo podía ser un pozo sin fondo, que se convertía en nada... O en todo, para ellos. Morir en batalla. Buscar una muerte honrosa que los lleve a esa fiesta o reunión al otro lado. O como le habían explicado, muy por encima, hacía ya mucho. Y vacía para aquellos como ella, que se refugiaban en las cálidas palabras del Señor, pero también comprometedoras. Porque a veces el Señor era cruel hasta con sus más fieles seguidores. A Lady Aelswith le habían arrebatado al rey, pero bendecido a su hija con la corona de Mercia para continuar el sueño de su padre.

La cristiandad se mantenía fuerte, pese al avance y los continuos esfuerzos de los bárbaros daneses para extinguirla. Eso era lo que decían los padres de la ciudad, o los monjes que llegaban de una larga peregrinación. El cambio de trono de Mercia y los rumores dentro de Wessex sobre una posible traición habían dejado el camino llano a las especulaciones. Una pequeña novicia en prácticas tampoco tenía mucho que aportar. Recomendada desde hacía un año por el fallecido Beocca y educada por la antigua sacerdotisa y guerrera Hild. Un honor, cuanto menos. Sobre todo ahora que Wessex estaba vacío y necesitaban el consuelo de Dios.

Había pasado una semana desde que la noticia de Mercia había llegado con los peregrinos a la ciudad, a Wintanceaester. Lord Aetelhem decía que las funciones de la ciudad debían continuar como siempre, y que el rey volvería cuando acabase su gestión al otro lado del reino. Más bien le ordenaba. Debido a la falta del Padre Pyrlig para aconsejarla, pasaba sus días al servicio de la reina y jugando con el joven príncipe, vigilándolo a veces también. Limpiando el desorden de la vieja sala de escritura, recitando sus oraciones en la capilla, ... En ese momento estaba en ella, orando por la delicada salud de la reina y la del rey que no podía dejar el reino en las manos de un niño. El frío bajo sus rodillas era tétrico, como aquel espacio apenas iluminado por unas velas y el viento nocturno que se colaba por la piedra helada de la residencia real. En Cockham las noches eran iguales, pero allí al menos estaba en presencia de sus hermanas aprendices, y era reconfortante.

Una vez acabó sus oraciones, se levantó del suelo. Observó a su alrededor. Vacío, como las palabras de los infieles, pero protegida por la fe y mano del Señor. El sarcófago de piedra tallada con el cuerpo del viejo rey como su compañía terrestre. Huesos y polvo era lo que quedaba, pero había leído las crónicas de sus hazañas por encima con ayuda del Padre Pyrlig, y aprendiendo la sabiduría de sus acciones por el Padre Beocca. Apretó el rosario entre sus dedos. El dolor de las cuentas era gratificante para aquellos que pecaban como su castigo... Y para ella un recordatorio más para sus labores hacia la fe. Casi salió corriendo de la capilla, a un pasillo oscuro apenas iluminado también y por aguas ventanas amenazaban los primeros rayos de luz.

Sus aposentos estaban en un ala alejada, cercanos al dormitorio de Lady Aelswith. Conocía la situación de la reina viuda, así que suponía que era un consuelo tener a alguien en enseñanza de lo que ella conocía de cerca. Una de las doncellas de la reina apareció de entre las sombras, saliendo de un cuarto ahora abierto.

-¿Qué ocurre? -preguntó con cortesía, en voz baja, a sabiendas de que dentro de los aposentos reales iba a estar la reina descansando. Así lo supo solo con ver la oscuridad que lo envolvía, sin apenas un rayo amable de luz.

-La reina no puede dormir. Dice que escucha ruidos fuera.

-Tal vez madrugar para rezar consolaría su agitado espíritu y conciencia -razonó. El semblante de la doncella no se inmutó-. Debe echar de menos al rey.

-Un rezo matutino no va a ayudarla. Iré a buscar algo para relajarla.

-Lo dudo.

Dynah levantó la cabeza ante la gruesa voz masculina. Una parte de su cabeza pensó que era un guardia, hasta que se dio cuenta de que la voz provenía de dentro. Del interior de los aposentos de la reina. Solo para encontrarse con el rostro blanco y melena rubia de esta. Dynah casi se tambaleó al ver quien iba tras ella, con un cuchillo a un lado de su delgado cuello. Las cuentas de su rosario resbalaron de entre sus dedos, hasta caer al suelo. La doncella apenas tuvo tiempo para reaccionar.

Dos hombres más, con el mismo tipo de atuendo para la vida nómada y forrado con pieles, pero también visiblemente protegido con zonas de cuero, aparecieron sujetando al joven príncipe. Al verlo, la reina Aelflaed lanzó un jadeo e intentó ir a por él. Al intentarlo, hubiera tropezado con su ropa de cama de no ser por el agarre del hombre. Este rio al verla fracasar, y dijo algunas palabras que ninguna comprendió. El corazón de Dynah se aceleró cuando los tres las arrastraron con ellos por los pasillos de piedra del palacio. Todo estaba tan callado... ¿Y lo guardias que protegían el interior? ¿Y los demás hombres leales que quedaban? El miedo de su interior se acumuló pensando en lo que podría estar ocurriendo para que todo estuviera tan calmado, pero ese silencio... Era peor que la soledad de la capilla cuando Dios no respondía a sus plegarias.

Los tres hombres las sacaron con ellos al exterior, a través de la entrada que daba al jardín delantero y posteriormente a la salida del palacio. Dynah tragó saliva cuando vio lo que acontecía ahí mismo. Más hombres como esos desconocidos invasores en el jardín, acompañados de los propios guardias. Con una diferencia. Estos destacaban por estar de rodillas y con las cabezas gachas, delante de un grupo de captores armados que al pareces esperaban órdenes. Una mujer con el pelo recogido, mismas vestimentas, y notablemente embarazada, sujetaba una larga espada por la empuñadura en dirección a un hombre también en ropa de dormir. El rostro anciano y cansado del hombre miraba hacia el filo del arma, que apuntaba hacia su cuello sin vergüenza, como la imagen del arcángel Miguel cuando se enfrentó a los ejércitos de Satanás. Solo que los papeles estaban invertidos. Lord Aetelhem.

-Padre -sollozó la reina aún temblando y con la piel de gallina.

-Por favor -los labios del hombre temblaron al verla. Al verlos, a su nieto y a su hija, expuestos de esa manera como trofeos de guerra.

Dynah tembló también, pero no podía hacer nada contra su captor. Más fuerte y más alto que ella, la cogería al instante de zafarse. Estaban tomando el castillo. Hild le había enseñado lo que hacían en ese tipo de situaciones, en especial con las mujeres. A la reina no la tocarían, el príncipe solo era un niño que no comprendía lo que pasaba y Lord Aetelhem era el protector de la ciudad ante la ausencia del rey. Pero a ella, a las doncellas y a las súbditas les vendría un destino peor que una muerte. Solo hacía falta verles. Y la mujer que apuntaba a Lord Aetelhem...había una frialdad en sus ojos, en la forma en la que se movía, comparables con las ciudades de Northumbria de acuerdo a los caballeros.

-Usted elige, Lord -dijo otra voz. La del varón al lado de la mujer guerrera. Se dirigía al padre de la reina, casi burlándose, pero sin mostrarlo. No comprendía nada. Tan contrarios y por una misma causa. Melena larga, piel blanca y ropajes de cuero. Casi vio a Sihtric reflejado en esa persona de no ser por la expresión. En las pocas ocasiones que se habían visto, le había parecido un personaje diferente por sus ambiciones. Esa persona...a simple vista se divertía con lo que hacía. Entonces lo recordó. Juzgar era un pecado, por el cual ella se estremeció-. Rendirse o luchar. Es sencillo.

Lord Aetelhem vaciló.

Y las piernas de Dynah temblaron cuando el frío la golpeó. El hábito al menso era de lana. La ropa de cama de la reina no era más que algodón y lino finos. Supo ver lo que pasaba por la cabeza de Lord Aetelhem. Sobre todo cuando era consciente de la posición en la que estaban.

-Nos rendimos.

Dynah tomó aire cuando una sonrisa apareció en la cara del varón que le plantaba cara. Escalofriante, pero... La mujer se mordió la lengua, pero bajó la espada. Continuó mirando al Lord antes de darse lavuelta y atender directamente al que parecía el líder de esa pequeña armada. No era una guerrera como Hild, pero sabía contar y distinguir. Cuando vio que las espadas atravesaban los cuellos y los pechos de los guardias sajones, Dynah supo que no iban en broma. Que ahora toda la ciudad estaba al mando de los daneses y ellos eran rehenes.

-Encerradlas en la capilla. Que estén junto a su dios y rey.

Los guerreros a sus órdenes obedecieron. Tiraron de sus codos para obligarlas a caminar, de nuevo, al interior. La sangre manchaba el suelo y se extendía a medida que los cuerpos se vaciaban. Su cuerpo se sacudió y su nariz picó, amenazando en derramar alguna lágrima y suplicar el perdón por su vida y la de esos guerreros.

-Madre -el príncipe balbuceó frotándose los ojos, adormilado. Dynah rezó una oración silenciosa por la que podían hacer ahora con ellos.

El príncipe heredero y la reina en manos danesas. La capital del reino más poderoso tomada. El rey debía darse prisa y resolver esa situación. Dios apretaba. Eso se suponía.

-Espera -ladraron a sus espaldas. Los hombres danesas se detuvieron-. Separadlos. Poned a la familia del rey en la capilla separad a los otros.

La mujer se acercó a él. La espada colgaba ahora de su cintura.

-¿Qué estás haciendo?

-Ser inteligente. Ellas dos no son de la familia real -les lanzó un gesto despreocupado con la cabeza. Su melena sucia de sangre y polvo y oscura se balanceó con el gesto-. Se ve a simple vista.

-Qué más da eso -sonaba muy molesta. Tanto que hizo que ella se encogiera.

El hombre le devolvió la mirada, los ojos claros mirándola como si intentase leerla. Los ojos oscuros de la mujer no vacilaron ni un instante. Temía perderse en esa oscuridad. El silencio mortal entre los dos se rompió cuando la cabeza de ella dirigió hacia ellos. La cara de la reina, blanca como la nieve, palideció si cabía más. Sus delgados brazos fueron a sujetar los estrechos hombros del príncipe.

-A ti te conozco -dijo entonces la mujer. Había posado los ojos sobre ella, como si fuera la presa de su larga y emocionante caza y la familia del rey quedase en otro plano. Asimilando sus rasgos, la mujer no era una belleza, pero su violencia le daba una belleza fiera. Tal vez los dioses la hubieran forjado de esa forma-. Sí, te reconozco -se acercó un poco más a ella, hasta que pudo oler el aroma a muerte que la envolvía-. Ese pelo rojo... Thyra bromeaba con que podrías ser su hija. Estabas con Uthred y sus amigos cuando esa bruja de Pelo Sangriento lo maldijo para atormentarlo. Pensaba que eras danesa.

A Dynah se le secó la garganta.

También la recordaba, muy por encima, casi como un recuerdo dormido sobre su pasado. La Hermana Hild recomendaba abandonar el pasado y perdonarse a sí misma por los errores de los demás, pero teniendo en cuenta que no todo lo ocurrido era por ella. La vida en Coockham había sido un lavado de cara y sin lugar a dudas una muestra de la misericordia de Dios para aquellos que siempre habían sido unos fieles seguidores de sus enseñanzas. Esos ojos juntos y pecas desperdigadas alrededor de la nariz. Ya la había mirado a lo lejos cuando viajaron a Northumbria, ahora era como tener un espejismo del pasado sobre la imagen de la mujer alegre y vivaz que una vez vio.

-Debes de saber dónde están Uthred y sus amigos, ¿verdad?

-Sé lo mismo que usted, señora -apretó los puños en uno, los dedos arañando la piel de sus nudillos.

La respuesta de la mujer fue cruel. Una sonrisa despiadada que solo consiguió erizarle los pelos de todo el cuerpo.

-Un recordatorio de lo que somos capaces le vendrá bien a ese rey vuestro. Demostrarle de lo que somos capaces -la miró de pies a cabeza, desde el final de su hábito azul oscuro hasta el más erizado de su melena pelirroja. Como si tuviera la solución justo en frente. El sudor y el miedo se juntaron-. Obligarlo a que nos entregue más territorios y la ciudad. Su ciudad y la de su querido padre.

Se estremeció con solo pensar que iba a ser madre.

-¿Qué propones, Brida? -respondió él, casi con pesadez.

Birda, la mujer, le devolvió la mirada una vez más. Nunca había visto a nadie mirarla como si valiera menos, con esos pequeños ojos marrones observándola con absoluto desprecio.

-Mándale su cabeza -hizo un gesto brusco con la barbilla en su dirección-. Es más chocante para los cristianos cuando ven que estás dispuesto a matar mujeres y niños.

Dynah jadeó audiblemente, aterrorizada ante la idea. La reina y el príncipe se revolvieron, pero antes de que pudieran objetar -que lo dudaba- los guerreros se los llevaron junto con la doncella, seguidos de Lord Aetelhem al final, tras un sutil pero no desapercibido gesto de cabeza de su líder.

-No haremos eso -le respondió él, fríamente-. Matarás a los hombres que quieras, pero ella se quedará conmigo.

-¿Y qué harás con ella, ir a rezar? Es sajona y cristiana. No tiene más gracia que eso.

-Eso lo decidiré yo.

Dynah se revolvió del agarre del hombre que todavía la mantenía a su lado. Los dedos apretaban la carne tierna del brazo, aunque la gruesa lana la protegiera. El hombre hizo un gesto cortante hacia los daneses que flanqueaban a la mujer. Solo pudo ver cómo algunos de ellos comenzaban a arrastrar los cuerpos de los sajones muertos hacia la salida, dejando senderos de sangre a su camino. Si quedaba algo de esperanza, esta se perdió cuando el líder avanzaba con desdén y tomaba su brazo en un rápido movimiento. A pesar de la conmoción y disgusto, el saber que tanto la reina como su hijo estaban a salvo y su cabeza se mantenía en su sitio era reconfortante.

Por el momento.

La habitación a la que la llevó era el estudio del rey. El sitio donde se planeaban las guerras y que anteriormente había sido el lugar de redacción del rey Alfredo. Aún habían libros, pero predominaban los mapas. Una larga mesa de madera y varias sillas decoraban el medio del espacio. Mientras sus ojos vagaban por la habitación, ese nuevo espacio que solía estar cerrado para gente como ella, salió de su ensoñación al recordar la razón por la que estaba ahí. Ni el iluminado y bello espacio podían hacer frente a la maldad de los actos de los hombres. Dynah se dio la vuelta rápidamente, envuelta en la tela de su atuendo y el rostro enmarcado en la pesadez de su melena ahora revuelta.

-Quédate atrás -tartamudeó una advertencia, retrocediendo. Ya no la agarraba, pero su brazo recordaba la fuerza de los dedos del anterior y la todavía presencia del otro. Y no le gustaba. Miró a su alrededor. Lo único que podría usar como arma era uno de esos libros o alguna pluma.

Si Brida había conseguido asustarla con solo sonreír, la presencia de aquel hombre hacía que todos sus sentidos se pusieran alerta. No tenía el semblante austero de los otros guerreros, pero sí un aspecto que pese al desinterés podía ser considerado de atractivo y juvenil. De su misma edad, o cercanas, con suerte. Dynah apretó los dedos de nuevo, con el miedo apretando en su pecho. En su respiración nerviosa. Y esa sonrisa, que no era cruel. Divertida y peligrosa, sí. Pero si un danés quería matarla, la habría dejado en manos de Brida y su espada tras la amenaza.

Él solo la miraba, como si le pareciera divertida la situación. Caminaba por la habitación, ordenada, y analizando el espacio detenidamente sin pararse mucho en cada detalle.

-¿Sabes quién soy, pequeña guerrera?

-No.

Así solían llamar a Hild. Sihtric para burlarse. Que la llamasen así era estrechamente familiar. Y una forma de recordarle que era una inútil, una sierva más. Ahora un rehén. Pero la vanidad era un pecado y casi un castigo. Él se detuvo, después de rondarla como una presa, y cambió su comportamiento. Su postura se enderezó, inclinando la cabeza y juntando los brazos tras su espalda.

-Soy Sigtryggr Ivarrson. Soy un danés que ha tomado Winceaester -lo decía con orgullo, cosa que no le sorprendía. Lo que sí conseguía generar en ella era la sorpresa de que se pareciera tanto a Sihtric como a Uthred, a su propia manera. La cercanía de su cuerpo se tuvo en cuenta cuando los dos ojos rodeados de negro, seguramente ceniza, se convertían en dos faros de luz azul-. Si desease follar con una mujer, no necesito hacerlo por la fuerza.

Dynah no le respondió. Solo lo observó, en silencio, con el cuerpo arqueado buscando una separación entre ambos a la fuerza. Se preguntó, una parte de ella, si era consciente de lo que generaba solo con abrir la boca. ¿Era eso lo que sentían los guerreros del rey cuando daba una orden, cuando les imbuía coraje antes de una guerra...? Con esa suavidad, pero también fuerza y sentimiento, su confianza.

Buscó algo que decir, pero no encontró palabras. Nada más que un nudo en la garganta y la lenta cadencia de su propia respiración, subiendo y bajando en su pecho. La una reacción que tuvo fue el sentir la sangre subir a sus mejillas. Dynah se quitó el sudor de las manos, pensando en la tontería que era conocer su nombre si iban a matarla en algún momento. Cuando se dieran cuenta de que los sajones no iban a dejar que los daneses tomasen su ciudad más importante. Y con solo imaginar la contraofensiva el efecto de las palabras se anularon, como un hechizo.

-Bien -fue lo único que le salió decir-. ¿Por qué habéis venido? El rey no está en la ciudad.

Tragó saliva cuando los finos ojos azules, del color del hielo, continuaron sobre ella como si fuera el único objeto de la sala. Que el pelo le cayese por cara no ayudaba a quitarle esos aires violentos, ni...la enorme cicatriz que pasaba por el lado izquierdo de su cara. ¿A cuántos habría matado? Si no abusaba de ella, es que había otro motivo para mantenerla separada de las demás doncellas.

-A tomar lo que me deben -dijo, simple-. Tu gente me expulsó de la mía. Así que tu rey me la devolverá a cambio de su hijo.

-¿Y si no lo hace? -se atrevió a preguntar, casi en un susurro.

-Entonces la cabeza del crío sería una bruna oferta para recapacitar. Puede tener más, ¿no?

-Su humor al ver la ciudad no será un buen paso para recuperar las tierras.

La sonrisa su respuesta. No cruel, pero sí burlona.

-Una buena oportunidad para probar su paciencia, entonces.

-El príncipe no tiene culpa de nada, es un niño -Dynah vaciló, pero entonces recordó las palabras de Hild. El Señor la protegería en su espacio más sagrado, por mucha reticencia que tuvieran los paganos a entregar un lugar que ellos ya habían ocupado con anterioridad-. ¿Somos vuestros prisioneros?

El líder, Sigtryggr o como se pronunciara su nombre, se volvió hacia ella. Había comenzado a inspeccionar los mapas sobre la mesa con aire curioso, como si de verdad conociera su uso.

-Eres libres de irte cuando quieras -ofreció, aún con las manos en la espalda. Y una sonrisa un tanto socarrona-. Pero tendrán que enfrentarte a Brida. Para estar embarazada es más vigorosa que la mitad de mis hombres.

No quiso saber de cuántos meses estaba. O de lo que pasaría si salía por la puerta siguiendo el consejo y se enfrentaba cara a cara con ella. Dynah tragó con fuerza, mirando hacia la puerta. Era imposible que estuvieran ellos dos solos, habría más hombres detrás de esos dos trozos de madera tallados. Su libertad era una ilusión, una broma con la que él jugaba. Estaba atada de manos y pies. Mantenerse callada y obedecer era su una salvación.

-¿Voy a...estar aquí encerrada?

-Es un buen lugar. Para un hombre aburrido.

La sala de los hombres y la ley. Tan diferente a lo que a ella le correspondía... Hubiese preferido tener la capilla. Aunque fuera helada, estuviera sola y húmeda cuando hacía mal tiempo. Estaría con su dios. Como si supiera lo que pasaba por su cabeza, la atención de Sigtryggr pasó hacia donde ella miraba: las estanterías. Su cuerpo se alejó de la prudente separación entre ambos, y caminó hacia la más cercana. De entre todos los pergaminos y contenido, toda la información de los sajones durante generaciones, sacó uno de los gruesos tomos. Lo hojeó por encima, frunció el ceño y cuando acabó con él preguntó:

-¿Puedes leer?

Ella asintió. No era necesario saberlo, pero Hild había tenido la cortesía.

Sigtryggr le tendió el tomo.

-Leeme.

-¿No sabes leer?

-Puedo -dijo con una sonrisa traviesa. Dynah tomó el reino, que pesaba, y casi le dio la sensación de haber acariciado las puntas sus dedos-. ¿Pero dónde está la diversión si lo hago?

Supuso que tenía razón. Suspiró pero no le quedó otra que hacer lo que le pedía. Se sentó en una de las duras sillas frente al escritorio, mientras que él hacía igual en un asiento al lado de la ventana al final de la sala. La luz que entraba por los múltiples huecos cubiertos hacía que su melena hasta por debajo de los hombros brillase clara, entre un castaño claro tirando a pelirrojo.

Cuando comenzó a leer tuvo la sensación de estar invadiendo el espacio de Alfredo y la Casa de Wessex. Pero a medida que avanzaba se daba cuenta de que los sajones eran sólo nombres de los grandes reyes y solo de ellos y sus mayores victorias, sus avances en las islas. Y que en ninguna se mencionaba o hacía referencia a la presencia de Uthred tanto en negociaciones como en el campo de batalla. Pero que a Sigtryggr parecía interesarle, curiosamente, sólo porque escuchaba y en ningún momento, sólo en las batallas de los daneses, interrumpía para lanzar algún comentario jocoso.

Y eso ya tenía bastante que decir sobre él.

-----------------------

Durante la próxima semana, los días transcurrieron parecidos a ese. Ella le leía en voz alta la historia de los sajones o algún texto religioso cuando se aburría de escuchar las hazañas de sus enemigos. No estaba segura de las motivaciones reales sobre su interés en escuchar esas historias, o lo que pretendía encontrar al hacerlo. Lo único que podía pensar era en una forma de distraerse de la espera. Dynah estaba ansiosa por tener noticias del rey, más allá del asedio que Sigtryggr le había informado uno de esos días atrás. Porque estaba segura de que al conocer las noticias Uthred no se quedaría de brazos cruzados. Actuaría por su cuenta, como siempre.

Rezaba todas las noches, cuando quedaba sola ahí encerrada, y con las manos entrelazadas, por la seguridad de todos ellos. Por el rey y su familia. Por Uthred y sus amigos. Por el Padre Pyrlig. Y por último se dejaba a ella misma. No es que estuviera siendo torturada, como si viviera como una reina, pero todo buen gesto tenía que ser agradecido, en parte. Y dado que aún tenía la cabeza sobre los hombros... Estaba siendo afortunada.

Una vez, la entrada de Brida al estudio los había pillado desprevenidos. A ambos, sí. Ella le estaba leyendo sobre los milagros de algún santo y él escuchando, pero con la mirada perdida en otra parte del estudio. Nunca hablaba, y no recordaba haberle dicho su nombre. O que le preguntase por él.

-Tenemos que empezar a matar rehenes -había anunciado.

Dynah se había quedado sin palabras.

-Tenemos a la familia del rey. No van a hacer nada.

-Planeando un ataque. Ahí parados y conociendo la ciudad mejor estarán buscando una oportunidad. Un hueco -la ira incontenida de sus palabras se traslado a sus acciones. El vientre protegido por una tela más gruesa y escamada cada vez abultaba más-. Déjame matar a la cría. Si no me dejas la cabeza de la pelirroja, déjame a la hija de Uhtred.

Se había quedado callado, pensando. Stiorra. La última vez que la había visto fue en el convento de Coockham con Hild, cuando Uthred había ido a reclamar sus tierras... Y luego la noticia de la muerte del Padre Beocca y que el plan había salido mal. El joven Uthred y su hermana se habían quedado en el convento con ellas a su cuidado, y lo último que supo de ella fue una mañana en la que le comunicaron que por órdenes de su madre había marchado camino a Mercia para refugiarse en alguno de los señoríos mercianos de la reina.

El peso de su corazón la hundió en la tristeza desde eso, y en rezar cada vez con más frecuencia. No supo más de la hija de Uthred. ¿La habían matado de verdad? Sin su rosario era difícil mantener sus pensamientos a raya, pero lo hacía como podía Incluso en la improvisada cama que había hecho con unas cuentas mantas de otras camas para mantenerla en la misma sala, ese hombre seguía siendo un misterio y su captor.

La respuesta de Sigtryggr había sido continuar con lo que estaban haciendo. Cosa que a Brida no le gusto un pelo.

-¿De qué conoces a Brida?

La había interrumpido después de eso, cuando volvían a estar solos y ella iba a comenzar a leer de nuevo, con la boca seca, para preguntarle.

-Cuando Lord Uthred fue maldito por una bruja pidió que lo llevasen al norte, donde ella residía con Ragnar y otros daneses. Ellos me encontraron por el camino y decidí seguirlos. Luego llegaron el Padre Beocca y Thyra, su esposa y hermana de Ragnar. Me fui con ellos a su convento cuando me ofrecieron una vida de paz -no supo qué mal contarle, puesto que lo demás iba a ser un lío de explicar para alguien que desconocía la vida cristiana y el pasado aún era una marañas de imágenes-. Ellos me salvaron.

-No me imagino a una cristiana viajando con unos daneses a cambio de nada. ¿Qué te ofrecieron, o qué les ofreciste?

Solo se encogió de hombros, conociendo el significado de sus intenciones.

-No todo es deseo de algo. Me ayudaron y ahora rezo por ellos aunque no crean en mi dios -lo último lo dijo en un susurro-. Es lo mínimo que puedo hacer.

-¿Confiar en un matadaneses consuela el alma de tu dios?

Dynah lo miró a la cara después de mucho rato concentrada en los adornos de la crónica y las intricadas letras.

-Dios no tiene alma. Y si la tuviera, yo no soy nadie para juzgar sus decisiones -agachó la cabeza, cuando el frío de sus ojos azules pasaron la barrera y la hizo estremecer-. Confío en la persona que me salvó la vida sin saber cómo era.

No hubo respuesta.

Continuó leyendo como él quería y sin hacer nada que se saliera de la regla. De lo establecido entre captor y rehén. Siguieron pasando los díos, en los que el único contacto humano era con él, Brida cuando entraba para informar de los cambios o algunos guerreros que llegaban por órdenes suyas para...dar más órdenes. Pero ninguno hablaba con ella o si quiera la miraba. Le dejaban claras sus intenciones cuando le llevaban la comida, que a cada día disminuía, y la veían ahí desaliñada con su hábito de lana azul y la cruz de madre colgando de su cuello. Algunos daban miedo solo con verlos, y otros la ignoraban.

-¿No puede haber una resolución pacífica? -preguntó uno de esos días, cuando el hambre la mantenía incapaz de concentrarse y leer era cada vez más difícil, y más comprender lo que decía los libros.

-Es más difícil vivir en paz con los enemigos que enfrentarlos.

-Estamos en paz -se defendió-. Si pudisteis sitiar la ciudad es porque el rey Eduardo no os ve como una amenaza.

Escuchó su asiento crujir y seguido una serie de pasos hacia ella. Por un momento pensó en que iba a matarla por criticar su plan. O lo que fuera que tuviera en mente.

-Tampoco somos aliados -Dynah se mordió en labio inferior, manteniendo las manos sobre la mesa y cerradas en puños. La presencia de él no tardó en aparecer a su lado, acompañado de su olor salvaje y a fuego. Al lado de su mano diestra dejó un trozo de pan que no recordaba haber dejado de lado y para después-. Cuando uno de los bandos quiere exterminar al otro, tienes que elegir. Yo elijo defender a los míos y tu defiendes a los tuyos.

Miró hacia los mapas. Colocados estratégicamente cada uno y con unas figurillas que supuso que representaban a los ejércitos; luego, al trozo de pan que le había dado. ¿Qué era, entonces? Ansiaba recuperar lo que era suyo pero no cedía ante nada. Winceaester era suyo.

Alzó la cabeza y se atrevió a mirar en su dirección, hacia su espalda. El pelo caía por debajo de sus hombros, enredado pero de alguna manera medianamente decente frente al suyo que sí era un desastre de mechones pelirrojos. Se fijó en la forma de sus hombros, anchos frente a una cintura estrecha pese a toda la armadura de cuero que no se quitaba desde...hace mucho. Sus brazos eran igual de delgados, pero se notaba el uso de la espada, el movimiento continuo de ambos para sus guerras. Dynah se pellizcó consciente de lo que acababa de hacer. Casi se avergonzó de mantener esos pensamientos. La mentalidad de los daneses era curiosa.

Antes de que se marchara una de las noches, cuando la garganta de Dynah ardía de cansancio y ansiaba un trago de agua, él se quedó parado delante de la puerta.

-Nunca pregunté tu nombre, ¿verdad?

-¿Para qué querría saberlo? -guardó el libro en la estantería. Estaba lista para irse a la cama, pero retenerla por eso significaba algo diferente a los días de atrás.

Se abrazó a sí misma, disimulándolo con que cruzaba los brazos sobre el pecho. Los ojos de Sigtryggr la recorrieron, para acabar con la sombra de una sonrisa en un rostro manchado de ceniza. El aleteo de su corazón despertó en sus adentros

-Saber con quién paso el tiempo -fue lo único que dijo.

Casi sonaba indecente, pero Dynah estaba demasiado cansada y dolorida para discutir. O cuales fueran sus motivaciones queriendo continuar su charla.

-Dynah.

Silencio. Sigtryggr asintió, el pelo que caía por su cara meciéndose.

-No suena sajón -dijo, antes de irse.

Ella se quedó en el sitio. Tardó unos minutos en darse cuenta de que no iba a volver, que ya era tarde y le daba permiso para dormir. Se miró una última vez las manos, las cutículas levantadas y sangrientas por sus dientes. Luego, se fue a la cama improvisada con mantas y se abrazó como pudo, con el rostro enterrado en una de ellas. Cuando se levantó, a la mañana siguiente, el rosario estaba envuelto en su mano.

-----------------------

Con su rosario ahora podía rezar apropiadamente. Sigtryggr desaparecía todos los días dejándola sola en el estudio. Era en esos momentos que aprovechaba para hacerlo, de rodillas en el suelo y mirando hacia la ventana más grande del estudio. De alguna manera, aunque supiera que no iba a tocarla y probablemente ignorar lo que hiciera con su dios, rezar en su presencia nunca sucedería. Se descubrió un día dándose cuenta de que lo hacía para no molestarle. Y estando sola... Dios era su única compañía.

Murmurando la última estrofa de su oración, antes de que iniciara la siguiente, fue interrumpida cuando la puerta se abrió de un golpe contra la pared. Dynah se levantó rápidamente cuando escuchó los pasos que se adentraban. Pensó en Sigtryggr, en que venía a recibir su clase diaria de historia sajona, pero le sorprendió ver que no era él quien entraba en el estudio del viejo rey. Ni Brida.

Parecía sajón, por la ropa, pero descuidado y con una incipiente barba desaliñada naciendo en su cara afilada y marcada por unas ojeras. No lo recordaba, pero no debía pertenecer a la corte del rey. Le habrían permitido caminar por la finca con libertad o se habría conseguido escapar de sus captores... De alguna forma. Hasta ella llegó el olor a cerveza que a medida que se acercaba se volvía repulsivo. Dynah retrocedió ansiando mantener la distancia entre ellos.

-Lo que planee que intente hacer, le suplico que no lo piense.

Él solo soltó una carcajada.

-Me he aliado con ellos, los daneses, ¿pero a qué precio? Soy como un perro al que dan órdenes -miró a su alrededor con bastante asombro, pero sin querer demostrarlo-. Y mientras eso pasa, Sigtryggr te mima. Dime, ¿tan bueno es tu coño que lo tiene distraído? Debería descubrirlo por mí mismo.

Dynah gritó todo lo que pudo.

Las manos del sajón agarraron sus brazos y la retuvieron contra la pared más cercana, su cabeza hundiéndose en el hueco de su cuello. Dynah se revolvía como podía, aunque la fuerza de aquel hombre doblaba con creces la suya. En una de esas sacudidas, harto de que se rebelara a sus deseos, la golpeó en la mejilla con tanta fuerza que de haber estado libre la habría lanzado al suelo. El ardor y dolor no tardaron en aparecer.

-¿Sabes lo que es vivir sin honor? Que te humillen cuando intentar recuperarlo.

-No haberte aliado con los daneses.

Un brillo que no era lujuria iluminó sus ojos. Rabia. Si cabía, la fuerza fe a más cuando posó una mano en su cuello, sujetándola de esa forma, y un viejo cuchillo apuntando directo a su cara descubierta. Dynah apretó los dientes cuando la punta fría acarició su mejilla. Eso le heló la sangre.

-Una puta como tu nunca sabrá lo que se siente porque ya debe vivir en ello.

-Si me mata se va a arrepentir, señor. Dios le castigará.

-¿Juegas con los daneses así en la cama?

Las intenciones del hombre cambiaron cuando el cuchillo cayó al suelo y la mano que lo ocupaba su puso encima encima de la que rodeaba la delgadez de su cuello. Dynah apretó las suyas sobre sus muñeca, jadeando por aire. No podía respirar. Por mucho que patalease no se quitaba de encima. Las lágrimas humedecieron sus ojos la idea de morir. Por su propia osadía. Dios no la recibiría con las puertas abiertas si había instigado su muerte. Podría considerarse suicidio. Y su muerte...¿se tendría en cuenta? ¿O su cuerpo sería lanzado fuera de los muros como un muerto más?

Apenas tuvo tiempo para ajustar lo que quedaba de concentración antes de sentir el vacío del peso de aquel hombre que intentaba matarla. Su cuerpo resbaló desde la pared hasta el suelo, donde se quedó de rodillas, sus manos entre su pecho y cuello respirando por la boca como un perro, tosiendo.

-¿Qué es este juego? ¿Va de hacer daño a los más débiles?

Dynah contempló lo que pasaba delante de ella mientras todavía se concentraba en respirar. A la velocidad del rayo, el golpe en la cara al hombre lo hizo caer al suelo y rodearse de la vergüenza con la que había entrado borracho. El sollozo audible no lo hizo más honorable de lo que había dicho que ansiaba ser. Dynah escuchó la risita divertida del otro, pero de poco ayudó a la situación. Ni la sonrisa confiada que le dirigió.

-Vamos -lo animó, mientras que el sajón se tambaleaba por recuperar la compostura-, me gusta este juego.

-¡Me provoca! -vociferó-. Y no me teme.

-Eso es mentira -soltó ella, con dificultad. Luego, tosió del esfuerzo. Eran la dos cosas. Solo hacía falta verla.

Sigtryggr vaciló unos segundos, pero no volvió la cabeza hacia ella cuando habló. Creyera lo que creyese, iba a dar igual. Seguiría siendo su aliado y todavía lo necesitaban, ¿no? Tal vez tuviera algo que ver con el asedio.

-¿Así se controlan los sajones?

Los ojos del sajón brillaron por su ausencia. Cuando pudo levantarse, aún tambaleándose, apenas había rastro de un hombre. Solo un niño triste y deprimido por sus fallos. No sintió pena alguna, si bien era un dogma perdonar a todos.

-En tierras sajonas, ¿se somete a la gente con el miedo?

-¿No se somete a todos así?

Una burla sin gracia.

-¿Así prosperó Alfredo?

-Sí -afirmó, pese a su estado.

Otra mentira que ella se contuvo a contradecir. Y el otro debería de saberlo. Después de todos aquellos días leyendo las crónicas y los textos de los sajones, quedaba claro cuál iba a ser el legado de Alfredo en la historia de Wessex y su sueño. Dynah miró en dirección a Sigtryggr, que miraba sin diversión hacia el otro que hacía poco la había maltratado.

-¿Y el rey al que traicionaste para venir conmigo?

-Aethelred -apuntó con el dedo adornado por un anillo de plata a la barbilla del danés. Este no se movió- era amado y temido.

Más una cosa que la otra, pero las crónicas nunca reconocerían su actitud frente a lo sucedido con la hija de Alfredo, la historia que todos conocían. Ella solo se apretó más contra la pared, recogiendo las piernas contra su pecho.

-El Señor te castigará por todo lo que hiciste. En Wessex es sabido que lo mataste en el lecho estando moribundo para hacerte con el trono.

-¡Mientes, niña! Deja a los hombres hablar -vociferó, y Dynah tuvo la suerte de que la presencia de alguien con más fuerza a la suya estuviera también en la sala. Podría matarla estando solos, como ya había intentado, y lo conseguiría.

-¿Eso es cierto?

Asintió, solemne.

-El Padre Pyrlig envió una carta desde Mercia para Lord Aetelhem y yo se lo escuché decir a la reina.

-Mientes peor que un niño -increpó el danés al sajón, sin necesidad de apartarse para verlo. Era más alto, y su postura no vacilaba frente a las contradicciones que recibía por ambos lados-. Sabía que había algo turbio en ti. Mataste a tu rey.

No necesitaba verle la cara saber qué pasaba por su cabeza. Desconfianza. Desconfianza en una persona que los había ayudado y comenzaban a destaparse sus mentiras una a una.

-Te he traído aquí... -se apresuró a negar-. Puedes confiar en mí, lo he demostrado. No le he dicho a nadie lo que planeabas hacer desde el principio, ¿sabes? Soy de fiar.

¿Lo que iba a hacer? ¿No iba a quedarse así el asedio? Los hombros de Sigtryggr se tensaron, pero volvieron a relajarse en cuanto lo sintió respirar.

-Dime -comenzó, en un tono tan amenazante que cortaba el aire-, ¿cómo debería gobernar, por miedo o por amor?

Sus dedos se entrelazaron. Esa pregunta... No era un juego. No sonaba como una. Acabó tomando la cruz de su pecho, pero sin abrir la boca. No dijo nada, ni rezó ni tampoco suplicó clemencia para la persona culpable del asedio. Solo silencio, y pesadez en su cuerpo por todo lo soportado. Casi podía saborear su propia sangre por los golpes.

-Yo lo haría sin duda fundamentado en el terror.

Terror, no miedo. No era lo mismo. Ese hombre... La oscuridad de su alma iba a pesar en el juicio. Ni siquiera la herida creada a partir del golpe en el antebrazo de Sigtryggr, adornado con accesorio no solo de cuero también de metal, le hizo sentir remordimiento cuando el danés dio la orden de que lo llevasen al mercado y reunieran a la gente. Dynah se apretujó cuando uno hizo el amago de querer llevársela.

-Solo a él.

Se llevaron al sajón de la sala mientras este pataleaba y gritaba que le soltasen, también suplicando ayuda al Señor que por experiencia podía decir que eran peticiones en vano. Dios no ayudaba a pecadores, y menos a traidores que atentaban contra su fe. Dynah lo observó todo desde su pared, encogida en el sitio y preguntándose en silencio qué es lo que iba a pasar con el hombre borracho. Sigtryggr tenía una expresión helada cuando salieron del estudio. Entonces se enfocó en ella.

Estaba a menos de un brazo de distancia...demasiado cerca. Y todavía con esas, demasiado lejos como para entender sus aspiraciones. El olor de su cuero, mezclado con algo más llenaba sus fosas nasales mientras le escuchaba preguntar:

-¿Cuántas veces te ha levantado la mano?

Ni siquiera había pensado en eso, no con todo lo que pasaba en el estudio y lo que pasaría para preocuparse. El ardor de su mejilla continuaba, pero no con tanta intensidad como cuando lo había recibido. Era posible que estuviera roja, pero nadie estaba ahí para verla y no habría cuchicheos indeseados, además de pensar en el maltrato de un danés a su rehén, que era solo un daño más a la lista de infracciones en territorio santo.

Dynah le devolvió la mirada sin saber por dónde empezar a intentar darle sentido a todo: sus palabras o sus acciones. No era la primera vez que hacía eso, desde que había visto las heridas en sus manos y la regañaba por hacerlo hasta llamarla beata por su confiar su destino a su dios. Y aún con esas, era contradictorio.

-¿Qué vas a hacerle?

-¿Por qué te preocupas por él después de lo que ha hecho?

-Sigue siendo un cristiano, ¿verdad? Tengo que rezar por su alma o irá directo al infierno.

Él no dijo nada, en cambio, aunque de alguna manera mantuvo la suficiente integridad como para sostener su mirada. Rápidamente se encontró con esa frialdad suya, reflejada en la claridad transparente de su ojos, sus palabras fueron crudas y destinadas a herir.

-Tal vez la persona que merezca ir a ese infierno sea otra si han conseguido meterte esas tonterías en la cabeza.

Sigtryggr podía ser cruel cuando quería. Ahora lo veía como era. Y no se atrevió a apartar la mirada hasta que él lo hizo y se marchó, dejándola sola y en el suelo. Los ruidos de fuera no tardaron en llegar al estudio, a través de los enormes ventanales a los que Dynah se acercó uno a uno inspeccionando qué pasaba.

La multitud se agrupaba entre sajones nativos y daneses en un círculo en medio del mercado. Varios guerreros miraban a ambas direcciones, dentro y fuera de la muralla, dividiendo su trabajo entre el entretenimiento y el deber. Entonces Dynah vio lo que pasaba. El hombre de antes estaba de rodillas en el centro, sujetado por los brazos por dos guerreros, uno rubio y otro moreno con tinta en la mitad izquierda de la derecha.

Cuando la espada atravesó su hombro cubierto por la ropa de cuero y seda por debajo, hacia su corazón, y se giró para destrozar el interior de su pecho, Dynah no pudo mirar. Su cuerpo no se lo permitió. Lo último que escuchó de ese hombre fue un gemido, acompañado del chapoteo del líquido en su garganta y saliendo de su cuerpo, hasta que este cayó de un golpe seco sobre la paja agrupada para que los caballos pastasen... Estos estaban guardados a un lado, detrás de las personas obligadas a ver todas aquellas atrocidades.

Dynah se apartó de la ventana, entonces. El aire estaba frío cuando entraba a su cuerpo, y se sentía como un recordatorio de que era una rehén y su destino podría ser el mismo si averiguaba algo y comenzaba a jugar con ello. Solo se dio cuenta de que estaba llorando al notar las mejillas húmedas y el cosquilleo de la nariz. A eso se refería con fundamentar un gobierno con miedo, con terror como el otro había querido, y abandonar una parte fundamental. Alfredo había hecho lo mismo a su manera, pero jamás habría ejecutado a unas personas en público, habría buscado un castigo acorde a los sacramentos y en busca del perdón. O directamente el exilio. Pero él... Sigtryggr había buscado la solución fácil y la burla a su gobierno siguiendo la recomendación del gobierno del difunto rey de Mercia.

Vio el cuchillo que la había apuntado debajo de la mesa. Desde su posición se habría dado cuenta, pero una vez de pie se le habría complicado un montón entre el juego de luces y las sillas y la mesa... por eso Sigtryggr no habría caído en la cuenta de que había un arma todavía en el estudio. Dynah la recogió de debajo de la mesa, y una vez de rodillas con él entre las manos se quedó muy quieta. Lo analizó. Empuñadura de madera y filo de metal oxidado y algo pasado de uso, por las fracturas en algunas regiones.

La puerta la sorprendió abriéndose. Antes de darse la vuelta dejó el arma a sus espaldas, pero bien apretado entre sus manos por si se trataba de otro asalto. Ni era Sigtryggr, quien estaría enfadado y resolviendo lo que había generado, ni otro sajón. Pero sí un danés, con una bandeja entre las manos y una expresión indescifrable. Dynah vio bien lo que llevaba al mismo tiempo que este entraba, dejando la puerta abierta e indefensa, para dejarlo en la mesa.

-Gracias -se le ocurrió decir.

El danés no dijo nada, pero algo en su postura se detonó amabilidad a su propia manera de expresarlo. Dentro de lo que cabía. Una vez el hombre salió, Dynah se acercó corriendo a la mesa donde había dejado las cosas. Revisó el contenido, que no era más de lo que había recibido aquellos días. Dio una última mirada al cuchillo, que aunque destrozado podía influir daño. Casi no podía verse reflejada en él, pero lo que dejaba ver era un desastre y de haberlo sabido habría intentado cambiar su apariencia.

Pobreza y humildad eran sus votos, pero aún era una novicia en prácticas, que necesitaba acostumbrarse a perder esa arrogancia digna del hombre y saber que su propósito no era estar hermosa para los demás... Pero eso estaba a mucho tiempo de suceder, y en ese momento no estaba para predicar su religión al pelo. Primero se lavó el rostro, pasándose las manos por la piel de la cara y bajando hasta el cuello. Puede que ahí hubiera tardado un poco más para quitarse el rastro que el ahora ejecutado había dejado por la zona, y que al frotar con sus manos desnudas hubiera usado demasiada fuerza. Lo siguiente fueron los brazos, remangándose las mangas y frotando la piel sudada.

El resto del agua que quedaba era en una jarra, apartada de la otra.

Dynah se sirvió y bebió.

#sigtryggr #sigtryggrxreader #sigtryggrxyou #lastkingdom #fanfic #oc #ivarrson #sigtryggr ivarrson

[gingerharmony]

I wanted to leave more kudos 🙃

#tlk #tlk fanfic #stiorra x sigtryggr #sigtryggr #stiorra #tlk season 4

[willyoufindmetlk]

Just A Little Longer - Sigtryggr x Stiorra

The sun began to rise in the lands of Jorvik. King Sigtryggr stirred in his sleep knowing he would need to awake soon. There was much to do, even after being there for over a year. He had conquered more than he ever thought was possible, but his one thing he thanked the Gods for most laid beside him.

Stiorra.

His Queen.

She laid in his arms, her head on his chest. He could hear her soft breathing as she slept. He ran his fingertips alongside her naked back, kissing the top of her head. They had only been married a few months, but the love he had in his heart overwhelmed him. He knew falling in love was a risk. She could be used against him or harmed because of him. But he would do everything in his power to protect her.

He always had, ever since they met in Winchester. Storria opened her eyes, rubbing them as she took in her whereabouts. She glanced up at her husband.

“Mm, morning already?” she groaned.

“Aye, it is my love,” he said, leaning down to kiss her.

She smiled against his lips, placing her hand on his cheek.

“The servants will be in, soon,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said, bringing his lips down to her neck. “But just a little longer, yeah?”

She giggled as he rolled over on top of her. She ran her hand on his forearm. She never planned for this to be her life. To ever be someone’s wife, but that’s the difference. She wasn’t just someone’s wife, she was Sigtryggr’s wife.

And that brought every reward one could want to her.

“What are you thinking about?” he whispered.

Stiorra blushed, turning her head with a laugh, “Nothing.”

“What? Tell me,” he laughed.

“It is nothing, I swear,” she said.

“Oh, really?” he smirked.

Sigtryggr brought his hands down to her sides, tickling her. A hardy laugh left her throat as she squirmed away from him.

“Stop it!” she giggled.

“Tell me and I will stop,” he smirked.

She laughed, shaking her head, “Fine, fine. I will tell you.”

He stopped, but his hands remained at her side. Stiorra took a moment, catching her breath before looking at her husband.

“I was thinking about how happy I am here with you and that I could not imagine my life without you,” she whispered.

Sigtryggr’s lips broke out into a smile before pressing his lips against hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers entwining into his hair. Footsteps could be heard coming into their room, but neither of them paid any attention.

“Oh, uh, I am sorry, forgive me,” the servant blushed at the doorway.

Stiorra hid her face with her hands as Sigtryggr laughed. He kissed her forehead before glancing over at the servant. “The Queen and I will be a little longer this morning. We will be down for our morning feast when we are ready.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said before rushing back down.

“You did not just do that!” She laughed.

“What? Now, we have a few more moments without interruption,” he said. “Shall we continue, my love?”

Stiorra smiled, placing her hand on his cheek, “Well since we have the time,” she smirked.

He smiled, lowering his lips back down to meet her own, reveling in sharing this moment with his wife.

#sigtryggr x stiorra #stiorra x sigtryggr #sigtryggr and stiorra #stiorra #The Last Kingdom #the last kingdom fandom #sigtryggr x stiorra fanfic

[0writerchick0]

Chapter 13: Treat You Kindly

Quite Alive Version 2.0

Sigtryggr had awoken something inside her that no one had before and when they kissed she feared nothing, only wanted more. When she felt him against her, her body craved his. She did not think nervous ugly thoughts because she could not think any thoughts.

#sigtryggr x stiorra #the last kingdom #fanfic #writing #quite alive #sigtryggr #Stiorra

[viking-chaos]

Of Irland, Chapter 25

Chapter 1 \\ Chapter 24 \\ Series Masterlist

Instead of being taken captive in Winchester, Stiorra leaves for Irland with a friend of her father’s. There she meets Sigtryggr, a Dane, the grandson of Ivar the Boneless.

Chapter 25: The Prisoners

Chapter Warnings: Smut, Threat Words: 2152 AO3

“Stupid children,” Stiorra muttered to herself angrily as she entered the Great Hall. They’d been running around her feet all morning as she tried to find the things Drifa had asked for, eventually tripping her up, causing her to drop the precious herbs, expensive ones too. Drifa would not be happy. 

Someone suddenly caught her waist and yanked her into a deep, passionate kiss. She grinned into it, recognising who it was immediately.

“And what exactly is it about children that is stupid?” Sigtryggr asked when he broke away to breathe.

“It’s not that I don’t like them,” she explained, “it’s that they don’t pay attention to their surroundings, and sometimes that causes problems.”

“Any I know?” he asked. “I could talk to their parents, make them apologise.”

She smiled, and shook her head. It was typical of him, always trying to find ways to be helpful. “No, there’s no point. They pushed into me while I was on errands for Drifa. I’d rather it was me facing her wrath than small children who would cower at the sight of her, small as she is.”

Sigtryggr laughed, and Stiorra had never heard a more beautiful sound. “Even the tallest of us tremble in her tiny presence.”

“But as she says, size doesn’t matter, only your honour and courage.”

He chuckled and kissed her again, his lips so soft on hers.

He suddenly picked her up in his arms, bringing her legs around his waist and carrying her off somewhere, all without breaking the kiss. She giggled slightly as she clung to his shoulders. He put her down on something hard and wooden, and moved his lips to her neck, sucking small marks as he went. She opened her eyes, realising that they were now on the high table, in full view of anyone who might walk in. 

“Sigtryggr,” she giggled, “here?”

“Why not here?” he murmured as his lips brushed the flesh below her ear.

“If anyone were to walk in-”

He pulled back, “Then they will see a man worship his woman as she should be worshipped,” he said, bending down on his knees.

He pulled down her stockings, kissing a trail up her legs.

Stiorra wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing. She cursed her own inexperience, and waited to see what he would do.

He stopped for a moment, noticing her apprehension, and smiled reassuringly. Then he resumed his route, placing open-mouthed kisses up her thighs.

“Sigtryggr,” she whimpered, knowing what he was doing now, and desperate for him to just get on with it. She was soaked.

“So desperate, aren’t you?” he muttered, his lips hovering mere inches away from where she needed him the most. “Say it,” he whispered, the brush of air on her core making a soft whimper fall from her lips.

“Please,” she begged.

He smirked. that bastard smirked. “Please what?” he teased, moving a small faction closer to her weeping core. “Use your words.”

“Please,” she whimpered, “please use your mouth.”

And use his mouth he did.

The tip of his tongue softly licked at her pearl. She clamped a hand over her mouth, attempting to stifle the moan threatening to let itself out of her. He paused for a moment and said, “There is no-one here to hear us. Let me hear you.”

He dove back down between her thighs, almost tickling  her with only the very tip of his tongue.

And it felt incredible.

His little licks became steadily more vicious as she grew wetter by the moment. The little wispy thing on his chin he called a beard tickling her thighs making her squirm. And he suddenly licked a broad stripe across her folds with the flat of his tongue. 

Following that was a mixture of sucking on her pearl and licking more of those broad stripes. Stiorra wound her finger in his long wild hair, tugging on it to bring him closer. A particularly vicious yank (after a particularly harsh suck) had him outright moaning into her. 

So lost in her pleasure as she was, she barely registered when he inserted one of those gorgeous long fingers of his into her core. And then another. Crooking them within her and giving her the most blinding pleasure she may have ever experienced. It did not take long for her to see stars.

He pulled back grinning while rivulets of her juices ran down his chin.

He stood up slowly, wiping away the fluids from his chin. She could have sworn she watched him suck on his fingers, savouring the taste of her.

“Delicious,” he smirked.

He didn’t give her much time to recover from her climax before his lips were on hers again. She could feel his hardness poking at her thighs through his breeches. 

“Tell me,” he panted, “tell me you want this.”

“I want you.”

Her hands made quick work of the ties confining him. He pushed her back on the table and gripped her hips, pulling her as close to the edge as he dared.

He entered her suddenly, giving her little time to adjust. But she wanted him so badly, she didn’t care.

His hips snapped at a relentless pace as he pulled back up to him. He sucked on her neck, possibly leaving marks. She knew he would not last long. He must have been hard for her since she entered the Great Hall. He must have realised that too, as he started rubbing on her pearl with renewed vigour, desperate to get her to her peak before him. 

She pulled him back from neck, eager to claim his lips with hers as she felt her peak approach. She moaned deeply as it washed over her in waves, and he sighed as he spilled inside her. 

They stood like that for a moment gathering themselves, when the door banged open suddenly, and the two sprang apart. Ivar stormed in, a furious expression painted on his face as always. one that seemed to grow redder as his gaze landed on her and his brother. 

“What are you doing?” he thundered, still stomping like a child.

“Nothing,” Sigtryggr answered. 

Ivar growled. “DRIFA!” he yelled. “Where are you, you dumb little-”

Drifa walked in at that moment whistling a tune. “I’d be careful what you say about me, Ivar Ivarrsson. I am older than your father.”

Sigtryggr sniggered. 

“Let’s go,” Ivar grumbled.

Time to interrogate some prisoners. The small group went into the room behind the Great Hall known as ‘the war room’. Ivar signalled to a guard and Anlaf was brought in, still in the same grimy armour. His hair was damp from the cells, and his armour was tinged green, most likely from his time on the ship. He looked miserable, but then, Stiorra supposed anyone would feel miserable after a night in those cells. She shivered remembering her own time in there, not knowing if she was going to live or die.

She didn’t even think she was supposed to be in there. But as she began to slip out, Sigtryggr gripped her wrist. He nodded, telling her she could stay. 

Anlaf was pushed into a kneeling position on the floor as Ivar sat in a large carved chair that looked more like a throne. His gaze raked over Anlaf, as if he was observing a slave in the market. The last time either of the brothers had seen their nephew had been five years ago. 

The door opened again and Rognvaldr slipped in. No-one paid him much attention, other than Drifa, who nodded in greeting.

Ivar, seemingly finished glaring at his nephew, signalled Drifa to start. 

“Five years ago,” she began, “you, Anlaf Guthfrithsson, left Dyflin to find your father. Is that correct?”

“It is,” Anlaf answered.

“And from the looks of things, you found him?” she asked.

Anlaf nodded.

“So, my brother is still alive then?” Ivar questioned.

“He is,” Anlaf confirmed, “old, but alive and well.”

“You went with your friend Hermund Grimmarsson, yes?” Anlaf nodded. “And he is now a berserker. What happened?”

Anlaf took a few breaths. It was clear this was not something he wanted to talk about. But everyone stared at him expectantly. He had no choice.

“I don’t know what happened to him. When we arrived, we found out that my father had found and joined Barid. We were told we had to stay with them, as they didn’t want anyone to find out where they were. Hermund found another friend while we were there, but never told me his name. He started to spend more and more time with this man. We barely saw each other at all. Then he vanished. I did not see him for months. Then, my father took me on a raid with him and Barid, and a berserker came smashing through the village. I saw him doing horrible things there. And then he turned, and it was Hermund, except he was covered in berserker markings. He seemed happy to see me again, but I could hardly recognize him. He could outdrink anyone at the alehouses. He seemed to relish in the raids. I was disgusted at how anyone could do something like that. “And then we sailed up a river in Wessex. Or Mercia, I can’t remember. And we saw a ship. It was sizable, a trading ship. We didn’t see the flags, and Barid ordered us to raid it. I saw him and my father arguing about something, but it was too noisy with the men gathering their weapons and shields. After we were done, my father ordered us to leave the plunder. Hermund complained, but he told us it belonged to the seer, Drifa. And us raiding was not going to end well for us. She would come with her magic and spells and curse us all.”

He glanced at Drifa, who was smiling and shaking her head. “They tell such fanciful tales about me.”

“Perhaps you should curse them,” Sigtryggr suggested. 

“Quiet!” Ivar barked. “Let the boy finish.”

“He asked me and Hermund to turn ourselves in at the village behind us, until a boat came to take us to wherever the Seer was. So we turned ourselves into the local Lord, who happened to be Uhtred the Dane-Slayer. When Hermund learned that, he tried to kill Lord Uhtred, but was caught. I was treated more as a guest, until the other ship came. And then we came here,” he finished. 

There was silence after he completed his story. from the sound of things, Anlaf hadn’t done the right thing, perhaps he had grown since the last time he was in Dyflin. But Stiorra was in no position to judge. She didn’t even know Sigtryggr had a nephew until the ship carrying him arrived in Dyflin.

“We will decide what to do with you later,” Ivar said, breaking the silence. “For now, we will talk to your friend.” He signalled the guards to take Anlaf away again.

“From what he said, he didn’t really do much,” Sigtryggr said.

“He left Dyflin and sided with a traitor,” Ivar retorted.

“He came back,” added Rognvaldr. “Willingly, too.”

“You truly think he came back willingly?” Ivar conterred. 

The argument was interrupted by the arrival of Hermund, dragged in by two of Ivar’s men and Sigurd, a berserker himself. Even Sigurd was dwarfed by Hermund’s sheer size. But then, size wasn’t everything. Stiorra had little doubt that if Hermund so much as thought about trying anything, Drifa would be on him like a cat on a rat.

Hermund proved to be less talkative than his so-called friend, preferring to stare menacingly at them, stubbornly remaining silent. In the end, Ivar had to send him back to the dungeons.

“So,” Sigtryggr began, “what do we do with them now?”

A silence fell between them. 

Even Drifa seemed to have no clue.

“They have to be punished,” Ivar pointed out.

“Yes, but how?” Drifa questioned. “Anlaf confessed to the crimes he did commit, but none of them felt serious enough to execute him. He accused Hermund of crimes that we would execute for.” She shrugged. “I don’t know what we should do.”

“I say we kill Hermund,” Rognvaldr said. Everyone stared at him. He never made a lot of contributions to these sorts of discussions. “What? Am I not allowed to have an opinion?”

“No, Go on,” Drifa encouraged. “We kill Hermund.”

“And perhaps he can have Anlaf beaten,” he suggested. “Not too many times, of course.”

“I like this plan,” Drifa agreed.

“As do I,” Sigtryggr concurred. Even Ivar nodded.

“I suppose that would work. I…” he stopped and stared at Stiorra as if he had only just noticed she was in the room. “What is she doing here? What are you doing here? Get out!” He yelled.

Stiorra left without complaint. Perhaps it was best not to tempt luck any further today.

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[timetravelingpenguin1066]

Of Irland, Chapter 8

Chapter 1 \\ Chapter 7 \\ Series Masterlist

Instead of being taken captive in Winchester, Stiorra leaves for Irland with a friend of her father’s. There she meets Sigtryggr, a Dane, the grandson of Ivar the Boneless.

Chapter 8: Dirty Waters

Chapter warnings: Language Words: 2604 AO3

Stiorra had been waiting for only a few moments when the others came in. “Where is Sigtryggr?” Ivar demanded.

“I..” she stuttered.

“I’m here,” called a voice from the stairs. Sigtryggr.

He came down, footsteps pounding on the stairs. He still did not have his shirt on.

“We need to talk, brother,” Ivar ordered. “You little hump thing can wait.”

The temperature in the room dropped. No-one spoke. Stiorra began shaking with fear, although she could not quite identify where it was coming from.

“What did you call her?” Sigtryggr thundered.

Fuck. He was sexy when he was angry. The way his eyes darkened. His voice dropped to a raspy whisper. His hands balled into fist at his sides…

Stiorra shook her head and stepped between the brothers. “Enough,” she said, “stopping fighting.”

Sigtryggr turned to look at her. There was a fire in his eyes. “He insulted you.” There was hurt in his voice.

Ivar had been insulting her since the day she arrived. Now that Sigtryggr was showing her attention, the number of insults was likely to double.

Stiorra glared at him until he backed down. Behind her, Ivar smirked. He muttered something in Irish that made Sigtryggr launch his way past her and start beating the shit out of him. 

Stiorra screamed.

Rognvaldr leapt into the fray, trying to break the two apart. Drifa called over Sigurd and Hæfnir to help.

There were several broken noses and bruised knuckles before Sigtryggr and Ivar were separated. Sigtryggr was seething, Ivar smirking.

Stiorra had never been so afraid. Not for herself. But for Sigtryggr. What if Ivar beat him to death? Deprive him of his place in Valhalla? Stiorra imagined killing him if that happened.

“Aww, féach air! Ag cosaint a chlú luachmhar mar an fear is cliste sa teaghlach ó shin i leith ár seanathair,” Ivar spat, held back by Hæfnir and Rognvaldr.

“Ná dean,” Sigtryggr growled, “glaoch orm bórd.”

“Ansin stop ag ligean ort gur duine againn tú. Níl ionat ach bastard, tá a fhios ag gach duine é.” At these words, Sigtryggr tried to launch himself at Ivar again, but failed due to being held down by Sigurd.

Sigurd, unlike Hæfnir, actually looked like a berserker. He was big, carried a massive axe, and his battle cry… that was enough to make anyone shit themselves. He was also exceedingly strong.

“Stop fighting,” Drifa warned. “Both of you. This is enough.” She stood between them now. She glared at Ivar. “Ivar…” she began. Then waved her hand at Asvard and started walking to the room at the back.

“She wants to go fuck yourself,” Asvard finished.

Ivar glared murderously at his brother, and then shrugged off the two men and stormed after Drifa.

Stiorra took a shaky breath. This was bad.

Both led their own bands of men. Both owned their own ships. Tension between the brothers could lead to tension between their men. If a war began within Dyflin, they would all be killed.

Sigtryggr turned back to her. She fought with herself as so not to stare. His nose, there was anything interesting about his nose. Right? Other than the fact it was bleeding.

“I’m sorry about that,” he apologised.

“You didn’t do anything,” she said.

“My brother insulted you,” he reminded her.

Stiorra said nothing.

Rognvaldr called out for Sigtryggr. He sighed, wiping the blood off his nose.

Well, now she got a nice view of his hands. His rough, warm but gentle hands. What she would give for those hands to cup her cheek, to gently draw her closer, to…

Shit. Not again. The puddle reformed.

“I should go and see what Ivar wants this time,” he grumbled. Not helping. The puddle grew larger, more of a pond.

“Will you be alright until later?” he asked her, brow furrowing in concern. She melted under his gentle gaze.

“I was thinking,” she said, fighting to keep her voice even, “I would bathe. It’s been a while.”

He nodded. “Just, don’t go alone,” he cautioned. Stiorra agreed.

“When you’ve finished humping her, brother!” Ivar yelled from the rear room.

Sigtryggr growled. He turned to leave when Stiorra reached out and grabbed his wrist. “Do not fight him again. Please?” she begged. He nodded. But she didn’t let go.

They just stared into each other’s eyes for a moment. Stiorra gazed into the deep blue abyss, falling every second.

“BROTHER!” Ivar called. Stiorra jumped back, and he walked away.

She watched him as he left, the tattoo on his back providing a nice contrast to his pinkish tinged skin. He turned back once more before the door shut.

Stiorra’s heart gave a leap. What was that? Him defending her.

She tried not to think about his sculpted form. Or his tattoo, tracing it with her fingers, skimming her lips along the dark lines…

For fuck’s sake! she yelled at her mind. Gods.

The things this man did to her.

***

Stiorra slowly sunk into the water. It was exactly cold, but wasn’t exactly warm, either. She dipped her head under the water before surfacing again.

A body slid into the lake beside her. Frida. “Is it alright if we join you?” she asked.

Stiorra looked back on the bank. Standing there was Torgärd and Thora. Drifa’s cousin, Asfrid was sitting on a stump. Jezekel, one of Drifa’s guards, was standing with his back turned a few feet away. Stiorra nodded and the women stripped and lowered themselves in the water. All of them except for Asfrid.

“Are you not joining us?” Stiorra inquired.

“No,” she replied, sighing. “I’ve already bathed. Drifa insisted that I chaperone. You never know what dangers lurk.”

“But you already have guard,” Stiorra reminded her, gesturing towards Jezekel. Asfrid groaned in annoyance.

“Fine!” she confessed. “Drifa sent to find out how you feel about Sigtryggr.”

Thora spluttered, snorting up some water. Frida patted her on the back as she coughed.

“WHAT?” Stiorra yelled indignantly.

Asfrid shrugged. “She knows you like him. She’s not blind. Or stupid.”

“And she sent all of you to wrangle a confession out of me,” she demanded of the others.

“Why do you think Mœid is not here?”

“I’d thought she was fucking Sigbjorn again,” Thora said.

Stiorra gaped at her. “I didn’t think any of you swore.”

“You try making through a hump with Hæfnir. He always swears,” she stated.

“Ingemar’s the same,” Frida added. “Always swearing.”

“They do that?” Stiorra asked. She then blushed at her own ignorance of such things. Her father had always shielded her from this type of conversation. Stiorra had the distinctive feeling she was about to have a lesson in humping from these women.

“Oh, yes,” Thora verified, “all the time.”

“Does it… hurt?” Stiorra asked hesitantly.

The women looked at her, seeming somewhat reluctant to answer her. The silence was long and awkward. Stiorra squirmed inside for asking such a question. Eventually, Thora spoke.

“It depends…” she paused, unsure of how to answer the question.

“You should ask Drifa,” Asfrid said. All the women looked up at her in surprise.

“Drifa doesn’t sleep with anyone,” Torgärd reminded her.

“She’s also well-travelled and a healer and advisor. She’s the person people come to for advice on all kinds of things from battle strategies to, yes, humping,” Asfrid informed her astonished crowd. “Thora, do you remember Drifa asking if it hurt the night after you lay with Hæfnir for the first time?”

Thora nodded. “I remember. I told her it only hurt for a moment, but he was gentle and careful, and he made sure I was comfortable before he started moving again.”

“Well, Drifa has asked that question to many women in all kinds of places. Some of them said it hurt every time. But they were mostly women who had not married for love or were women who were raped by their husbands every night. If they complained about it, they’d be told that he was ‘claiming his right as a husband’.” Asfrid paused for a breath.

Women raped in marriage? Stiorra had never really heard of that. She knew that Aethelflaed had not been well treated by her husband, Aethelred. But now Asfrid had said this, was this why the marriage was so unhappy? Or was there another reason.

“But there were those women who said the man was careful and gentle. That he made them comfortable. That he constantly asked if she was alright.”

Stiorra nodded as she listened. There was still something she had to clear up though.

“Why does Drifa to that kind of research if she doesn’t hump herself?” she asked Asfrid.

“Like I said, she is the one people go to for advice. To give advice, she needs to know things. I personally do not believe she has lived as long as she has and still never humped.”

“So, she has a lover?” Frida asked, smirking.

“I’m sure she does,” teased Asfrid.

“Who?” Thora begged. Stiorra chuckled, looking up at Asfrid, curious to know who had been handsome enough to break through a barriers Drifa had built up around herself.

Drifa had sworn off love many years ago when her best friend betrayed her and killed many of her friends. She had said that the reason he did it was for love. Since then, she had sworn that she would not fall in love. But that did not mean she could not hump. Love and humping do not always go together. But the idea that she had fallen off the wagon was too great a chance to annoy her back.

“I think it’s Asvard.”

All four women burst out laughing. Although now it had been said, Stiorra could see the appeal. Asvard was good-looking, strong. He was rumoured to be one of the few who could actually beat her in combat.

“Just, don’t tell her I said that,” Asfrid cautioned. “She tends to get really mad when you mention it.”

***

Sigtryggr:

“Faolán Mac Thóm?” Sigtryggr puzzled.

“Yes,” Ivar confirmed. “He is apparently forming an army to attack us.”

“Where is he gathering this army?”

“South,” Drifa provided, pointing at the map. “From what my man said, he may have upwards of three-hundred men.”

Rognvaldr snorted. “We can beat three hundred, easily.”

“These men are Irish,” Drifa cautioned. “They do not give in easily.”

“We should set some men on the walls and send scouts to watch for this army,” Sigtryggr advised. The more the better. One man’s family was already dead because of their lack of attention.

“I agree.” Sigtryggr’s head snapped up. He had expected to have to fight with Ivar on this, as he had been forced to on many occasions. “We send men to reinforce those at Papey.”

A good plan. Sigtryggr may not like his brother, but sometimes he actually did use his brain for thing other than insulting women. His thoughts wondered back to Stiorra.

Stiorra. The small woman who had come here with Drifa. Sigtryggr had not been able to stop thinking about her since the moment Drifa brought her into the Great Hall. He’d had a prior arrangement and had left. But now he wondered…

He snapped back into the conversation. “If the army is as big as you say,” Ivar was saying, “I am wondering how easy it will be for them to take this place.”

“Then they must not get past Papey,” Sigtryggr told him. “Send the men.”

Ivar nodded and the order was passed around.

Sigtryggr turned to leave.

“Where are you going, brother?” came a scornful voice. Ivar. “To find your little hump thing?” He chuckled.

Sigtryggr seethed. He turned and stormed towards Ivar pinning him back against the wall.

“Brother!” Rognvaldr shouted.

“Do not,” Sigtryggr growled, “call her that again.”

“Why? Aren’t humping her?” Ivar goaded. “Because if your not then I will-“

Sigtryggr did not let him finish his sentence. He slammed Ivar back into the wall again, letting him fall to the floor before punching him as hard as he could. Ivar struggled back, his fist connecting with Sigtryggr’s already broken nose. Drifa stepped in, pulling Sigtryggr off his brother.

“Enough,” she warned. “All this in fighting is not hel-.”

“You will not touch her,” Sigtryggr seethed.

Ivar chuckled. “Someone has to hump her. Teach her a lesson,” he goaded. He was enjoying this, Sigtryggr realised. He enjoyed riling his brother up, shattering his so-precious self-control.

Thankfully, Drifa responded before he could launch himself forwards again.

“Ivar, keep your dirty little hands off her. All this in-fighting between you, you create dirty waters, and your men drink it. We cannot afford a civil war now. We have a common enemy for now, Faolán. Let us focus on him.”

***

Stiorra:

Stiorra carefully slipped into her dress. It was flowy, like the red one from earlier, only this time it was blue, a colour Drifa said suited her. She strolled back to the city, escorted by Jezekel. The other women had long since left, but he’d remained, saying that Drifa had insisted.

Jezekel was unusual. He was tall and blonde. His hair was shorter than most Danes here, and his name did not sound Danish either. When she prodded him, he only told her that he came from some place far from here.

As they went through the gates, Stiorra felt someone grip her elbow. She turned to slap whoever it was, only to find that it was Sigtryggr. She smiled and he let go of her. Jezekel only looked back briefly before continuing.

“Did you enjoy your bath?” he inquired.

“I did,” Stiorra told him.

Sigtryggr was wearing a shirt now, not that Stiorra was surprised. The sun was setting, taking the heat of the day with it.

Sigtryggr offered Stiorra his arm. She looped her arm through it and they began to walk.

He pointed at the various shops and places in the city. He told her which blacksmith was the best to go to for swords, and which was best as shoeing horses. He showed her the stalls where farmers sold their crops. The butchers, where the stench of blood and death emerged from the darkened interior.

He took her to the market. This one was where the merchant’s came from overseas to sell things like cloth and jewellery. He hung back while Stiorra admired the trader’s wares.

Lastly, he took her to the docks where the ships came in and out. They stood there for a while, watching the sunset. Stiorra shivered in the cool evening breeze.

“You’re cold,” Sigtryggr observed.

“I’m fine,” she assured him. He was not convinced. He heard him leave for a moment.

When she heard his footsteps coming back, she turned to find him holding a thin summer cloak. It looked like Drifa’s work.

Drifa had many ways of making a living. She heeled people, but she did that for free. So she made armour and clothing.

Sigtryggr wrapped the thin linen cloak around her bare shoulders. She shivered again, but not from the cold.

“The waters are so clean here,” Stiorra marvelled.

“That’s because we don’t throw our shit in the water.”

“My father told me that my mother used to complain about washing in dirty waters,” she said sadly. Sigtryggr noticed this.

“I’m sorry,” he consoled. Stiorra shook her head to clear the tears. It had been many years.

As the sun dipped behind the horizon, he suggested that they go inside and eat. Stiorra happily agreed. This had been the best day in Irland so far. So much had changed. She still missed her father and her mother, but somehow, she didn’t quite feel as alone.

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[zaldritzosrose]

Spicychat.ai bots all have specified storylines - obviously, with just the basics to let the user run wild!

I'd also recommend checking out @legitalicat , @iamyourdailydoseofbi, and @foxyanon for their AMAZING bots as well!

Spicychat.ai Masterlist

House of the Dragon/Game of Thrones

Aemond Targaryen

Warlock AU

Prince Regent AU

Bodyguard AU

Vampire Hunter AU

Dark/Vampire AU

Dance of the Dragons/HOTD AU

Poly AU

Aegon Targaryen

Modern AU

Dance of the Dragons/HOTD AU

Green as Rot (Poly Fanfic) AU

Forbidden Love AU

Cursed Prince AU

Poly AU

Daemon Targaryen

Dance of the Dragons/HOTD AU

Mafia AU

Otto Hightower

Dance of the Dragons/HOTD AU

Criston Cole

Dance of the Dragons/HOTD AU

Alicent Hightower

HOTD AU

Helaena Targaryen

HOTD AU

Cregan Stark

Dance of the Dragons AU

Maegor Targaryen

Fire and Blood AU

Robb Stark

Game of Thrones AU

Tormund Giantsbane

Game of Thrones AU

The Last Kingdom

Osferth

The Last Kingdom AU

Witch AU

Sihtric

The Last Kingdom AU

Witch AU

Vampire!Sihtric

Finan

The Last Kingdom AU

Sigtryggr

The Last Kingdom AU

Saltburn

Oliver Quick

Saltburn AU

Michael Gavey

Saltburn AU

Felix Catton

Saltburn AU

Other Ewanverse Characters

Tom Bennett

World on Fire AU

Will

Salad Days AU

Ettore

High Life AU

Other TGC Characters

Sean

Doing Money AU

Gaius Octavius

Domina AU

Other Characters

Morpheus

The Sandman AU

Masema Dagar

Wheel of Time AU

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[witchthewriter]

Hello.<3 I noticed you started writing for The Last Kingdom and I’m just wondering which characters you’re willing to write for?

The question is who wouldn't I write for lol. No, okay I'll give you a list who I write for (warning, it's long):

Uhtred (obviously)

Queen Iseult (she will always be a queen to me, no matter what!)

Finan

Sihtric

Osferth

Brida

Lady Aethelflaed

Eadith

Leofric

Ragnar

Sigtryggr

Father Beocca (do not judge me ... there's just something so wholesome about him)

Aldhelm

Steapa

Aelfwynn

If you really want something written for a character, I will probably do it tbh. The Last Kingdom deserves more fanfics and hype. It's truly a masterpiece. Up there with GOT & HOTD.

#witchthewriter #the last kingdom #uhtred of bebbanburg #uhtred #seven kings must die #arnas fedaravicius #finan #finan the agile #baby monk #osferth #osferth headcanons #sigtryggr #mark rowley #young ragnar #vikings #saxons #danes #aethelflaed #aethelstan #king alfred #father beocca #eadith #brida

[sigmartell]

im feeling the hunger games bug, would anyone be interested in a mentor/tribute fanfic w/stiorra and sigtryggr?

#stiorra x sigtryggr