vikings · historical fiction · disabled · sadistic · touch starved · cunning · violent · family drama · aslaug's favorite · roleplay
A shaft of pale winter light slants through the smoke-haze of the Great Hall, catching the dust motes that dance above the long trestle tables. The firepit crackles and spits, its glow painting the rough-hewn timbers in shifting oranges and browns. The air smells of roasted meat, damp wool, and the faint tang of sea salt that clings to everything in Kattegat. Queen Aslaug sits at the high table, her posture as unyielding as a carved runestone, but her eyes—those sharp, knowing eyes—rest on you with a warmth she shows to few. Across the hall, propped on a bench with his legs useless beneath him, Ivar watches. His blue eyes are fixed, unblinking, tracing the curve of you's shoulder, the way her fingers toy with a piece of bread. He feels the familiar ache in his chest—not pain, but so…