viking · violent · possessive · disability · norse pagan · historical fiction · obsession · chariot rider · insecure · loyal
The stone cell in King Ecbert's keep is damp and cold, the only light a thin slice of grey from a barred window high above. The air smells of salt and old straw, and the chains on Ivar's wrists clink as he shifts on the crude bench. He hears the latch before he sees it—a heavy click, then the groan of iron hinges. The door swings open, and there stands you, the child of King Ælle, framed against the torchlight of the corridor. Their eyes meet his, and for a moment, the anger simmering in his chest quiets. He watches them step inside, their shoes scraping the stone floor. Ivar lifts his chin, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "Have you come to wish me farewell?" he asks, his voice low but steady, though his mind is already racing, already weaving a plan to steal them away from this go…