#sigtryggr fan fic
Text
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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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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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
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↷ september '23 fave fic recs!⋆☂｡☽˚.
Okay, okay here we go! This nearly killed me to make, so you better read them.
I'm kidding... I think.
Gentle reminder that what I consider 'fave' is by my own personal tastes and preferences, and you might not agree with them and that's okay! These are very lovely authors you can peruse on your own to find the right fic for you, and there are always the tags + algo. Just because your favourite fic isn't here doesn't mean it's not good; it could be potentially for a variety of reasons (I haven't read it yet, I have just not this month, I don't vibe with that character, etc).
That's what I love about the individuality in fandom and writers— there will always be that right fic from that right author that just hits all your good spots.
This is mine. For the month of September. If you find your next favourite fix here— I'm glad! If not, that's still swell! Hope you find it!
To the writers— thank you for writing such brilliant fics! I struggled setting this up because of how many I enjoyed 💝.
Anyways...
More quick reminders!
This is set chronologically; both by character name and by fic title.
If you are familiar with my blog, you will mainly see HOTD, some TLK, then random characters.
There may be smut! There may be dark fiction! I support and consume both! Please read trigger warnings actively! You are responsible for your own person! Community Labels ruin fandom ecosystems, stop snitching! Ignore or block at bloody will!
There are no series parts here. That is in a different display post that is still being processed lol.
If you see repeated author names, it can be numerous things— mostly, they're just that good, okay? Okay.
These are only for September 2023. I've read about 500+ on this account alone, and would die if I tried to go back before then, sorry. You can still check them out through tag navigation here!
I've also added some of my works that I enjoyed writing for the month, because why not.
Now that's fucking over, I hope you enjoy!
ABRAHAM (Grantchester)
*Untitled Piece by @ewanmitchellcrumbs
AEGON TARGARYEN II
Ceilings by @sapphire-writes
Lemon Cake To My Tea by @darlingofvalyria
Merciless or Ruthless? by @lovelykhaleesiii
Moan for Me by @st-eve-barnes
AEMOND TARGARYEN
A Mutual Feeling of Hate by @fan-goddess
Gelato by @oneeyedvisenya
Hell Hath No Fury @fromforeigntofamiliarity
His Love by @valeskafics
I'm A Fire, And I'll Keep Your Brittle Heart Warm by @randomdragonfires
Revolution by @valeskafics
The Black Stag by @darlingofvalyria
Til Death Do Us Part by @asumofwords
Unnerved by @dulcewrites
*Untitled by @ewanmitchellcrumbs
*Untitled by @missglaskin
Vulnerability by @valeskafics
ALDHELM
My Heart by @silens-oro
BILLY TAYLOR
The Perfect Send Off by @ewanmitchellcrumbs
BILLY WASHINGTON
Lonely This Christmas by @ewanmitchellcrumbs
DAEMON TARGARYEN
Ask, and You Shall Receive by @ewanmitchellcrumbs
A Thousand Words by @arabellasleopardcoat
Capital by @arabellasleopardcoat
Curse of Womanhood by @just-some-random-blogger
*Untitled by @barbiedragon
Valyrian Bride by @cryingforlife
HARALD SIGURDSSON
A Political Arrangement by @valeskafics
JACAERYS VELARYON
In Bastards of Blue, Wager in War by @darlingofvalyria
MAEGOR TARGARYEN
Little Lights by @dreamsofoldvalyria
OSFERTH
Lacnunga, Or, Remedy by @assortedseaglass
SIGTRYGGR IVARSSON
Little Warrior by @ewanmitchellcrumbs
SIHTRIC KJARTANSSON
Hours by @valeskafics
It's Urgent Darling by @sihtricfedaraaahvicius
Take No Wife by @valeskafics
TOM BENNETT
A Good Wife by @valeskafics
Rest by @fidelias
VISERYS TARGARYEN III
*Untitled by @barbiedragon
MULTIPLE CHARACTERS
Conquerors Reborn by @undertheorangetree | Helaena, Aemond x Reader
El Tango De Roxanne by @valeskafics | Jace, Aemond x Reader
Royalty Fucked by @oorhaellaoo | Baelon, Alyssa x Reader
#fanfiction recommendation#hotd x reader#tlk x reader#vikings x reader#abraham x reader#billy washington x reader#asoiaf x reader#tom bennett x reader#2013 💋 Fic Recs#💋 September 2023#the witch's fic recs 💋
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Fields of Wildflowers , Chapter 13
Fields of Wildflowers
Chapter 13
A Sihtric x OC story
Previous chapters. | My masterlist
AN: Firstly, apologies for not updating or posting any original content for a few weeks. I was on vacation and taking a small personal break. But rest assured that this story will be concluded and that I have other content and other OC’s I will write for when this story is done. So thank you for your patience and continued reading and support! My timeline for events during the siege in Winchester is different from the show. I almost combined this chapter with the events for the next one but they would have been too long. Also, this chapter still does not feature much of Sihtric, but he will be in the next chapter! I promise! And the beautiful moodboard is from @serasvictoria. Check out her blog - beautiful and original work.
Warnings: non-con, male on female violence, self-defense violence, assault, sexual assault, I think that is all.
Word Count: 3553
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Since learning of Eardwulf’s presence in Winchester and the disturbing images in her dreams, which had continued nightly, Cwen’s composure had begun to falter. Shadows in lonely corners continually leared in the edges of her vision. A loud noise or commotion was enough to startle a gasp from her lips. While returning to the kitchens one evening, a dark haired man with a slim frame similar to Eardwulf rounded a corner, reeking of ale and stumbled into Cwen and Eadith grumbling to himself. The encounter was enough to leave Cwen shaking like a leaf in a gale. For the rest of that evening, Eadith couldn’t coax a word out of her friend.
Eadith was truly worried about Cwen and tried not to leave her alone when possible. The two women continued working in the kitchen and waiting for chances to sneak words to their friends. Although there was no real news to relay to them.
The siege continued. Sigtrrygr still had the upper hand and for all intents and purposes appeared to ignore Edward’s attacks on the walls outside. Cwen and Eadith had managed to speak a few more words through the door to Lady Aelswith and were confident they were managing as well as they could. Although held as prisoners, they were fed and given water. They were not ill treated.
A bit shockingly, Stiorra was being treated with even more dignity and respect. Cwen had managed to volunteer to bring Stiorra food a second time from the kitchens. All had gone smoothly and it had done Cwen some good to venture on the errand without the comfort of Eadith’s presence.
Stiorra had embraced her and assured her of Sigtrrygr’s kindness and courtesy towards her. And it was true that the young woman Cwen saw looked refreshed and lively. Cwen thought that Stiorra seemed quite taken with the conquering Dane. He, apparently, spoke with her as an equal and conversed with her, challenged her. And Cwen felt glad for the young woman. Seeing the blossoming of a potential young romance did make her heart ache to feel herself once more in Sihtric’s arms. She wished to move beyond the hard words spoken between them when they left one another.
When she had returned from delivering Stiorra’s food, Cwen felt a bit more like herself. Eadith had noticed the change in her friend as well. That one errand on her own had brought back more of the determined and confident woman Eadith knew.
Cwen still was watchful. She still steadied herself and her breathing regularly. But she had stopped her quaking and stuttering movements or being startled at every noise or turn. Her nightmares had also lessened.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The chance to bring Stiorra her afternoon meal presented itself again several days later. Frig had yet again barked an order to any kitchen maid available to bring bread, cheese, and water to the woman, Stiorra. Careful to not seem too eager, Cwen had moved to gather the items and a basket in which to carry them all.
She paused just outside the door of the kitchen and gathered her breath. She could still see Eadith through the doorway and managed a small smile before taking a steadying breath and moving on her errand. Along the hallways, Cwen strode with confidence having become accustomed to walking the halls now occupied by Danes. She held her head down to avoid unwanted attention but walked with purpose to avoid unneeded questions. No one usually disturbed her or Eadith while they were about their business but all the same, Cwen thought it best to blend in and become unassuming.
As she turned the corner, Cwen heard muffled voices coming from the room where Stiorra was kept. Still several paces down the hall, she slowed her steps and strained her ears to better hear who was within. Thus far, her path had not crossed with Sigtryggr while he visited Stiorra. It might be best to completely avoid arousing suspicion that they knew one another.
But if Sigtryggr knew food should be on its way and she delayed it’s arrival would that not also be suspicious?
Cwen kept her head down and decided she would simply walk into the room and deliver the food. She could then see how events unfolded casually. Cwen was startled from her thoughts when the door to Stiorra’s room opened. And a voice she recognized spoke.
“I would always choose fear.”
Eardwulf backed out of the door and turned after closing it again, leaving whomever else was inside shut away.
The man appeared haggard and dejected. Fearful even.
As he turned, Eardwulf’s glare caught Cwen. She stood transfixed. A deer frozen after hearing the snap of a twig.
“What are you doing here?” Eardwulf sneered in a low voice as he stalked towards Cwen.
He reached a hand out to grasp at her sleeve, but it snapped life back into Cwen’s blood and she stepped to turn and run.
But he was himself too quick and easily grabbed her from behind and pushed her into an alcove of the hallway.
Eardwulf was quick to muffle Cwen’s cries with a hand over her mouth.
“If you are here then it means my whore of a sister must also be here. What is the plan then, eh? Have you two in here to spy and to snoop?”
Eardwulf prattled on about the injustices and failures he continually faced all the while never removing his hand from Cwen’s mouth.
She stared, terrified at the man and his condition. Dark shadows rested in the hollows underneath his bloodshot eyes. His eyes themselves appeared deranged.
Finally, Eardwulf paused while bringing his head to rest against Cwen’s brow. His hand still clamped across her mouth making it hard to breathe. The pressure of his fingers was bruising.
“I will show them,” he whispered, not speaking to Cwen any longer but to some unknown collective.
“They will watch in fear as I show them what will become of those who threaten me.”
He drew back from Cwen, catching her eyes.
His breathing was haggard. Matching her own.
Cwen cursed herself for having Sihtric’s knife hidden strapped to her calf. Out of her reach.
Not like the knife Eardwulf now drew from a sheath at his waist and held up to her, the tip grazing along the dip in her clavicle.
“Not a word, Cwen. You are coming with me.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cwen could not help but comply as Eardwulf led her, knife pressed against the small of her back, at the kidneys. The same place Sihtric had instructed her could incapacitate an attacker.
Her mind worked feverishly trying to find a means of escape from him. Or to even determine what he meant to do with her. How and who was he planning to strike fear into?
But realization soon struck her as Eardwulf escorted her up a set of stairs and out into the rampart. Facing Edward’s army on the field below. Facing her friends. Sihtric.
“Edward!”
Eardwulf’s voice grated as he shouted for the king’s attention.
“Edward! My Lord King!”
Eardwulf’s focus was now on garnering attention from the king, his grip had shifted, clasping an arm tight around Cwen’s throat and the knife held in his free hand. Braced against the stonewall of the parapet.
Cwen clasped her hands onto his arm desperately trying to break some of the hold he had on her. But his strength and size overpowered her. She watched as his fingers flexed and then gripped the knife repeatedly as he waited for any sign of reply from the king.
And then she heard him. Crying out to her with such fear and anguish that it almost broke her.
“Cwen!” Sihtric called, rushing forward from the base of the tree in the field. Osferth and Finan were quick to restrain him, to stop him from coming in range of any archer's arrows. What sounds followed in the next few moments we’re not words but the sounds of a man crazed. An animal desperate to act and protect what was his.
“Is that your man now, Cwen?”
Eardwulf’s words were hot against her cheek. Cwen could do nothing but watch while Sihtric struggled and fought against Finan and Osferth.
“I have struck fear in him. The rest will follow,” Eardwulf paused, scanning the crowd assembled to watch on the field. Edward had stepped out from the ranks of his men but had made no move to reply to Eardwulf. Seeing this, Eardwulf shifted his focus.
“Lord Uhtred!” He now called. Taunting.
“Lord Dane Slayer! Come forth Uhtred!”
Cwen watched helplessly as Sihtric finally stopped struggling against his brothers. He stared up at her, panting and flexing his jaw. Then Uhtred was beside them and striding forward several paces in front of them.
“We have your daughter, Uhtred.”
Eardwulf’s words stopped Uhtred in his tracks and caused the rest of his men to still.
“She is almost as good a hump as this one here,” Eardwulf yelled the words while releasing his grasp around Cwen’s shoulders to shove her forward by the nape of her neck.
Finding courage from his deception, Cwen yelled, “He lies! She is treated fairly and with respect,” but Eardwulf’s hand shoved her forward so that her head connected with the stone wall, dulling the last of her words.
Feeling dazed, Cwen could hear shouts from the men below. Sihtric’s voice was chief among them.
Then Eardwulf’s voice rose again over the shouts and protests.
“Now do I have your attention?” He paused while the soldier’s voices died down. “We hold the city. And we will continue to hold the city. Do you know how Sigtryggr took your city? I told him it was left undefended. It was me!” He paused here scanning the crowd and breathing hard. His hand still held Cwen bent over, braced against the stone wall.
“Too often I was overlooked or underused. Swept aside and discarded. But no more!” His words were coming out desperate now, pained. “Now you would have cause to fear me.”
Struggling to push herself upright, Cwen retorted, “you are nothing but a snake in the grass. A coward. That is why you will never rise. You will never become anything more.”
Cwen could feel the anger radiating off of Eardwulf. His entire body quivered with malice. She knew she needed to keep him off guard. Keep him impetuous if she was to find a chance to save herself. It was a dangerous game to play, to goad him on, but if she did not then she was sure this would end badly.
“Shut your mouth, whore!” Eardwulf snapped while dragging Cwen back upright against him.
“Sigtryggr has the power here, Edward! I have the power.”
Cwen flinched at his words. He had brought the knife back up to her torso, pressing against her breasts. But it was clear his attention wasn’t truly focused on her. Chaos and rage were emanating off of him. Cwen could feel his breath catching and the sobs seizing in his throat. The turmoil and fury he battled had won.
“And you will watch as I wield that power! I will hump this bitch now and then I will find your daughter, Uhtred, and I will hump her too. And you will not be able to do anything to stop me.”
Eardwulf’s final words were bellowed at the crowd below. It was then that Cwen felt the buzzing in her ears once more and time felt sluggish.
She could hear the shouts from the men gathered below. The din of the noise and the buzzing were too loud for her to pick out Sihtric’s voice, but she knew the anguish he would be feeling.
She felt as Eardwulf shoved her body forward once more, discarding his knife and bodily pressing himself against her. He fumbled with the bundles of her skirt, reaching down to grab handfuls of the fabric.
Cwen felt herself desperately try to push her body backwards, to gain any sort of leverage or purchase. In her struggle, Cwen brought her leg up bracing against the wall. And her hand brushed the handle of Sihtric’s knife.
With no hesitation, Cwen grasped the handle and pulled it from the sheath. Bellowing, she drove the blade back with an upward thrust from her hip with all the strength her arm could muster at such an odd angle. And she felt the weapon sink into flesh.
Immediately, the pressure holding her against the stone eased. Cwen ripped the knife from Eardwulf’s gut and whirled around.
Eardwulf’s hands were grasping at his abdomen where blood had begun to seep through his fingers.
Cwen was vaguely aware of boots clamoring up the stairs to her left. But she was more focused on the rush of adrenaline coursing through her body. Eardwulf turned his eyes back up to meet hers and lurched forward, hand reaching for her throat. And upon instinct, Cwen brought the knife up between herself and Eardwulf. She felt the tremor of the blade sinking into flesh once more as she pushed the blade outward and Eardwulf’s own momentum came crashing against it. The knife ripped past the flesh and scraped off of the bone, then tearing into his vocal cords. Cwen felt as slick, crimson gore seeped over her hand.
The buzzing had stopped. The running feet had stopped. The sounds of the shouts and yells from the field below were still slow and distant to Cwen’s ears. Slowly, she pushed Eardwulf’s body away from hers and let go of the knife.
Stepping to the side, Cwen watched as he dropped down on his knees and his head lolled forward. Fresh blood pooled out of his mouth. Cwen’s heart hammered in her chest and she felt a tingling moving along her body. First in her toes, then along her fingers, and traveling up her arms. Adrenaline roaring through her veins.
It was after a few more moments that Cwen became aware of the other person on the ramparts. Raising her eyes, Cwen saw that Sigtryggr stood only a few paces away, surveying the scene before him.
He lifted his hands in a gesture of peace and slowly walked forward. His eyes never left Cwen. Not when he closed the distance between himself and Eardwulf. And not when he stooped to grasp the knife handle, ripping it from Eardwulf’s neck. The gesture brought a new spurt of blood and elicited several choked coughs from Eardwulf.
Slowly, Sigtryggr grasped Eardwulf by the shoulders and pulled him up to his feet. The man’s life was slowly ebbing away. Cwen listened as Sigtryggr spoke to Eardwulf.
“Do you see what ruling through fear has earned you, Christian? I doubt there will be any who mourn your death.”
With those final words, the Danish conqueror grasped onto Eardwulf’s shoulders. He moved to the stone and shoved the man bodily over the parapet to crash on the hard earth below.
The shouts from the Saxons died on their lips. And Cwen watched as Sigtryggr held out his hand to her. The knife laid flat in his palm. An offering to her.
“He can hurt you no longer.” Sigtryggr’s voice was calm and low. It was collected and composed. And Cwen studied his eyes before she reached out to take the knife. They showed only sincerity.
Once she had taken the knife and stepped back a pace to have some space, Sigtryggr turned his attention towards the Saxons.
“King Edward of Wessex,” he shouted, “That man did not speak for me. And he is of no concern now.” Sigtryggr paused here, searching the crowd to see if he could find Edward among his men.
“Come on out, King. I have shown myself. Now let us see you. Come and meet me at the gate. I wish to speak with you, eye to eye. One man to another.”
Hearing his words, Cwen turned to scan the crowd. But while Sigtryggr was searching for Edward, her eyes were hunting for Sihtric. And he was there. His eyes were trained on her. Cwen could still see the desperation emanating off of him. The overwhelming yearning to be embracing his lover while only able to gaze from afar. Cwen felt it too. A physical pull lifting off her chest that there was no choice but to resist. Slowly, Sihtric’s gaze eased her breathing and Cwen felt the drain of exhaustion creep into her bones.
Sigtryggr’s next words caught Cwen’s attention.
“Bring the boys,” he spoke quietly to the guards standing along the stair to their left.
Cwen watched as Aethelstan and another young boy, Aelfweard presumably, approached. Without hesitation, Cwen reached her arms out to envelope Aethelstan. The boy embraced her wordlessly and headless of the blood Cwen noticed had begun to dry on her hands and arms, turning sticky. Sigtryggr watched while Cwen held her arm out to the second child, offering him a bit of maternal comfort and presence as well. Sigtryggr made no move to stop the boys nor even a face of disapproval. His eyes held merely curiosity.
“Meet with me, King Edward,” he called, turning back to face the warriors. “Come,” he paused, seeing that Edward had stepped forward, “and talk to us at the gate. Your sons wish to see their father.”
After an interminable time, Cwen watched as Edward’s standard bearer shouted up that the king would approach the gate and treat with Sigtryggr.
After he had confirmation that Edward would approach, Sigtryggr turned and gently ushered Cwen and the boys down the stairs, his men shifting to make room for their descent.
Cwen stiffened when she felt Sigtryggr place a hand on her back guiding her away from the front gate. Almost instantly, the hand was removed.
“Forgive me, lady,” he paused, questioning as Cwen turned to face him, the boys still clutched tightly to her, “I do not know your name.”
Cwen studied the man’s face once more. Standing closer to him, she could see more details surrounding the scars he wore along his brow and cheek. She also saw a startling depth and gentleness behind his eyes.
“Cwen,” she replied, “My name is Cwen.”
Sigtryggr’s lips quirked upward slightly in amusement. “Ah, so you are one of the young women who traveled the countryside with Stiorra in Mercia while I took Winchester?”
When Cwen did not answer, he continued, “Stiorra has mentioned you on several occasions. She likes you. Respects you,” he paused to turn and glance at some of his men and the gate, “I do not know how you came to be inside the walls, but it is of little concern. And I assure you that no more harm will come to you. I will have you taken to be with Stiorra. But the boys will come with me. I do not wish them harm. And let us pray to all the gods that their father will see reason and help us avoid that outcome.”
Cwen moved to place herself in front of the boys, but Sigtryggr’s men instantly were on her, overpowering her.
“Stop!” Sigtryggr had held up a hand and yelled the command. “You will unhand them.”
His men obeyed him without delay and he approached her placing a gentle but firm hand on her arm.
“You must give them to me now, Cwen. Trust me when I assure you that I wish to be different from the Northmen who have come before me. A better man than the Danes who have raped and ravaged your people. I do not,” he emphasized the word, “want them harmed. But this is what must be done.”
Sigtryggr held out his hands, one towards Aethelstan and one towards Aelfweard. Cwen turned her face to meet Aethelstan’s eyes. They boy nodded at her before reaching out and taking the outstretched hand. He was followed closely by his half-brother and Cwen slowly felt them both slip from her fingers.
Turning to walk to the gate, Sigtryggr spoke to the man nearest him.
“Bring her to Stiorra and see that she is allowed to clean herself and be fed. I will check that this is done later.”
“No,” Cwen protested, finding her voice frail and wavering. But gathering her courage, she spoke once more, “No!”
Sigtryggr stopped and turned his face over his shoulder to watch her.
“I,” she stammered, hesitating, “I was not alone here. Another woman, another friend of Stiorra, Eadith is here with me. I must find her. I fear for either of us to be alone.” Cwen’s eyes searched Sigtryggr’s face, pleading.
After a moment, the Dane gave a single nod before turning back to stride towards the gates.
Taking one step backwards and then another, Cwen turned and rushed off to the kitchens in search of Eadith.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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#the last kingdom#sihtric#sihtric x oc#fields of wildflowers#sigtryggr#tlk fan fic#tlk fanfiction#the last kingdom fanfiction
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do you have any fic about ivar and sister!reader? and sigurd × reader × ivar???
The only sister fic I have with Ivar is called Taking Sides. It’s somewhat old though and also not finished (almost!). Siggy? God, I haven’t heard anyone request Siggy in a while (I have one story I’m working on for someone) but since we here stan (1) idiot brother, here are all my fics with an Ivar and Sigurd component (that I can remember):
Red Little Shoes [ Ivar x Reader x Sigurd ]
One or the Other [ Ivar x Reader x Sigurd ]
Beloved [ Ivar x Reader, Sigurd x Reader ]
Her Uncle’s Love [ Sigurd x Ivar Platonic ]
Lost Sigurdsson [ Sigurd x Reader referenced, Ivar x Reader ]
Me, Not Her [ Sigurd x Reader ]
Glass is an Ass [ Ivar x Reader, Platonic!Sigurd x Ivar ]
All the Things [ Ivar x Reader, Implied Sigurd x Reader ]
It Had to Be Him [ Ivar x Reader x Sigurd ]
Better [ Ivar x Reader x Sigurd -- Ivar fans beware ]
Heal My Heart [ Ivar x Reader x Sigurd ]
Fadir, May I? [ Ivar’s son!Sigtryggr x Sigurd’s Daughter!Reader ]
A Patient Woman [ Ivar x Reader x Sigurd ]
Lost [ Sigurd x Reader, Ivar x Reader platonic ]
No Disrespect [ ABO!Sigurd x Reader, no smut ]
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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.
#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
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Of Irland, Chapter 23
Chapter 1 \\ Chapter 22 \\ 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 23: Will You Find Me?
Chapter Warnings: Language, threat, aftermath of smut (no actual smut), mentions of dead bodies
Words: 2846
AO3
Stiorra stirred. She didn’t want to wake. She’d been having the most wonderful dream. In her dream, Sigtryggr kissed her, and brought her to his room and…
He told her he loved her.
But there was no world in which it could be true. Was there?
Stiorra snapped her eyes open. She was warm, which she hadn’t been for some weeks since the snow fell, and ice paved the streets. Something shifted underneath.
Oh.
So, it had not been a dream. It had been quite real.
Wait.
Did this mean…
It was at this moment she realised he was awake. His hand was trailing up and down her bare back, tracing the ink that decorated the skin. He had helped her apply the healing salve in that room.
It had not been a dream. It was true.
He was there, and he was with her.
She raised her head to gaze at him, and he smiled once he saw she was awake. His left hand dropped to her lower back, making her shiver. He right reached up to cup her cheek, stroking it. She sighed, leaning into the touch.
“Are you alright?” he asked. Stiorra shifted, laying both palms on his muscled chest.
“A little sore,” she answered, truthfully. “I thought for a moment that last night was all a dream.”
He chuckled, the movement bouncing her a little. “It was no dream. I love you, Stiorra Uhtredsdottir.”
She giggled at his formality. “And I love you, Sigtryggr Ivarrsson.”
She dropped her head and pressed a kiss to his chiselled abdomen. She felt the muscles clenching as he reached down and pulled her up to him, finally allowing him to kiss her.
His lips were gentle, there was no need to rush, not now they had all the time for this. His hand stayed where it was at the base of her spine, the one on her check stroking the soft skin. Her hands crept up his bare chest, wrapping around his neck.
He shifted, rolling them both over so she was on her back. His kisses grew hungry.
A flash of pain came from between her legs, and she stilled. He pulled away,
“Are you in pain?” he asked.
“Sore.”
He nodded, smiling. He understood. He rolled off her and wrapped his arms around her instead.
“This is good?” he asked.
“This is good.”
And it was good. It was safe and warm and…
A loud bang interrupted the peaceful bliss that had settled over them.
“Get up, you lazy shit!” Ivar shouted from the other side of the door. “Lunch!”
Sigtryggr groaned. Ivar banged on the door again.
“Get up, you lazy stinking piece of fuck shit! Get up!”
If it had been aimed at anyone else, Stiorra might have laughed at Ivar’s misuse of curse words. But it was not someone else.
“Get your cock out of whatever whore you have warming your bed!”
Sigtryggr lost his temper. He bolted upright, pulled a knife from under his pillow and threw it at the door, all while yelling, “FUCK OFF, IVAR!”
Ivar chuckled as he stomped off.
Stiorra pulled the sheets up. Sigtryggr glanced at her frightened expression.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I did not mean to frighten you.”
“You didn’t,” she assured. “Ivar frightens me. What will he do if he finds out about us?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, throwing the blanket off. “Most likely try to kill me.”
He said it so nonchalantly that Stiorra was thrown off. “What?”
He shrugged, pulling his breeches on. “He always wants to kill me. He just needs an excuse.”
Three light raps on the door had both their heads spinning to the origin.
“Siggy?” came a small voice from outside. “Are you coming? Ivar is being scary.”
“In a moment, Gudrid.” He turned back to Stiorra. “Are you coming?”
“I would, but I have no clothes,” she said slyly.
She watched the muscles in his abdomen clench as he bent over a box on the floor. From it, he pulled another dress.
“I don’t know what you mean by having no clothes,” he said grinning.
Stiorra gasped. “How many of these do you have?”
He chuckled. “Enough to dress you now.”
He laid the dress gently on his side of the bed, and came over to her, helping her up from the bed. She let the blankets fall, letting his gaze rake over her naked form. He moved behind her, brushing her hair away from her neck, kissing the soft skin there. Stiorra sighed, leaning back into his embrace.
Another quiet knock interrupted them.
“Siggy, are you coming?”
________________________________________
There was a small steaming cup at Stiorra’s place when she sat down. She sniffed it and wrinkled her nose. It was the same potion Drifa used “to end a life before it begins” she’d said.
She hesitated in drinking it, feeling a strange yearning to leave it up to the gods, to have a child with Sigtryggr. But then her thoughts turned to her mother, screaming and bleeding, and to the hard-faced nuns who’d dragged her away, and suddenly she wondered why she’d even hesitated.
She drank, and gagged, almost spitting it out. It was vile. How any woman drank it…
Stiorra coughed and spluttered. Sigtryggr glanced her way in concern, his eyes becoming downcast as he observed what she consumed. He turned his attention back to his brother, who smirked and guzzled his morning ale.
“When will the next ship arrive, Drifa?” Sigtryggr asked. Good. A distraction.
Drifa was sitting slouched rubbing her temples. “Day after tomorrow,” she mumbled, her mouth still full of food. “And perhaps they’ll have news as to the other ship,” she continued, having swallowed.
“The day after…” Ivar was incredulous. “Why? They usually come tomorrow. We need to reopen the markets.”
“We don’t need Drifa’s ships to open the market, Ivar,” Rognvaldr grumbled. He lifted his head from the table, his eyes looked red and there were dark shadows under them. Everyone stared at him.
“What?” he said incredulously. “It doesn’t take someone with Sigtryggr or Drifa’s brains to know that the market isn’t dependent on her ships.”
He wasn’t wrong either. There were other merchants and other ships. Drifa just happened to own many.
“Where does the boat come from?” Stiorra asked.
“Lunden, then some ports on the coast of Frankia before coming here,” Drifa answered before taking a giant gulp of whatever it was in her cup. It was not ale. “The reason it is later is because I asked them to make a stop in Coccham.”
“For what?” Ivar snapped.
“None of your business is what.”
“You are my guest and I demand to know what your ship is sailing to Coccham for!!!”
“You do not need to know what I need from Coccham!”
Sigtryggr leaned over to her as the shouting increased in volume. “Come. Let’s go for a walk. It will be quiet.”
“I am king here and I demand to know what you need from Coccham that you can’t get here! Are you perhaps asking your friend the Dane-Slayer to come here and slay me?”
Stiorra giggled and stood. Ivar ignored them, too busy arguing with Drifa to realise.
(“You are not the king here! And my friendship with Uhtred is none of your concern!”)
They picked up their cloaks from where they had been by the doors and slipped out into the cold snowy streets.
Snow was still falling, but only gently. There were icy patches everywhere.
Stiorra had never seen Dyflin so quiet and peaceful. So quiet it was almost eerie, like the city had been abandoned. The buildings were topped in thick layers of snow, so thick they looked like fluffy pillows. The streets were covered in hard compacted snow, trampled from the celebrations the previous night.
She took hold of Sigtryggr’s arm (if she went down, he went with her) and they began to walk.
“I meant what I said,'' he started. “I didn't mean to frighten you. Sometimes, Ivar’s insults become too much.”
“It’s alright. You have every right to lose your temper” she reassured. “If that was my brother, though, I would have beat him.”
He laughed, his voice deep and rich.
They walked in silence for a while. Stiorra admired the icicles hanging off the buildings, but she stayed far away, admiring from a distance. Her father had once told her about how he’d seen one split a man in half. And she would rather see him again in one piece.
While they walked, she thought about how to broach a particularly difficult subject, one that they probably should have discussed before he lay with her. And she couldn’t deny that it had been wonderful, now the whole thing might be marred by one topic of conversation.
“Sigtryggr,” she hesitated, “You… pulled a face earlier.” He glanced at her in confusion. “During breakfast…”
“Oh. I…”
Should’ve kept my stupid mouth shut. Now I’ve ruined the moment.
“I don’t… I don’t remember pulling a face.”
“You saw what I drank.”
“I did.”
“And you pulled a face.”
He sighed, evidently giving up.
“It was just that we never spoke about it,” he said, “having children.”
“You’re right. I was just thinking we should’ve.”
An awkward silence hung in the air for a few moments.
“I do want them,” he sighed, “but if you don’t…”
This conversation is getting nowhere.
“You know how… how my mother died,” she mumbled. “She died giving birth to my little brother.”
“Is this the one you threatened to beat?” he smiled, trying to ease the awkwardness of their conversation.
“No, this is one I haven’t seen since he was born,” she explained. “I was very young when she died. To me, it always seemed like she was with child, and then suddenly, nine months later, she vanished, with no real explanation.”
He nodded, understanding. “It’s how my mother died as well, giving birth to Rognvaldr.”
“So, you understand what it was like.”
“And you don’t want to go through the same thing.”
She nodded.
“Stiorra,” he said, “I will not deny that I want children. But I don’t need to have them now. I can wait.”
He stopped, lifting her face to meet his. “I will wait as long as I have to.”
He kissed her then, softly, a brief fleeting brush of lips before he dropped his fingers from her chin.
“And besides, I cannot have children until I have left Irland and made a name for myself elsewhere.”
“Because of Ivar,” she guessed.
“Exactly.” He resumed walking, looping her arm in his. “If I have any children, Ivar will see them as a threat to his rule. That’s why he is constantly trying to have them himself. But he is cruel and often beats his wives. Sometimes hard enough to kill them.”
From the sound of his voice, Stiorra could tell he’d had a front row seat to Ivar’s cruelty. She suspected he was still shielding her from the worst of it.
A loud crash disturbed them both from the peace of Dyflin. They rounded a corner to find six people, men and women, around the remains of the Yol fire. The fire itself had long since extinguished, leaving behind a tall stack of burnt wood in its place.
Three charred piles lay beside them.
“What’s going on?” Sigtryggr inquired.
“How many?” came an all too familiar voice from behind them.
“Three,” one of the men said.
Drifa cursed in some foreign language. A glance at Sigtryggr, who shrugged, told her it was not Irish.
“I tell him to put barriers up and he doesn’t listen,” she muttered, mostly to herself.”
She looked back at the two. “Every year, there are always bodies found in the Yol fire. Someone who was drunk and fell. I tell Ivar to put a barrier around it or at least put it on a platform, but he doesn’t listen. In Fjall, it is written into the law that any bonfire’s must either have a barrier around them or must be built on a platform to keep it away from foolish drunks who fall in. Now the only deaths this time of year come from colds and icicles.”
“Fjall seems like a sensible place.”
“Because it is ruled by some who actually care about the people.”
“Ivar thinks that being a ruler means he can do whatever he wants, consequences aside,” Sigtryggr explained.
“You know what we think of him?” Drifa yelled. “We think he's a fat blob of…”
“That’s enough,” Asvard grumbled, ambling into the square. He looked terrible. He had a black eye, and bruises over his hands.
“What happened to you?”
“What do you think happened?”
She shook her head at him.
“You know I have rules,” she shouted. “If you two lovebirds are going to stand there you can be useful.”
“How can we be of assistance to Jarl Drifa?” Sigtryggr asked, grinning.
“You can babysit the children,” she instructed. “The river froze over.”
Sigtryggr nodded. “Shall we?”
Stiorra looped her arm through his and then headed away.
The gates were covered in many icicles. Luckily none were falling on any heads today.
It was not hard to find the children, with their screams and shouts as they played in the snow, or used bones attached to their shoes to skate across the ice.
“So, she just wants us to watch them?” Stiorra asked.
Sigtryggr laughed. “We have to make sure the ice does not break, and they don’t fall in.”
Stiorra stared at him in shock. He makes all his speeches about how cruel Ivar is and laughs about children possibly drowning!
“It is very unlikely,” he added hastily. “The ice is usually very thick.”
“When was the last time it happened?”
“The last time someone died was five years ago. That is why we are here.”
It made more sense now. And I should not be so quick to judge, she thought.
“Do you want to join?” he offered, holding out more pieces of the bone used to skate.
“I would love to.”
He helped her attach the bone-skates, tying them to her shoes with leather tongs. He tied on his own, while she struggled to walk twice on them, until she fell right into a snow pile, face first. The first thing she did was laugh. Then she lifted her to find him lying on the snow beside her, clutching his belly in hysterics. Arseling.
Suddenly, he was hit with a small white ball which exploded on his face.
“You are mean, Siggy.”
And now, watching his hair drip with snow, Stiorra giggled.
“I will get you, little girl,” Sigtryggr growled menacingly, before pouncing and bringing his sister down into the snow pile and tickling her relentlessly.
His being distracted allowed Stiorra to struggle back to her feet and jump on him, pushing him off Gudrid.
The three of them collapsed in a pile, panting and laughing.
All of a sudden there was a scream. Sigtryggr lifted his head high enough to see that one of the younger children had fallen onto their bottom and was just drifting across the ice.
“I suppose that’s something we were supposed to look out for,” Stiorra commented.
____________________________________________________________
That afternoon was spent skating over the ice, and supervising children, hugging when they fell. The ice did not crack, which Sigtryggr said was a first.
Stiorra had skated a few times in her childhood back in Coccham when the river just outside the walls froze over, but it had been a long time. Sigtryggr held her hand and guided her.
Drifa joined them at some point in the afternoon, grumbling about Ivar and his stupidity. She too put on her own bone skates, and then distracted them all with an impressive display of speed and agility. She leapt and twisted over the ice. It was a sight to behold.
One that ended all too soon.
Eventually, the sun began to set, even though it was only mid-afternoon. But it was time for the children to head inside. The three adults ensured that all the children made it safely to their homes.
Drifa raced Gudrid into the Great Hall, very obviously letting the little girl win. Sigtryggr held out a hand to stop Stiorra.
He tugged her into him and kissed her. Her arms flailed for a moment before settling on his large biceps. One arm held her waist, the other hand cupping her face.
He gently released her, resting his forehead on hers for a few more moments.
“Will you come to me tonight?” he whispered. “Will you find me?”
“Sigtryggr, I…” she sighed. “I am still a little sore, and- “
“I am not asking for that,” he interrupted. “I just want to hold you, to feel you in my arms. Just because I invite you to my bed, does not mean I always must hump,” he smiled.
“Are you coming, shit-brother?” Ivar called from inside.
Sigtryggr laughed. “Well?”
Stiorra smiled, so full of love for him. “I will come.”
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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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Of Irland, Chapter 7
Chapter 1 \\ Chapter 6 \\ 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 7: Are You Not Entertained?
Chapter warnings: Language, oogling
Words: 2237
AO3
It was hot. Very hot. Drifa complained frequently about how hot it was. She said she’d only been to one other place as hot as this. Not that she spoke about it much.
Irland was hot. The Emerald Isle they called it. They might as well call it the yellow-brown isle with all this heat. Men wandered the streets of Dyflin wearing as little as they could. Usually only without their shirts. Although Stiorra strongly suspected the blacksmith was naked under his apron.
She sat at the usual tavern with Drifa. She had finally moved on from the topic of the heat and had moved right back to the same story she’d told before leaving Coccham. Sigtryggr too sat there. As did Rognvaldr. Sigtryggr wore a shirt, sadly. But this shirt did not have sleeves. Stiorra was left to ogle at the bulging of his muscles. She imagined what those arms would be like, wrapped around her. Lifting her high in the air…
Rognvaldr wore a shirt with sleeves. There were large wet patches on the front and under his arms, implying that perhaps it was too hot.
Stiorra herself wore a loose red dress. It was made of light, flowy linen and a small amount of Danish embroidery around the neck. Drifa’s work, or course.
Stiorra turned her attention back to Drifa’s story. She was telling it with much more detail this time. “I walk down the street, minding my own business when I hear this noise.” A snicker emerged from Asvard. Drifa ignored him. “It’s like a dog. Or two dogs. A lot of panting. Some kind of…” she paused searching for the right word, “cow grunt noise.” Asvard could barely hold it in. He tried to disguise his laugh as a cough. Drifa ignored him. “Now, I do not like dogs. It is known. So, I take out my knife. I push open the door slightly.” Now Stiorra really knew what was coming and started to muffle her own laughs. Sigtryggr and Rognvaldr were leaning in close, desperate to discover what she found that night.
“And I was confronted with this magnificent view of plump, beautiful, squishy.” Stiorra had stuffed her fist into her mouth. Sigtryggr was looking at her curiously. Drifa continued her description. “Elegant,” she said, “smooth, well framed.” She arranged the chicken on her plate, just as she had done back in Coccham.
“Butt,” she finished.
Rognvaldr spat out his drink.
“What?” Sigtryggr demanded, going red. Was he the one in the story?
“You heard me!” Drifa pronounced indignantly. “A butt, a bum, an arse, a buttocks.” She took a breath. “A. Butt.”
Her men fell to the floor in hysterics. Stiorra noticed the enraged expression on Sigtryggr’s face and tried to smother her laughs. But she couldn’t.
She burst into laughter with the rest. Sigtryggr glared at her, but she did not stop.
His face twitched in anger. He was flaming now.
Definitely the one in the story.
“I am going to kill you, Drifa,” he threatened, his voice going quiet and dangerous.
Stiorra felt a pool form between her legs. His voice going like that… shit.
Drifa chuckled at his threat. “You can’t kill me. Not even if I were missing a leg and you and him came at me together.” Rognvaldr looked up. He had the kind of expression that said ‘leave me out of this’.
“Then we shall fight,” Sigtryggr declared. He stood, dragging Rognvaldr by the elbow.
This was going to be interesting.
***
Swords were drawn from scabbard, axed pulled out of belts. All sharp, glinting in the bright summer sun.
Drifa picked up her staff from the table. Drifa’s staff was curious. Mostly because it was not an ordinary staff. Two blades sprung out from either end. A shorter one and a longer one. The whole weapon was made of strong metal. A material she had earned. A metal not seen on this side of the world.
Of course, this was no fight to the death. Not even till first blood. This was just a friendly match. Right?
Stiorra watched; her breath held in anticipation. He eyes glued on the scene unfolding in front of her. Asvard stood, adjudicating the fight and ensuring no-one was too badly hurt.
The warriors readied themselves. Asvard gave the signal.
***
Drifa launched into the fight like a cat. She bounced off a crate, aiming a swing at Sigtryggr which he easily ducked. Rognvaldr came at her next, slashing at her with his axe. She ducked around him just as Sigtryggr came again for another attack.
And on and on it went. Each person, a blur. Stiorra could only tell who was who by the colour and shape of their blades. Rognvaldr’s axe head, Drifa’s teal steel, Sigtryggr grey iron.
No-one seemed to be winning at first. Until Drifa kicked Rognvaldr into a wall and threw her knife to where it planted between his legs. He froze in fear, not daring to risk moving a muscle.
Sigtryggr came running behind her. But at the last moment, she ducked. There was a ripping sound. For a moment, Stiorra had the horrible feeling that she had killed him.
Two pieces of fabric drifted to the floor by her feet. She looked up. Sigtryggr had his back to her.
Oh.
Shit.
Drifa had cut his shirt off.
All Stiorra could see at this time was his back. She could see the dents of muscle in his back flexing as he moved to pick up his sword. He had a tattoo on his back. Thor’s hammer. Only this was more ornate than anything Stiorra had ever seen. The handle of it went right down his spine. The head of it resting across his shoulder blades.
Stiorra had guessed he had designs of this sort, since she had seen many of his warriors bearing similar markings on their faces.
And Sigtryggr’s was here.
Then he stood.
And he turned.
***
Shit does not even begin to describe what Stiorra was thinking when he turned. It would take a thousand books to describe the dirty thoughts that entered her head in that moment.
There was no word on this world or any that could possibly describe those dirty, filthy, unladylike thoughts that whirled around her head in this moment.
Stiorra practically melted into a puddle. There was a quite literal puddle forming between her legs. She clenched her thighs together, praying no-one would see. Her jaw dropped. Her eyes popped.
She was not about to confess anything. So, hypothetically, she’d been undressing him with her eyes. Hypothetically, she’d been thinking about him, touching her. Kissing her. Doing other things with her…
She had not quite imagined this.
A Danish Warrior had to be strong. They must be strong enough to lift a shield, to hack a body apart with a sword. Stiorra could swear that she had not seen a single fatter man in Dyflin. Most men in Dyflin had the distinctive muscle covering their chests.
Sigtryggr was different.
Yes, he had that layer of muscle. But he wasn’t cut like he’d done nothing but lift shields and wielded swords. While he was still big in her eyes, he was lean. Agile. The lines and ridges as seen on others were still there. But they were shallower.
Somehow, Stiorra believed it made him look stronger. This here was man who crush his enemies with one hand. This was a man who had women queuing all through the streets just for a taste of him.
But was not what was getting her into this puddle. He was a man of honour. That much she knew. Women queued up the streets only to be met with disappointment. This was a man who knew how to control himself.
Except that time in the square.
She’d felt him pressed up against her.
She did not want to know how big he was.
She wanted to know how big he was.
She could not even hear Asvard laughing his head off at her expression as she stared at him.
Her brain felt like a cloud, unable to think coherent thoughts as he moved to fight again, all those muscles flexing and bulging.
The pool between her legs grew bigger. Soon enough she’d be swimming.
Sigtryggr circled the little creature, raising his sword. Then he attacked. On and on it went. This violent dance of blades and fists.
Drifa disarmed him and dropped her own sword. Drifa was too honourable to fight a man with a sword if he was unarmed.
She would fight with her fists.
Drifa had travelled the world. She’d learnt methods of combat in far off lands Stiorra could not be bothered to try and pronounce the names of.
She was going to win.
She’d forced Sigtryggr to her territory.
Most said Drifa’s first weapon was her staff. They were wrong.
It was her fists.
***
She attacked first this time, unrelenting in her assault. Sigtryggr did what he could to block her, but he took more than a few hits for himself.
Drifa must have tired of the fight. Even an experienced eye could have said she was playing with him.
So, she leapt up, gracefully, like a cat, and wrapped her legs around his neck, pulling him to the ground. She swiftly moved out of the way and held her seax close to his throat.
Drifa had won.
She paused for a moment, then let Sigtryggr go, laughing all the while. A crowd had gathered during the fight and were now applauding her.
Stiorra was too distracted by the sight of a bare-chested Sigtryggr walking towards her.
He sat next to her. She shifted around careful as so not to spill the puddle. He took a cup of cold water and dumped it over his head.
And now he was wet. This was not helping.
Rognvaldr had been freed and he too dumped water on his head. He lifted his shirt to dry his forehead and Stiorra caught a glimpse. Rognvaldr was as well cut as his brother. Stiorra supposed it was all the food he ate and the ale he drank.
Stiorra half considered coming up with an excuse to leave the table. Particularly after Sigtryggr turned and began to speak to her.
“Why did your father not train you as a shield-maiden?” he asked her.
Stiorra shrugged. “I guess he thought that since I would always be protected, there was no need.”
“He should have trained you,” he told her. “You will make a great shield-maiden someday.” He paused to take a drink. “I would be honoured to fight beside you in a shield wall.”
A loud clang sounded from the square. Drifa was now fighting Asvard and two berserkers who fought for her, Hæfnir and Sigurd.
Hæfnir did not look like a berserker. He was small and light and agile, whereas Sigurd was big, bulky and slower.
The berserkers were knocked down very quickly, ultimately no match for Drifa’s own incredible speed and cat-like agility.
But Asvard was the only known person alive who could beat her.
This time, however, they were clearly playing around. Drifa pushed him on the ground and spread her arms wide, inviting, and yelled, “Are you not entertained?” Asvard jumped, wrapping his arms around her waist, knocking her over too. And they tangled themselves in each other on the ground.
Sigtryggr laughed, his voice rich and silky, like dark honey.
Stiorra stood up sharply, unable to be around him anymore. She ran back to the Great Hall.
She did not notice him following her.
***
Stiorra entered the Great Hall, panting hard having run all the way. There was a jug of something on a table. She sniffed it. It was ale. Ale was precisely what she needed right now. She took a few large gulps before hearing the door open and close again.
She turned.
Fuck.
Sigtryggr. His shirt was still off.
He came closer to her. His skin was still shiny with sweat.
Stiorra decided to stare at his nose. There was nothing arousing about his nose, was there?
“Are you alright?” he asked, his deep voice etched with concern.
Even when he was worried about her, his voice still set her on fire.
“I’m fine,” she told him, straining to keep her voice even. His brow was still furrowed in concern.
“You ran off.”
“I..” she paused. How could she possibly explain what was wrong to him. It wasn’t like she could tell him how badly she wanted him. How even just gazing at his face made her clench her thighs together.
He sighed, realising he would not get any more out of her. He folded his arms across his chest. Not helping.
“I show you around the town,” he suggested. “You been here two weeks and you have not seen anything.”
“That sounds good,” she agreed. A tour around Dyflin. From Sigtryggr. That was good enough. For now.
He smiled. Fuck this man and his fucking dimples, she though. Her jaw clenched. He did not seem to notice. He muttered something about getting a new shirt.
Stiorra was relieved. She did not think she’d have made it several hours with him not wearing shirt. She too went up to change out of her sweat damp dress into something cleaner and fresher.
As she was dressing, something dawned on her. Had Sigtryggr Ivarrsson just asked her on a date?
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Im so envious and jealous of Stranger Things fans because Netflix is feeding their fans with constant content and just in general the fanbase is so huge that there’s so much content and here we are the fans of The Last Kingdom with basically nothing. I understand that tlk is over but it still sucks because i’ve never connected so much to any character like i’ve connected to Sigtryggr. He was my “Eddie Munson” (i use that comparison since i already brought up Stranger Things and i’ve seen how popular Eddie is right now and how connected fans are to him) He really was the best character ever and unlike any others. I can still remember how happy and excited i was whenever tlk posted a new behind the scenes photos of s5 before releasing it, my heart literally jumped whenever i saw a picture of Sigtryggr and i know this might be an exaggeration but it’s just how i felt😓
netflix promoted the hell out of stranger things, helps to that it became a big show for them regarding popularity. unfortunately, the last kingdom never got the same promo treatment and the fandom is much smaller, so the content in general was always going to vary. but considering the difference in fandom size, the tlk fandom still managed to deliver (and still is from time to time) some really good content - gifs, fics, videos, etc. but i understand your frustration/sadness. the last kingdom deserved a lot more content/promo.
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To the anon saying that Sigtryggr isn’t attractive and that it’s weird that we are obsessed with him in that way: You have to understand that people have different tastes. Like the saying goes “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” And that to me is the whole point😁 its fun to see how different our tastes are. Me for example i listen to a loot of metal and rock so that really influences my taste in men because im a sucker for long and messy hair because we often see that in metalheads, so its no surprise that Sigtryggr is exactly my type of guy.😊
But disagreeing is completely fine and normal, just as i may disagree with the men you find attractive. Its normal for us to be like that. But saying that its weird to find him attractive is a bit much for me tbh.. People have way more weirder obsession😂 Alright thank you for coming to my TED talk😆😆
not everyone is going to find the same people attractive, our tastes come from different factors. what attracted me first to sigtryggr wasn't his looks, per say. it was his personality. the way he carried himself, his cheeky charm, etc.
there is a difference between saying "i don't find this type of person attractive" vs "you're weird for thinking this person is attractive". trying to push the fact you don't find someone attractive onto other people isn't cool. just let it be. in no way were the people who find sigtryggr attractive offending or hurting the ones that don't (at least from what I've seen). i honestly don't know what that anon was trying to accomplish.
also, i have not seen any sigtryggr fan acting "obsessed". and i'm sure if you go into other fandoms, fans will be acting the same - praising their favourite character, making edits, writing fics, etc. all that does not make one "obsessed".
it's completely okay to not find the same people attractive that others do. what isn't okay is trying to make them feel bad for liking them.
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