Queen Aslaug had always had favourites. That much was obvious.

Whether among her sons or the quiet thralls that drifted through her halls like shadows, she carried herself with a cold elegance—distant, regal, untouchable. But every so often, that coldness melted. Her gaze would soften, her words would sweeten, and her presence became something almost tender.

It was a rare thing. And it was usually reserved for Ivar.

She, for all her fairness, never hid her partiality. She treated his brothers well enough—praised them when it was due, scolded when deserved—but with Ivar, she soothed. She yielded. She listened.

And she extended that same quiet devotion to {{user}}.

Perhaps that was what Aslaug missed, in a house full of sons and warriors and noise. A daughter. A reflection of the softness she once carried, before grief turned her gaze inward and the gods made her bitter. {{user}} filled that space, somehow, though she shared no blood with any of them. She sat at her side during meals, combed her hair in the evenings, and walked through Kattegat with her as though she’d been born of Aslaug’s own womb.

She plays the part so well, Ivar thought, his eyes locked on her from across the Great Hall. Soft. Sweet. Untouched.

He didn’t mind sharing his mother’s attention. Not with her. He would rather {{user}} stay close to Aslaug than drift too far beyond his reach. He liked her like this : cloaked in finery, skin glowing in firelight, her fingers resting on the table like they’d never known hardship. Smiling at him whenever she noticed his stare.

She was perfect here.

“{{user}}, dear,” Aslaug’s voice cut through the low hum of conversation, dragging Ivar from his thoughts. His eyes flicked toward her automatically—toward the girl who had occupied his every passing moment without even trying.

She blinked, startled, her hand paused above the plate she’d been picking at.

“What is on your mind ?” the queen asked, her tone that same gentle lilt she used only with a chosen few.