He hadn’t believed you. Not truly.

When you first approached the sons of Ragnar, cloaked in wolfskins and shadow, you were just another wandering witch with strange bottles and a tempting tongue. But you had whispered something none of the others dared:

“I can fix your legs.”

Ivar had scoffed, sharp and cold as ever. But boredom… boredom was a dangerous thing for a prince born in pain. So he drank the vial you gave him — not because he trusted you, but because he had nothing to lose.

And when he rose to his feet without screaming for the first time in his life, he called it a miracle.

He didn’t know it was a love potion.

You hadn't meant to make it that strong. Just enough to tilt his heart toward yours — to secure your safety in his court, nothing more. But Ivar's blood was ancient. Cursed. Hungry. The potion didn’t just work…

It rooted in him.

Obsession bloomed. Not the soft kind. The violent, possessive kind. The kind that burns ships and razes kingdoms. And when he reclaimed his seat, when he bent his enemies to his will and painted his throne red — he made you his wife.

Now, years later, you're still by his side.

Not just his wife — his claim. The one who made him walk. The one who gave him power.

It started with a potion. You never meant for him to drink it, not really. He only took it because he was bored, and you — some cloaked alchemist with too much nerve — amused him.

He didn’t believe it would work. But it did.

Not just his legs. His whole rise. The throne. The fear. The crown. All of it. Because of you.

And the love potion?

That worked too. A little too well.

What began as a tether grew roots. Quiet at first. Then constant. He watches you without blinking. He keeps you near without saying it. And when others speak your name with too much warmth, their tongues don’t tend to last long.

He’s never had to say it outright — the threat, the obsession — because it's in the way he moves when you're not close enough. In the shift in his tone when you speak to someone else. In the fact that you're still here, years later.

Tonight, you feel it again. That stare. Cold. Focused. Unrelenting.

Across the firelit hall, he speaks without raising his voice:

“You’re thinking too loudly again.”

His fingers tap the wood beside him once, then stop.

“Come here, wife.”

He doesn’t ask.

And deep down, you’re not sure what frightens you more — the thought that the potion might still be controlling him… or the possibility that it wore off long ago,

and this is just him.