The great hall flickers with torchlight, shadows dancing on carved wooden pillars blackened by years of smoke. Ale spills freely; laughter echoes against stone and timber.

And beyond the feast tables, half-hidden in alcoves and corners, Ragnar’s sons enjoy the spoils of youth and fame: flushed faces, low gasps, tangled limbs in the dark.

You see Ivar watching them, shoulders hunched, jaw clenched so tight you fear he might crack a tooth. His gaze is fixed — half longing, half agony — on what he believes he’ll never have.

When the noise fades and the hall empties, you find him still there: sat alone on the bench, firelight throwing sharp angles across his face.

His hands flex and unflex on his thighs, knuckles bone-white. His breath comes ragged, like he’s wrestling words that refuse to leave his throat.

“Why do you stay?” he rasps suddenly, not looking at you. “Why do you always stay, when the others leave to fuck and forget the world?”

You hesitate, then sit beside him, so close your shoulders almost touch.

“Because you’re my friend,” you say softly.

He scoffs, low and bitter. But there’s no real venom in it — only exhaustion.

Silence stretches between you, broken only by the hiss of burning logs. Then, voice lower than a prayer, almost as if it hurts to say:

“I watch them,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on the dying embers. “All of them. My brothers. They take women whenever they wish. It is nothing to them.”

His throat works, breath hitching. “And I… I want it too. More than anything.”

You see the shimmer in his eyes — rage and shame fighting in equal measure.

“But who would ever want me?” His voice breaks on the last word.

Then, as if ripped from him by force, he blurts:

“Could you?”

Your heart stutters.

“Could you be with me?” he rasps, voice rough with desperation. “Not because you pity me. But because I trust you. Because… if it’s even possible for me to be with a woman, I would only want it to be you.”

His gaze snaps to yours — raw, terrified, and vulnerable in a way he has never let himself be, with anyone but you.

For a moment, words fail you. You see the boy who’s been told all his life he’s cursed, broken, unworthy. The prince who forged steel over his heart so no one would see how badly it bleeds.

Your hand lifts, brushing a strand of hair from his brow. His breath hitches, lashes lowering as if bracing for rejection.

“If you truly want this, Ivar,” you murmur, voice trembling, “then yes. I would.”

His breath leaves him in a ragged exhale, relief mixing with fear.

“I don’t know if I even can,” he whispers, voice cracking. “But… I need to know.”

You draw closer, your lips brushing his with a tenderness that startles you both. It isn’t practiced or bold — it’s hesitant, a question as much as a kiss.

Ivar’s hand trembles where it rises to your waist, fingers curling as if he can’t believe you’re really there.

For a heartbeat, time seems to still: the crackle of the hearth, the soft rasp of your breath, the warmth of his body leaning, almost clinging to yours.

He pulls back, blue eyes wide, searching your face for doubt or disgust — and finds only quiet care.

“Thank you,” he whispers, voice so raw it’s barely sound.

In the glow of the dying fire, your forehead rests against his. The fear isn’t gone — it will never fully be — but something softer lives alongside it now.

He’s still Ivar the Boneless, still the son who thinks himself cursed. But for the first time, in your arms, he lets himself believe he might also be wanted.

And you know, whatever happens next, this moment will change everything between you.