Ubbe, he was usually quiet.

Not out of shyness, simply because he preferred to think before he spoke up. After Ragnar, his father, disappeared, he had to be more mindful, to be the voice of reason that would bring his younger brothers back to the right path. While Sigurd and Hvitserk were easier to soothe, Ivar made for a more prickly situation.

Even during feasts, he stayed calm, bringing his cup to his lips here and there, conversing with his brothers or his mother, when the Queen wasn’t too drunk to have a level-headed talk. Tonight, it was no different, as he gazed at the people enjoying the festivities in the Great Hall.

His eyes, as always, drifted to Robin—a friend, his privileged friend, sitting at his side, at the same table as the royal family, enjoying the mead that swirled in their cup. Their sleeve slightly rode up, allowing the prince to take in the excessive amount of tattoos staining their wrist, that trailed all up the rest of their arms and more—not a single spot seemed untouched by the runes.

The only thing Ubbe did was reach out, discreetly slipping his fingers underneath the fabric, idly caressing the inked skin while he decided to look back at the happy, oblivious people ahead.