𝑳𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 - 𝑰𝒗𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔

25

"I did say it," Ivar said with a low chuckle, the corner of his mouth lifting with mischief. "You know I had to."

Daenaera turned toward him, the golden threads of her hair catching the wind as they reached the hilltop. Her green eyes shimmered.
"Your Valyrian is getting better."

"I have the best teacher," Ivar replied, winking as he dropped to the grass. She settled between his legs, facing him. Her back rested lightly against his knees.

"This is becoming a habit," he added, casting his gaze toward the distant horizon.

"You don't like it?" she asked, her tone teasing as she studied his baby-blue eyes.

"I do like it," he whispered, "very much, my princess." His lips brushed hers, soft and slow.

The kiss deepened. Desire simmered beneath his skin, and soon Ivar felt the tight pull of need rising, undeniable and urgent. Without a word, he took Daenaera's hand and rose, guiding her back toward the keep.

"Where are we going?" she asked, laughter dancing on her lips.

"Somewhere private," Ivar murmured, voice husky. "I need you."

She smiled at that, the kind of smile that made the blood in his veins burn. Once inside their chambers, Daenaera paused just long enough to glance back at him.

"I seem to recall someone once said they could never satisfy a woman."

Ivar smirked, closing the door behind them. "Fortunately for me, my wife proved me wrong."

They fell into one another like wildfire meeting dry grass. Passion tore through them—sighs, moans, the rustle of linens tangled around sweaty limbs. Ivar's head found its resting place upon her chest, his breath heavy, his body spent. Daenaera's fingers moved slowly along his spine, calming him. She adored the weight of him atop her—how close he let her come when all his defenses fell away.

Their bodies were a tangle of skin and heat, marked by the scent of shared ecstasy. She felt his heart thundering against her lower belly, raw and real.

Eventually, Ivar shifted, breathless and glowing, brushing her cheek with a soft, reverent gesture as he lay beside her. This—this was the part no one else ever saw. The tenderness behind the monster. The storm that curled into a quiet wind when she held him.

"You alright?" he asked, his voice a low murmur, thick with emotion.

Daenaera hummed in response, pressing close to his side. "Yeah."

His lips found hers once more, slower this time. When he pulled back, his forehead rested gently against hers. His eyes searched hers, looking for any flicker of doubt or discomfort.

"I worry," he confessed, "that I'm too rough with you, my love."

She chuckled softly and kissed his collarbone. "You're not," she whispered, voice like silk.

Relieved, his body finally relaxed in full, arms still wrapped around her. But then she shifted, slowly rising from the bed and reaching for a sheer gown that whispered over her skin.

"I'll get us something to eat and drink," she said, tying the sash loosely. "Do you want anything special, ñuha vīlībāzmio?"

His smile turned boyish, eyes flicking down her body.

"Ale," he said, "and you as dessert."

⸻

Later that evening, the fire had dulled to embers. Ivar sat alone inside the barn where the bishop was kept—bound but not beaten. Outside, Daenaera was tending to her dragon, the creature's wings stretching with longing for the skies. She hadn't flown in weeks. He knew she missed it.

"There's going to be a war," Ivar said, his voice even. The bishop didn't look up.

"A war that will make me King of Kattegat. My father's kingdom. A war against the usurper—Ragnar's first wife. Lagertha, who murdered my mother to take the crown. And," he added darkly, "a war between brothers."

He folded his hands together, resting them atop his knee. "Bishop. You have a choice. Fight alongside me... or die."

The bishop's gaze remained low. "What is your war to me?"

"A way of staying alive," Ivar said simply.

"I'm not afraid to die for my faith."

Ivar scoffed. "You misunderstand me. I'm not asking you to renounce your faith. I'm not asking you to raise your sword against Christians. I'm simply asking you to kill more of those you already call heathens."

There was a pause. A long silence. The bishop's head lifted slightly. He turned his eyes on Ivar—wary, curious.

"You're clever," he said. "Dangerously so."

Ivar smiled. "You'll find that out soon enough."