𝑳𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 - 𝑰𝒗𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔

28

The clatter of chess pieces echoed faintly through the hall, the firelight dancing across the carved board. Ivar and Bishop Heahmund sat across from one another, locked in a silent contest of minds. Hvitserk lounged nearby, eating as always, while Daenaera Targaryen sat beside her husband, the sharp scrape of metal on stone filling the space between words. Her Valyrian dagger caught the light as she honed its edge, her silver-gold hair falling over one shoulder.

"Will we be fighting against your brothers?" Heahmund asked in English, gaze fixed on Ivar.

The question made Daenaera pause mid-stroke, lifting her eyes to the bishop before glancing at her husband. Ivar leaned back, folding his arms across his chest with a thoughtful nod.

"Yes," he said simply. "Perhaps even my brother Bjorn, if he returns from his travels."

Heahmund tilted his head slightly. "Do they frighten you, your brothers?"

That drew a laugh from both Ivar and Daenaera.

"No," Ivar said. "Maybe Bjorn just a little. I don't find him particularly clever, but he is a great warrior. They call him Bjorn Ironside."

"Ao issi daor zūgagon, ziry iksos. Ao issi unpredictable," Daenaera murmured in Valyrian, not looking up from her blade. You are not afraid. He is. You are unpredictable.

The words stirred something deep within Ivar—echoes of another life, of Ragnar, of things said long ago under different skies. It warmed him in a place that rarely felt light anymore.

"And the woman," Heahmund went on, voice quiet. "The one who killed your mother?"

Ivar's gaze snapped to him, cold as steel.

"Lagertha," he said. "I've sworn to kill her. And she knows I'll do it. She just doesn't know how bad it's going to be."

He made his move on the board, taking two of the bishop's pieces with a flick of satisfaction.

"Where will you fight?" Heahmund asked.

"I don't know," Ivar replied, eyes narrowing. "Perhaps they'll root themselves in Kattegat. The main town."

"That would be foolish," Heahmund replied, countering with a move of his own—simple, precise. He took one of Ivar's pieces.

Ivar's jaw tightened.

"Maybe you can help me think of a strategy," he offered, tone half-serious, half-mocking.

Heahmund gave a dry chuckle. "You'd trust me to do that? Even though I don't care which side wins?"

"You want to win," Ivar said with a shrug. "And I want to be surrounded by people who want to win. What they do afterward... who cares?"

The bishop nodded slowly, eyes distant. "The fact is—I will fight for you. Only because I am certain, as certain as I can be, that God wishes me to. That I am part of some plan... one I cannot yet understand."

Ivar chuckled under his breath, unconvinced.

"Then you believe like us," Hvitserk interjected. "That you are fated."

"No," Heahmund answered. "I still believe I have free will. I choose to fight for you."

"But if you're fated, it doesn't matter if you choose or not," Ivar said. His voice had taken on a low, iron tone. "You simply have the illusion of being free to choose."

"I don't know," Hvitserk muttered.

"Daor bisa arlī," Daenaera muttered in Valyrian, rolling her eyes. Not this again.

Ivar turned his head sharply toward Hvitserk.

"Excuse me?"

Hvitserk shifted in his seat, glancing between the princess and his brother. "I just don't know if, when I joined your side, it was fate... or free will."

Daenaera's eyes flashed. "Why does it matter?" she snapped. Her tone was enough to silence him, and he returned to his ale.

The door swung open, and Harald strode in with a grin stretched across his bearded face. He clapped Ivar on the back with a broad hand.

"What's the matter with you?" Ivar asked, frowning at the interruption.

Harald poured himself a cup of ale, laughter in his voice. "I'm going to be a father," he declared proudly. "Skol."

Ivar scoffed, unimpressed.

"Nyke feel se jealousy isse se air valzȳrys," Daenaera whispered in his ear, brushing a kiss behind it. I can feel the jealousy in the air, husband.

⸻

Later that evening, with the wind whistling off the fjord, the three of them—Daenaera, Ivar, and Heahmund—stood in the tower, the bishop staring out into the twilight.

"'And there appeared a great wonder in heaven,'" Heahmund recited, his voice low. "'A woman clothed with the sun, and the moon beneath her feet. And upon her head, a crown of twelve stars.'"

"Who is the woman?" Ivar asked, feeding a slice of apple to Daenaera, cut clean with his dagger.

"The Virgin. Mary, mother of our God, Jesus Christ," Heahmund replied, still gazing outward.

Daenaera frowned, exchanging a look with Ivar. It was a look full of amusement and disbelief.

"If she was a virgin, how could she be a mother?" Ivar asked, his voice thick with sarcasm.

"It was a miracle," Heahmund answered.

"I would say so," Ivar muttered, sipping from his cup. "Truly a strange thing to believe."

"Are there not miracles in your faith?" Heahmund asked. "Like the serpent whose body holds in the sea?"

"That's not a miracle. That is truth," Ivar said firmly, fixing his eyes on the bishop.

"Ah."

"One day, Thor was fishing," Ivar went on, "and he hooked the serpent by mistake. The two of them fought a mighty battle."

"I can imagine," Heahmund murmured, half to himself.

Ivar rose, adjusting the brace on his leg, then took his crutch in hand. As he walked, his voice grew more reflective.

"The moon is a woman," he said. "That's true."

He approached Heahmund from behind, his words darkening.

"But not a woman you can trust. A devious woman. One who drives men insane. She promises them her love and her favors... but then she changes her mind. Cheats on them. Goes with someone else. Do you understand what I'm thinking?"

He drew his dagger, resting the cold blade against Heahmund's temple, then dragging it slowly along his cheek.

"You're thinking I can't be trusted," the bishop said, his voice calm. "That my promises are worthless. That I'll be as fickle as the moon."

"In my experience, it happens," Ivar replied, dry as snow.

"But if you kill me now," Heahmund said softly, "you deny yourself the pleasure of proving yourself right."

There was a pause. Then Ivar pulled the dagger away.

"I do not want to be right," he said, voice quieter now. "I want to believe in you. I want to believe that in this world, there is someone—other than my wife—who never lies, cheats, or compromises. Who is always... noble."

Heahmund turned to him, their eyes locking.

"I am that one, Ivar. You can believe in me."

Ivar didn't answer right away. Then he turned to Daenaera, holding out his hand.

"Māzigon va ābrazȳrys, īlon jorrāelagon naejot jikagon," he said. Come on, wife. We need to go.

She rose, placing her hand in his.

And together, they left the bishop alone in the flickering candlelight.