𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐃 | Ragnar Lothbrok ¹

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

OFFER

  
SOPHIE WITNESSED her brother riding away, leaving her alone with a rather hostile Ragnar, who still had a knife pressed against her neck as he held her close. His anger was palpable, fueled by various frustrations—anger at King Ecbert for almost outplaying him, anger over Björn's injury and the loss of other fighters, and despite his efforts not to blame Sophie, a way was found.

He pulled the knife away and roughly pushed her from him, causing her to tumble in front of his feet, her body now covered in mud and blood from the battlefield. Her fearful eyes met his, a type of fear he had never seen in her before.

Sophie was terrified of him, perhaps due to the blood that stained his face, arms, and armour, or maybe it was the way he looked at her with fury. She didn't know and didn't want to find out.

As Ragnar turned away from her, the stiffness in her shoulders began to fade, leaving a subtle tension that kept her prepared in case of any physical confrontation. Pushing herself up, she stood in the midst of what had been a battlefield moments ago, scanning the faces that glared at her. They blamed her, the daughter of the King who not only slaughtered their people but also attacked and killed even more.

Wiping her muddied hands over her dress, she turned, heading back to her tent, which surprisingly remained intact. "Where do you think you're going?" a voice called after her, followed by a scraping noise. She recognized it instantly—none other than Ivar, ever ready to give her a hard time.

Determined to evade him, she pressed on, wishing to vanish, to escape the prying eyes. "I asked you a question, slave," his words came again, and in a sudden burst, she spun around, her hands balled into fists, fingernails digging into her palms as she tried to maintain a façade of calmness.

Sophie could embody the calm in the midst of a storm, unmovable, unyielding.

"Yes," Ivar continued. "Don't look at me like that, you're still a slave regarding your status, it doesn't matter."

"I'm no one's slave!" Sophie retorted. "If it wasn't for me, you would all be dead! So perhaps, you should show some gratitude."

Ivar laughed, but his face soon returned to its usual demeanour. "Gratitude?" he scoffed. "Your father murdered a lot of my people, and you want gratitude?"

"So did your father!"

Another outburst, beyond her control. Her anger surged like a storm, her restraints slipping away as if a switch had been flipped, transforming her from scared and terrified to defiant and raging with confidence.

However, the sight of Ragnar marching back towards them seemed to flip that switch back. He knew what Ivar was capable of, and he didn't want him to do anything foolish that could jeopardize their situation. Sophie was their only winning chess piece, and she seemed to understand her importance to them. She was their weakness.

Ragnar pushed Ivar back, reprimanding him and then turned to Sophie. "You shut your mouth," he commanded, poking her shoulder before grabbing her arm and pulling her along.

"Get your hands off me, you stupid heathen," she screamed, struggling against his grip. "I hate you. I wish you all die."

With a scoff, Ragnar stopped and spun her around, the back of his hand striking her cheek, leaving a red mark. Shocked, Sophie stumbled to the side, her hand pressed against her cheek, holding back tears. No one had ever struck her like that, and yet he dared.

Before she could speak, he pulled her along and pushed her into the tent, where two guards prevented her from leaving. Thankfully, she didn't throw a tantrum this time. Ragnar was more concerned about Björn and didn't want to waste time dealing with her childish antics or Ivar's.

Sophie cried herself to sleep, curled up in the tent. Movement in the room startled her, and she shot up to find King Harald standing in the dim light.

"I came here to tell you that I'm sorry about what happened earlier," he said. "Ragnar had no right to hit a Princess like you."

Sophie blinked, trying to process what was happening.

"I have an offer for you," he said, offering a smile.

Her tired eyes fixed on his figure, studying his face as she spoke softly, her voice strained from sleep. "What offer?"

"I intend to make myself the King of all Norway," he smiled. "And of course I'd need a Queen by my side, and who would make a better Queen than you, the daughter of the King of Wessex and Mercia?"

Sophie let out an involuntary snort before her expression hardened into a cold, irritated demeanor.

Of course, he would say that.

"What do you say?" he inquired when met with her silence. "Your father's Kingdoms will forever be under my protection from the Vikings or any other invaders."

Pretty tempting.

"I reject your offer," she retorted, then turned under the covers, her back to him. She was done conversing.

"You didn't even give it thought," his voice reached her as he drew nearer. "Perhaps you should-"

"Stay away from me!" Sophie snapped, jerking upright the moment he attempted to touch her shoulder. "Don't touch me."

"Fine," he chuckled, lifting his hands in surrender and backing away. "Just consider my offer."

With that, he exited her tent, leaving her to slump onto the mattress with a frustrated huff.

What a mess.