Ivar would handle all things. Becoming his queen; you thought that no one would lay a hand on you. No one could access you. It was true... within reason. You certainly never thought anything of his elder brother. A jaunty laugh fell from the usurper's lips, hopping up each step up to his new throne with a brighter smile than the last. The people had grown tired of the reign of a cruel king and instilled instead their own choice.
Bizarre because– you never saw him as the type to become king.
"People of Kattegat! All hail your new king!" He mocks Ivar's words when he once became king. Your head is hung, arms tight in the hands of traitors. Where Ivar had gone, you couldn't account for. You told him such. He would return... one day.
A jaunty slapping of hands rung from the proud crowd. Soldiers beat their axe heads against their shields reflective of Hvitserk's new colours. Kattegat's flag yet still flew with his father's proud raven. No one expected anything from the dog set under brother after brother. Hvitserk grins with his hair loose about his chest. He was different. Transformed by the conditions that once had him carefree and bubbly into what he was now. A man of change.
His hands urge their howls down. "Wait wait! We haven't chosen a queen!" He inclines his head, looking about blonde and brunette gathered. Surely, he could have picked any one of those. But spinning on his heel, he motions his fingers in your direction.
"Who would you choose (Y/N)?" He asks. You turn your face away.
"A king picks who he desires most." You say with an inflective huff. Hvitserk lets loose a chuckle, looking out towards his beloved Ubbe. Who somewhere along the way became this kind of man. One with his head bowed and lips curled in.
"I want one to share with my brother." Hvitserk inflects. "But she has to know how to handle a Ragnarsson."
How to handle a Ragnarsson? You turn your hair, the high ponytail on your head brushing against the dramatic, deep red of your dress. Hvitserk's eyes turn upon you, drawing along the swell of your breasts. In that exact moment, you know what he means. You know who he means as well, forcing the men to steady you when you try to take a step back.
"(Y/N) has made a great queen! Why change a good thing?" He swiftly bounces over to you, cupping your chin in his thick and war calloused hand. "Don't you want to marry me, (Y/N)?"
Your heart leaps.
"Don't you?"