Bjorn led the way through the snowy streets of Kattegat, his broad shoulders moving with the unshakable confidence of a man accustomed to command. His jaw was set, his eyes forward, yet the faint furrow of his brow betrayed a hint of unease. Beside him, Ayanna walked with measured poise, her steps light but purposeful. She seemed to glide rather than walk, her calm demeanor contrasting sharply with the tension that lingered in the air.
Ivar trailed a step behind, his icy blue eyes scanning the settlement. His expression was a mixture of curiosity and nostalgia, though he masked it with a faint smirk. His movements were deliberate, his hands occasionally brushing against the fur-lined cloak draped over his shoulders as though adjusting to its unfamiliar weight. The air was crisp, the scent of salt and smoke filling his senses, yet his thoughts wandered. Kattegat, the legendary hub of the Vikings, looked almost exactly as he remembered it from the series he had watched in his past life. It was surreal.
When they reached Floki's workshop, Bjorn paused at the door. His hand rested on the frame for a moment, his gaze darting back to Ayanna and Ivar. Without a word, he pushed the door open and stepped aside, his sharp eyes flicking between the two as they entered.
Inside, the workshop was warm, the air thick with the scent of freshly carved wood and tar. Floki stood at a workbench, his wiry frame hunched over a piece of timber he was shaping. His movements were precise, almost reverent, and he hummed a strange, lilting tune under his breath. His head snapped up when the door closed, his pale eyes widening in surprise. A slow, crooked grin spread across his face, his features lighting up with a mix of amusement and delight.
"Well, if it isn't Ayanna," Floki said, his voice light and airy, though it carried a note of genuine warmth. He set his tools aside and stepped around the bench, his thin frame moving with an almost birdlike grace. "It's been too long, hasn't it?"
Ayanna's expression softened, a rare smile gracing her lips as she approached him. "Far too long, Floki," she said, her voice carrying an undertone of fondness. "You haven't changed a bit."
Floki let out a cackle, tilting his head as he studied her. "And you're still as mysterious as ever," he replied, his grin widening. "What brings you to Kattegat? And who's this brooding fellow with you?"
Ivar, who had been silent, met Floki's gaze with a faint smirk. "Ivar," he said simply, his tone measured but laced with subtle amusement. "I've heard about you."
Floki raised an eyebrow, his grin taking on a mischievous edge. "I've heard of you too, Ivar," he said, his voice dipping into a conspiratorial whisper. "But I can't decide if you're more trouble or more intriguing."
Bjorn cleared his throat, drawing their attention. "We need a boat, Floki," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "They're heading somewhere, and they need it quickly."
Floki's grin faded slightly, replaced by a thoughtful expression. He scratched his chin, his pale eyes darting between Bjorn and Ivar. "A boat, eh?" he said, his tone contemplative. "I'm afraid there's none ready at the moment. Give me a few days, and I'll have one prepared for you."
Ivar exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening as he glanced at Ayanna. She met his gaze briefly, her expression calm but unreadable. If it weren't for her, he thought, he would've found another way. But she was vital to his plans, and for now, he had to play along.
Without another word, Ivar reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a pouch heavy with coins. He tossed it onto the workbench, the clink of metal filling the room. "That should cover it," he said curtly, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
Floki's grin returned, his fingers darting to the pouch as he weighed it in his hand. "Generous," he remarked, his eyes glinting with amusement. "You might not be so bad after all, Ivar."
Ivar didn't respond. He turned on his heel, his movements smooth but brisk, and made his way toward the door. Ayanna watched him go, her expression unreadable, before turning back to Floki. "I'll stay for a while," she said softly. "There's much to discuss."
Outside, Ivar paused at the threshold of the workshop, his gaze sweeping over Kattegat. The settlement was alive with activity, the sound of laughter and hammering filling the air. He took a deep breath, his smirk returning as he began to walk. This was no mere reenactment of the series he had once watched—it was real, and he intended to leave his mark.
Ivar strode through the snowy streets of Kattegat, his steps deliberate and confident. His cloak swayed with his movements, the fur trim brushing against his boots as his eyes scanned his surroundings. The salty tang of the nearby sea mixed with the faint scent of woodsmoke, evoking a strange mix of nostalgia and exhilaration. The bustling settlement felt alive, vibrant with the hum of activity. Yet, there was an undercurrent of grief—a heaviness that seemed to weigh down even the laughter of children darting through the streets.
As he turned a corner near the bustling marketplace, Ivar felt a sudden, jarring impact against his side. His hand instinctively shot out to steady himself, his piercing gaze snapping downward, ready to reprimand whoever had dared to collide with him. But the words froze on his tongue as he looked up.
Before him stood a woman whose presence seemed to command the air around her. Her golden hair, braided tightly along the sides and cascading down her back, glinted in the pale winter sunlight. Her piercing blue eyes, both weary and defiant, locked onto his with a mixture of surprise and veiled suspicion. Her posture was proud, her shoulders square and her chin slightly raised, but there was a faint shadow in her gaze—a pain that she carried with a quiet dignity.
Lagertha.
Ivar straightened, his smirk returning as he regarded her with curiosity. "Well," he said, his voice smooth and measured, "if it isn't the legendary shieldmaiden herself."
Lagertha's eyes narrowed slightly, her expression unreadable as she studied him. Her lips pressed into a thin line before she finally spoke, her tone cool but not unkind. "And who might you be, stranger?" she asked, her voice carrying a lilting cadence that seemed both welcoming and guarded.
"Ivar," he replied, tilting his head slightly as if testing her reaction. "Ivar the—" He caught himself, a flicker of amusement crossing his features. "Just Ivar."
Lagertha's gaze flicked over him, her sharp eyes taking in the details of his appearance—the cloak, the confident smirk, the subtle air of arrogance. "You're not from Kattegat," she said, her tone more of a statement than a question.
"No," Ivar admitted, his smirk deepening. "But I know of it. And of you, Lagertha. Wife of Ragnar… or should I say, widow?"
The faintest flicker of pain crossed Lagertha's face, so brief that it might have been imagined. She squared her shoulders, her jaw tightening slightly as she replied, "Ragnar was a great man. His loss is still felt by all of Kattegat."
Ivar inclined his head, his expression momentarily softening, though his eyes still gleamed with curiosity. "A great man, indeed," he said, his voice quieter. "I heard tales of him even beyond the seas."
Lagertha's gaze remained steady, though her hands twitched ever so slightly, the only betrayal of the emotion simmering beneath her composed exterior. "Tales don't capture the truth of him," she said, her voice carrying a quiet intensity. "Ragnar was… more than words can describe."
There was a silence between them, the weight of her grief and his unspoken thoughts filling the space. Ivar broke it first, his smirk returning as he gestured to the bustling marketplace around them. "Kattegat mourns its king, yet it thrives. You must have a strong hand on the reins, Lagertha."
Her lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile, though her eyes remained wary. "Kattegat has always endured," she replied. "With or without Ragnar, we move forward."
Ivar regarded her for a moment longer, his mind racing as he pieced together the dynamics of this new world. Lagertha, with her quiet strength and simmering grief, was a figure he couldn't help but admire—and one he intended to understand better.
"Perhaps we'll speak again," he said, his tone almost playful as he stepped aside. "After all, I have a feeling Kattegat holds more surprises than even Ragnar's tales."
Lagertha didn't reply immediately. She watched him go, her sharp gaze lingering on his retreating figure. Then, with a small shake of her head, she turned back toward the market, her steps measured but purposeful.
As Ivar continued his walk, the echoes of their encounter lingered in his mind. Kattegat was no longer just a place he remembered from stories—it was alive, real, and filled with opportunities. And Ivar Mikaelson was determined to leave his mark on it.