A/N: Another long awaited update. My muse has been so on and off for this story and I apologize for that. We finally get to see a light shined on both Ivar's feelings towards Dagny, and how he really is with everyone else. I also apologize for any typos, I tried to find all of them but my eyes are bleary from all the typing. Enjoy!

She sleeps for three days before he succumbs to temptation.

"When I was a boy, my father tore me from my mother's breast." A howling mass of pink flesh that writhed in his father's grip. He knew it then, the fragility of life. How easily the sires of wild animals tore up their young. He was a weakling. Nothing about Ivar The Boneless boasted strength or sheer will to survive on the suffering plane of Midgard. "He could smell the sour scent of my blood, and he feared the blue of my eyes."

How often a simple observance hinders his life. Ivar the whites of your eyes...they are so pitifully blue.

His father saw an abomination. A contortion of flesh and muscle that did little outside of wailing in agony. Ragnar believed himself to be a fair man. A king that did not dwell on the suffering of others. His knife was swift if you did not cross him. For those such as Yarl Borg, they did not meet such a serine exit to Valhalla. But his son, his son would not suffer.

"But it was my mother, her cries far louder than mine that saved my life. And for that, I owed her mine."

He stitched himself to her. Not even the endless fabric of her gowns could separate the thick cord that bonded them. He was a cuckoo bird demanding more than the poor queen could give. Her breasts grew raw from his ravenous hunger, her under eyes a painful tinge of violet from his cries during the night. Despite her dwindling spirt, Aslaug did not relent. She kept a tight grip against his soft belly and focused always on the storm in his gaze.

Day after day, Ivar the whites of your eyes...

"What I haven't confessed to you yet is that the bluer they are, the more fragile I become. At the age of ten and two I nearly took a blade to my them. I could feel the weight of the tip pressed against the left one. A sharp sting. Until Ubbe–" His laughter is the bitter sea outside his hall. "Ubbe charged into my quarters and snatched my wrist. His grip was so tight that–" He pauses, taking a moment to swallow the weight of his memories. As if on cue a dull ache radiates from the appendage he speaks of. "My wrist snapped clean in two. I howled as loudly as the wolves that were devoid of my flesh."

It wasn't the first bone to crumble beneath an iron grip. It wasn't the last either.

"My insides have been gouged, my flesh scarred. For every imperfection on your skin, I have ten to match."

Those same azure eyes fall on her comatose form. His hand threatens to rise from its place against the furs. Thick digits dig into the material until he feels the seems split beneath his grip. A moment of weakness struck him before, beneath the bare forest canopy. His flesh was struck aflame as it stroked the sharp bone against her cheek. The serpent couldn't afford another misstep.

"You will heal Dagny. You will crawl from that wretched pit of darkness and claim the blood that is yours to feast on."

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Two nights later she stirs. He stumbles from the chair beside the fire. The flames taunt him with flailing shades of coral. She does little outside of moaning like an injured stag. Her brows furrowed in agony, restless from the war raging inside her.

"Come back." She whimpers. "Come back to me."

Ivar possesses little knowledge of who she cries for. He reminds himself that he couldn't give a damn wretched family squatting in the mountains. But he's a desperate man, clinging to the dreams that continue to haunt him every time he leaves these chambers. If she fades, so do they.

It is the only time he's ever surrendered. A battle of shame and desire rages beneath his brittle bones as he pulls himself on the bed. His head of braided tresses rests against the same furs as her. From here he notices the small birthmark above her brow. An almost invisible cluster of snow above sand.

If a thrall comes to the woman's care, their life is gone. For now he is weak, and those below him will never bear witness to such a sight. His scarred palm strokes snarled tresses. It's the first time he's seen them down, and the sight leaves him yearning for her plait. When it exists, she exists. Everything is right, everything is going the way it should. But her hair is down. It is tangled against his fingers, oil seeping into the tips. And everything is a mess. It is a mess because the Úlfhéðnar did as he wished and burst from its chains. It heeded his call and feasted on the weak. The beast is Fenrir, smiling with a mouth full of Tyr's meat. It waits, rolled on its back for the girl to wake. It grows hungry as she sleeps.

He should cry out for assistance. She's molten, and perspiration of fever rests in minute droplets against the skin. Only he cannot tear himself from the sight of her. What if those eyes flutter ajar? What if the flames consumed every inch of the room until her body crisped to ash? Who would be there to pull her from the rubble?

"I am here." His voice has never sounded so gentle. He flinches at the subdued nature consuming him.

She's a wolf pup whimpering out in the cold. Her mother's lost in the storm, her siblings grow gaunt on abandonment. There's desperation in her pleas. A soft, "Don't go, don't go." It's a knife twisting at his guts.

His arm moves on its own accord, just as the hand at the end had moments before. Like a true serpent, he coils around her. His arm shackles itself to her waist. If he presses with too much strength her nightmare will rage on. Instead he is still, enveloping her in his warmth.

"I am not going anywhere." He murmurs.

The noises cease, he sleeps soundly for the first time in years.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Five nights after that he arrives doused in vermilion. To his displeasure she does not stir. The thralls boasted that she came to for the entire morning. He imagined her a newborn pup, gaze wide with fear and wonder. Curled in an unknown place without the warmth and security of her mother's womb. They said she mumbled sentiments about her brother's favorite sow. She had to tell him that the thing was dead. She prattled on about the pathetic swine until her tongue grew numb and sleep overtook her once more. It appeared that the sickness inside her was no less rampant, for she couldn't decipher dream from reality, nor past from present.

While she slumbers he prepares for war. The ice cracks as the rushing sea splits it in two. Birds fill the market with their songs as the sun rises, his citizens begin to shed their endless layers. Death is slowly being consumed by life, a dull brown suddenly a dull green. He does not know if she will wake. He can only wait with bated breath, one eye trained on the hall, waiting for a guard to rush to him with the news. Until she does he keeps himself busy with fists and knives. The flesh of his guards slice like tender meat. Their bodies adorned in plumes of navy and violet with each violent blow.

There are days he sees Asta, her insides splayed against the dirt. A wolf was responsible for it. His wolf. A small smirk tugs at his lips.

"I killed a man today." Crimson footprints stain the floorboards in his wake. "I tore him apart. I watched with delight as he crumbled into nothing more than paste between my fingers."

He reaches for her and hesitates. As beautiful as she would be decorated in blood, he knows in her slumber it will only flake away. Instead he brushes his fingers against the pillow, leaving selfish prints behind.

"I wanted you to know that it is not a horrific thing to do." Her face stricken with horror consumes his mind. The guilt that poured out of her like a sickness. "It is in our nature. The weak fall to the strong, and you will tear my unworthy enemies pieces." They will be one, girl and beast.

He comes to rest his aching limbs on the dirt floor. The dense surface does little to relieve the agony below his waist. Early evening he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the steady river current. The whites of his eyes tinged a dull cobalt. It was enough to quench the rage simmering in his belly. But he is no fool, he would not fight another until the milky tint returned to his sclera.

He studies the contours of the ground beneath him. His fingers absentmindedly brushing against the surface instead of her. They itch with temptation, but the serpent resists. "I imagine you would be appalled at the sight of me. Though not because I have blood on my hands, but because at this moment I am a reflection of you."

Perhaps that is why he hides like a coward below her.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The next morning Hvitserk paces with fervor. If he continues at such a pace his heels will produce imprints in the ground beneath him. The thralls do their best to circumvent his unpredictable path. There is one that slams into his chest with fright. Her yelp is enough to stir the king from his dreamless slumber. He imagines his brother's suffocating grip against the woman. The hypnotic smirk that no doubt adorns his face. Would he attempt to seduce the young thing as her heart threatened to give out?

Ivar trained them to feel fear. Hvitserk had an inconvenient habit of shifting that fear to desire when they were tangled in his web.

Surprise consumes the king when he enters the great hall and does not witness his brother bent over the nearest surface. Instead the thrall in question silently shuffles around the hall as his brother continues to pace. Only something of great importance could pull the dog from his endless bouts of lust.

Surprise shifts to panic. Its grip grating against his throat. Is it King Harald who has come to challenge him at last? No, the ice has only just receded and a great distance divides the pair. Haralds kingdom is as much of a tundra as his own beneath winter's icy grip. But if it is not ghosts of the past, then who would leave his brother a fumbling mess out in the open?

"You look ridiculous." He spits. "Cease your pacing."

On command Hvitserk pauses. His gaze turns downward to his brother. Only the sound of the thrall's footsteps fills the void of silence.

Go ahead, refuse me. Bite the hand that feeds you. The serpent challenges the dog with a silent threat. His teeth flash against his lips and Hvitserk recoils. Ivar bites back the disappointment. This morning would be more entertaining if Hvitserk decided to challenge the hierarchy of their dynamic. Instead he tucks his tail between his legs, stiff shoulders rolling back until he's no longer slouching with the weight of concern.

"You have a visitor. I assume you can guess the nature of it."

His brother isn't enough of a fool to voice his distaste of Ivar's recent decisions aloud. He values his life far too greatly to commit an act of foolery. But Ivar doesn't miss the disgust that crosses his brother's expression when he passes the guest chambers. The way his nose wrinkled when Ivar's soldiers dragged Dagny's body through the hall days prior. In the moment Ivar almost tore the dog's face clean from his flesh. But he learned to ignore his brother's ignorance long ago.He would never comprehend the weight of a blessing from the gods. Too lost in his own selfish desires to notice it before him.

Ivar would not allow his wolf leave so easily this time. What remained for her in the bare bones of her mother's farm? The beast would pounce on sight leaving only tragedy and gore in its wake. He was doing that wretched family a favor by keeping their eldest. Dagny would understand when she woke that her world was no longer the same. The girl of old was dead, and in her place stood a warrior reborn.

Warriors did not concern themselves with sheep.

"Tell the brother I will tear him in half if he dares to step foot in here." His patience already grows thin.

Hvitserk shakes his mop of braids. "It is not the boy."

At that Ivar becomes perplexed. Did her mother dare to climb from her perch in the mountains and face her enemy? The source of her scorn and grief? No she would not. The woman would only meet the same fate as Asta. Ivar would relish the sight of the light fading from her eyes. How the blood would bubble from her throat and suffocate her.

"It is not her mother."

Hvitserk was a fool, a horrible fool at that. But he could still read everything in his brother's expression, trace the wild thoughts and indicate when bloodlust consumed Ivar's perception. It was both a blessing and a curse depending on the situation.

Ivar's musings go into overdrive. If it isn't not Bardi ready to nip at his heels, or her wretched mother with her arms crossed and scowl to match, then who would dare approach him? The girl had no friends, no common allies outside of her own flesh and blood. Ivar considers the other boy. But his hulking frame is the only intimidating quality he possesses. Even his eyes refuse to grow hard as he's too soft to commit any horrific act. No courage exists beneath his bones. He would rather thrust their helpless sister before a starving bear than brawl with the creature himself.

Then he puts it together.

Their sister.

Yir, he remembers the name as it has slipped from Dagny's lips night after night. She pleas for the girl's gentle touch in her endless nightmares. Ivar recalls her from the night in their home. Like every woman she grew enchanted beneath Hvitserk's gaze. A young woman starved of the desires that slowly threatened to consume her. At the time he could not imagine such a creature being one of Dagny's kin. Outside of similar features, they could not be more different.

That same girl that pressed her form into the wall at Dagny's critical stare, the one who barely squeaked a response when his brother inquired about her sister's whereabouts, could not be capable of such a trek. To come down from alone, to face the monster woven between all her mother's tales. This one was not a wolf. No beast rested on the other side of her eyes.

Ivar drags himself toward the throne, a scoff escapes him. "She is not so bold."

She shouldn't be so halfwitted either. As if he won't bring her suffering just as he does all the others.

"But brother, she is."

Hvitserk returns Ivar's sentiment with dry laughter. It echoes off the timber walls, mocking him. A little girl has come to battle you. It taunts. She believes you to be nothing more than a figment from her mother's silly stories.

I will show you the consequences of entering a serpent's lair, girl.

Ivar pulls his frame against the throne. His legs sigh in reprieve as they rest against the seat. "Go out there. Tell her I am not relinquishing her sister just yet."

Hvitserk sighs. "I already did, several times."

"Then do it again." He snarls.

The dog rolls his eyes and Ivar's hand curls into a fist against the armrest. How dare he grow so bold beneath his brother's careful thumb. "Yes, Ivar."

Hvitserk retreats from the hall. Ivar feels a gust of bitter wind kiss his cheek, and his eyelids grow heavy. How exhausting it is to keep the Úlfhéðnar in his care. None of them can comprehend the power that thrums beneath her veins. The danger of keeping such a creature beneath your straw roof. He wonders if her mother is adorned in scars. Raised and warped against her flesh like ribbons.

"Does she stir from slumber?"

It is the first time he's addressed the young woman in his presence. She halts, curious gaze of sage falling on his form. Perhaps she assumed he didn't take note of her presence. It wouldn't be the first time he ignored them. They often existed on a separate plane until one of them managed to screw up. To the relief of his waning patience, she quickly shakes the look of surprise from her features, and meets his azure gaze with neutrality.

The thrall nods. "She does, my king."

A sigh of relief breaks free. Every morning she grows more and more aware of her surroundings. Eventually she will not succumb to the sickness that pulls her under. "And the leg?"

"Healing well. Estrid said that it the wound is scarring over."

Good .

"How long has she been awake."

"Not long, my king. But the fever has subsided in the night."

That was the worst of it. The scorching embers that licked her skin and boiled her innards. He spent much of his childhood in a similar state. His body would stick to the bed, whimpers tearing from his throat at the pain and heat that always managed to leave him cold. A horrific fever would kill even the strongest warrior. And Dagny had a horrific injury to match.

"Is she aware of where she is?"

The thrall's teeth dig into her lower lip, contemplating her answer.

"Do not lie to me." He threatens. "It will do you no good."

"She still has difficulty separating a dream from actuality. Estrid predicts she will come to this evening, or perhaps tomorrow once the effects of the fever have subsided."

It was everything he needed to hear. Except there was another itch that slowly consumed him. What would happen when she took in her situation? Would she sneer at him once more and leave? No, he would not let her go. She would not leave him again.

You cannot beat me. He snarled many days before.

But he did not desire to fight her. He wanted to sculpt her into the warrior she was meant to be. If only her desires would align with his own.

"Inform me when she does...come to."

"Yes, sir."

The thrall continues to shuffle around the room until eventually she disappears. Ivar doesn't doubt she's consulting the others, informing them of his command. They do not question his actions the way the dog does. They do as they're told. What all under his rule should do.

But perfection does not exist, even for Ivar The Boneless.

He hears an example of such imperfections as its screech bounces off the timber. He imagines a wild cat, their claws digging into the flesh of their attacker. How quickly the dynamic changed from the hunter to the prey. It is through this scuffle just outside the door that Ivar knows Hvitserk has failed him.

"He will kill you!"

"Then I will die for my sister. You keep her locked away like an animal!"

Ivar presses his thumb and forefinger between his brows. A groan escapes him, but it doesn't reach the bickering duo. When his gaze falls on them, Yir is struggling against Hvitserk's grip. His nails dig into the soft flesh of her arms. Ivar imagines the snarl that would rip from Dagny at such a sight. It is the only thing that keeps him from allowing the scuffle to continue.

"Hvitserk."

His brother releases the girl on command. Their gazes briefly marry, the doubt consuming Hvitserk. Were it anyone else she would be tossed from the hall, mud caked against her skirts. But this isn't a typical farm girl. This is Dagny's blood. Hvitserk raises a sandy brow and Ivar narrows his gaze in retaliation.

Hvitserk's palms press against his breeches, wiping away the feel of her. Yir takes a generous step back, her limbs trembling.

Weariness consumes the serpent's tone. "I loathe when my time is wasted, girl."
For the first time her attention falls on the king. Her gaze settling over his form against the throne. Ivar can't decipher whether it is fear or disgust that shapes her features. She is right to feel both. He is not her savior, nor her comrade. She is a nuisance, a blister that splits open against the skin. An irritating reminder that his she wolf carries the weight of others against her broad shoulders.

It is more evident than ever that she is not Dagny as she stands before him. Where Dagny is the sharp edges of a blade, the bulk of a fighter, her sister is soft strokes, endless curves and contours beneath the silhouette of her dress. Even fueled with rage she resembles an irritated cub more than a fierce beast. The fear of falling victim to her challenger consumes whatever rebellion threatens to break free. She resembles their bumbling fool of a brother. The female counter part with a gentle nature.

There's a time when he would have found her intoxicating. Nightmares of the past press against his skull, of a girl not unlike this one. Her plump pout and kind eyes left him desperate. A pathetic whelp in comparison to the monster he truly was. A momentary distraction, a mistake . Such a disgusting moment of weakness that often left him filled with nausea when he recollected it. Now he acknowledges Yir the same way he does those wretched moments in time, with revulsion.

Yir's lip trembles. "You're holding her captive here. Sh–She belongs home, with us."
Ivar snickers, his eyes rounding in mock concern. "She–she belongs home." He mimics.

Yir visibility flinches at the mockery and Hvitserk sighs. "Ivar."

His attention snaps to the dog. "Get out."

Hvitserk hesitates, the same weakness he displays with Eira is on full display as he sidesteps toward Yir. A pathetic attempt to protect her from the creature with a snarl against his teeth.

"I expected you to do something for me. You failed." Ivar seethes. "Now I must take care of it."

Yir's desperate gaze falls on Hvitserk, but he does not meet her eyes. Triumph fills the king knowing that his brother will always obey his command. Hvitserk retreats from the hall, the sound of an entryway slamming shut pierces the silence. Yir takes a hesitant step in the direction of his brother's retreat. But a repetitive sound of tuts freezes the girl in her tracks.

"He will not help you. No one will."

Yir crumbles. "She never made you out to be so cruel." Her emotional reaction has Ivar's features scrunched in revulsion."I have done nothing wrong." She continues "It is you who took something that does not belong to you."

Odin fashioned her for me himself. He yearns to sneer. Why else would he haunt my dreams with visions of her?

"She is here of her own free will."

To an extent.

Yir shakes her head, strands of honey slipping free from her scalp. "She is not. You waved that replica of my father's bow before her like a treat. She isn't a dog for you to command."

"Pity on her for being unable to resist temptation."

"You tempt her with a ghost!"

"As I should." He leaned forward, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. " Wouldn't you take what you desire most, no matter the cost?"

She huffs. "No, that is absurd I–"

"Would not wish to be married?"

Her lips fumble against the air, and Ivar knows his blow struck. Dagny never voiced the petty regulations their mother held over their pretty heads. It was evident in the way she kept two girls well beyond childhood in her care. A cruelty typically afforded to someone like him. Not that it wasn't custom for the eldest to be married off first. But surely any parent would give in if their daughter resembled the likes of Yir. The best of men may have fell to their knees to taste something so sweet.

Dagny longed for war, so her mother snapped the bow. Yir longed for marriage, and her mother kept her hidden away from wandering eyes.

Ivar pulls himself from the throne. His nails dig into the dirt as he pulls his limbs toward Yir. Struck with what he believes to be terror, she remains frozen in place. Thin fingers clutched her skirts, her breaths escaping in rapid succession. When Ivar ceases moving before her, he realizes how small she truly is. A minor gust of wind could rip her feet from the ground.

"What will happen, should the burden of your sister be taken from your mother?" He taunts her, his voice just above a whisper. "Will you finally have what you want?"
She swallows stiffly. "I am not as selfish a creature as you."

"Are we all not selfish though?" He hums. "I would not blame you for it. Your sister will not either."

"You do not know Dagny." Yir hisses.

"I do not? Hmm."

"No, she would not want this."

His nails press deeper into the soil, rage coiling beneath his flesh. What a wretched little thing. How he desires to wrap his bar hands around her throat. "She wishes for you to be happy. Are you happy, Yir?"

Her silence is enough of an answer for both of them.

"For most of my life I was not happy either." He confesses. "I dragged limply behind my brothers, watched as they enjoyed every bit of life that I was void of. Do you know what I did though?"

When she doesn't respond he retaliates with a harsh tug of her skirts. A gasp fills the air and Yir jumps out of her skin.

"Do you know what I did?"

She quickly regains composure with the shake of her head.

"I killed one, and chased away two others. The third serves me like the dog he is. And guess what? I am happy. Happier than I have ever been."

"I–" Her voice breaks. "I couldn't commit such horrors against my siblings."

He tuts once more. With another sharp tug to her skirts she's met with a single finger directing her toward the ground. She hesitates, sucking in her lips before falling to her knees with a released breath. At eye level he wonders if she realizes that he still will always tower above her.

"You don't have to. Nothing horrible will happen if she remains here."

"But–"

"Hush."

She visibly recoils before the king resumes. "Do you know of the wolf beneath? Has it looked you yet in the eyes?"

"I have."

Ivar nods. "Then you know of the danger that comes with it." He sees the shattered memories piecing themselves back together. The horrific childhood that none of them expected to endure.

"She's never hurt me. Only–"

"Your mother." Ivar lifts a finger from the dirt and presses it to her nose. Grime tarnishes her perfect complexion. "It wants to kill her so badly."

Another sob tears free and it takes all of Ivar's control not to roll his eyes. "Stop, please ."

"Dagny did not come home that night so that the beast wouldn't slaughter her. Did you know that? Of course you didn't. Because you are a naive child. You believe in tales spun by the wicked woman that would offer you up in her stead should her eldest lose control."

"Stop!" Yir attempts to rise, but his grip is iron as he clutches her arms.

"If I let her go home, do you know what will happen? Perhaps nothing. But one day something will happen. And what will become of you and your brothers if the beast isn't sated once its had its fill of your mother?"

She doesn't respond when he shakes her limbs, only cries of anguish fill his hall.

"But do you know what will happen if she stays here? Your mother will live, you will live." He leans in, chapped lips pressing against her ear. "You'll have everything you ever wanted."

They are all selfish in the end. Consumed by desires they once thought unachievable.

Yir collapses against him. Sobs wrack through her frame and Ivar groans against her. Part of him longs to lick the salted tears against her face. Relish the sorrow that consumes the girl who thought she could outsmart a king. Instead though, he strokes the small of her back, hushes escape his lips. This is the trickiest moment, the few precious minutes where she comes to her own decision. If he resembles the harshness from before she will shove him away and it will all be for nothing.

But if he's gentle, if he understands her conflict, she will not run.

"She will loathe me, just like mother."

"She won't."

"How do you know?"

"She adores you, it's evident."

"Then why did you say she would kill me?"

"She won't." He insists. "The Úlfhéðnar will."

"I don't not wish to suffer anymore."

"I know."

"Will she forgive me?"

"She will not be angry at all."

When she tears herself away with a sniffle, the serpent knows he's won. If only every enemy was as easy to bend and break as this. Her gaze, round and glassy can't keep eye contact with him. Instead she focuses on the dirt, her fingers fidgeting in her lap.

"Could I see her?" Her request is reminiscent of a mouse begging the cat for a reprieve. "I need to know she's safe before I return home."

He didn't have to grant her such a request. Ivar could toss her from his hall and be done with it. Have his guards rip her pounding fists from the doors. But that is not how a battle is truly won.

"You may."

For the first time elation fills her visage. Ivar hardly gives it a glance, as he already drags himself towards Dagny's chambers. Her sister stumbles to her feet, quickly catching up to the king at her feet. "Thank you!" She boasts, but he merely grunts indifference in return. It is a small price to pay for his she wolf.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

To both his disappointment and relief, Dagny slumbers. He remains in his usual perch against the fireplace as Yir presses herself to her sister's form in the bed. Dagny stirs, but does not fully wake.

He pretends to be disinterested, his focus on the coals while careful ears remain trained on the pair just steps away. Yir's hushed sentiments and apologies press against her sister's ear. It is here that he catches a close glimpse of their relationship. The protector and the protected. How Yir likely spent her childhood hiding behind her sister, her tight grip against her sister's calf in attempt to ward away strangers.

When he looks up she's stroking Dagny's hair. Resentment rears its ugly head at the action he was performing just nights prior. How Ivar desires to do it now, her sister a distant memory of the past. But he has to reward the girl for her time. He has to be convincing.

Eventually he gains her attention by clearing his throat. Yir hesitates enough that Ivar considers ripping her from the bed. When she does rise it's with a soft whisper to her sister that the serpent can't pick up. He grinds his teeth with irritation and quickly corrals the girl from the room. He doesn't miss the way her footfalls drag toward the entryway, or the soft sobs that return. Their is a great weight pressed against her now. One that wasn't there prior to this morning. It is the weight of not only her actions, but of her sister's. No longer is she chained to the farm of their childhood. But the realization hasn't hit her quite yet. Not in a celebratory way at least.

"Can I see her again?"

He nods. "When she is better. You can come whenever you wish."

Whether or not Ivar would allow the girl inside is another thing altogether.

"You believe this is what is right?" She presses once last time. "She will be happy?"

The lie slips easily from his teeth. "She will never want for anything else."