Patience is a virtue never gifted to Ivar the Boneless. He longs for nothing more than to go to the market and drag those boys back by the roots of their hair. Demand that they take him to their sister so he can sate the dreams that continue to haunt him with every night that passes.

But when he discovers Odin's hint, the sun has barely risen. Restless thoughts plague him while the rest of Kattegat remains in slumber. If the boys come, it will not be for hours. When the market is bustling and the merchants heckle at anyone passing by to purchase their goods. Time will crawl for Ivar the way it did when he fought his brother's for the first time. Each minute spanning the length of years.

He leaves the warmth and comfort of his bed for the outside world. When he crawls through the great hall it's eerily silent. Not the footstep of a thrall or whisper of a guard to be heard. Though they are there. Hidden in the very shadows he assigned them, they loom and wait for a threat that will never return. Ivar wonders if he listens close enough he will hear them follow.

The frigid morning is welcome after a restless sleep. It seeps into the king's flesh until the blood in his veins feel as if its turned to ice. He dons nothing but a pair of breeches. His bare torso emits heat that fills the air like smoke, and fresh snow crunches beneath clenched fists. It's the only noise to break a rare silence. For when Ivar stares at the vacant stalls of merchants, it's a foreign sight. Empty and void of the plethora of bodies that come and go. The port is filled with ships that hold sleeping bodies, and some even litter the streets. Curled up like children they fight the cold even in slumber.

Ivar has always existed within chaos. Noise, violence, and pain have defined his life for as long as he can recall. There's something beautiful and terrifying about witnessing the world without any of that. The innocence that rests over his kingdom at that moment is one he hasn't witnessed since childhood. A momentary illusion that the world is void of anything except for him. He wonders if such a world could ever exist for a man like him. When anyone with half a mind can be sure Ivar will stir chaos himself if he cannot find it first.

He isn't sure how long he gets to enjoy the silence before it's interrupted. The sound of footsteps as they crush fresh snow leave him full of disappointment. So much for a moment of peace. He seethes. And the world has returned from slumber .

"What are you doing?" Hvitserk's voice radiates suspicion.

It looks strange, he's more than aware of it. The king of Kattegat sprawled in the snow--almost as bare as the day he came into the world. His lips have shifted to a deep shade of purple, and his fists shake from being buried beneath the snow.

But Ivar is anything but normal. "Enjoying the morning."

He can envision the look of confusion and disbelief in Hvitserk's eyes. "What is there to enjoy about the cold and snow?"

Everything and nothing . The answer is too vague for someone as dense as his brother. The cold left many craving for warmth, so they curled by fires and avoided it by sleeping a little later. It gave the farmers less work to do with the harvest long dead, and the warriors mostly drank until they were dead to the world. They would not raid until spring returned once again.

The cold kept Kattegat silent, if only for a few valuable moments. Within the silence Ivar was left to only his thoughts. Thoughts that demand his full attention in the same nature of battle plans. Only this time he wasn't going fight war. He was going to bargain with it.

Ice blue eyes stare at the hills beyond. He thinks of the woman-- Dagny . Was she just waking for the day to kill another hog? Did she see him every night the way he saw her? Or did she remain ignorant in her little hut years away from Ivar the Boneless and all his schemes?

If she is ignorant to it all, it won't be long until she isn't.

"Ivar."

The King shifts his attention to the other for the first time. Hvitserk's blanketed in fine furs of white and silver. His hair neatly pulled back into a set of braids. It's a stark contrast from the usual sight of his brother's bloodshot eyes and disheveled tunic. Who are you trying to impress? He thinks. Then it occurs to Ivar that perhaps Hvitserk happened upon him by accident. Even his brother desired to keep secrets before the world could smell them out.

"I came out here to think,brother." Ivar sneers. "It is something people frequently do."

Hvitserk isn't satisfied with the answer, but he doesn't appear in the mood to argue. "You will freeze before coming up with a solution."

Ivar's gaze displays a mock surprise. "Who says I am pondering over problems? Did it ever occur to you that I was simply figuring out a way to get what I want?"

What Hvitserk wishes to say is that the king already has everything he desires. But they both know it is a lie deeper engrained than the bond between their brothers.

"And what is it that you want?"

Ivar battles the urge to dismiss him. How could Hvitserk even hope to fathom the situation at hand, or even support his brother in the chasing of dreams? When Hvitserk sought out women it was to bed them. Ivar has the slightest suspicion that until they crossed paths, that was his goal for the morning.

But Ivar did not want to lie with Dagny. There was more to the dreams than just a simple woman to warm his bed. If he desires such a thing he can find it anywhere. No girl with a sound mind refuses a king.

He needs something more. Something his brother's nor anyone else could ever seem to provide him with. It was an ambitious notion, but the king couldn't imagine Odin would waste his time on something minuscule.

Unless it really is all in your head.

"The gods have given me something. But in order to have it, I must find it myself."

Hvitserk raises a tan brow. Ivar can feel the skepticism rolling off his brother in waves. "And what have the gods have gifted you this time, Ivar?"

This time. The jealousy is so thick off his tongue Ivar can taste it. Hvitserk is never as favored as he. Cast aside and living the life of a shadow, is what has become of Ivar's older brother. And while it may have left Hvitserk filled with discontent and shame, it gave Ivar more than enough advantages.

"If I tell you," His voice dangerously low. "You mustn't laugh. Or my axe will find its way into your skull."

Perhaps it is the threat of death, or Hvitserk having enough sense to know the right and wrong time to test Ivar's patience. But Ivar's elder brother listens as he tells the story of Odin and his dreams. He can feel the doubt radiating from Hvitserk as he describes the girl in the forest with her bow and snarl. Then he speaks of her brother's and the dead sow in the hills. Events he's witnessed all in the form of a raven. Ivar attempts to hide the desire in his voice when he talks of flying. How Odin will never realize the torment he placed upon the king by giving him a taste of freedom--the ability to go anywhere as he pleased. Or the gods were crueler than he imagined, and Odin wished to torment him in the same stroke of aiding him.

When Ivar's voice finally grows silent nothing fills the air but soft howls of the wind. He dares a glance back at Hvitserk. His eyes are clouded over, teeth digging into the soft flesh of his lower lip. Perhaps contemplating the possibility of it all. Or if Ivar is cruel enough to lie to him again. But Ivar would never not be cruel enough.

"Why does Odin send you visions of this woman?"

Hvitserk doesn't surprise him, it's a warranted question. One he's thought about plenty. "I believe she is of use to me."

"In what way? You have plenty of thralls to do as you'd like."

Ivar scoffs. "She can kill without hesitation. From what I've witnessed she may even enjoy it. I could make a warrior out of a woman like that. Not a slave."

"But there are plenty of warriors in our army capable of such traits. Ones that have already been trained for battle."

Ivar understands his brother's point, yet there is so much he doesn't know. "None of them have been given to me by the gods."

"No." Hvitserk sighs. "They have not. But you don't know for sure if she is real."

It was a harsh blow. One well deserved from his lack of information outside the work of dreams. "That is why I have a plan, brother." Ivar says. "I will find out if she is real, and if she is then I will go from there. The gods have not failed me yet."

Hvitserk crosses his arms in what Ivar assumes is doubt. "And what if they have fooled you?"

"Then they will get a laugh out of it all, and not another sacrifice in their name."

* * * * * * * * * * *

After Hvitserk convinces Ivar to return to the hall before he freezes to death, Ivar convinces him to help with the plan he's concocted. His brother is hesitant, and perhaps the only thing that brings him to say yes is the possibility of Ivar's humiliation. But that is enough for him—for now.

He peers alongside a stall, crawling along the ground and below the eyes of many. The old crone who sells her herbs to healers isn't aware of the king sprawled beside her stall. His head tilted round to see the other merchants and observe as their customers come and go. In the surrounding area his men walk with shields of black and red strapped to their backs. Hvitserk leans against a stall, more interested in the foreign fruit grasped in his palm than the boys supposedly arriving for trade.

For awhile nothing happens. The crowd is thinner than usual. The cold and snow providing enough of a deterrence for the weak natured. It was easier for the king to make out the faces in the crowd this way. His eyes of ice drifting to every boy with straw atop his head or a body too large for his demeanor. But each time he is met when disappointment upon discovery that it isn't the boys from his dream.

He doesn't tempt himself with the latter option. That they don't exist or decided to abandon the cold market for a warm fire at home. The fear looms over him like a second skin but Ivar shakes the thought before it threatens to consume him.

But the the shadows of his doubts cease from the familiar sound of bickering.

"Will you let me hold the basket? I am stronger than I look."

"No. If we drop any of the meat mother will have both our heads."

The sound of a snarl fills the air as the pair stride past Ivar. Both oblivious to the king at their feet, they walk through the market in sync. The taller boy hoists a basket over his shoulder, the fire atop his head blowing in the wind. The younger one has to take longer strides to keep up, though he doesn't show much sign of struggle.

That one will be the problem . Ivar thinks. A boy aware of his own strength, and pushing beyond it's boundaries"

The king looks to one of his men just feet away. Giving him a curt nod and smirk like a knife, Ivar waits for him to inform the others. And like a troupe of gossiping women each of his men pass the other with a nod toward the two boys. When the last reaches Hvitserk, Ivar notes the disbelief in the elder Ragarsson's gaze.

It is wonderful to be right, isn't it Hvitserk?

The boys have paused just moments away. Their eyes trained on the thick furs for sale or trade. They silently bicker back and forth with each other over the value of their meat, and the worth of the pelts. The large one points to a large cloak of what must have once belonged to a bear, giving statements out of Ivar's range.

The king decides to change his position, if only to enjoy the upcoming show. He pulls his body through the frozen floor, until positioned beside another ignorant shopkeeper and their stall. From this view the boys are only a stone's throw away.

Ivar can make out the younger brother as he hisses through venomous fangs at the larger one. "It's too much and it's hideous. Let us look elsewhere."

But the elder boy was as dense as he appeared. "It is not hideous. I need a cloak."

"And Yir needs a new dress, but she did not request we trade our meat for one."

"Yir did not kill the sow."

The younger boy bears an expression of shock. "Neither did you!"

This causes the elder one to stiffen. Before he can whirl a pathetic comeback at his brother, Hvitserk has already come in for the kill. He rests a pale hand on the elder boy's shoulder, a wicked grin painted on his lips.

Ivar's heart only races.

"It is quite a hideous cloak." Hvitserk releases a dark chuckle. "Your bounty is best suited elsewhere."

He expects the recognition to set in. Two farm boys in the presence of their prince is a rare sight. Yet neither expression changes except mild confusion over the interruption. It's as if Hvitserk is any other man trudging through the frigid day for goods. His cloak and garbs are much finer than that of the boys', yet they either don't take notice or care. Ivar cannot decide which is more foolish.

Hvitserk has noticed the same vein of ignorance. Daggers replace the once friendly gaze in his eyes. Any lies that slipped through his thin lips of not desiring glory the way Ivar did are proven now. His feathers are ruffled, not receiving the response he hoped for.

Ivar can only observe with mild glee. He would surely have these boys before the noon sun rose to dusk.

The youngest shakes his head with a chuckle. While the other's ears turn a bright shade of pink.

"You hear that Hlodvir? Even the locals know you waste mother's pig."

A frightened yelp fills the air as Hlodvir slams his ridiculously large foot onto the younger boy's.

Hvitserk hasn't removed his hand from Hlodvir's shoulder. Something the boy remains ignorant to while he silently scolds his little brother. From the depths of his hiding place Ivar notices Hvitserk's fingers dig further into the boy's shoulder with determination. A slight punishment for his own mistake.

A tuft of red hair meets the eyes mixed with mud and green. Ivar longs to witness the fear in Hlodvir's gaze.

"S-Sir?"

"I could provide a greater purpose for it." Hvitserk's eyes narrowed to slits. The gaze of a fox cornering his chickens. "For a reasonable price or trade of course."

"What would that be?" The youngest garners his confidence.

"Bardi!" Hlodvir scolds. "Hush."

Hvitserk seizes his opportunity with the greedier party. "Information."

"Information?" Bardi's expression is incredulous. "What would we have to share?"

"Plenty that I wish to know."

The brothers exchange glances before Bardi presents another challenge. "What would that be, exactly? We don't hail from here."

"The hills are still territory to the king, boy ." Hvitserk scoffs.

It's then that the tension rises. A thick wall surrounding the trio, and encasing them against one another. The two painfully ignorant farm boys unaware of the greater powers working against them. A damaged prince who believes their pain and confession will only lead to greater respect in his king's eye.

The boys are suspicious. White hairs rise on the back of their necks, and a cold sweat brews. Bardi's gaze studies the guards that have closed in like a pack of wolves. The intricate design may of black and red reminds him of Surt. The fiery inferno closing in. Hlodvir hasn't turned his attention from Hvitserk, who appears as if he's a bear discovering honeycomb.

Neither Hvitserk or Ivar are aware of the boys' knowledge. They haven't a clue that their mother told stories of Ivar. The petulant child famous for his useless legs and lust for death. Therefore Hvitserk is not the king in their eyes, but he is just as dangerous. For anyone in their right mind didn't take notice of two boys carrying a basket of pig meat. Not unless they desired something more.

Ivar knows the youngest is trouble. It's confirmed in a flash when a fist flies through the air. A crunch fills the air, the copper scent of blood follows. A curse leaves Hvitserk's lips, a pale hand grasping his nose. Crimson tendrils pool down and gather against calloused knuckles.

"Run!" Bardi tugs his brother's arm.

They only make it a few steps before one of the guards slams his shield into Bardi's face. He collapses to the ground with a whimper. Hlodvir tosses the basket to the ground, meat long forgotten in the presence of fists. He swings and the guard falls like a chess piece. Another charges, only to be throttled to the soil. Others take notice of the skirmish. Some hoot and holler, while others idly watch, some simply slip away. Ivar does none of this. He revels in the violence before him. His mouth waters as blood spills from open wounds. What a beautiful sight to witness.

Bardi rises just to meet a charging Hvitserk. The boy swings and Hvitserk catches the fist midair, twisting his arm and pulling the boy to his chest. With a free hand he raises a knife to Bardi's pale throat. Despite the danger he still howls like a wolf pup against Hvitserk's grip. Hvitserk applies pressure and small droplets of crimson stain the blade.

"Stop or I'll slice him clean in two!" The prince commands.

Hlodvir's head spins in the opposite direction. Mouth agape at the sight of Bardi, though it's more fuzzy than anything. One of the guards whacked him good with a shield, and his left eye is slowly swelling shut. An array of yellows and purples spread below the socket like a painting.

Hlodvir isn't Bardi. He doesn't claw away at every obstacle until it's shredded beneath his claws. The boy is more buck than wolf, more man than monster. Fear ripples off his wide shoulders. Prey ensnared in the jaws of the predator. Guards that haven't been rendered incapacitated surround him. Approaching with care Ivar wonders if they do it for show. The only danger is Bardi, and Hvitserk will kill him before he's a problem.

But I won't get her on my side if he's dead.

Two guards restrain Hlodvir, while another carries the basket. Bardi still snarls and twists beneath Hvitserk's grip, but the prince has little care for the wolf pup. He shoves the boy into the arms of another guard, his hand gingerly pressing against his nostrils.

From his hiding place the king revels in his victory.