The days at the Saxon villa seem endless to Ivar. His brothers have become withdrawn from him, especially Ubbe. Floki has returned to Repton to care for the boats. Rowan is constantly preoccupied either caring for Sigurd or preparing for the child. There is little to do to pass the time, and even less that actually holds his interest.

His lessons with Wulfgar are one of the few things he truly enjoys. He teaches Ivar his language the same way he does most everything, with a general air of indifference. But his dry wit makes him a tolerable companion. His irreverent comments about life in the Wessex court are both amusing and enlightening. At the back of his mind, Ivar still imagines leading the Great Army to further battles, and any knowledge he can gain about his foe can be useful.

Other times he watches Sigurd float about the village, looking like his soul has already left him. It surprises Ivar how easy it is for them to avoid each other, to simply not speak except for the most mundane of exchanges.

He finds himself wondering whether he regrets his actions for the damage they've caused his brother, or for more selfish reasons. Even though Sigurd lives, he still feels the tarnish upon his honor for having nearly become a kinslayer. He spends hours training and working with the men, continuing long after most would be exhausted, all to try and regain the respect of his warriors.

Rowan often sits nearby and watches, her expression as gentle and as fond as ever. The Moorish girl, Tanaruz, becomes her constant companion, if only to help her to stand up. Her belly becomes heavy and round. The weight disrupting her every move in a way that Ivar and his brothers can't help but find amusing.

And yet the more time passes, and the more her body expands for the babe inside her, the more Ivar cannot ignore that soon it will have to come out. He is torn between hiding from her and the inevitable, and spending every moment possible with her, knowing that this may be all the time they have.

~...~

The inescapable conclusion finally arrives one day. The days have been growing longer for two months, the chill of winter almost past. Ivar is sitting with Rowan, practicing his Saxon when he catches her wincing. She's tried to hide it, but he's seen signs of discomfort all day. But he doesn't realize the significance until Tanaruz gestures to ask Rowan about the pains.

"I'm not sure." she replies, "They happen every fifteen minutes or so?"

The girl gives her a significant look, and Rowan goes pale. She protests that it's too early, that she still has two weeks more, but Tanaruz is insistent. She stubbornly insists, taking charge with a stern expression. Before Ivar can react, Rowan has been whisked away to her bedroom to be examined.

The moment he tells his brothers that Rowan might be in labor, they eagerly insist on going to see her. A few hours have passed since he last saw her, and Ivar's stomach rolls as he hears a pained groan from outside her closed door.

Hvitserk opens the door, calling out in a boisterous voice as to whether "his little Saxon flower was preparing to bud", and immediately halts at the sight of Rowan, surrounded by several other women, sweat beading on her forehead as she grits her teeth through another pain. She looks up at the brothers, face beet red from strain and then anger.

They have just enough time to dodge before a piece of crockery sailed past them, shattering against the wall behind them. Ubbe reaches forward to shut the door at the same time as they heard her scream at them to, "Get the fuck OUT!"

The brothers look at each other, frozen in shock both from the assault upon their persons, and the realization that it is coming. Rowan is in labor, and only time will tell how she and the child will fare.

"Well," Hvitserk says cheerily, "her aim has certainly improved!"

~...~

His brothers agree that there is nothing for them to do but wait, and return to their respective amusements. But Ivar remains at the door, watching as women rush in and out. Every time it opens he asks what is happening, and they assure him that all is as expected. He listens as their voices try to soothe Rowan. She herself makes very little sound, although every once in awhile he hears her groan as the pains grow stronger.

Hours pass, there is silence for a worrying length of time, and Ivar is gripped with fear until one of the women steps out and tells him that Rowan has been sleeping. It is a good thing, she tells him, it will give her much needed energy. More hours pass and Ivar envies her the oblivion of sleep. Though he longs to return to his own room, he cannot pull himself away from his vigil.

In the wee hours of the night, the voices inside grow suddenly urgent. He cannot make out the words, but he feels in his heart that the time has finally come. Rowan is still so quiet. He presses his ear to the door and hears her give a long, low moan. Only a moments pause and then there is another. The women speak encouragingly, and now he can hear when they tell her to push. Keep pushing, that's it, just a little more.

He jolts back. Finds himself pressed against the far wall, watching the door as if it were the mouth of a dragon. But even in his shaken state he hears the cries of praise, followed a minute after by a strange, piercing sound. It's like a lamb bleating for it's mother, and it takes Ivar a moment to realize that it's the babe's first cry.

His breath catches in his throat. There is an invisible hand constricting around his throat as he listens to the sounds of joy from inside. He can only imagine the scene that's hidden from him. What does Rowan's face look like, seeing her child for the first time?

More time passes, how much he can't say, and then the door opens once more and the women step out quietly, closing it behind them. They carry bowls of red water, cloth stained with blood. Tanaruz is the last to leave, and when their eyes meet her expression is hard. Ivar knows she dislikes him, has ever since he frightened her the first time they met, but at that moment he couldn't care less. All he cares about is whether his Reynir is well, if she still lives.

Tanaruz, pauses, considering him for a moment. Then, still stony-faced, she opens the door and steps to the side. He realizes that she is bidding him to enter, and he whispers his thanks in a voice hoarse from weariness and emotion.

The room is lit by a roaring fire. From the doorway, Ivar can see the large bed where Rowan lies sleeping, but his view of the occupants are blocked. He slowly pulls himself forward, a strange feeling of desperation gripping him. He doesn't even notice when Tanaruz closes the door behind him.

Rowan lies on her side, her face peaceful as she sleeps. Her dark hair is damp, and frames sallow cheeks and eyes rimmed with dark circles from the many hours of pain she has endured. She seems even smaller and more delicate than ever before. Yet he swells with admiration as if she were the bravest of warriors, come straight from the battlefield.

"If you think you're being quiet, I do hate to disabuse you of the notion."

Ivar flinches, instinctively prepared to flee in case any more pieces of crockery start flying towards his head. But when he meets Rowan's now open eyes, he sees no signs of distress. He comes closer carefully, and she adjusts herself on her pillow so that they can see each other better. In his mind he knows that this is hardly the most beautiful he's ever seen her, but whether it is the glow from the fire or something that is radiating from within, the sight of her takes his breath away.

The weak smile she gives him encourages him to draw himself up against the side of the bed. His gaze is locked on her, assuring himself that she is alive and whole. He finally has to pry his eyes away from her to look at the small linen-wrapped bundle beside her.

The only part of the babe revealed by the swaddling is its face, and Ivar wonders, is this how they're supposed to look? It doesn't look quite human, all red and wrinkled. Rather like a very drunk, very old man. Despite the objective ugliness of this creature, he finds it surprisingly difficult to look away from it, to force his gaze down further to where its legs are concealed by the tightly wrapped blanket.

"Ivar." Rowan's voice is soft, her hand even softer where she lays it over his, trying to call his attention back to her.

"Ivar." She repeats.

He doesn't want to meet her intense, serious gaze. He knows his face is showing everything that he's ever wanted to hide from her – apprehension, curiosity, affection, terror.

"Ivar, she's healthy. She's perfectly well."

Those words send two simultaneous realizations catapulting through his mind. The first, that it is a girl. And the second, that Rowan is trying to assure him that the child has inherited no maladies. The only reason she would do that is if…

A daughter. His daughter. If he weren't already on his knees the confirmation would have brought him to them like a Christian praying to their wretched god.

"Mine? You're sure." He whispers, needing to hear the words.

Rowan laughs a little. "I can't help but feel a little insulted by that question." Ivar's glare only makes her laugh again. "Yes, I'm sure."

He looks back at the baby, his daughter. Perhaps she isn't so ugly after all. No, he can see now that even closed her eyes are very like his, the shape of her mouth too. Now that he's taken a second look, she's actually quite pretty. Beautiful really.

Despite Rowan's reassurance, he feels a burning need to see with his own eyes. He plucks up his courage and reaches out to carefully tug the blanket loose. All four limbs flail about, accompanied by a small sound of indignation, the child unamused by her new lack of covering. When he wraps a calloused hand around her leg, it is firm and solid. She has come into the world unbroken.

"Do you want to hold her?"

Ivar looks at Rowan, shock and fear written all over his face.

"Here." She scoots herself back on the bed, taking the baby with her to make room. "Come up."

He doesn't want to. He doesn't want to be closer to this fragile little thing with his rough hands and awkward, useless legs. But somehow he finds himself obeying, carefully hoisting himself up and settling with his back against the headboard. With a wince and a little effort, Rowan sits herself up to match his position. With what looks to Ivar like astounding competence, she gathers the baby up in her hands and holds her out to him. Gently she instructs him how to hold his arms so she can place the child in the crook of one elbow.

She's tiny, he's sure that she's too tiny even though Rowan assures him that she's a healthy size for a newborn. A little early, but not at all the worse for it. Holding her feels like holding a bag of fish, all soft and wobbly. For a while all he can do is sit as stiffly as possible, sure that if he moves a muscle she'll tumble out of his arms.

After a time, though, his confidence grows. He carefully moves his right arm, and is pleased to discover that he can hold her quite well with only his left. His hands seem to dwarf her, and he is gripped with fear that he doesn't know how to handle something so delicate. He has never had to temper the strength he's gained from dragging himself over the ground all his life. How does he touch her without hurting her?

At first, he just barely brushes a fingertip over her little face. It fascinates him. With every passing moment it looks more and more like a miniature of his own, especially when it wrinkles with indignation at having her sleep disturbed.

Her little mouth opens slightly when he traces over her cheek, and he finds something inexplicably funny about the perfect round shape it makes. It's startling when he hears Rowan chuckling along with him. He's forgotten she was even there, didn't even notice when she started to lean against him to watch their daughter.

Theirs. This is their child, something they made together. Both of them. He blushes when he glances at Rowan and his thoughts stray. It seems inappropriate to think of such things after everything she's gone through in the past months. Trying to distract himself from the memories, he returns to exploring the baby's limbs.

Growing more brave, he very carefully cups one foot in his palm. He's captivated to see that each of her toes is capped by a perfect little toenail, and finds himself studying each one in turn. Then he has to look at each of her perfect little fingers with their own tiny nails. The hand he touches wraps instinctively around his finger, her grip already strong.

"What should we name her?"

Ivar is a little annoyed when his examination is interrupted by Rowan's voice. But when he turns to frown he sees that she's perched her chin on his shoulder, and she's looking up at him with those sweet doe-eyes. His heart melts at the sight, the mother of his child smiling at him warmly.

"We must choose carefully." He says, looking back at his daughter. She would have to have a name befitting her great lineage.

"Mm," Rowan agrees. "Just as long as you don't want to name her after your favorite skald."

Ivar looks at her with horror. "A Viking child bears the virtues of their namesake, it is no wonder you are this way if that is truly how your father chose your name."

"Really? Then you always name a child after someone important?" Rowan asks, ignoring his jibe.

He nods. "If a child is named for a relative who has died a part of the spirit of that person will enter the child, especially if that person died while the child was still in the womb."

Rowan rubs his arm softly. "I suppose you will want to name her for your mother, then?"

He regards the child again from head to toe. It occurs to him how vulnerable she is, how entirely dependent she is on him for protection. "I loved my mother, but I know her spirit was burdened. I would not wish that for this one."

They both silently contemplate the baby for some time, considering the possibilities.

"I suppose," Rowan begins tentatively. "I was pregnant when your father died. I might have conceived very close to that day, anyway." when Ivar gives her a confused look, she pats his arm patronizingly. "It doesn't always happen right away. I'll explain some other time."

He's too lost in euphoria to be annoyed the way he usually is when she suggests that his knowledge is somehow lacking. Her remark has struck something in him and he looks at the baby again. If what Rowan says is true, there is a possibility that she began the very moment his father's life had ended. Tentatively, he rolls a name around in his mind and then off his tongue, testing the sound of it.

"Ragný."

Rowan seems pleased by this suggestion, repeating it and asking him what it means.

"The first part, it means 'power of the gods', but it can also mean 'counsel'. The second means 'new."

"I like it." She says.

"Then that is what she will be named. Ragný Ivarsdóttir."

~…~

Ivar doesn't leave the whole night. While Rowan sleeps he stays awake, gently touching Ragný's impossibly soft skin. He leans in, breathing deeply of her sweet scent. But eventually the baby begins to wake, making soft, angry noises.

Rowan is immediately awake and reaching out for her. Ivar's first reaction is to pull back, until she rolls her eyes and tells him that the baby is hungry and, unless he is planning on finding a way to produce milk, will need to be returned. Reluctantly, he releases his daughter back to her mother.

Her gown is still fastened at the neck by a brooch and she can't quite remove it with one hand. When he sees her struggling, Ivar reaches forward and carefully removes the brooch and pulls one side of her garment open for her.

He watches with fascination as Rowan holds her swollen breast and guides Ragny to it. It takes a few tries, but soon she is latched on and sucking voraciously. He pushes Rowan's long hair behind her shoulder so it doesn't obscure his view as his daughter sucks nourishment from her mother with happy little grunts.

Rowan hisses softly. When Ivar looks at her she is wincing and grinding her teeth softly.

"What's wrong?" He asks, suddenly concerned that his baby isn't receiving milk properly.

Rowan shakes her head. "It's just a little tender. I can bear it."

"Is that normal?" He worries.

She nods, eyes clenched in concentration. Ivar feels compelled to touch her cheek, comforting her the same way he had once before. He strokes her face and murmurs how well she's doing, how proud he is of her, how strong she is for bearing all that she has for their child.

When Ragný has had her fill Rowan does some sort of patting ritual that makes the baby let out a surprisingly loud belch for such a small thing. She is then returned to the eager arms of her father while Rowan goes back to sleep.

~...~

Ivar's thoughts drift. His memories of the night they'd had sex, already precious to him, have taken on a whole new level of importance to him.

He hadn't even thought of Rowan that way before that night. He'd had a passing thought that she was pretty, had perhaps wanted to impress her a little with his knowledge. He'd clung to her as something vaguely familiar in a dark place, and he'd even started to think of her as a friend.

Then she'd looked at him with those big, sad eyes, her hair falling around her face in a tangled mess. And she'd let him touch her, trace the delicate curve of cheekbone and pet her cheek, and she'd taken comfort in it. She'd lain beside him and let him hold her like she trusted him. For the first time, someone – a woman – had come to him, had needed something of him, and it had made him dizzy with a kind of confidence he'd never known before.

The smell of her hair and skin had been intoxicating. Ivar had touched his lips to her neck without really thinking. It had muted the aching in his chest, and he'd found himself growing bolder the longer she allowed it. He'd been lost in the texture and taste of her skin when she'd pressed back against him, and he'd become uncomfortably aware that he was harder than he'd ever been in his life. Without any purposeful seduction on her part she'd roused his desire, and he'd held his breath, waiting for her to lash out at him in disgust or horror.

She hadn't. Instead she'd done it again, deliberately, sparking a surge of pleasure so sharp it was almost painful. For a moment he couldn't even comprehend what had happened. Then he had and he'd acted with desperate speed, before she could change her mind or his body could fail him. Before he fully knew what he was doing he was inside her.

He'd tried to hold himself back, but the heat of her had enveloped him and forced out all rational thought. And the wetness, he'd never felt anything like it before. His hips had begun to move wildly, entering that warmth again and again, not knowing or caring what helpless sounds he was making as the pleasure built. He vaguely remembers Rowan moving and disrupting his rhythm, and him holding her still, but she hadn't been upset. Instead she'd turned her face back against his mouth, and he'd moaned and gasped into her ear as his end had finally come.

Afterwards a strange affection had overwhelmed him, and he'd nuzzled at her like a contended pup. But soon he'd fallen asleep, and the next morning he'd awoken to an empty bed and the ache in his chest had not only returned but doubled in intensity. He'd seen red on the sheets where they had lain and felt sick to his stomach. He hadn't thought he'd been so rough, but he must have injured her badly if he'd made her bleed.

When he'd discovered she was pregnant, he'd already made a promise not to speak of that night to her. So he'd tried to tell himself he could be a friend, a brother to her. But even then a part of him had raged at the thought of another touching her the way he had; the thought that their encounter hadn't meant the same to her. But the fear he dared not acknowledge held him back. That and learning that she hadn't been a woman yet when they'd had sex. It was easier to believe there was another than to face his own lack of honor. His already critically low sense of self-worth simply wouldn't allow it.

Only now, sitting beside her with a child - a healthy child - in his arms, Ivar knows he was only lying to himself. He'd had no way of knowing. Surely that was understandable? Whatever the consequences, he cannot ignore his responsibility now. This is his daughter, and Reynir is his person, his woman now, the only one who makes him feel as a man should.

The night of the sacrifice he'd felt it again, and he hadn't been able to resist the urge to touch himself. He'd been ashamed to look at her when he'd returned to her bed after. It was bad enough that he, a Viking man and a prince, had taken his pleasure into his own hands instead of finding a thrall or other willing woman to lie with. But he'd found himself unable to climax until he'd involuntarily remembered the scent of Reynir's hair and the wet heat he'd felt inside her womanhood. He'd realized then that he didn't want other women, only her.

And now they have a child together, and she can no longer deny the bond between them. True, he'd been selfish on that night, but he would do better next time. He only had to convince her to give him another chance.

In a roundabout way, she's already spoken of their night together. So he is freed from his promise to never speak of it. He can ask her why she kept this from him until now. But not just yet, for now he just wants to enjoy these precious moments, his first as a father.

The dark girl enters the room quietly, interrupting Ivar's thoughts. She ignores his glare and walks quietly over to Rowan's side of the bed, tapping her gently and asking her something with various gestures he doesn't understand. Rowan nods in response, and the girl helps her to stand from the bed and walk slowly to the chamber pot.

Ivar clutches Ragný in an effort to ward off his embarrassment. It's not so much that he's shocked by a normal bodily function, but Rowan moves so slowly and stiffly, her delicate parts injured once again due to his carelessness. Where once the baby had seemed so small, now he looks down at her and can't imagine her coming from inside Rowan's small body.

And then he sees Tanaruz help Rowan replace a cloth she has placed between her legs. The old one is soaked in blood, and for the first time in his life he is horrified by the sight of it.

"It is normal." Rowan reassures him gently, "It is only my womb cleansing itself. It will pass in a few days."

A few days? She says it so calmly! As if losing such a quantity of blood would not cause any man to fear for his life. She returns to his side to nurse the baby, who has begun to fuss once again.

They repeat this routine several more times during the night with Ragný waking and Rowan feeding her while Ivar soothes her and admires them both. Tanaruz comes again to help her to the chamber pot and to change the soiled cloth, and Ivar feels a pang of frustration at finding yet another task he cannot perform. By rights, he should be the one assisting her in these small things. It is his child she has risked her life to birth. But once again, his legs hold him back. He cannot even carry his child across the room himself. In the quiet hours between feedings, he gazes at Ragný's precious face and starts to formulate a plan.

~...~

When the door creaks open slowly and three blonde heads peek in, they are greeted by the sight of Ivar sitting with the baby in his arms, who is now awake and squinting at the strange man who keeps making strange and unfamiliar noises at her. Rowan is sitting up, working on consuming a whole loaf of bread and almost as much cheese, and smiling fondly at the pair beside her.

Ivar looks up and grins when he sees the shocked looks on his brother's faces.

"Come in, my brothers!" He crows cheerfully. "Come and meet my daughter!"

Ubbe, Hvitserk and Sigurd step in cautiously, surprised to find their younger brother both already there and still alive. Not to mention the fact that he is sitting there like a proud mother cat, presiding over the introductions with smug pleasure.

Ubbe is the first to lean forward and pull the blanket away from the baby's face to get a good look. Sigurd leans over his shoulder and frowns.

"Is she supposed to look like that?"

Ivar bristles. "You obviously know nothing about babies, Sigurd. She is exactly as she is supposed to be."

Ubbe nods. "She is a fine child, Rowan. I congratulate you."

Hvitserk pushes Sigurd aside to get a better look and smirks. "Her eyes are a very bright blue, aren't they?"

"Most babies have blue eyes." Rowan replies around a mouthful of bread and cheese.

Sigurd interrupts any further comments, fairly bursting with curiosity. "Have you decided who you would like to name her?"

"You know someone will have to claim her." says Ubbe, "But it is still nine days before she must be water-sprinkled. Do not feel like you need to rush to a decision."

"I will." Ivar hisses, angered by his brothers ignoring him. All three look to him as he continues, gazing at each in turn to make sure they are paying attention. "I will name her, I will water-sprinkle her, and I will claim her, because I am her father."

There is a long silence while his older brothers try to make sense of his statement and Rowan carefully avoids making eye contact with any of them. Finally, Ubbe suggests in a very soft voice that Ivar go and find something more for Rowan to eat. And why don't Sigurd and Hvitserk go along as well?

Ivar tries to protest until Rowan lays a hand on his arm and beckons for him to hand her the baby. He has no desire to leave either of them, but she nods and smiles at him to go. He gently kisses Ragný's forehead before reluctantly passing her back to Rowan, promising to return soon.

~…~

Sigurd and Hvitserk don't speak to him. Hvitserk's silence doesn't bother him it's largely to be expected at this point. But he finds it unexpectedly distressing that Sigurd refuses to acknowledge his declaration, won't even look at him. For all their differences, he has to admit that Sigurd is the only one of his brothers who truly shares his regard for Rowan.

There was a time, before their father's last raid on Paris and his subsequent abandonment of his family, when they had been friends. They were the youngest of Ragnar's sons, the two who their mother had seen visions of before their birth, the two marked in body by the Gods. Ubbe and Hvitserk had always been a pair, always together, and as the years had passed and they had reached the cusp of manhood there were often times when they had no time for their little brothers. He and Sigurd were still children, still wanted to play their childish games.

They were never as close as the older pair of Ragnarssons, but he'd always been able to count on Sigurd to make him a clever little toy boat to send down the river. He'd never been able to make them the same way. He'd kept trying over and over, eager to see the impressed and proud expression on his older brother's face when he showed him.

That day had never come. Things had changed, not only between them but in the whole family. He didn't know what it was. All he knew was that one day his brother, the one who was supposed to be his friend, was gone. Like Ubbe and Hvitserk, he'd become serious and grown-up and left Ivar behind. Not only that, but he also became critical, always telling Ivar that this or that was wrong.

He became so self-righteous, his sense of honor so rigid and unforgiving. And Ivar had learned early on that he could never live up to Sigurd's exacting standards. He would never be able to gain his respect or love so why even try?

Only now Ivar has committed not only one but two dishonorable acts, and all Ivar wants to do is shake him and yell that he didn't know, he never meant to hurt either of them. But he'll be better now. He'll show them all that he could be a man worthy of respect and loyalty. His daughter deserves no less, and he will fight with every weak, worthless bone in his body so that one day, she will be proud to call herself Ragný Ivarsdottir.

*.*.*

That was awful. It wasn't quite as bad as I was fearing, but it was still horrible. It felt like cramps, only worse. It didn't really get bad until my water broke. After that point it was one contraction right after another. Although honestly, I would go through that any day over having my leg pulverized. But the moment they put her in my arms, it was like I completely forgot I'd just spent 10 hours in varying levels of agony.

Luckily there were a couple thralls who've had children of their own, so Tanaruz and I weren't alone. They kept me up and walking around a lot, and that helped a little, but near the end all I could do was lie there and sweat and hope that it would be over soon. I think at some point I started blubbering for my mother, and Tanaruz was just totally calm and kept humming. It gave me something to focus on other than the pain.

Ragný is a little early, but not much. She's on the smaller side of average, but I'm shit at judging weight without a scale, so I can't really say anything about that. Her eyes are blue, but she doesn't have a lick of hair.

The moment I saw the way Ivar looked at her, I knew I had to tell him. It was killing him not knowing. I think he might love her more than I do, although at this point that isn't surprising because he doesn't have to feed her every two hours ON THE DOT or else she starts wailing like she sees the shadow of death coming for her. Still, she's a cute little Boob Vampire, so I guess I'll keep her.

I basically had the majority of this chapter written months ago, hence the fast update.

There are a couple things in this chapter that aren't necessarily accurate to Viking culture. There's nothing that I've found that really touches on it, so it's sort of my own headcanon for the culture as it appears in this story.

There's no mention that I've found of Vikings associating bleeding with virginity. Many cultures would use blood on the sheets after the wedding night to prove the bride was a virgin, but sagas and Viking laws we have never mention this. My headcanon is that they live such active lives, most women simply don't bleed and so it's not expected. Ivar has also lived enough of a sheltered life that he's never heard of the cases when it does. It seems like a lot of his sex ed has come from his brothers, and it seems pretty unlikely that they would have been entirely honest about their own encounters.

Another entirely personal headcanon, that masturbation (at least for men) is frowned upon, though not entirely taboo. Sex and sexual potency was extremely important for Viking men, but only ever in relation to a man taking the active role in penetrative intercourse. So it doesn't seem entirely far-fetched to imagine them believing that it was unmanly to not seek sexual release with a partner, especially in the case of someone of high status with access to numerous thralls who were considered to be sexually available to their owners at all times, whether they liked it or not.

Question 1: How do you think each of the brothers feel about finding out Ivar is the father?

Question 2: How do you think being a father will affect Ivar's outlook and behavior in the future?