I'm on a bit of a roll here for some reason. Got some time on my hands to finally scratch the itch!
Please read and review! I REALLY appreciate it!
As always, A song of ice and fire belongs to the master George R R Martin
Ivarr Ragnarsson belongs to history. This version is going to try to be as true to the character of the historical man as possible, albiet with some heavy invention of my own.
Enjoy!
Ivarr
Ivarr felt a cold fury cut through him as the coward Greydon's men fell upon his brother. Behind him, his warriors roared in anger, rushing forwards to defend their comrades. Ivarr joined them, his long bladed sword singing through the air. The Iron born stepped forwards, moving to block Ivarr from their treacherous leader, who scrambled backwards, eyes wide.
They formed a passing resemblance of a shield wall, but then Ivarr's Vikings fell upon them, and the wall shattered like glass. Ivarr slashed downwards, cutting an Ironborn open from shoulder to waist. Another stepped forwards and swung a wicked axe at Ivarr's knee. Ivarr's sword slithered downwards to parry, and his shield rose up and caught the Ironborn on the jaw, sending him tumbling backwards into his compatriots.
Ivarr strode forwards, battering his way through the Ironborn line like an avalanche. He did not wait to ensure his foes deaths. That was for the men behind him. He simply pushed forwards, hewing limbs and opening bellies.
The Iron born scrambled backwards, darting away from the furious Viking onslaught towards their beached ships.
"Back! Back!" They cried. Many threw down their weapons and ran, pushing past one another to reach the safety of the sea. Ivarr saw Sigurd amongst a group of more heavily armored Iron born, dragged swearing and fighting on board a long ship, the Iron born leader just ahead of him. As they pulled Sigurd aboard, the leader turned and buried his sword in Sigurd's chest.
Time seemed to stop. Ironborn came at Ivarr as if in slow motion. He saw as if through a red haze. He heard a voice screaming incoherently, as if from a long ways away. His brother was dead. Iron born fell like wheat before a scythe as Ivarr, son of Ragnar raged against his brother's death. He cut at them until his sword broke. When it did, he crushed them with his shield. When that broke he beat the life from them with his hands, screaming hatefully at those who dared to get in his way.
Sigurd had been young, no more than sixteen. He had mimicked Ivarr since they had been children, following his brother in everything. He'd been a gifted warrior, and might have become a great one, if not for that traitor's sword in his back.
As the long ship slid away, carrying his brother's killer, Ivarr swore a terrible vengeance. He would find Greydon Goodbrother. He would find his brothers, his sisters, his father, his mother, his friends, and his children. He would find them and he would slaughter them all. He would tear their hall apart. He would burn their lands and kill their people. He would destroy the line of Goodbrother so utterly that men a hundred years later would fear to even whisper the name of the traitors who dared to murder the brother of Ivarr Ragnarsson. He would do this, or by the All Father, he would not enter Valhalla and sit amongst his kin in the halls of the Aesir.
T
"…ord…"
"…ord!"
"Lord!"
Ivarr looked around. He was on his knees, covered in blood. A dozen corpses lay littered around him. Just to his left, a Norse warrior watched him with cautious eyes.
"What is it?" Ivarr croaked. His throat felt as though he had swallowed fire. He could barely speak.
"You fell into the battle fury lord." The warrior said slowly, grabbing Ivarr under the arm to help him to his feet. "Only one ship escaped lord. We killed the rest of them."
"Thank you." Ivarr recognized the warrior who still supported him, Olaf Tyngeson. He and Ivarr had fought together since child hood. When Ivarr became a lord under his father Ragnar Lodbrok, Olaf had been made Thane of Ivarr's hall, commander of his Huscarls. "How many men did we lose?"
"Not many lord." Olaf replied, tugging gently on his long beard, a habit the man had had since he could grow a beard. "A few men killed, some were wounded, but nothing serious. Hrokir is seeing to them now."
Ivarr nodded. "Where is Sigurd?"
Olaf didn't answer. The Viking warrior just looked down at the bloody sand, resting his chin on the blade of the long hafted axe all huscarls carried.
"Where is my brother?" Ivarr growled.
"We…could not find his body lord." Olaf muttered. "He was not amongst the dead."
Ivarr cursed, then staggered. Immediately, Olaf grabbed his arm.
"Easy lord!" He turned to yell at one of the Viking warriors who was picking over the dead,
"You, bring the Jarl a wineskin!"
"I'm fine." Ivarr grunted as Olaf lowered him onto a rock.
"Tyr's hand you are!" Olaf snapped. "There is no shame in it lord, the battle fury weakens all men." He pressed a wine skin into Ivarr's hand.
"Drink all of it lord. I'll see to the men."
He made to go, but Ivarr stopped him. "Burn our dead in the traitor's ships. Strip the enemy dead and give them to the sea."
"Yes lord." Olaf gripped Ivarr's shoulder briefly. "I am sorry for your brother."
Olaf left Ivarr sitting on a rock staring out to sea, blood staining the sand around his feet, the Viking Jarl alone with his sadness and his fury.
T
The sun was at its zenith when Ivarr's dead warriors were given to the gods. Ivarr had the bodies of the Iron born stripped and loaded onto one of the remaining ships. His dead warriors lay in honor, ready to make their last voyage, upon a mountain of enemy dead.
A passage fit for kings. Ivarr watched the enemy long ship slide out to sea, sails set.
"Your bow, lord." Olaf stood by his elbow, proffering a great yew long bow to his Jarl. Ivarr nocked an arrow, the tip wrapped in cloth and dipped in pitch. The tip was lit, and Ivarr drew back. The bow creaked in protest as Ivarr drew the bow to its very limit. He held the arrow by his ear for several minutes, watching the long ship drift towards the horizon.
When the ship was silhouetted on the horizon, Ivarr let the arrow fly.
The flaming bolt hit the long ship, igniting the pitch that had been poured over the deck. The long ship flames furiously for a moment, then disappeared beyond the horizon, carrying the five slain Vikings into the halls of Valhalla.
Ivarr could hear murmurs behind him. His warriors, still bloody from the battle field, offered words to Odin, father of battle, of their slain comrades valor and skill. When night came, the Norsemen would break open kegs of ale, and sing praises for the dead. For now, Ivarr wanted his men to work.
"Get them back to work." He strode past Olaf, away from the shore.
"Stop standing around you lazy bastards!" Olaf roared. "You can cry like women after you finish the Jarl's work!" Ivarr's warriors dispersed, piling up looted arms, or pulling supplies from the now beached Norse long ships. The wounded warriors sat by the piled Ironborn weapons, making themselves useful by sorting and stacking the gear, under the watchful eye of a short, wiry man in a heavy brown cloak. Hrokir Gundersson had an unusual relationship with Ivarr's warriors. They respected the small Dane as a priest of Odin and as a man of learning, but absolutely dreaded going to visit him with injury. Warriors who would walk into an impossible battle without a second thought, cringed at the thought of having to go see Hrokir to heal a wound. The prickly Dane was not by any means the gentlest of healing men.
The wounded grinned up at their Jarl, most young warriors, new to battle. They showed Ivarr their wounds, boasting of the men they had slain. They grinned proudly when Ivarr acknowledged their deeds, grumbling about their lack of caution. The Jarl gave praise rarely, and even when that praise came with reprimand, it was highly prized.
"They'll all fight harder next time." Hrokir complained, the short Dane trotting after his Jarl. "And I'll have to stitch them up again."
"Wounds are common in battle." Ivarr replied, patting a warrior on the back as the Viking trudged past, a heavy barrel over his shoulder. "They teach a man caution."
"And how many times did you have to learn that lesson?" Hrokir retorted. "I've patched your hide more times than I can count Ivar the Boneless."
Ivarr snorted in amusement. "I yet live do I not?"
"Yes, no thanks to you." Hrokir grumbled. The pair made their way off the beach, towards the remnants of the village the Ironborn had defended. "That name has done you no favors."
"A man's name is who he is brother. You know that." He waved at a small group of Vikings clustered around a pile of Ironborn swords. "You six, come with me." The men fell into step, trailing after the Jarl and his priest.
"Some names are better than others lord." Hrokir muttered, scratching at his thick black beard. "Ivarr the Keen Minded, Ivarr the Sailor. Those are good names. Boneless is not."
They entered the ruined village, and paused. Corpses lined the dirt streets, most male, some clad in common garb, a select few in mail coats and green tunics.
"The defenders of this village you think lord?" A warrior asked, nudging one of the green tunics with his boot.
"No doubt." Another offered. "They died facing forwards at least."
"Not cowards then."
"Quiet!" Hrokir snapped. "Can you hear that?"
The Norsemen fell silent. A soft crying noise drifted to them.
There were women chained together in one of the ruined houses. Ivarr waved his men forwards, and the chained women shrank back from the gore stained Norsemen. A young woman stood in front of the others, a sword raised before her, a determined grimace on her face. The warriors tried to approach, speaking in Norse, but when they tried to approach, the sword would flicker out, driving them back.
Ivarr called the men back. He sent one to find Olaf and more men. The rest stood awkwardly in front of the ruined house, unsure how to proceed.
"Hrokir, get the men back." Ivarr grunted.
"You don't have a weapon lord." Hrokir cautioned. "That girl looks quite handy with that blade."
"A woman in chains won't end me." Ivarr retorted.
Hrokir looked like he wanted to argue, but stayed silent.
Ivarr approached the house, hands open. "May I approach?" he asked slowly. "I am without a blade."
The woman glared at him, then barked at him in what sounded like Saxon. He coughed, and tried again.
He never liked Saxon, it felt strange, but his father had insisted all his sons learn the language. It helps to speak the language of those you raided.
"You are the warrior who spoke with the Ironborn."
It was not Saxon, similar but not the same. The language was more lyrical, with greater variation in tone, compared to the dull yammering of the English Saxons Ivarr and his brothers had fought and raided.
"I am." Ivarr nodded.
"I saw only the beginning of the battle. Where are they?" The girl's sword had lowered to her side, but she eyed Ivarr warily.
"Dead."
The girl nodded, a half smile flickering across her face for a second.
"My people are in need of food and shelter."
"Food and shelter I have." Ivarr grunted.
Behind him, Ivarr heard the sound of boots, and of his Thane Olaf hissing in Norse to Hrokir. "My men will cut your bonds." He offered, gesturing to the women who still huddled together behind the sword wielding girl.
"Please." The girl replied. Ivarr gestured, heard Olaf snapping at the men in Norse. The women recoiled from the Viking warriors, retreating from the tall Norsemen in their heavy furs, stained with blood.
"They're trying to cut you free." The girl yelled over the sound of the whimpering women. "They won't hurt you." The women seemed to relax, letting the Norsemen sever the ropes that bound them.
"What is your name?" The girl was looking at Ivarr, her face less hostile, but no less wary.. The sword, Ivarr noted, was still drawn.
"I am Ivar Ragnarsson. Men call me the Boneless."
The girl nodded. "I am Dacey of House Mormont.I would thank you Ivar Ragnarsson. The men you fought burned my home and killed my people." The girl's eyes drifted over the ruins that surrounded her, and to Ivarr, she seemed to shrink. "I regret I have no accommodations suitable for a guest, but you are welcome to what you can find."
Ivarr nodded curtly. "My thanks. My men will see to your wounded." The girl ducked her head, a look of relief on her face. He turned away from her, and looked up at the sky. The sun was falling rapidly, and darkness would come soon.
"Where could we build a fire?" Ivarr asked. The girl looked at him askance.
"The great hall has a fire pit, but it would have to be cleared." She pointed to the ruin of what had once been a high roofed long house.
"It will serve." Ivarr withdrew from the ruined house, gesturing for Olaf to approach. The girl clambered out after him, hovering behind him as he spoke quietly with his Thane.
"What are you going to do now?" she asked, her voice unsure.
Avenge my brother. Kill the men who wronged me.
"My men will care for your people. Then we will build a fire and honor our dead."
But not Sigurd.
Not my brother.
His anger boiled up within his chest, not red hot and thunderous as it had been when Sigurd fell. It was a wintry hatred, cold and patient. It might take a life time, but such a hatred would never tire.
He walked away from the girl and the ruined house, gripped by a sudden desire to be alone.