The Doppelgänger Mikaelson

Ivar Mikaelson's frown deepened as the realization struck him. Ivar? Ragnar's son? It couldn't be possible. Ragnar Lothbrok was a legend, a man of the 9th century. His history, battles, and exploits were well-documented—yet, everything pointed to him being long dead. And his crippled son, Ivar the Boneless, Mikaelson thought, his eyes narrowing. That name belonged to someone who lived and died centuries ago, immortalized by the Vikings series he'd binge-watched in his past life.

He shook his head subtly, the thought gnawing at him. No one lives that long… Not unless something unnatural is at play. A flicker of doubt crossed his usually steely expression. He barely noticed as one of the guards disappeared into the town, clearly intent on fetching this so-called prince.

The air grew tense as Mikaelson waited. Ayanna stood slightly behind him, her eyes darting between him and the remaining guard. She could feel the weight of his thoughts, though he remained outwardly calm, his piercing eyes fixed on the distant horizon. Then, faint laughter broke the stillness.

It started as a low murmur, growing louder as a group of men approached. The sound carried mockery and amusement, mingled with the crunch of boots on snow. Soon, the source of the laughter came into view: five figures moving through the gates, each distinct in their presence.

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The Sons of Ragnar Appear

At the head of the group was Bjorn Ironside, his towering frame unmistakable. His strides were purposeful, almost regal, as if he owned the very ground he walked on. His piercing blue eyes scanned the scene with quiet authority, though his lips twitched with faint amusement at the story he'd just heard. His broad shoulders and chiseled features, framed by golden hair and a neatly trimmed beard, marked him as a leader, but his smirk hinted at a man who enjoyed a good jest.

Beside him, Hvitserk ambled with a relaxed gait, his shoulders swaying slightly as if he didn't have a care in the world. His mischievous grin widened with every step, and his eyes sparkled with mirth. He nudged Ubbe with his elbow, clearly enjoying the tale of an imposter claiming to be their brother.

Ubbe, by contrast, walked with a more measured grace. His posture was upright, his expression serious but not without warmth. He studied Ivar Mikaelson with quiet curiosity, his sharp gaze taking in every detail. His long, dark-blond hair and beard gave him a rugged, weathered look, but his eyes held a hint of kindness—a stark contrast to Hvitserk's playfulness.

At the back, Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye followed, his steps quick and almost impatient. His sharp features twisted into a scowl, his green eyes narrowed as he muttered under his breath about the absurdity of someone pretending to be Ivar. There was a restless energy to him, his movements sharp and slightly erratic, as though he couldn't wait for the situation to resolve itself.

And then there was Ivar the Boneless.

Ivar crawled forward, his movements as unsettling as they were deliberate. His upper body swayed with controlled strength, his hands digging into the snow with each pull. His legs, useless and twisted, dragged behind him, the fur of his cloak trailing along the ground. Despite his condition, there was no trace of weakness in his posture or expression. His sharp, angular face was framed by dark hair that fell in loose waves, and his icy blue eyes burned with intensity. His lips curled into a sneer as the laughter of his brothers grew louder.

"That's enough," Ivar the Boneless snapped, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. His accent was thick, his tone sharp with irritation. "I don't find it amusing."

His brothers' laughter died down, though Hvitserk smirked and muttered something under his breath. Ivar turned his head sharply to glare at him, his eyes narrowing dangerously. The tension between the siblings was palpable, the kind born of years of rivalry and shared hardship.

As the group stepped closer, Ivar Mikaelson's gaze flickered between them, recognition dawning in his eyes. Bjorn… Ubbe… Hvitserk… Sigurd… Ivar the Boneless. Each name surfaced in his mind, perfectly matching the faces before him. His heart pounded, though his expression remained stoic. This can't be real, he thought, his mind racing. Yet here they were, the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok, alive and breathing.

Bjorn was the first to speak, his voice calm but laced with authority. "So," he said, his blue eyes locking onto Mikaelson. "You're the one claiming to be our brother?"

Mikaelson straightened, his cold gaze meeting Bjorn's without flinching. "I claimed no such thing," he said evenly, his voice steady. "It's your guards who mistook me for him."

Hvitserk chuckled, stepping forward with a lazy grin. "Mistook you? You don't exactly look like a prince." He gestured at Mikaelson's attire, his tone mocking but not cruel.

Before Mikaelson could respond, Ivar the Boneless crawled closer, his movements deliberate and slow. He stopped a few feet away, his piercing gaze fixed on Mikaelson. "If you're not me," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "then who are you?"

For a moment, the two Ivars stared at each other, a palpable tension crackling in the icy air. Ayanna felt her breath catch, her eyes darting nervously between them.

Mikaelson's lips curled into a faint smirk, his confidence unshaken. "I'm someone you'd do well not to underestimate," he said, his tone cold and measured.

The Boneless Ivar's lips twitched, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and suspicion. "Interesting," he murmured, his voice almost a whisper. Then, louder, "You've got my brothers' attention. Let's see if you can keep it."

Bjorn crossed his arms, his expression unreadable as he watched the exchange. Ubbe and Hvitserk exchanged glances, their curiosity evident, while Sigurd's scowl deepened, his hand drifting toward the hilt of his axe.

Mikaelson tilted his head slightly, his eyes glinting with icy resolve. "I don't need to prove myself to you," he said, his voice sharp. "But if you're here to test me, I won't disappoint."

The Boneless Ivar's grin widened, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Oh, I'm counting on it."