The Doppelgänger Mikaelson

Ayanna stepped forward with a graceful but determined stride, cutting through the rising tension like a blade. Her movements were deliberate, her presence commanding, as if she were the calm eye of a storm about to break. She raised her hands, palms outward, in a gesture of peace and authority. Her gaze swept over the brothers, her voice firm and steady.

"I would advise against that," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. She turned slightly, addressing the group as a whole but letting her eyes linger on Ivar the Boneless, whose sneer faltered just a fraction under her intense scrutiny. "And besides, we just came here to get a boat and set sail to our destination. What my companion said is true. His name is Ivar Mikaelson, son of Mikael, once a jarl alongside your father before relocating to the New World due to a plague."

The weight of her words hung in the air like frost.

Ivar Mikaelson tilted his head ever so slightly, his lips curling into a faint smirk of intrigue. His surprise was evident in the subtle raise of his brow, though he masked it quickly. His gaze flickered toward Ayanna, a glimmer of curiosity in his otherwise cold demeanor. She knows Ragnar? How…interesting. He glanced skyward briefly, as if searching for some unseen presence or answer, his thoughts racing. Where the hell did that bastard send me to?

Ayanna's words had their effect. Bjorn's confident stance stiffened, his shoulders squaring as his smirk faded into something more thoughtful. He glanced at his brothers, seeking their reactions without losing his composure. Ubbe, ever the mediator, rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his expression unreadable but tinged with consideration.

Hvitserk tilted his head, his grin fading into a sly, calculating look. He crossed his arms lazily, though the subtle tightening of his jaw betrayed his tension. Sigurd, by contrast, bristled visibly, his hand inching closer to his weapon. His eyes darted between Ayanna and Mikaelson, suspicion written across his face.

Ivar the Boneless, however, was the one who reacted most visibly. His sharp features twisted into a grimace of disbelief, his posture stiffening as he leaned forward on his arms. His piercing gaze snapped between Ayanna and Mikaelson, his lips curling into a sneer that was more reflex than intent.

"You're telling me this… bastard" he spat the word with venom, gesturing toward Mikaelson with a sharp jerk of his chin, "is my father's ally's son?" His voice dripped with skepticism, though there was a flicker of something else—curiosity, perhaps, or the faintest trace of unease.

Ivar's smirk deepened as his eyes met Ivar's. "If I were you," he said, his voice low and laced with cold amusement, "I'd listen to the woman. After all, this peace talk is her idea. She's the one afraid of what I might do to you lot."

Ivar's sneer faltered again, his fingers twitching against the snow as though itching to lash out. The brothers exchanged glances, their individual reactions painting a tapestry of their collective unease. Bjorn's jaw tightened, his measured expression masking his thoughts. Ubbe's lips pressed into a thin line as his gaze shifted between Ayanna and Mikaelson, the gears turning in his mind. Hvitserk chuckled softly under his breath, though the sound lacked its usual mirth, while Sigurd clenched his fists, his face reddening with barely suppressed frustration.

Ayanna stepped closer to Mikaelson, her presence a silent warning to the brothers. She moved like a shield between him and the sons of Ragnar, her steady composure daring them to test her resolve. "We don't want trouble," she said firmly, her gaze softening slightly as it met Bjorn's. "But if you insist on it, know that we won't be the ones regretting it."

The Boneless Ivar let out a bark of laughter, sharp and humorless. "Bold words," he said, his voice a dangerous purr. But he didn't move.

Bjorn finally raised a hand, silencing his brothers with a single gesture. His voice, calm but firm, cut through the tension. "Enough." He studied Ayanna and Mikaelson, his sharp features betraying nothing. "If what you say is true, then you're no enemy to us. But if you're lying…" He let the threat hang, his posture straight and unyielding.

Ivar chuckled softly, his confidence unshaken. "Believe what you will. The truth doesn't require your approval."

Bjorn's gaze lingered on Mikaelson, his sharp blue eyes studying him intently. The Viking warrior searched for weakness, for any crack in the way Mikaelson carried himself, but there was none. The man stood tall, his posture steady and confident, exuding an air of authority that Bjorn couldn't ignore. Mikaelson's smirk held no arrogance, only an unyielding assurance that seemed to taunt Bjorn, daring him to act.

Bjorn finally let out a measured breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he turned to his brothers. "We'll let them into Kattegat," he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument. "We'll meet with Floki and see if he can get a boat."

The brothers exchanged glances, their expressions ranging from reluctant acceptance to thinly veiled distrust. Ubbe nodded subtly, his brow furrowed in thought. Hvitserk's lips twitched into a half-smile, though it was devoid of humor. Sigurd's jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening as he clenched his fists, clearly unhappy but unwilling to challenge Bjorn's decision. Ivar the Boneless, however, sneered openly, his piercing eyes fixed on Mikaelson with a mix of disdain and curiosity.

As the group turned to head toward Kattegat, an unexpected moment unfolded. Mikaelson, his smirk never wavering, stepped toward the Boneless Ivar. The infamous son of Ragnar tilted his head, his expression shifting into one of wary confusion. "What are you doing?" he hissed, his tone sharp and defensive.

Ivar didn't answer immediately. Instead, he bent down, his movements deliberate and smooth, and scooped Ivar up into his arms with a surprising ease. Ivar's immediate reaction was visceral—a sharp intake of breath, his hands instinctively pushing against Mikaelson's chest in protest. "Put me down!" he snarled, his voice laced with anger and humiliation.

Ivar's expression didn't change. His smirk remained, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—perhaps amusement, perhaps pity. "Stop squirming," he said, his tone calm but firm, as though speaking to a restless child. "It'll be faster this way."

Ivar's jaw tightened, his teeth grinding audibly as his pale cheeks flushed with a mix of anger and embarrassment. His brothers watched the exchange with varying reactions. Hvitserk's lips quirked into a full grin, the tension momentarily broken by the sheer absurdity of the scene. Ubbe shook his head slightly, his expression unreadable but his eyes glinting with faint amusement. Sigurd's scowl deepened, while Bjorn simply observed, his face a mask of neutrality.

Despite his protests, Ivar didn't resist further. His sharp eyes bore into Mikaelson's, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You'll regret this," he spat.

Ivar's smirk deepened. "Perhaps," he replied nonchalantly, his tone dripping with unconcerned confidence. "But for now, let's move."

Ayanna followed close behind, her expression unreadable but her movements steady and purposeful. Her gaze flickered briefly to Ivar the Boneless, softening ever so slightly as if she understood his frustration but saw no point in addressing it.