The Doppelgänger Mikaelson

The hall was alive with the warm glow of firelight, laughter echoing off the timbered walls as the sons of Ragnar and Ivar sat around a long wooden table. Bjorn's hearty chuckle rumbled as he leaned back, his massive frame relaxed but still commanding. His eyes sparkled with amusement as he exchanged a jest with Ubbe, who grinned broadly, the tips of his fingers drumming lightly on the table. Hvitserk, always the jokester, threw his head back in a fit of laughter, his blond hair catching the flickering light, while Sigurd smirked, a touch of mischief glinting in his eyes.

Ivar sat slightly apart from the group, his piercing gaze sharp yet contemplative. His lips curved into a faint smirk as he observed their camaraderie, though his eyes occasionally darted toward Ivar the Boneless, who sat across from him. The younger Ivar's scowl deepened each time their gazes met, his jaw tightening with barely concealed disdain. Still, the tension was muted in the lively atmosphere, drowned out by the easy banter and the clinking of mead horns.

Ivar adjusted the fur-lined cloak draped over his shoulders, his fingers brushing its edge absently as his thoughts wandered. Though he had spent days in Kattegat, honing his bloodline ability and learning the dynamics of the legendary sons of Ragnar, he couldn't shake the feeling of being an outsider. Yet, their grudging acceptance—or at least tolerance—was a step in the right direction.

The sound of hurried footsteps on the wooden floor interrupted their laughter. All heads turned toward the entrance as a guard burst into the hall, his breath ragged and his face pale with urgency. He dropped to one knee, his head bowed low, the flickering light casting shadows across his fur-lined armor.

"My lords," the guard panted, his voice tight with fear. "We are under siege."

The atmosphere in the hall shifted instantly. Bjorn's expression darkened, the lines of his face hardening as he straightened in his chair. His commanding presence seemed to fill the room as he rose to his feet, his fists clenching at his sides. "Who dares?" he demanded, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver through the air.

The guard lifted his head, his eyes wide with urgency. "King Harald and Earl Jorgensen. They've joined forces and march upon us with their armies."

Hvitserk's grin vanished, replaced by a sharp, focused expression. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table as his fingers tapped rhythmically against the wood. "Harald Finehair," he muttered, his tone laced with disdain. "Always hungry for Kattegat."

Ubbe exchanged a grim glance with Sigurd, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. "And Jorgensen," he added, his voice steady but tense. "A treacherous alliance."

Ivar the Boneless sneered, his lip curling as he pushed himself up from his seat. His sharp eyes gleamed with a mixture of anger and excitement. "Fools," he spat, his tone dripping with contempt. "They think they can take what belongs to us?"

Ivar watched the exchange silently, his expression unreadable as his mind raced. He noted the subtle shifts in their demeanor—the tension in Bjorn's shoulders, the tight set of Ubbe's jaw, the flicker of unease in Sigurd's gaze. They were warriors, each of them, but the weight of their legacy bore down heavily in moments like this.

"We should meet them head-on," Hvitserk said, his voice carrying an edge of eagerness as he rose from his seat. His movements were fluid, almost feline, as he adjusted the straps of his armor. "Show them the strength of Ragnar's sons."

Bjorn raised a hand, silencing him. His piercing gaze swept over the room, lingering briefly on each of them before settling on the guard. "How many?" he asked, his voice calm but deadly.

"Two thousand, at least," the guard replied, his voice trembling slightly. "They march with haste. We have hours at most."

A heavy silence fell over the group, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Bjorn's jaw tightened, his mind clearly working through the possibilities. Finally, he nodded, his expression resolute. "Then we prepare for war."

The sons of Ragnar moved as one, their camaraderie giving way to a shared purpose. Bjorn issued orders with a calm authority, his voice steady as he instructed the guard to rally the warriors of Kattegat. Ubbe and Sigurd exchanged a brief nod before heading for the armory, their movements swift and purposeful. Hvitserk clapped Ivar the Boneless on the shoulder, a fierce grin spreading across his face despite the tension. The younger Ivar merely grunted, his sharp eyes glinting with anticipation as he began to follow the others.

Ivar lingered a moment longer, his gaze fixed on the doorway where the guard had disappeared. Ayanna's words echoed in his mind—"Strength lies in more than just battle." Yet, as he rose to his feet, his smirk returned, and a flicker of dark amusement danced in his eyes.

The cold air bit at Ivar's face as he strode toward the gates of Kattegat, the heavy fur-lined cloak around his shoulders shielding him from the chill. His movements were deliberate, each step echoing with a sense of purpose. The snowy ground crunched underfoot, a stark contrast to the muffled murmurs of the guards stationed atop the wooden walls. Their faces were shadowed by their helms, but their postures were tense, their hands gripping weapons with nervous anticipation.

Ivar reached the gate and leaned casually against one of the sturdy wooden posts, his eyes narrowing as he peered into the distance. His sight, sharper than most, picked out movement far beyond the horizon. The faint shimmer of steel caught the light, and the dark mass of an approaching army began to take form. A slow smirk crept across his face, his expression a mixture of intrigue and amusement. "That's one heck of a force," he murmured, his voice low but carrying an edge of excitement.

One of the guards nearby turned his head sharply, his brow furrowing beneath his helmet. "What are you talking about, my lord?" he asked, his tone laced with both curiosity and unease.

Ivar lifted a gloved hand and pointed toward the horizon, his movements precise and deliberate. "There," he said simply, his voice calm but tinged with dark humor. "Do you not see them?"

The guard's eyes followed the direction of Ivar's finger, his gaze sweeping over the snowy fields and sparse, short trees. His expression shifted from confusion to bewilderment, and he shook his head. "There's nothing there but snow and trees, my lord," he said, glancing at Ivar as though uncertain if this was some sort of test.

Ivar's smirk faded, replaced by a slight frown as realization dawned on him. "How do you see incoming enemies if not with your own eyes?" he asked, his tone sharp but curious.

The guard straightened, his grip on his spear tightening. "That's why we have scouts, my lord," he replied earnestly, his tone implying that the answer should have been obvious.

Ivar let out a quiet, dry chuckle and nodded, his expression smoothing into something unreadable. "Of course," he said simply, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of amusement. He adjusted the cloak around his shoulders, his gaze returning to the horizon. His mind raced with calculations as he waited for the sons of Ragnar to join him.

The gate creaked open slightly as Bjorn emerged, his massive frame cutting an imposing figure against the white backdrop of snow. His steps were heavy, each one carrying the weight of command as he strode toward Ivar. His jaw was set, his expression carved in stone, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes—a smoldering fire of determination.

"Where are they?" Bjorn asked, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. His hands rested at his sides, though they twitched slightly, as if itching to grasp the hilt of his sword.

Ivar gestured lazily toward the horizon, his smirk returning. "Out there," he said, his tone light but edged with something sharper. "Two thousand strong, give or take."

Bjorn squinted into the distance, his sharp eyes scanning the snow-covered fields. His lips pressed into a thin line as he saw nothing but endless white. "And you saw this with your own eyes?" he asked, a hint of skepticism coloring his words.

Ivar's smirk widened slightly. "I have very good eyes," he replied, his tone almost teasing.

Behind Bjorn, Hvitserk and Ubbe approached, their movements a study in contrast. Hvitserk moved with a spring in his step, his posture loose but ready, like a predator on the prowl. His expression was sharp, his lips curled into a faint grin that hinted at excitement. Ubbe, on the other hand, was more measured. His strides were steady, his shoulders squared, and his face calm but focused. His piercing gaze flicked between Ivar and Bjorn, assessing the situation without a word.

"What's going on?" Hvitserk asked, his voice light but carrying an undertone of anticipation.

"Ivar says the enemy is out there," Bjorn replied, nodding toward the horizon.

Hvitserk squinted, a laugh bubbling in his throat as he saw nothing but snowy fields. "Out where? In his imagination?" he joked, earning a faint smirk from Ubbe.

Ivar turned to face them fully, his expression neutral but his eyes glinting with amusement. "Believe what you want," he said with a shrug, his tone almost dismissive. "They'll be here soon enough."

Sigurd arrived last, his movements deliberate but less hurried. His sharp features were set in a faint scowl, his arms crossed over his chest as he joined the group. "If they're coming, we should be preparing, not standing around," he said curtly, his tone clipped but practical.

Bjorn nodded, his expression grim but resolute. "Then let's not waste time," he said, his voice firm as he turned toward the gate. "We rally the warriors, fortify the defenses, and meet them head-on."

As the brothers moved to carry out Bjorn's orders, Ivar lingered by the gate, his gaze once again fixed on the horizon. A slow, dark grin spread across his face, his sharp eyes gleaming with anticipation. The storm was coming, and he would be ready.