A/N:

Inspired by a friend, and so, an Ubbe fic I provide. This turned out extremely different to what I had in mind.

This plot follows a deviated path to the show. And I am a sucker for fictional history. :)

Snow littered Kattegat, bringing a harsher winter than many had seen for years. Even through the great Hall many kept their furs hugged tightly over their shoulders, breath coiling even with the fires around them stoked, teeth chattering and fingers painfully raw.

It was a forming stage for the past; of what had been, and the blood spilt and soaked from the earth had turned white like ash and sprinkled down to remind those left of what the great destruction of divide caused. The saying 'blood on your hands' turning each villagers hands pink and dry. Some whispering the Gods had witnessed and plagued the new Kingdom to bear the weight of the spoils of war. Kin against Kin literally turning young and old's lips blue.

Ivar would have none of the wretched pity and would flog the nearest if any words lingered by his ear. He drank ale heavily, partly in his own submission to guilt, and to take part in tonight's celebration - the big reveal.

He ignored pleas for the best part, for they could wait. His reach will not stop in Kattegat, nor rot there. Every Keep around would be raided and claimed, burdened to some great warrior for their time, and show the World who rules.

He will make his parents proud. There was only one aim, ever. But he must be careful not to step on the God's toes.

"Brother, you will drink with me," he sloppily said, sipping from a cast cup fit for a King, the world around him swirling somewhat in the busy Hall as they watched the people eat. Hvitserk had sat under furs within reach wordless, and would not speak of the supposed crime. Ivar thought perhaps he still felt loss for his eldest brother's woman - that strangely brought him unfounded joy.

"Your legs will thin like mine. Great stress on the body under such weather." Ivar continued, reaching for bread upon the table. He didn't even receive a look in return and he huffed in irritation, "I'm tired of your pining."

"There is no problem here." Hvitserk purposefully turned his head away. "Our brother-"

He was interrupted by Ivar slamming down his mug, spilling it across the table. "He is no brother of mine!" His voice echoed through the Hall, the chatter dying as the folk lowered their heads while some swiveled to see the commotion.

Hvitserk tightened his hold on his furs and stood up, his boots scratching the dirt as Ivar seethed to himself, shaking his head at his retreating back.

This was supposed to be a celebration, a new coming on the horizon. The Ragnarsson's brother's were together again - the ones left. That is what everybody wanted, was it not? So why did Ivar feel he was fighting continuously against his small act of mercy. Perhaps he shouldn't have bothered.

Frustrated, Ivar reached for his crutches and quickly followed after Hvitserk. It was the announcement people were waiting for, most following in his wake eagerly to catch a glimpse of the show Ivar had been promising, to show his creation...

Through a twisted landscape Ivar's crutches hindered him, though he dare not say it. Not far from the Hall, a pit had been dug, one that had once been for training purposes, and now only stood for political issues and treason - Ivar's pride and joy. A sanctuary for all his twisted thoughts on those who would deny him. It was lit up by large torches on poles, the nearest Holding entering onto the snow covered mud.

His most loyal stood around Ivar, and he was already entertained at the Pit master wearing the smallest of garments in such weather, while a man barrier formed with shields held inwards.

Ivar smiled, noticing Hvitserk among the crowd. Of course he wouldn't miss this. "Let the games begin!" The volume of noise rose with the crowd, the banging of shields and various chants overlapping each other. Ivar watched with glistening eyes as two men stepped through the barrier fixed in leathers and typical helmets, axes held in eager hands. But it was not them who Ivar was most intrigued by. It was the long awaited stint he'd pulled for the pleasure of the people. To know that he was the most loyal to Kattegat beyond all, and most merciful. That he could heed the advice from others and place pleas into consideration where it mattered. All the great things he needed to reign.

Through the Holding's entrance came a tall man, neck to toe in fastened and strapped leather, buckled over arms. The most significant thing, the crafted helm upon his head covering most of his face, the carvings of gnashing dogs welded like valiant rewards, and just two fixed eyes towards his target.

Unrecognisable, thought Ivar.

The smile on Ivar's face grew at the air billowing from beneath the prized helmet, likening the man to a bull crazed after being locked up and poked until breaking point. The fact was, that it wasn't such a far thought from this mans treatment.

"Woof, woof," Ivar said to no one in his own personal bubble of humour.

The battle of three erupted, two axes clashing upon sword and grunts from strong impact. These men fought for their lives. The wary dance of strength didn't last long. The helmeted dog didn't appear to want to play. He slashed one throat so hard it hit bone, throwing blood onto bystanders faces and upon his own, beckoning with a flick of the hand to the other.

Ivar began to laugh. This is what he had wanted to see, knew the capabilities of this crazed dog long before he knew himself. The crowd began to titter out to a mumble, some shifting to get away from the violence, the man barrier bending as they clashed against them. It was the finale.

The lone contender received a cut to the leg and a plunged sword into his stomach without a second's hesitation, being kicked away as The Dog travelled the man barrier, chest heaving, eyeing the next victim, calling upon them, a broken yell.

Ivar clapped, the crowd stunned and most in awe. He watched The Dog disappear back to the Holding and took after him, waving for whoever wanted to continue afterward, two men stepping into the now bloodied ring. But they had all seen what they wanted, experienced the shift in a once known man's nature.

Ivar's crutch bashed against the wood as he hobbled into the darkness, a small flame of candle to one side of the large room, a bed with tattered furs slung over. Behind him, guards covered the entrance. But there was no need to fear here.

The Dog sat like stone, back straight, waiting. "A warrior fit for a King," Ivar said. He got within a good distance to see those familiar blue eyes, thinking that, at one point, he wanted to gouge them out. And now, he saw nothing but personal gain and victory. "The people will love you now. Like you always wanted." Ivar struggled to sit on a stool in front of him for moment until he regained his balance. "The King's Dog. The Dog, is what they call you. Has a certain ring to it, don't you think?" Nothing was said in reply. The air around him was still, heavy, broken. "But do not fear, they don't think badly of you. They just like to see you do well, for once, alongside the King."

The Dog's ghostly eyes briefly peered to the floor, but were back up, staring ahead in an instant. The man inside wasn't completely dead.

"I have a plan for you. And after I may consider you back to the head table in the Hall, to sit beside us. Hvitserk would like that." The Dog now looked into Ivar's eyes and neither wavered.

Ivar leaned closer. "You will take some of my men, and you will leave Kattegat, and you will not return until you have many pretty things and land for me." Ivar smiled with closed lips. "This is your first test. And I would not fail." He used his crutch to play with in front of him and tilted his head in mock sympathy. "You may remove your helmet now."

Scarred hands; still bloodied, reached up and pulled the mask away. A scar ran the length over one eye, matching the plenty of others from vicious defiance and, ultimately, defeat. The hair that trailed long, months ago, cut to merely a tuft and scraped back in a bun.

"Ubbe," Ivar chuckled. "Ubbe, The Dog."