A/N: I wrote this first as a oneshot (see Sprinting Fox: Unwritten for the chapter with an OC paired with Daenerys Targaryen) but then decided to write it as an actual fic with a different plot. Since it was planned as a Vikings x GoT crossover and now merits more detail, the first several chapters will be entirely in the Vikings timeline before the transition to GoT to set up the character's background and explain the change. JUMP AHEAD TO CHAPTER TEN (10) TO SKIP TO THE GAME OF THRONES CHAPTER(S) IF YOU DO NOT WISH TO READ THE VIKINGS TV SHOW PARTS.

As with my previous stories, I wanted to make a note about a few things. One, you can expect the usual Vikings & Game of Thrones themes of abuse, miscarriage, traumatic childbirth, underage marriage, violence, incest, etc. Two, it will be depressing in many aspects and have a great deal of angst. Three, I am basing this off of the shows. And four, as with my past fics, the main point is NOT necessarily the love story, it is about the growth of the character! The majority of the focus is on the OC's journey and as I mentioned, the plot is completely different so Daenerys is no longer the intended love interest. Oberyn Martell will have a big role here, as will Daario Naharis (both of them the same age as my OC).

If you're still interested, go right ahead. For reference, the OC's face claim is Ruby Hartley who played Stiorra in The Last Kingdom. When it is time for the faceclaim(s) to change due to timeskips, I will let you know. Enjoy!

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Kingdom of Kattegat, 816 AC in Norway, Scandinavia

Ten years after the disappearance of Ragnar Lothbrok

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Some claimed she was a demigod.

From her earliest memories, she recalled those around her telling her stories of her family. Her mother talked often of her own parents, famous warriors whose blood ran in her veins. Then came the tales of her father, the wickedly brilliant man who went from being a simple farmer to Earl to King of Kattegat.

Her people called her 'Princess' but whispered that she'd been born to a god and a mortal woman worthy of bearing his offspring. For only a god could have done the things that Ragnar Lothbrok did, only a god could have such tales strung to his name, poems made to be sung in the halls of all the Earls and Jarls in Norway and Denmark.

She didn't think of herself as a demigod. Her brothers hardly thought her to be their father's daughter to begin with. The Ancient One had told Ragnar that he'd have many sons, sons who would be spoken of as long as men had tongues to speak. They'd enjoy fame. They'd want to be better than him. Her brother Sigurd liked to say this prophecy made no mention of her, and he assured her she was more likely to be the child of their mother's lover, a man who might've been Odin himself, called Harbard when he visited Kattegat.

She'd retorted that it was not possible to deny her parentage. One, Harbard had come to see them when she was two years old, something both of her eldest brothers confirmed, remembering very well exactly what happened the first time he came to Kattegat. They'd nearly died during that visit and were witnesses to the strange magic Harbard could apparently perform to ease the pain of others.

Second, though the prophecy never mentioned Ragnar's daughter, she knew he'd had one before and it was not impossible for him to have another. Her father had even once told her proudly that she reminded him much of her elder half-sister, Gyda, who had died about five or six years before her birth, a lovely girl of almost sixteen. How could she bear that resemblance without the two sharing a father?

And third– this fact had been corroborated by her three eldest brothers– there was a night where her father had shared his bed with her mother, Queen Aslaug, and the famous shield-maiden Lagertha– once Ragnar's wife and the mother of Gyda and her eldest brother, Bjorn– that occurred about nine months prior to her birth. How, then, could any other man have sired her? Really, the only one her brothers teased could truly be her father if not Ragnar was Lagertha, because she'd been present at her conception. It was a silly joke that Sigurd found no fun in because it meant he couldn't tease her about being Harbard's spawn.

"Are you coming, sister?" called Sigurd, tapping the hilt of his sword to the back of her head when he caught her sitting at the docks, feet in the water. "Or will you deny hunting at our side again?"

"I'll come," she said, swatting the sword away. She lifted herself up, shaking the water off of her feet and lacing up her boots, her brothers waiting on their horses. She ran to catch up to them, gripping the reins and leaping onto the horse, her weapons waiting for her. She kicked the side of her horse, following them up into the mountains, toward a cabin they used when they hunted. Just the sort of thing demigods did. What a joke.

It was her great pride to think that she should never have been born in the first place. Her mother's pregnancy had been difficult with the brother that came before her. Ivar tormented her from within her belly and emerged with legs so misshapen, it was a miracle they never really put him out to die, for they all knew he would not walk like the other children.

Against all odds, she was born. Raised by a whole group of people who adored her. She was the only one of her siblings who was referred to by her mother's title, and the title she now had from her father becoming King– the only child of his born after he acquired his crown. Princess, the perfect Princess and youngest child of Ragnar Lothbrok.

She didn't remember Siggy, the woman who'd cared for her the most. A woman who'd been wife to the Earl that Ragnar defeated to earn his place in Kattegat. A woman who'd been married as well to her Uncle Rollo. She'd saved her brothers from drowning in a frozen lake when Harbard had come to distract their mother and never resurfaced. It was said that she'd wailed for days after Siggy's death, missing her more than anyone else did.

Her mother had thought to give her that name, before she'd decided on another. She'd named her first two sons out of a preference for the sound, Ubbe and Hvitserk. Her third, she and her father had named for a prophecy she spouted while carrying him, stating that her son would have the image of the serpent Fafnir in his eye, the same serpent that'd been killed by Aslaug's father. Ragnar nicknamed him Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye. Ivar, unfortunately for all of them, was named believing he'd be much stronger, though her mother had always known he'd be born a monster.

For her daughter, she'd chosen a fierce name, though she'd toyed with calling her Alfhild, for Ragnar's mother. She called her Brynhildr for her own mother, a famous shield-maiden and more importantly, a Valkyrie. Brynhildr's earliest memory of her mother involved a prophecy, where she'd told her daughter that she would do great things that even her brothers would not accomplish. She'd leave her family behind, she'd find herself in a land the Vikings would never touch, she'd bear a great burden and hold in her fingers the end of a dynasty, and though her name would not be famous, her words would be powerful enough to change history.

"Mineri," called Hvitserk as they dismounted, tying their horses to a wooden post. "You'll take the lead on our hunt today."

"Finally," said Ubbe as she rolled her eyes. "Let us see if the little bear cub can do anything at all."

"I am not little," she fumed. "I am as tall as you, Ubbe."

"Yet, Hvitserk and I still remember you as a baby," he said, reaching out to ruffle her hair. She drew her knife, pressing it to his throat. He smirked, slowly backing away. "A baby who has learned to kill."

"She's yet to kill anything that does not walk on four legs," said Ivar, Sigurd having helped him off his horse. He slid himself along the ground, toward the grassy field leading into the forest.

"Shut up, Ivar," said Brynhildr curtly. "My first kill will be a real man, not a child you couldn't tolerate in the yard. I can use all the same weapons you can, only better, and I will kill things that have two legs."

He seemed to think this an insult. "Yes, of course," said Ivar snidely, "you always look down on me."

"Not on you, at you. You're no lesser man, only a man set close to the floor." She would've kicked him for emphasis, but Ubbe shot her a warning look and she refrained. Even her elder brother was more present as a father than their real one had been. Well, at least for her and Ivar. Ubbe and Hvitserk had many more memories of him.

"Mineri, that temper of yours is nearly as bad as Ivar's," said Hvitserk, though he backed away when she pointed her sword at him before making for the little hut, built beneath the hill, and tossing it aside along with the other weapons she wouldn't need.

Her nickname was stupid. When she was four, she'd had a difficult time stringing words together properly, and at the ceremony where Ubbe and Hvitserk received their arm rings, she'd tried to ask for one of her own. To Hvitserk, it sounded as though she said 'Mineri,' and he'd not stopped calling her that since. He was the only one allowed to use that wretched name– she'd already cut Sigurd once for trying it. Why would the gods have fated her to be known by such a childish-sounding word?

As of late, she felt there wasn't much she could do to feel connected to this strange prophecy of her mother's or any destiny preordained by gods who seemed to mock her. She remained stuck in Kattegat, with no one to play with but her brothers. She'd had friends her age before– her niece Siggy had been two years younger than her, but had drowned in one of the many moments her mother had been neglectful of her children. Were it not for Sigurd always keeping Brynhildr's hand tight in his, knowing her tendency to wander off, she might've drowned and seen no new lands.

Then, there had been Angrboda, the daughter of Floki and Helga, people she considered her real parents. Angrboda had died of fever, but Floki and Helga never stopped taking care of Brynhildr and especially Ivar. They were good people who'd been loyal to Ragnar and saved his life, despite several falling outs. Her mother had entrusted them with teaching her two youngest about the gods, fearing that their Christian-loving father would sour them with his beliefs. In fact, the only time Brynhildr remembered her father striking her mother was when Aslaug had told him that Floki had done nothing wrong when he killed Ragnar's pet priest (and supposedly close friend) Athelstan.

Thus, though she was called a Princess and demigod, she did not find herself too connected with the stories told of her parents. She didn't feel close to them, she didn't feel loved by them or required to love them, either. She didn't believe they were more special than other people, simply more clever. Her mother had proven her wit when she first met her father, and Ragnar had shown that he was not a man hungry for his throne– he'd once told Bjorn that power was dangerous. It corrupted the best and attracted the worst. It was only given to those prepared to lower themselves to pick it up.

How, then, could her father be a god? Many believed her mother had inserted herself in Ragnar's life, fulfilled his prophecy yet still tricked him. He bled like any other man did. He might've been descended from Odin, but she doubted he was that much more special than other Vikings. He'd simply been more willing to open his mind to the possibilities. It was the only reason she admired her father. He didn't limit himself by other's perspectives. He sought his own, he became who he was because he wanted to see what else the world had to offer. A god did not tie himself to the world that way.

Even her mother was not a woman she worshiped. If anyone held that spot, it was Lagertha, the woman Brynhildr aspired to be, the woman who was said to fight like a real Valkyrie. But Aslaug, even as her mother, was a woman with many faults. She never got the sense her brothers were all that attached to their mother, save for Ivar, who'd needed her for his survival for many years.

"Go first, Mineri," said Hvitserk, poking her between the shoulders with the tip of his sword. She shrugged him off, an arrow knocked in the bow she carried, tiptoeing into the forest to see what they would find. Her steps were much quieter than those of her brothers, always so loud and making her wish she'd been an only child.

She motioned for them to stop about fifty yards into the line of trees. She knelt, letting the arrow fly right into the eye of a rabbit. As it fell, she nocked another, catching by surprise a second rabbit that had been trying to flee. "Not a scratch on them," said Ubbe, impressed, as he stepped around her to retrieve the rabbits. "All their flesh will be useful to us."

"Not so little anymore," said Sigurd, flicking the back of her neck with his fingers.

"If you do that again, you won't have fingers anymore," threatened Brynhildr, stepping off the path for Ivar to crawl ahead, a bag open to catch the rabbit carcasses.

"Yes, Sigurd," agreed Hvitserk, though it sounded as if he was mocking her. "Haven't you learned not to test the patience of a shield-maiden? You should fear a woman's wrath."

The woman she looked to for advice, all these years later, was Helga. The man she wished to learn from was Floki. Her father had been in her life so scarcely and for the past eleven years, had been entirely absent. She felt a whirl of pride and anger for it. She hated that he'd left, hated that he'd always preferred Bjorn. Hated that Ubbe and Hvitserk were taken to Paris while she was stuck with Sigurd and Ivar under the care of a woman who would easily slip away with Harbard and forget she had children to look after.

From Floki, she learned of the raids of Northumbria, Wessex, and Paris. Gods, how she loved the story where her father pretended to be dead to infiltrate the city and used Princess Gisla– now wife to their uncle, Duke Rollo– to let his army in to raid. Even more, she loved how Floki's boats had gotten them to England in the first place. He'd taught her from a young age to build boats, to worship their gods. She never wavered from it. Even now, a girl of fifteen, she would be willing to carry sixteen-year-old Ivar on her back to Floki's hut so they might sit for a lesson with him, her carving planks of wood while Floki told them about what it meant to be Vikings.

Still, despite her bitterness towards Ragnar and her hesitation in liking any of the stories about him too much, she remembered the few moments that her family was together fondly. She remembered the treasures Bjorn brought back from Paris. How Floki had been arrested then freed by her father. Bjorn sitting her on his knee to show her and Ubbe a map he found in Paris, of a land he wanted to explore. Her mother and father both told her that she would grow to be a great warrior. One of her earlier memories was of a great feast where her father had sat her and Ivar on his lap, the two never having felt so tall.

"Wait," said Sigurd, pointing down to another horse arriving in the valley below once they'd returned from the forest, their sack full of rabbits and pheasants. "Bjorn is coming to join us."

Brynhildr was glad they were done, otherwise she'd never have been allowed to take the lead. "Gods, he's thirty-five years old, why does he insist on watching everything we do?"

Though she didn't like adhering to Bjorn's rules– he often thought he could tell her what to do as if he was her father– she admired her brother a great deal. He'd carried her on his shoulders while her father became obsessed with some slave girl she could hardly remember. He'd once killed a bear with his bare hands, he'd gone venturing alone in the snow, swam beneath a frozen lake and survived, then returned to Kattegat a real man.

The brother she liked the least and unfortunately had to tolerate the most was Ivar. He always spoke his mind and didn't care whose feelings were hurt. She remembered them playing together with a group of children once– Ivar rarely joined because he could not walk, and as a result, Brynhildr hardly joined because it was 'not fair' that she played while he didn't– and an argument causing Ivar at the mere age of five to stab an ax into the head of another little boy. He'd even once called their mother 'stupid' because she was distracted from the loss of Harbard and did not beat him in a silly board game. Brynhildr would have gladly left Ivar out to die if she'd been old enough to make a decision about it when he was a baby.

Yet, it was the family the gods had chosen for her. The family she was now stuck with, despite her father's heavy-weighing absence. For eleven years, she'd watched her mother rule Kattegat. She'd watched it thrive in ways it never did when Ragnar was King. Though her mother never spoke badly of her father, Brynhildr was often reminded by Aslaug that they were women. Things would always be different for them. They would always bear a heavier burden and their destinies were even more carefully woven to fit into a world dominated by men. Aslaug insisted she was meant for greatness, yet Brynhildr felt she would never see it.

As Bjorn rode up, they gathered in the grass and gazed up at him expectantly, their kills laid out and ready to be cooked. "Brother," said Ubbe. "Have you come to join us?"

"I've come to tell you something," said Bjorn, setting down his shield as he slid off his horse. "About Wessex."

Hvitserk raised his brows, serving himself and Sigurd a horn of ale from a flask they'd saved the last time they'd come up, while Brynhildr fluffed up a bale of hay for Ivar to sit on. Ubbe hummed, preparing his knives to skin the rabbits. "I trust this will be something we won't like to hear."

Bjorn shook his head, lowering himself onto the stool beside Ubbe's table. "A man has come to tell me two bits of news. One, that our father supposedly sired a son with Queen Kwenthrith of Mercia, a boy named Magnus who is about twelve now. That does not matter at the moment. He also told me something about the farming settlement our father left behind in Wessex. Apparently, it was destroyed almost as soon as Ragnar sailed away. Some of the settlers were allowed to escape to tell Ragnar as a warning, yet, we never heard of this."

Ubbe frowned, the rest of them pondering on it. "You think our father never knew?"

"It's possible," admitted Bjorn, though he did not sound certain as he poked at a fire Brynhildr sparked with flint and steel. "In those early days, it wasn't easy to navigate the sea."

Hvitserk didn't agree, passing more ale around to Ivar and Brynhildr. "He knew. He had to."

"If he did," said Sigurd, toying with the legs of one of the rabbits, "he should have told the people. Everyone lost relatives. Fathers and uncles, sons and daughters. They would have demanded revenge."

"That is why he didn't tell them," reasoned Ivar.

"What do you mean?" questioned Ubbe.

"It was a waste of time. They were dead! Ragnar wanted to sail to Paris. He wanted to be famous. Isn't that more important?"

They were quiet until Bjorn murmured, "You could say that."

"I can say that?" asked Ivar accusingly. "What does that mean?"

"Here's what it means," interrupted Hvitserk, "at least to me. Our father abandoned us. We were just kids and he ran off. Mineri barely remembers him. Only the gods know if he's still alive. And now we hear he kept this big secret from everyone. That he was not truthful or honest."

"Yes," agreed Brynhildr. "He chose fame, as you put it, Ivar, at the cost of now being known for such a secret. Doesn't make him as great a man as everyone claims. His honor is exaggerated."

"It makes me feel sick," said Sigurd. "How could a father not tell the people what had happened?"

"Maybe if he told them," posed Bjorn, "they would have killed him."

Brynhildr threw her hands up. "And he would have simply had to defend himself. It wasn't as though it was his fault the men of Wessex went back on the agreement he made. He became King because he stood up to King Horik. He could have stood up to anyone who tried to hurt him for a thing like that."

Ubbe motioned for her to calm herself. "If it is true that our father lied to his people, and abandoned them, then I hope he never comes back."

"He betrayed our name," affirmed Hvitserk. "If he ever came back, I would kill him."

"Me, too," said Brynhildr. "If this was the case, he was not worthy of being King." Sigurd nodded in agreement.

Bjorn sighed, rubbing his forehead. With a scowl, Ivar tossed his horn of ale at Sigurd, eliciting a laugh from Hvitserk. "Screw you! All of you. He never did anything wrong. He is our father. And that is the end of it. You all sound like a bunch of Christians."

"He may be our father, but we can still accept his faults," said Brynhildr. She would have kicked him this time if Bjorn himself hadn't yanked her to sit down beside him.

"I love our father as much as you do," said Ubbe in an attempt to ease Ivar.

Ivar spread his arms. "Who said I loved him, Ubbe? I said I admired him. He's Viking. And you are soft."

Upset, Ubbe ripped one of the arrows out of a rabbit eye and pointed it at Ivar. "I am not soft. None of us is soft. But we want to understand what our father did, and what he was. As his son, his fame does not interest me. What he used his power for, now that would interest me."

Hvitserk snorted, "By now, there will be a lot of anger in Kattegat. Now they know the truth. Our father betrayed a whole generation of people."

"So if he ever came back–" began Sigurd.

"I don't think he is ever going to come back," said Bjorn. "I think what happened in Paris finally broke him. You can all say whatever you want, but he was a human. People started to talk as if he was a god. He was not a god, he was a man!" Brynhildr nodded in agreement. "A man with many dreams and many failings. I've learned that in the years since he went away. If I was him, I wouldn't come back." He was quiet for a moment. "Despite all his failings, he's still the greatest man in the world to me."

That point was debatable to Brynhildr, but she chose to stay quiet on the matter. Bjorn got to his feet, "I must go speak with Floki and Helga now that the five of you know. Soon, my ships will be ready to explore the Mediterranean."

They bid him farewell without much enthusiasm. The moment his horse had set off, Brynhildr sighed, taking one of the rabbits from Ubbe and beginning to skin it. "Let's finish up here," she murmured. "I want to return to the city, to be there when the people begin to question our mother."

As she relieved the rabbit of its fur, she imagined the knife against her father's skin. Questioning him, why was adventure more important than his family? Why had he shirked his duties to his people while still calling himself King? Why did he need to be a man she wanted to hear more of and at the same time nothing about? Why did she wish he wasn't her father yet feel grateful that despite how little her parents actually loved each other, she was still born?

They rode back to Kattegat in silence, bellies full but minds still swirling with thoughts about Ragnar, hearts empty for a father that hadn't been part of their lives in so long. They noticed a commotion by the edge of the city after they'd gotten their horses food and water. Pushing through the crowd, the three brothers and sister cleared a path for a crawling Ivar between the people who gawked at a man who entered Kattegat, staring ahead as if he were seeing a ghost.

Brynhildr hadn't seen him since she was five, yet she still knew who he was from the moment he entered her line of sight. Ubbe and Hvitserk seemed to instinctively shield the three younger ones, though they formed a line al the same, unable to believe that he'd returned when Bjorn was just saying he would probably never come back.

As Ivar crawled into the line, the four standing with their swords drawn, Ragnar stared down at his crippled son, holding his own sword sheathed and tilting his head curiously. "Hello, Ivar," he said, his voice like a distant dream in Brynhildr's mind. "There's no mistaking you." His eyes flickered to his daughter, and he seemed surprised to find her standing as tall as her brothers, despite her mother sharing this great height. "Nor you, Little Valkyrie."

Ragnar breathed deeply, noticing that his children did not smile (though both Ivar and Brynhildr couldn't hold back a stare of wonder at the sight of a man they scarcely recalled). "It appears my return is not welcome. You've obviously all made your mind up about me. I cannot blame you for that." He began to pace across the line. "So. Well, boys–" He seemed to smile at Brynhildr, "Girl, who is going to do it, then? Who's going to kill me? Well, I don't mind." His eyes appeared crazed. "Go ahead. Please."

He stopped in front of the second eldest. "What about you, Hvitserk? You think you're a man now? Huh?" He whispered, "I dare you. Put me out of my misery. Do it," He tapped his chest with his knuckles, "Do it, do it, do it–" He suddenly shouted, "DO IT!" People behind Hvitserk leapt away, and Hvitserk himself flinched.

"Look at these people!" yelled Ragnar, spreading his arms. "They no longer support me! Look! Why would they? I am your leader, and I just left! What kind of leader does that, huh? What kind of king abandons his people?"

He walked toward his children, "What kind of father abandons his sons and daughter? So, who wants to be king?" He shouted, unsheathing his sword, "Oh, you know how this works! If you want to be king, you must kill me." He offered his sword to a man at the edge of the crowd. "Take it. No? You– what about you? No? No?" Everyone denied him. ANYONE?" He slammed his sword into the dirt, "Who wants to be king?"

Leaving the sword there, he stormed over to his fourth born, "What about you, Sigurd? Do you want to be king?" He showed no reaction, and Ragnar almost seemed to roll his eyes.

He turned to his second son, "Do you want to be king, Ubbe? Kill me and you are king." He put a hand on his shoulder, "King Ubbe!" He punched him across the face, and Ubbe fought hard to show no reaction. "What are you waiting for?" He slapped him, and Ubbe gritted his teeth. "Are you afraid? Be a man."

When he reached out to touch Ivar's head, not even about to ask him, and completely turned away from Brynhildr, she slammed the blunt edge of her sword to Ragnar's abdomen and removed her knife from her belt, tucking it under his throat. "Be a man, you say?" she challenged. "I'd find that a challenge if I thought you a real man. I'll be wetting my blade with traitor's blood but it'll be blood nevertheless. Blood of a man who left us behind, blood of the man who would dare strike my brother after what he did."

Ragnar's lips curled into a smile, and he spread his arms, accepting his end. It was Ubbe who placed a hand on her shoulder, motioning her to stand down. He turned his father to face him, the man reaching out to hold the side of Ubbe's face. Then, they embraced. Brynhildr gritted her teeth, sheathing her knife and sword.

She did not doubt her mother's words, claiming she would one day leave her family behind. Hvitserk and Sigurd had been so sure they would happily kill Ragnar, yet only she had dared to move against him. Only she had proven to be Viking.

She knew, then, that Aslaug was right. Her path would be different, her mark would be made. This was not where her place lay in wait. No, that had yet to be discovered.

Brynhildr wondered if her father would unveil it to her.