"Who should a king serve but his gods, huh?" Ivar shrugs. To him it seems simple: ideas like stately obligation enter far less into the whole mess. "Jarls might serve some king. But they might not." Viking society tends to be a touch... disorganized. Commonly their nobles were simply free men who clawed their way to the top through cunning or sheer strength, with gold won in terrible raids far more often than gold passed down from fathers to sons, who might be violently unseated at any time same as they'd done to the jarl or king before them. As Ivar's father had done twice, conveniently. As had been done to his mother when his father was gone. As he would do to his mother's murderer, gleefully, and soon.

But Kelson, he thinks, rules by more... Christian means. Call it a hunch.

"So what will you do if they do make you serve? These dishonorable captors." The way he speaks the last word sounds just as amused as the way he'd spoken the words your majesty earlier. Like he's entertained by Kelson's stubborn refusal to acknowledge any gods but his own still, even after a month here in their bizarre, otherworldly realm. "Rebel?"