It would be easy, Ragnar assumed as he watched her rouse from her slumber which had looked peaceful if the look upon her face was to be believed, to soothe her. To run his tongue over her ear, to groom the silken fur of her cheek and pepper her muzzle with soft kisses to solidify that nothing was wrong. In essence, there really wasn’t anything wrong; he could see this now as the adrenaline faded and his heart rate relaxed at the same time his hackles - which he had not even realized had been bristled dangerously along his spine - smoothed back to lay alongside the other tendrils of platinum silver on his body. Her question reminded him that he had woken her in his fear still, at that point, unsure what was just a dream and what was real. He peeked over her to look down at her side, relieved at what he didn’t see as her muzzle touched against his throat. There were no babes at her breasts, neither alive or dead - no they were still safe inside her womb - and more importantly there was no blood. Thistle smelled as she always did, like the Ridge, like him, and a mixture of her unique scent and the sweet scent of her mother’s milk her body was producing for the babes within her. Wordlessly, aware that he actually had yet to answer his wife he brushed his tongue along her swollen side, hoping that it soothed her and the children that kicked - he felt one of them kick beneath his touch.
While it might have been easy, that did not solve the unsettled feeling that pooled like sharp ice in Ragnar’s stomach, despite that the Viking had made certain that both Thistle and the babes nestled in her womb were alive, well and safe. He contemplated for a moment further as he pulled back after essentially smoothing her silken fur down with his tongue leaving a patch of her fur damp with his saliva where Ragnar had attempted to groom her (it wasn’t like he was a cat or anything, his grooming was likely very messy).
Simply put, he felt threatened but by who or what he did not know. That was the only thing he could get from it.