Bjorn turned the coin over in his palm. The weight of it was slight, almost nothing. He could feel the stamped metal under his thumb as he traced the pattern.
The metal worker from England stood a few paces away. His breathing was heavy in the quiet workshop.
Bjorn looked up at him slowly. "Is someone holding a blade to your throat?"
The Englishman blinked.
"Look around you." Bjorn gestured at the empty space around them. "You see anyone?"
"No, Lord."
"Then calm down, man. It's been a year already."
Sweat ran down the Englishman's temple. Not from the forge heat though. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and straightened himself, trying to find some dignity. "Yes, Lord." The words came out thin.
Bjorn turned his attention back to the coin.
The upper side had his raven and sword stamped into the silver. Simple lines, but clear. He could feel the mint master's eyes on him, waiting for some reaction. Bjorn kept his face empty, though he had to admit the design was good. The man knew his craft, whatever else you could say about him.
He turned the coin over with deliberate slowness.
His own face looked back at him. Not his actual face—something more like the idea of a face. The nose was there, sharp enough. The eyes, set deep. Long hair falling past the shoulders. The whole thing was crude, made by hand with a punch and hammer. A bit cartoonish if he was being honest. But it was him. No mistaking it. And he looked better than King Offa did on those English pennies. Much better.
Bjorn allowed himself a small smile. He looked up at the mint master. "I may have judged you too quickly. You've got skill."
"Thank you, Lord King." The mint master wiped his forehead again, and this time he tried to smile back. It came out nervous and lopsided, but there was real pleasure underneath it. Bjorn could see that much.
Good. Skilled men should take pride in their work. He always had.
The Englishman stood a bit straighter now. "I added the runes you asked for—"
"Words."
The mint master stopped. "My Lord?"
"Words. Not runes."
"Yes. I apologize." He coughed into his fist. "I added 'Drott,' as you requested. Below your face, here." He reached out, then thought better of it and just pointed instead.
Bjorn nodded. He'd already seen it. The letters were clear enough: DROTT. Ruler. He'd named the whole coin after it—Drottir. The ruler's coin.
He set the first coin down on the workbench. "The other two?"
"Here, Lord." The Englishman hurried to bring forward two more pieces from the table behind him.
Bjorn picked up the second coin. It sat heavier in his hand. Larger too, almost twice the size of the first.
One side showed his face again, with DROTT underneath. He flipped it. The other side had the raven, but this time with two swords instead of one, crossing behind the bird. The meaning was clear enough. Two drottir. Tvídrottir.
A dull metallic crunch came from beside him.
Bjorn turned his head slowly. His father stood there, one of the coins between his teeth. Ragnar bit down, testing it.
"It marked," Ragnar said. His face was blank.
Everyone was staring at him now.
Then Ragnar grinned, that mischievous look he got when he knew he'd done something ridiculous. He pulled the coin from his mouth and examined the dent.
"Eleven parts silver to twelve," Bjorn said. "The last part is copper. Makes it harder, so it won't bend with light pressure. It'll mark from teeth, but barely."
Ragnar nodded slowly, turning this over in his mind. He tossed the coin up and caught it. Tossed it again. "Interesting." He weighed it in his palm. "What's it worth? They're light."
"One drottir weighs about a twentieth of an ounce." Bjorn picked up the smaller coin again. "The tvídrottir is double—a tenth of an ounce. Two hundred forty drottir make a pound of silver."
Ragnar waited, watching him.
" Will be used mostly for small purchases," Bjorn continued. "Like paying for ale at the hall and bread at the market. That sort of thing."
"And for larger things?" Ragnar's eyes had already moved to the rectangular bar Bjorn was holding in his other hand. Silver-gray, dull in the lamplight, the ends tapered like the keel of a small boat. "Ah."
"Drottirmǫrk." Bjorn set it down and reached for the folding scale. The vág. He unfolded it carefully and set it on the workbench. "Half a pound, or seven ounces."
Ragnar picked up the bar, feeling its weight. He placed it on one side of the scale and watched it drop. Then he picked up weights with a sum of seven-ounce from the box and set it on the other side.
The scales balanced. Not a hair's difference.
Ragnar leaned in closer to study the bar. Bjorn's name was stamped in the center. On one end, the sword and raven. On the other end, a single letter: ᛘ. The letter M, from the alphabet Bjorn had shown Athelstan in 793 A.D.
"These nicks here." Ragnar pointed at small marks on the surface of the bar. "Testing for silver content?"
Bjorn smiled. His father was quick. Always had been. "Yes."
Ragnar was quiet for a moment, still studying the bar. "You know people will shave the edges with knives. Take silver off bit by bit. Won't that make the coin worth less than it should be?"
"The drottirmǫrk is too thick to shave much off. And the writing along the edge—you'd see immediately if someone damaged it." Bjorn picked up one of the smaller coins. "For these, the mint master and I have talked about it. They have the same problem in England."
Eadric stepped forward slightly. "Yes, Lord. The King was always troubled by it. Though we did not call it 'Clipping'. as your Lordship suggested. We tried making new designs each year, so the old coins would be melted down and remade faster. But since coming here, I've learned some better methods."
He paused, waiting to see if Bjorn wanted him to continue.
Bjorn gestured for him to go on.
"We can hammer tiny notches around the rim while the blank is still hot," Eadric said. "Takes almost no time. If someone tries to cut the edge, the notches break and it's obvious. The other method is making the die with a thick outer ring. If you try to cut the edges, you end up destroying the symbole or the runes."
"Words," Bjorn said quietly.
Eadric froze. "My Lord?"
"You said runes earlier. Words. They're words."
"Yes. I'm sorry, my Lord." Eadric's hand went to his forehead, wiping away fresh sweat. "Old habits die hard." He laughed, but it came out nervous and high.
Ragnar spoke up, pulling attention away from the mint master. "Those methods should work well enough."
Bjorn nodded. He turned to Eadric. "Start the minting. Can you finish four hundred pounds of silver in a year?"
Eadric thought about it. His lips moved slightly, doing calculations. "Yes, Lord. With the men here, yes. I've already taught them the methods. The only problem is copper." He hesitated. "Athelstan told me copper only comes from trade here. We'll need more of it for the alloy."
"I'll handle the copper." Bjorn waved his hand. "For now, use what's in the English coins. Melt those down."
"Yes, Lord. I'll do that."
Bjorn turned to leave. His hand was already on the door when he stopped. He stood there for a moment, then turned back around.
"It won't be safe for your family in England," he said. "Not for a while. Actually not for a long time. Tell me where they are. Next time I sail there, I'll bring them back here. This place—" he gestured around them, "—is probably the safest in the world right now."
Eadric looked down at his hands. "I appreciate the offer, my lord. Truly. But I have no family. That's why they chose me as part of the deal you made with the King."
Bjorn watched him for a long moment. He studied the man's face, looking for any sign of a lie, any hesitation or shift in the eyes. There was nothing. Just a quiet kind of sadness that had been there so long it barely showed anymore.
Finally, Bjorn nodded. He turned and walked out, Ragnar following behind him.
"Good luck." Bjorn words hung in the air as the door closed softly behind them, and Eadric was alone again with the coins.
-x-X-x-
Bjorn went home later that day. The evening settled in as it always did, with the usual routines.
The next morning, he walked down to the valley where the camp had been built. The boys were there already, some hauling timber, others mixing mud for the walls. They did the work that didn't need a craftsman's hand—the heavy lifting, the simple tasks. But they needed to learn building anyway. Everyone did.
He'd teach them siege weapons eventually. Ballistae, rams, towers. But not yet. For now, tactics and discipline were enough.
The training started at midday, when the sun was highest.
Bjorn stood watching them form their lines. Shield wall practice first, then the basic spear work. Some of them were getting better. Others still stumbled over their own feet.
About an hour in, he noticed three of them hanging back. Boys around fourteen, maybe fifteen. They were whispering to each other, glancing at him, then away.
One of them finally stepped forward. "Lord, we—" He swallowed. "We're leaving."
Bjorn looked at him, surprised. "Why?"
"It's too much. The training. We can't—"
"You can leave." Bjorn turned back to the others. "If you want to stay in the streets and scrape for food, you're welcome to do so."
The three boys stood there for a moment, uncertain. Then they walked away, looking back once or twice before disappearing beyond the hill.
Bjorn didn't watch them go. He called out the next drill.
By evening, he'd already sent word for replacements. There were always orphans in his kingdoms. More than he'd like. Some got taken in by landholding families who needed craftsmen or loyal hands. The rest waited.
Three new boys arrived the next morning. Younger than the ones who'd left. Hungrier too, by the look of them.
Bjorn put them through the basics with the help of his old huskarls—men who could no longer fight in the shield wall but could still teach. They knew the forms, the movements.
The days fell into rhythm after that.
Meanwhile, down in the workshop, Eadric and his men worked. The sound of hammers on metal rang out from dawn until dark. They were minting between five hundred and eight hundred coins each day.
Bjorn checked in every few days. He'd watch them work for a while, then leave without saying much.
After a week, he counted what they'd made. Somewhere between thirty-five hundred and fifty-six hundred coins. He had them separated by type—drottir, tvídrottir, and the larger drottirmǫrk bars. Everything sorted and ready. And most of the output is drottirmǫrk.
That evening, he sat alone in his hall and prepared what he would say. He'd been thinking about it for days, but now he needed the exact words. How to explain the coins. Why they mattered. What would change.
He wrote nothing down. He never did. But he spoke the words aloud to himself, testing how they sounded, where he needed to pause, what needed emphasis.
When he was satisfied, he sent out the call.
The assembly would be held at the Thing in the center of Kattegat. The old meeting place, where the laws were carved into a long stone that had stood there since last year. People came there to settle disputes, to make judgments, to witness oaths.
But this time it wouldn't be just a Thing.
This would be the Great Allthing. An assembly of three kingdoms—Vingulmark, Vestfold, and Alfheim. All of them together in one place.
The messengers rode out that night, carrying word to every corner of the territories. Jarls, Karl landholders, merchants, craftsmen. Everyone who held any standing was expected to come.
Bjorn stood at the window of his hall and watched the last messenger disappear into the darkness. The coins sat in locked chests behind him, waiting.
In a few days, everything would begin.
-x-X-x-
The sun hung high in the late June sky, bright and warm. The air was thick with heat, but a breeze came off the sea, carrying the smell of salt and grass across Kattegat.
Word had gone out before. Every jarl, every chieftain, every delegate from the settlements—all of them were to come to the Thing. And they had come. More than that, they'd brought people with them.
Kattegat was packed. Merchants had set up stalls along every path. Travelers filled the 'Drinking Hall'. Craftsmen hawked their goods from carts and blankets spread on the ground. Young men wandered through the crowds, looking for work, for opportunity, for something better than what they'd left behind.
Bjorn had called in his huskarls to keep order. Too many people in one place meant fights, meant thieves working the crowds, meant disputes that could turn bloody if no one stepped in. The huskarls walked in pairs, watching, breaking up arguments before they became brawls.
It made Bjorn think. He'd need patrols for the town. Permanent ones. He'd been putting it off, but not anymore it seems. He made a mental note to see to it after this assembly was done.
The people wore what their station allowed. The wealthy jarls and landholders dressed in dyed tunics—deep blues and rich reds—with silver arm rings stacked on their wrists. The poorer farmers wore coarse grey wool, undyed and practical. Foreign traders stood out in colored cloaks fastened with bronze brooches.
The crowd moved constantly, shifting and reforming. Men greeted kinsmen they hadn't seen since the previous summer. Haggling voices rose over the general noise—iron prices, timber quality, the cost of good rope. Some men boasted about voyages they'd taken, raids they'd survived. Others whispered news about kings in distant lands, about warbands gathering, about opportunities for ambitious men.
It was never quiet at an assembly like this. Part market, part court, part festival. Every kind of Norse life crossed paths here.
Normally, the lawspeaker would call the 'Thing' to order. That was tradition. He knew every law by memory and would recite them before the assembly began its work.
But Kattegat was different.
Bjorn appeared at the edge of the gathering, and the crowd began to part. His hair caught the sunlight first—smooth silver, tied loosely at the back of his neck with a thin strip of leather. It moved when he moved, shifting with the breeze as he walked forward. His huskarls and Hrafn followed behind him, hands on their weapons, eyes scanning the crowd.
The older men looked up at him with respect. The younger ones stared with something closer to awe.
He wore a blue linen cloak, light enough for the summer heat. It was fastened at one shoulder with a brooch shaped like a raven, the metal dark against the fabric. Beneath the cloak, a dark tunic trimmed with silver thread, cut clean and fitted well. His belt had engraved plates that caught the light.
His sword hung at his hip, the scabbard worn smooth from use.
His boots were black, dusty from the summer earth.
Men and women stood in a great ring around the center. Each clan, each district, gathered behind its leader. But now they were all watching Bjorn. Silent.
Girls whispered to each other, trying not to stare too obviously. They couldn't help it. Not just because he was handsome—though the silver hair and calm eyes and fine clothes did stand out—but because he wasn't like the boys they knew.
Most boys at sixteen still stumbled over their words. They hauled wood and dreamed about their first raid. They were still becoming something.
Bjorn already was something. A young man who belonged to stories, to legends people tell and would continue to do so later. Something unreal.
Boys felt it too. Ask any of them who they wanted to be like, and Silver-Hair would be the first name on their tongues.
Some of the older men and women watched him differently. They remembered their sons, their husbands. Some still alive, some buried years ago. But they felt pride too, as if his strength somehow reflected back on all of them, on their people.
Other women observing cared less about romantic awe and more about evaluation of strength, protection, and social advantage for their family.
Other men—clan leaders, chieftains with land and warriors—felt something else. A sting of envy. For his wealth. For the way people looked at him. For how fast he'd risen.
And in the minds of the clever ones, the calculations were already beginning. What's new this time? and how should they position themselves to gain more than their rivals?
Bjorn reached the center of the ring. A raised platform had been built there, with a seat prepared for him. He climbed up slowly, letting everyone watch him. But he didn't sit. He stood at the edge of the platform and looked out at the crowd below him.
They all looked seriously tense. Waiting.
Bjorn laughed. Short and sudden, showing his white teeth.
People looked confused. They glanced at each other, uncertain.
His banners snapped in the breeze behind him. Far off, two crows sat on a rooftop, watching. Like Odin's ravens, come to bring news back to the gods.
"Why are you all so serious?" Bjorn called out. "I've seen harsher weather than this gathering, and it wasn't nearly as grim."
He laughed again, longer this time.
The tension broke. Amusement rippled through the crowd.
Some people laughed with him. Whether they found it genuinely funny or just wanted to show they did, it was hard to say.
Bjorn raised his hand, and the laughter died away. Silence settled again, but it felt different now. Lighter.
He kept his hand raised while he spoke. "Friends. Allies. Travelers from far and near." He paused, letting his voice carry. "We're gathered here to speak and to decide. To settle matters that shape our lands. And before we begin with disputes and deals, there's something I want to share with you."
Curiosity moved through the crowd. Eyebrows raised. People leaned toward each other, murmuring questions. Did anyone know what their Silver-Haired King was talking about?
None of them did.
Bjorn signaled to his men. Two huskarls came forward carrying a chest between them, discipline clear from the way they walked as one. They handled it carefully, as if it held treasure. They set it down at Bjorn's feet and stepped back.
Bjorn opened the chest and reached inside. He pulled out one of the larger one—tvídrottir—and held it up high so everyone could see it. The metal caught the sunlight.
The crowd craned their necks, squinting to see the design, the shine of it.
Bjorn didn't make them wait long. "This in my hand is a coin," he said clearly. "Like the ones we brought back from the west. Many of you saw those when we returned. You've wondered what they're used for."
He paused, letting the question hang in the warm air.
"Let me tell you."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Many of you trade goods for other goods. It works, but it makes things harder than they need to be."
"Aye!" someone shouted from the crowd.
Bjorn nodded at them. "And many of you—drinking lovers that you are—you visit the Hall of Drinking. But it's always a hassle to pay with whatever goods you happen to have on hand."
"Aye!" More voices this time, louder.
"That's a problem," Bjorn said. "So I'm presenting to you three types of coin. They'll make trade easier. They'll make payments reliable. And they're safer too."
He reached back into the chest and pulled out the other coins one by one. The small drottir first, then the tvídrottir again, then the drottirmǫrk bar.
He held them up, turning them so the sun caught the metal from different angles.
"This is a drottir," he said, showing the smallest coin. "It weighs one-twentieth of an ounce. My face is on one side. My raven and sword on the other. And here—" he pointed to the letters, "—the name. Drott."
He showed the second coin. "This is a tvídrottir. Twice the weight. Two swords instead of one. Twice the value."
Then he held up the bar. "And this is a drottirmǫrk. Half a pound. Seven ounces. For larger trades."
Someone near the front called out, "What are those runes on it?"
Bjorn felt a flash of irritation but kept his face calm. 'Fucking runes, again.' Bjorn thought.
"My name and my symbol. And this letter here—" he indicated the rune-like character, "—marks it as official. Each drottir weighs the same. Each one carries the silver it promises. You can test them yourselves with a folding scale. Weight and purity, guaranteed."
That got their attention. They understood weight. They understood silver. Those were things you could trust.
An older merchant near the middle spoke up. "People can shave silver off the edges. What about that?"
"Good question." Bjorn nodded at him. "Every market stall will have a scale. If a coin is underweight, it gets confiscated. The person using it pays a fine. If clippers are caught—if anyone is caught shaving silver off these coins—the law is slavery. For life."
Murmurs ran through the crowd. Some approving. Some uncertain.
Bjorn continued. "And there's more. The coins are made to show if they've been clipped. Notches around the rim. Thick outer rings on the die. You cut the edges, you destroy the design. It's obvious."
He held up the drottir again, tilting it so people could see the rim.
"Can people make their own?" someone called out.
"They can try," Bjorn said. "The mint is guarded. And any coin that doesn't match the official weight and design is worthless. Worse than worthless—it's evidence of a crime."
He set the coins back into the chest slowly, letting the silence stretch.
"These will be in use starting next week," he said. "The mint is already working. Merchants, farmers, craftsmen—anyone who trades—will use these. Anyone who wants them can exchange silver for coins at my Hall for now. Fair weight for fair weight."
He looked across the crowd, meeting eyes here and there.
"Questions?"
'I'll be waiting to hear what you all think'