The mud struck Golden Beard's shoulder, then another clod hit his back.
Bjorn saw the king didn't flinch. He remained on his knees in the center of the Thing-ground, his golden beard dragging in the dirt, hands bound behind him with rope that had already left marks on his wrists.
Bjorn stood three paces away, watching and waiting.
Behind them, the assembly had transformed. What began as a structured gathering now seethed like a disturbed anthill. The muttering had started low—a rumble of shock when Golden Beard's assassin had aimed at Bjorn with his knife.
But shock had curdled into something uglier when Bjorn had simply moved faster than anyone could react, catching the assassin's wrist mid-strike and snapping it.
The assassin had screamed. Golden Beard had not.
Now the crowd's anger found its voice. "Niding!" someone shouted—the worst insult, reserved for men without honor. "You broke the sacred peace!" another voice joined. A woman's shriek cut through: "The gods will curse your line!"
More mud flew. A stone skittered across the packed earth, stopping near Golden Beard's knee. The old king's jaw worked, but he said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on the ground.
Bjorn let the crowd's rage build and crest.
Finally, Golden Beard lifted his head.
"You should have died," he said. His voice was hoarse but steady, pitched low enough that only Bjorn could hear. "Clean and quick. Honorable, even, despite the method. But now?" He glanced at the jeering crowd, at the mud sliding down his cloak. "This is worse. For both of us."
"Is it?" Bjorn asked.
"I join the gods now. The living are no longer my concern." Golden Beard's mouth twisted—not quite a smile, but close. "These fools didn't listen. They celebrated you. Bjorn the Victorious. But they didn't see what I saw." He paused, and something almost like respect flickered in his weathered face. "They will. When you've taken the power from their hands so gradually they won't even remember having it."
Bjorn felt something in his chest. The uncomfortable intimacy of being understood by the man he was about to kill. So he allowed himself a small smile.
Golden Beard noticed. His eyebrows drew together. "You find this amusing?"
"Fitting would be the word," Bjorn said, and now he moved forward, his hand reaching for the sword at his hip. 'Soft Death,' though there was nothing soft about the blade itself.
The crowd's noise dimmed as he drew the weapon, showcasing flecks of silver-blue patterns.
Bjorn tested the weight in his hand, adjusted his grip and lifted the blade to check the edge—though he knew it was perfect. Six years now and the blade never dulled.
"Wait."
Golden Beard's voice cracked slightly on the word. Not from fear though, but from urgency. As if the old king had just remembered something vital.
Bjorn lowered the sword an inch and waited.
Golden Beard drew a breath that seemed to pull from somewhere deep in his chest. "Tell me something, Silver Hair. What is it you truly want?" Golden Beard asked in a whisper. His eyes were truly curious. "Where does this end? All the Norse lands? The Svear territories? The Geats?" He leaned forward slightly despite his bound hands. "The Danes even?"
The question hung in the air.
Bjorn chuckled.
Golden Beard's face darkened. "What's so funny?"
"You are." Bjorn shifted his weight, settling into the stance he'd use for the execution. Left foot forward, right foot back. The blade angled at forty-five degrees. "You said it yourself; the living are no longer your concern. So why burden you with tomorrow when you won't see tonight?"
For a moment, something like frustration flickered across Golden Beard's weathered face. Then it transformed into resentment.
"If the gods had chosen me—" he started, then stopped. Shook his head. Started again, louder now, projecting his voice so the entire assembly could hear. "If the All-Father had seen fit to bestow those gifts upon me, Silver Hair—if I had been granted that knowledge, that effortless grace, and every other advantage you wear so carelessly—I would have achieved exactly what you did! No, I would have done it better! You hear me? Better! So don't live your life thinking you are special!"
His voice cracked on the last words, raw with rage and grief and resentment.
The crowd had gone silent now. Even the mud-throwers had stilled, caught by the strange intimacy of this exchange. By the way Golden Beard seemed to be confessing something that went beyond his failed assassination.
Bjorn didn't pause after the old King's outburst. "If you had the sun in your hands, you would have just burned."
Bjorn then raised the sword.
The crowd held its breath.
"In the name of the All-Father," Bjorn said, and his voice carried across the Thing-ground, "I, Bjorn, sentence you, Harald Golden Beard, to death."
The blade descended in a clean arc with no hesitation or flourish.
The steel made a sound like wind through winter trees. Then a wet, heavy thump as Harald's head separated from his shoulders and tumbled across the packed earth, trailing blood like a comet's tail.
The body remained upright for two heartbeats before collapsing sideways.
Blood spread in the dirt, darker than the mud.
Bjorn stepped back, keeping his boots clear of the pooling blood. He didn't look at the head where it had rolled to a stop near the feet of a horrified karl. Instead, he turned slightly, acknowledging the next prisoner being brought forward by his huskarls.
Jarl Alti. Brother by marriage to the dead king.
Alti's face held a peaceful smile. He stumbled as the guards shoved him to his knees beside his king's corpse.
But Bjorn didn't execute him himself.
A king's execution required a king's hand. Anything less was an honor the condemned didn't deserve.
Alti started to say something but the executioner's blade fell before the words could form. Cleaner than Harald's death, faster. The jarl's head toppled and his body folded like a marionette with cut strings.
Then the assassin was executed as well.
The crowd erupted.
Not in horror now, but in something close to celebration. "Bjorn! King Bjorn!" The shouts came from a dozen throats, then a score, then more. "Justice! The gods see justice!" Someone started pounding a staff against the ground in rhythm with the chant. Others joined.
Bjorn listened to his name echo across the Thing-ground. And watched the crowd's fear becoming relief becoming gratitude.
They had been frightened by the assassination attempt and by how close they'd come to chaos, to the blood-feuds and violence that would follow if Bjorn had fallen. Now they were grateful that he'd lived, restored order and killed the men who threatened that order.
He slid 'Soft Death' back into its scabbard with the same whisper-soft sound it made coming out. A signal that the violence was finished.
"The Thing has ended," he announced.
The chanting continued for a moment, then began to dissipate as people remembered they had homes to return to, animals to feed, lives to resume. The assembly began to break apart, small groups forming and reforming as people discussed what they'd witnessed.
Bjorn turned toward his men and as they began walking toward the great hall, Bjorn let his eyes drift across the thinning crowd.
'It's funny,' he thought, watching an old woman who'd been cheering his name now whisper urgently to her grandson, 'how quickly love turns to fear. How you can be their savior today and their tyrant tomorrow. How little separates the two in their minds.'
'If the gods had chosen me,' Golden Beard had said, 'I would have done better.'
'Better... my ass.'
Bjorn glanced back once—a brief look at the Thing-ground where servants were already cleaning up the blood, where Golden Beard's corpse was being loaded onto a cart with slightly more dignity than his status as niding deserved.
"The girl," Bjorn said as he turned. "How is she?"
Rollo glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. "She's where you asked her to be. In the hall." Rollo's tone made it clear he thought this was a waste of time. "But what does it matter if she's scared or not? She tried to kill you."
Thorstein made a sound of agreement from Bjorn's left.
"I'm sorry, Bjorn, but Rollo has the right of it." Thorstein's voice was careful. "The girl distracted you. The assassin moved the moment your attention shifted to her." He paused, then added with quiet emphasis, "If the gods hadn't blessed you, you'd be the one being loaded onto a cart right now."
Bjorn didn't respond immediately. He could still see it in his mind.
True. Any other man would have died.
"Is Ragnar with her?" Bjorn asked.
Rollo's frown deepened at the apparent non-sequitur, but he answered. "Yes. He recognized her—said he met her when he traveled north with Lagertha to Trondelag. Some jarl's daughter. Gunnhild is her name."
They were approaching the hall now. Bjorn could see the familiar bulk of it rising against the darkening sky, smoke curling from the roof-holes where the hearth-fires burned. The carved doors were closed, but a cluster of figures stood near the entrance—his guards, and several others who clearly weren't guards at all.
"There's more," Rollo added, a note of irritation creeping into his voice. "Other girls—friends of hers, I suppose— and their huskarls have been standing outside the hall for the past hour, waiting to meet you."
As they drew closer, Bjorn could see what he meant. Four young women—none older than twenty by his estimation—stood in a loose semicircle before the hall's entrance. With at least twenty warriors standing close to them.
His guards flanked them at a respectful but ready distance: close enough to intervene if needed, far enough to avoid provocation. The women weren't cowering either. Their postures were straight, their hands visible and empty, their expressions carefully composed.
One of the guards caught sight of Bjorn and straightened immediately. "King Bjorn." The others followed suit.
The girls noticed the shift in the guards' attention. As one, they turned to face him.
For a moment, no one spoke. Bjorn used the silence to study them—reading the way they held themselves, the micro-expressions that flickered across their faces.
Fear, yes.
Determination, yes.
And underneath it, the particular wariness of people who knew they were gambling with powers beyond their control.
Smart, then.
"King Bjorn," the same guard continued, "these women and their huskarls have been requesting an audience. They claim the girl inside—" he hesitated, clearly unsure of the proper terminology for someone who might be a prisoner or might be a guest "—had nothing to do with the attempt on your life. They've been quite insistent that she's innocent."
One of the huskarls tried to stepped forward first, but one of the young women beat him to it, enough to separate herself from her companions, to mark herself as their speaker.
"King Bjorn," she said, and her voice was respectful but not servile. "Your command is swift, as a king's should be. But taking her to your hall will yield no secrets, for she holds none. Surely you see that her presence there was merely a cruel whim of the gods."
Bjorn met her eyes, watching to see if she'd flinch or look away.
She didn't.
"Then the gods have delivered her to me. I intend to see the punchline." Bjorn said, no emotion betraying his thoughts.
The answer seemed to catch her off-balance. Her eyes narrowed slightly, reassessing. Behind her, one of her companions shifted her weight, a small movement that might have been confusion.
He moved forward, not waiting for a response. Rollo and Thorstein fell into step beside him. The girls parted to let them pass, their careful composure cracking just slightly—a quick exchange of glances, a whispered word cut short.
The guards pulled open the hall doors. The smell of smoke washed over them.
As Bjorn stepped across the threshold, he heard one of the girls behind him—not the speaker, but another—say something in an urgent whisper. He couldn't make out the words.
The doors swung shut behind him, cutting off whatever response came next.
Ragnar was seated near the central hearth, his posture casual—one elbow resting on his knee, his cup of mead dangling from his fingers.
Across from him, Gunnhild sat on a low stool, her back straight despite the rope binding her wrists.
The firelight painted shadows across her face, making her expression hard to read.
Around them, warriors occupied the long tables, their conversations subdued. Not quite silent, but a quiet that meant everyone was paying attention while pretending not to.
Gunnhild saw Bjorn first. Her eyes tracked him across the hall, and she rose from her stool in one smooth motion. The rope made her movements awkward, her bound hands instinctively moving to steady herself before remembering they couldn't.
Throughout the hall, men began standing. Not all at once, but in waves—those closest to Bjorn first, then the others following suit. The scrape of benches against packed earth, the rustle of leather and wool, the soft metallic clink of weapons settling.
Bjorn caught Ragnar's eye and gave him a small nod.
Ragnar shrugged—a gesture that managed to convey both amusement and confusion—then stood and moved toward the door. As he passed Bjorn, he murmured, "She's got fire, that one. We had to bind her hands, so that she don't cause trouble. Reminds me of—"
"I know," Bjorn interrupted softly.
Ragnar's mouth quirked into something almost like a smile, then he was gone.
Bjorn turned to address the room. "Leave us."
Conversations died mid-sentence. Rollo caught his eye from across the hall, a question written plainly on his scarred face.
Bjorn said nothing more. Simply waited.
Slowly, the hall emptied. Warriors drained their cups and set them down with care. Thralls gathered platters and withdrew to the kitchen. His huskarls exchanged glances but obeyed.
Rollo was the last to leave, pausing at the threshold as if he might say something. Then he shook his head and pulled the door shut behind him.
The sound of it closing seemed to echo in the sudden emptiness.
Bjorn walked toward the high seat, the sound filling the space where dozens of voices had been moments before. The fire crackled.
Somewhere in the rafters, a beam settled with a faint creak.
He lowered himself into the carved chair, the wood cool even through his leather and wool. Settled back, then let the silence stretch.
Gunnhild remained standing. Her shoulders were rigid, her chin lifted at an angle that suggested defiance more than fear. But her hands, still bound at the wrists, twisted slightly against the rope.
She was trying to read him, or trying to understand what came next.
Bjorn let her wonder.
Finally, she broke.
"I didn't plan with Golden Beard to kill you." Her voice was calmer than he'd expected. "I was only trying to see if I could lift the sword."
Bjorn shifted his gaze from the middle distance to focus directly on her. "You're not married, am i right? Otherwise you would be here with your husband."
Her eyebrows rose—a flicker of genuine confusion appeared on her face. "I'm not, but I fail to see how that's—" She stopped herself, visibly gathering her thoughts. When she spoke again, her voice had cooled. "I don't think I'll get a fair judgment here. So i want to be judged by trial. A holmgang. Under the watchful eyes of the gods."
As she spoke, her arms came up to wrap around herself—a defensive gesture that made her look younger than she probably was. Vulnerable, despite the steel in her voice.
He couldn't stop himself form laughing. It rolled out of him before he could stop it, echoing off the hall's rafters.
Gunnhild's face flushed. "Do you think because I'm a girl I can't beat men?"
Bjorn's laughter faded to a smile. "I don't know you. Can you?"
"I—" She stopped, thrown by the direct question.
"That's not why I laughed," Bjorn continued. "Tell me, what's my reputation out there? Do people say I'm unfair? Unjust perhaps?"
She stared at him for a long moment, clearly trying to understand the shift in conversation. "I don't think i would know the thoughts of your people better than you, their King."
"Not my people. Your people. The jarls in Trondelag and the Kings beyond. What do they say about Bjorn Silver Hair?"
She was weighing her answer, calculating what truth she could afford to tell.
Bjorn waited. He was good at waiting. Sometimes not.
"I can beat them," she said finally—answering his earlier question first, as if establishing her credentials. "I've trained my entire life to prove exactly that." Then, after a pause: "And I don't think I need to tell you that you're famous. Little boys are awed by you. They say you fly on your sword into battle, that's why you've never lost."
Her mouth quirked slightly, a ghost of bitter humor. "The common folk love anyone who gives them food and protection from raiders. They're simple that way." She paused, then added with deliberate emphasis, "The rest—the jarls, the landholders—they think you're just a farmer with the gods' blessing."
He could see her studying him as she spoke, her eyes sharp. Waiting to see if she'd gone too far or if the insult—veiled as observation—would provoke him.
Bjorn smiled slightly. "But am I just? Am I fair?"
The question seemed to disarm her more than any response to the 'farmer' comment could have.
"Yes." The word came out cautiously. Then, with a thread of something that might have been sarcasm threading through her tone, "You're just and wise and fair. A paragon, really."
Bjorn's eyebrows rose. He felt his smile widen slightly.
Gunnhild lifted her bound hands, the rope catching the firelight. "If you believe I'm innocent—and by this conversation, I think you do—then I'm still a free woman. Which means these—" she shook her wrists, making the rope sway "—shouldn't be necessary. May I have them removed?"
For a moment, Bjorn said nothing. Then: "Fair enough."
He stood, the movement unhurried. Reached down to his belt and withdrew his seax.
Gunnhild body tensed incrementally with each step he took. By the time he stopped in front of her—close enough that he could smell leather and wool, and underneath that something sweeter. Cinnamon, maybe. Or clove.
He reached for her bound hands.
She didn't pull away, but he felt her stiffen.
Instead of cutting the rope himself, Bjorn pressed the seax's handle into her palm. Wrapped her fingers around it. Then simply stood there, his hand still loosely holding hers, his eyes meeting hers.
Blue eyes against silvery blue eyes.
Now that Bjorn thought of it, she was really tall.
Gunnhild looked down at the knife. At their joined hands. Then back up at his face, a question in her expression.
"Go ahead," Bjorn said quietly.
She held his gaze for one more heartbeat as if searching for something. A trap, maybe. A test.
Then she adjusted her grip on the knife with ease that confirmed her earlier claim about training. Angled the blade carefully. Sliced through the rope binding her wrists with two precise cuts.
The severed cord fell to the ground, coiling like a dead snake.
Bjorn didn't move or step back. Just stood there, close enough that she could think she could hurt him if she wanted to.
He watched her realize this as she tested the weight of the blade in her palm.
"It's sharper than any knife I've seen," she said softly. She turned it over, examining the edge with what looked like genuine appreciation. Then, deliberately, she reversed her grip—holding the blade between thumb and forefinger, offering him the handle. The safe end.
The gesture was unmistakable. I'm not a threat. See?
"Keep it," Bjorn said. "A gift."
Her hand froze halfway through extending the knife toward him. "A gift to my father, The Jarl, you mean."
"No." He let the word hang there for a moment. "For you. For the trouble you've had today."
She stared at him. Her fingers tightened around the blade—not threatening, but as if she didn't quite believe what she was hearing. "I couldn't possibly—"
"I insist."
The words were gentle but final.
Gunnhild looked down at the knife again. Her throat worked as she swallowed. When she looked back up, her expression had shifted into something softer—surprise giving way to cautious gratitude.
"Thank you," she said. Her voice was quieter now, less guarded. "It's a beautiful gift."
She wore a red dress, without a belt or weapon-sheath, So he handed her his decorated leather scabbard.
Bjorn turned away, walking back toward the high seat. "You're free to leave."
Behind him, he heard the soft intake of breath that meant she was about to speak, then the pause as she reconsidered.
"Well," she said finally, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "Then I should take my leave."
He listened to the sound of her footsteps crossing the hall without turning around. They paused near the door.
"Please send my respect and greetings to the Shieldmaiden Lagertha," Gunnhild said. Her voice carried across the empty space between them. "And what I said before about you being a fair ruler. That part was true."
The door opened and voices and laughter spilled in from outside. Bjorn closed his eyes, letting his head rest against the high seat's carved back.
"So? What do you think?" Ragnar appeared like a ghost. A ghost with a smirk and something he was eating.
"What do I think?" Bjorn asked, watching the dying embers now.
"About the girl." Ragnar dropped onto the chair beside him, wood groaning. "Gunnhild. Blonde hair, blue eyes, tall girl."
Bjorn turned to look at him. "I don't know."
Ragnar froze mid-chew. His eyebrows climbed toward his hairline in exaggerated surprise. "Well. That's a first. Bjorn Silver Hair admitting he doesn't have all the answers. Should I alert the skalds? Commission a saga?"
Bjorn was quiet for a moment, organizing thoughts that had been circling since Gunnhild left. "If I marry her, I need to be certain of where her loyalty lies. Not to her father's or her family's lands. I don't want to be betrayed by my own wife when I strip her father and their allies of the right to maintain huskarls. in the future."
"Oh, that." Ragnar said, serious now. "It's still far away in the future, no?"
"Yes. But still..."
Ragnar studied him for a long moment, then asked something that seemed unrelated: "Did she fight you?"
Bjorn frowned. "Who? Her? Why would she do that?"
"Why do you think?"
"How would i know? I have lands i need to prepare their registration, lands that i don't even know how many by now. I need to determine which estates get redistributed, who deserves reward for their service. I need efficient people, that can keep the old powerful people in check. That's more pressing than—"
"Than understanding the woman you might marry?" Ragnar interrupted. "The one who'll be sharing your bed, bearing your children?"
"The empire I'm creating is my first wife." Bjorn smirked.
"Sure." Ragnar took another bite of his food, chewing slowly. "The news should have already reached Athelstan. He's probably already gathering the scribes to begin the land surveys." His tone shifted, gaining an edge. "But you should prepare yourself. Most people who control a land won't like you sending royal administrators into their territories."
"It's a simple land registration, nothing more. I'm not snatching infants from their mothers' breasts." Bjorn frowned.
Ragnar nodded slowly, but he'd gone distant—that particular absence that meant his mind had traveled somewhere else entirely.
Bjorn recognized the look. "She'll be fine," he said, gentle now. "Lagertha's strong. The child will be born healthy."
Bjorn knew it's the turn of Sigurd right now, then Ivar.
He could already feel the headache coming when Ivar is born.
He glanced at Ragnar, noting the tension in his father's jaw.
'Will you try to leave him in the forest this time?' Bjorn wondered. But it was the kind of question you didn't ask aloud.
Ragnar seemed to feel the weight of Bjorn's gaze. He turned, met his eyes. "What?"
"Nothing." Bjorn looked back at the fire.