The harvest season was upon them.
From the deck of his lead ship, Bjorn watched the shoreline of Kattegat draw closer. The dock was already crowded with people—a mass of bodies that stretched back toward the palisade and beyond. He could make out individual faces now and see children sitting on shoulders, women holding flowers, old men standing with arms crossed.
He had sent messengers ahead days ago to prepare the people for his return. A public event. A display.
Bjorn wanted the message to be clear to everyone, from the children to the elders: he was loved by his people, and he was invincible in battle.
He needed them to believe that even when the numbers were against him, he would win because the gods favored him. This wasn't just pride, but rather a shield.
If someone ever thought of challenging him, that man would have to wonder if his own warriors would actually follow him. After all, few men were brave enough to pick up a sword against a leader who seemed to have the gods standing right behind him.
The palisade gates stood open. People lined both sides of the muddy road that led inside. Young and old, rich and poor. All waiting.
The ship bumped against the dock.
Bjorn stood. His silver hair caught the light. And the sound started—cheers rolling through the crowd like a wave. Horns blared, drums thundered and hands clapped in rhythm.
He stepped onto the dock and the noise swelled.
"I don't see Lagertha."
Bjorn turned. Ragnar had appeared at his right shoulder, eyes scanning the crowd with that particular intensity that meant worry.
"Or the others. They should be inside," Bjorn said. He kept his voice calm. "They'll both be fine." He placed a hand on Ragnar's back, gave him a small push forward. "Enjoy the warm welcome now, eh?"
They started walking.
"Bjorn the Victorious!"
The chant built slowly at first, then grew louder. More voices joining and more drums and horns. Flowers sailed through the air and landed at their feet.
"Bjorn the Victorious!"
Bjorn raised his hand and waved. He reached out as they passed and touched the outstretched hands of his people. Smiled at their joy. Some of them had tears in their eyes. Others laughed. Children screamed his name until their voices cracked.
Ragnar walked behind him. So did Rollo, who had chosen to come to Kattegat first instead of returning to Bore where his wife waited. To celebrate directly, he'd said.
Behind them, hundreds of warriors. The inland Jarls. The Jarl from Alfheim. The huskarls. All of them walking with their heads high, touching hands, accepting praise. Even though the crowd only shouted Bjorn's name, his men smiled. They stood straighter and they glowed with pride.
Bjorn studied their faces as they walked. Glory did this to men. Made them stand taller and feel like gods themselves. It was addictive, Intoxicating and dangerous.
They passed through the main gate. The towers on either side rose like silent sentinels, guards standing watch from above.
Inside the palisade, more people lined the road. More cheers and more flowers.
The road was clean. Well, as clean as mud could be.
Bjorn thought about the castle being built. When it was finished, these roads wouldn't be mud anymore.
The great hall came into view.
The crowd thinned as they approached. Most of the people stayed back, giving them space. Only a few figures stood waiting at the entrance.
Athelstan. His sister Gyda, holding Halfdan's hand. Six year old Ubbe. Old Hrafn, the leader of the huskarls—a man who seemed to age faster with each passing year. Siggy and her daughter Thyri, both of whom served Lagertha.
Bjorn embraced Athelstan first. Then Gyda. He kissed Halfdan and Ubbe. Then embraced Hrafn, whose grip was still strong despite his years. He nodded to Siggy and Thyri.
"Your presence have been missed greatly, Bjorn." Hrafn said.
"Congratulations on your victory, Bjorn," Athelstan said.
But his voice was wrong. Like he was holding something back.
"Bjorn the Victorious," Athelstan added with a small laugh. "That's another title for you."
But the laugh was forced and Bjorn felt the first stirring of unease.
"Where's Lagertha?" Ragnar asked. He had stopped embracing the others and was looking around. "Where is she?"
Gyda's head dropped. She wouldn't meet their eyes.
"Father..." she said quietly.
Athelstan looked conflicted. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "I... She is inside. She and the child are both alive."
Ragnar's shoulders relaxed slightly.
"But the child is..." Athelstan's words faded into a whisper.
Ragnar's face went pale. Then he just turned and sprinted toward the living quarters without another word.
Bjorn stood there. A frown settled onto his face. He looked at Athelstan. At Gyda. At the others. Their expressions told him nothing and everything at once.
He didn't ask questions, words wouldn't help anyway. He needed to see.
He followed Ragnar inside.
The great hall was dim after the brightness outside. His eyes adjusted slowly. The torches cast shadows that moved and shifted along the walls. The central hearth crackled, warming the space. His seat sat in its place, empty and waiting.
Bjorn walked toward the living quarters. The door was open.
He stepped inside and stopped.
Ragnar sat on the ground with his back against the wall. His face was... Bjorn had never seen his father look like that. It was pure devastation.
Lagertha sat on the bed. A small bundle rested in her arms—the baby, sleeping. She looked tired but physically well. No signs of injury or illness.
Bjorn approached slowly. He was careful to keep his footsteps soft. He didn't want to wake the child.
He leaned down and kissed his mother's forehead. "You look tired, Mother, but you look well," he said quietly, his voice softening. "You've done a great thing bringing another son into this world."
Lagertha just nodded, her eyes flicking toward Ragnar, who was still slumped against the wall. She looked relieved to see Bjorn, he could tell, but the weight of the silence in the room was heavy.
Bjorn studied her face for a moment. Then he looked down at the baby.
The child was beautiful. Perfect little face. Tiny hands curled into small fists. Eyes closed in peaceful sleep.
Bjorn's gaze traveled down to the legs. Then he stopped and stared.
Oh.
He knew what had happened now. Or at least, he thought he did. Ivar was supposed to be born later, after Sigurd. But here he was. Early. And...
He didn't let himself dwell on the impossibility of it. What happened had happened. Nothing could change it now.
He could feel Lagertha's eyes on him, burning into him. She was watching his reaction and measuring it. With Ragnar sitting against the wall looking like his world had ended, Bjorn understood what she feared. She was terrified of what he might say. What he might do.
Bjorn smiled.
It wasn't forced, it was genuine. Because Ivar being born now, like this—it was actually better. Unexpected, yes. But better.
"Can I hold him?" he asked.
Lagertha's entire body relaxed, relief flooded her face. She nodded and carefully passed the baby to him.
The child weighed almost nothing to Bjorn, like holding air. He didn't stir as Bjorn took him. Just kept sleeping peacefully, as if he somehow knew he was safe in his brother's arms.
Bjorn looked down at the tiny face. At the small chest rising and falling with each breath.
The infant's legs weren't straight like a normal babe's. They were twisted inward at strange, unnatural angles, looking soft and fragile, as if there were no solid bone inside them at all. The skin was a pale, sickly blue in spots.
Bjorn stared at the legs for a long moment. He didn't flinch or look away in disgust. He just adjusted his grip to be more careful.
The silence in the room stretched.
"Ivar," Gyda said softly from the entrance. "His name is Ivar."
Bjorn hadn't noticed her come in.
"Fitting name," he said.
He leaned down close to the baby's ear and whispered so quietly that only Ivar could hear. "Grow fast, little brother. We have a whole world to rule."
His mind was already moving and planning. Ragnar was brilliant. And Ivar would be brilliant too. Two generals he could actually trust. Two minds that thought beyond the obvious. He couldn't lead everything himself. And other people's thoughts were so... limited. They didn't think outside the box.
But Ragnar could. And Ivar would. A small smile crept onto his face.
"What are you smiling about?"
Ragnar's hurt voice cut through the room.
Bjorn looked up. Ragnar had stood, staring at Bjorn with pain and anger mixing in his eyes.
"You said he was going to be fine," Ragnar said. His voice cracked. "Normal. You said that. Look at him now. He'll never be able to walk."
"Ragnar." Lagertha's voice held a warning.
Bjorn's smile disappeared. "I will make something to help him walk. He'll limp, yes. But he will walk."
"The seer said he would be blessed," Lagertha said from the bed. Her voice was stronger now. "But the gods had to take something to give something in its place."
Bjorn's head turned sharply toward her. His eyebrows rose. "Wait. You knew about this?"
Ragnar's head whipped around too.
Lagertha met their stares without flinching. "The day you sailed to fight, I visited the seer. I had a dream—a bloodied battlefield. In the dream, I saw Ivar with a coiled serpent around him." She paused. "Ivar also has a serpent eye in his right eye. You can't see it now while he sleeps."
Bjorn stared at her.
"I couldn't tell you," she continued. "You were sailing to war. It wouldn't have changed what was coming anyway. The gods had already decided."
Bjorn looked down at the sleeping infant in his arms. A serpent eye and the seer's prophecy. Blessed by the gods.
Bjorn heard his father's footsteps approaching from the side.
"You... said he was going to be fine." Ragnar's voice was barely above a whisper now. Filled with anger and with hurt.
Bjorn moved away from him, putting distance between them. He saw no need for a fight with his brother sleeping in his arms. "I was wrong. I'm sorry, but I can't predict the future."
"What kind of life will he have?" Ragnar's voice broke, tears gathered in his eyes. "He can't train. He can't fight for himself. If we were wolves or even pigs, this poor and weak runt would be discarded."
His voice was so sad and so full of grief.
Bjorn sighed. But before he could respond, Lagertha moved.
She crossed the room in two quick steps and snatched Ivar from Bjorn's arms. Her eyes blazed and her whole body radiated protective fury.
"We are not pigs or wolves," she said. Her voice came out like a roar. Like a lioness defending her cub. "You will not hurt my child!"
Ragnar looked away, but he said nothing. But Bjorn could see the war happening inside him. The conflict tearing him apart.
And silence fell over them again.
Bjorn stood there thinking. Then he remembered Lagertha had dreamed of a bloody battlefield, or so she said. The same day he'd sailed to Kaupang to fight his enemies.
Was this the cost? The price for his victory?
He looked at Lagertha, who had returned to the bed with Ivar clutched protectively in her arms. Then at Ragnar, still staring at nothing like he was drowning.
"You know," Bjorn said slowly, "if you think my victory over our enemies is to be blamed, then you can blame me. I wouldn't mind."
He didn't wait for anyone to respond as he left.
Outside the room, he found them waiting. Siggy and her daughter watching over Ubbe and Halfdan. Athelstan. Rollo. Floki. Hrafn had already gone to attend to his duties.
They were all looking at him.
Rollo spoke first. "I'm sorry, Bjorn. But Ragnar has the right of it. The child won't have a life. He'll be an outcast." He paused. "I know you're thinking you can protect him. But you won't be able to protect him forever. The gods are...just cruel sometimes."
Floki's head snapped toward Rollo, his eyes narrowing. "The gods are never cruel, Rollo. They have their reasons. We are just too small to understand their gifts."
"Who said anything about protecting him?" Bjorn's voice was final, ending their talk. "There are things you don't know. So no more talk of this. He lives, and that is the end of it."
He turned to Siggy, Thyri, Ubbe and Halfdan. "Stay by mother's side."
They all nodded and slipped quietly into the room.
Bjorn and the remaining men didn't talk much after that. They sat around the central hearth in silence. The fire crackled and shadows danced.
Time passed slowly.
After a while, Floki shifted in his seat. He stretched his arms above his head and made a sound low in his throat.
"I should go," he said finally. He stood up, brushing ash from his clothes. "I miss Helga. And she'll want to hear about... everything."
Bjorn nodded. "Give her my regards. Tell her to come as well. I haven't see her for a while."
"I will." Floki hesitated. "And your brother will be fine, Bjorn. The gods have plans for him. I can feel it."
"I know."
Floki smiled and left, his footsteps fading as he walked out into the night.
The three of them sat there. Then Rollo stood as well.
"I should get some rest," Rollo said. He scratched his beard. "I still have my longhouse here. Might as well use it." He glanced toward the living quarters, then back at Bjorn. "I'll stay until we've honored the dead and held the celebration. Then I'll head back to Bore."
"Good," Bjorn said. "Thank you for coming."
Rollo nodded and left.
Now it was just Bjorn and Athelstan.
The fire crackled between them. Athelstan sat with his hands folded in his lap, staring at nothing. Bjorn picked up a poker and stirred the coals. Sparks flew up and died in the darkness above them.
"I have sent the scribes already to start the land registration of your lands," Athelstan said quietly, but he didn't look up.
"Good." Bjorn kept stirring the fire. Watched the embers glow brighter with each motion. "Thank you for your hard work, Athelstan. You've done well managing things while I was gone. I know it must have been harder on you with mother giving birth and all that."
"It's my duty." Athelstan simply said.
Bjorn set the poker aside. "How is everything else going?"
"Everything is progressing," Athelstan said. He finally looked up, met Bjorn's eyes. "My brothers loved the printing press. They wished they had something like it in their own church." He paused.
"And the castle?"
"The design you've given them is... ambitious. The men joke that you want to build something that will outlast the gods themselves." Athelstan laughed. "But it's slow work since they don't have that many workers."
"As for the cement..." Athelstan shrugged. "I think asking the ones responsible will give you a better answer than I can. But I heard they said they're having improvements. They've tried several different mixtures. Some crack too easily. Some don't set properly. But they're getting closer."
"That's good." Bjorn leaned back in his chair. "As long as they're making progress."
They sat in silence for a moment. The fire popped. A dog barked somewhere outside.
"So," Athelstan said. He spoke carefully, like he was testing the words before he let them out. "So... it is finished? You killed all your enemies?"
"Most are dead, but enough survived to irritate me," Bjorn said, his voice tightening. "Kjotve didn't fall into the trap. The fire never touched his ships. When he reached his own hall, his surviving Jarls tried to force him to step down so they could negotiate with me. The man refused, won the duel, and vanished. He took a ship and some slaves and simply... disappeared. He is out there somewhere, like a ghost."
"The Queen of Hordaland and her sons escaped by boat as well. My guess? They've fled to the Danes. Those people sent two ships to interfere in my war, marriage alliance or not."
Athelstan tilted his head. "Is that not... a good thing? I have no experience in war, but it seems they have given you the very excuse you need to invade their lands."
Bjorn studied Athelstan with a smile. "And look at you talking about war and killing so casually. You've spent too much with us, Athelstan." He paused. "I don't think you have ever killed a man yourself. Right?"
"No." Athelstan's voice was firm and certain. "Nor do I wish to do so."
"Why not?"
"Because..." Athelstan searched for the words. "I don't think i have it in me. And I've seen what it does to people."
"You'll be surprise of what you are capable of doing when you are cornered." Bjorn said. He stared into the flames. "I killed my first when I was close to ten." The memory rose up in his mind. The way the man gasped and the sound he'd made.
'At least close to ten in this life.' Bjorn thought.
"I still remember his ugly face and his voice begging at the end. After your first kills, you think you become numb to it. You think the second one will be easier, and the third easier still. That eventually you won't feel anything at all."
"But that's not what happens?" Athelstan asked softly.
"No." Bjorn shook his head. "Your morality starts narrowing like a path that gets smaller and smaller until you can only see one direction. You start devaluing outsiders—anyone who isn't yours or isn't part of your people. All you see is how to defend your own. Obsessively so."
He paused. "You stop seeing enemies as people. They become threats and obstacles and things to be removed."
Athelstan didn't respond immediately. He just sat there, thinking.
Bjorn blinked and pulled himself back to the present. The memories faded back into the dark corners of his mind where they lived.
"Anyway," he said, his voice lighter now. "I'm just rambling and dwelling on dark things when I should be celebrating." He stood up, stretched his arms. "Let's prepare the feast, yeah? It's time for a big fucking celebration, not this sour mood. We'll honor the dead properly. Take care of their families. Then we'll drink and eat."
Bjorn stood and went toward the gate, looking for Hrafn. Leaving Athelstan behind alone with his thoughts.
He found Hrafn at the gate, talking with the guards. Bjorn took him aside where no one could hear them. He kept his voice low.
"Victorious one," Hrafn said. His voice was rough.
"Walk with me," Bjorn said quietly.
They moved away from the gate, toward the shadows between two buildings where the torchlight didn't reach and where they could speak without being overheard.
Bjorn stopped and turned to face Hrafn. The old man's face was hard to read in the darkness. All angles and shadows.
"I want you to put another guard on the gate," Bjorn said. "Someone hidden, who won't be seen."
Hrafn's expression didn't change.
Bjorn glanced back toward the great hall.
"I'm afraid Ragnar is not thinking straight," Bjorn said slowly. Each word felt heavy. "He might do something he'll regret later."
"I want you to put another hidden guard who will be watching the gates. I'm afraid Ragnar is not thinking straight and he might do something he'll regret."
Understanding dawned in Hrafn's eyes. His face went grim.
"How long?" Hrafn asked.
"I don't know," Bjorn admitted. "Until Ragnar... until I'm sure he won't do anything foolish. Could be days or weeks."
Hrafn nodded again. Then he looked at Bjorn. "The gods have a strange sense of humor, Victorious one."
"That's their way."
"Your father is a good man," Hrafn said. "But grief makes men do terrible things they can never undo."
Bjorn spent the next days preparing for the celebration.
A celebration of his victory and his power. He was now ruling over many kingdoms that had just lost hundreds of huskarls and normal people with experience in fighting. Men who would need to be replaced.
He didn't know the true formula to make proper cement, so it still required experimentation. Trial and error. But now that he was home, he could focus on it properly.
Weapons were being made at a faster rate thanks to the blast furnaces that existed only in Kattegat. Another advantage over everyone else.
The days passed.
Ragnar never attempted anything like leaving Ivar in the woods.
But Bjorn never took the hidden guard away.
Maybe Ragnar somehow knew he was being watched. Maybe that's what stopped him.
Or maybe he'd just come to his senses.
Who knows.
All Bjorn had to do now was wait for the land registration to be completed. Once it was, he could officially reform the army—replacing the old ways with a system of ranks and merit. He intended to grant land based on a man's rank and service, ensuring that loyalty was rewarded with more than just gold.
He had left several squads of huskarls behind to guard his holdings and keep the peace. It was a calculated move: the huskarls represented the old order, while his new military reforms represented the future.
By keeping both groups active, he could let them keep each other in check. The old families would watch the new soldiers, and the new soldiers would watch the old families, leaving Bjorn as the only one holding all the strings.
And so, the year 799 A.D. came to an end.