796 A.D. Mid-May
Gyda was thirteen years old now, born in the depths of winter when the snow lay thick on the ground. She was the sister of a king, though that still felt strange to say aloud.
She sat near the edge of the hall, watching Ubbe toddle across the floor. He was almost two years old now, chubby-legged and curious about everything. Her mother's belly had grown round again with another child. The seer had already told them it would be a boy. They had chosen the name Hvitserk.
Gyda tried not to feel disappointed. She wanted a sister desperately, someone she could teach to read and write, the way Bjorn and Athelstan had taught her. Someone who would sit with her and practice letters, who would giggle over stories and share secrets. Another brother would be loved, of course. But it wasn't the same.
She thought of Athelstan then. He had been brought to them as a slave from that first raid, terrified and quiet. She remembered how he would flinch at loud noises, how his hands shook when he was given tasks.
But Gyda had never been afraid of him, even when others whispered that Christians were weak and strange. She could tell he was good. She had always been able to sense that about people, most of the time anyway.
Athelstan told wonderful stories, even if they were quieter and gentler than Bjorn's tales of battle and adventure. He spoke of saints and miracles, of monasteries filled with books and knowledge. Those stories made her want to learn more, to read everything she could.
And then there was Bjorn.
Bjorn. Her brother. Her king.
The pride she felt when she thought of him was almost overwhelming. King Bjorn, they called him now.
Bjorn Silverhair, because of that striking hair of his that looked like polished silver in the sunlight. Every woman in Kattegat was jealous of it, Gyda included. It was so smooth, so pale and bright. She had tried to braid her own hair the way he wore his sometimes, but it never looked the same.
Still, she didn't think of him as a king, not really. He was still just Bjorn to her. Her older brother who had taught her how to think, how to question things.
She remembered asking him once why he seemed to dislike being called king. It confused her. Being king meant power, didn't it? The ability to make decisions, to change things, to do what you wanted?
Bjorn had looked at her with that infuriating smile of his, the one that was half teasing and half smug. She hated that smile. He definitely used it just to annoy her.
"Do you truly think the title of king gives you power?" he had asked.
Gyda had paused. She always thought before answering, especially with Bjorn and Ragnar.
They had a way of making simple questions complicated. She turned it over in her mind, but couldn't see what he was getting at. "It doesn't?"
Bjorn shook his head, and that smile appeared again. Gyda refused to give up. She thought harder, though doubt crept in. "The man makes the title mean something? Not the other way around?"
His expression changed then. The smugness vanished, replaced by something else. Pride. The same look her mother had when she watched Bjorn defeat dozen of his warriors at the same time.
"Yes," Bjorn said. "A man called king who cannot command respect is still just a man. The word 'king' has no power on its own. Only when a man proves himself through strength, wisdom, or fear do people treat the title as real. Without that, it's just empty words."
Gyda tilted her head, a habit she had when thinking, then crossed her arms. "So the word doesn't make the man important. The man makes the word mean something."
"Exactly," Bjorn said, nodding. He looked wise when he did that, stroking his chin like the old men stroked their beards. Except Bjorn had no beard yet, which made him look a bit silly. Gyda held back a smile.
"You always have to turn everything into a puzzle," she complained, though she wasn't really annoyed.
Bjorn laughed softly. "Puzzles make the mind grow. If someone hands you the answer, do you really learn anything?" He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Besides, the best truths always hide behind questions."
Gyda frowned, but she was smiling too. "Then I suppose I'll have to keep thinking."
"Good," Bjorn said, his smile warmer now. "One day you'll understand that some puzzles never truly end. That's what makes them worth solving."
She had watched him walk away that day, feeling challenged and proud at the same time. His words had stayed with her for days afterward, turning over and over in her mind.
The fact that Bjorn was a king still felt unreal. Just two years ago, they had lived in a simple longhouse, surrounded by their animals, working their farm like everyone else.
Then came the raid to Lindisfarne, that monastery across the sea that Athelstan had come from. Everything changed after that.
First Bjorn became an Earl. Then a King.
It happened so fast. Too fast, sometimes, for Gyda to fully understand.
She liked to brag about Bjorn to her friends, the daughters of huskarls and landholding families. They would gather in the hall or by the shore, and Gyda would tell them about the things he said, the decisions he made, the way people looked at him with awe.
Her friends would pretend not to care, but she could see the jealousy in their eyes. It made her laugh.
Now Gyda stood at the edge of the fields, the wind pulling at her hair and dress. She liked this time of day, when the work was finished and everything felt calm. Peaceful.
From here, she could see the longhouses clustered near the shore, smoke rising from their roofs into the gray sky. The settlement had grown so much. More families, more buildings, more people who swore loyalty to Bjorn.
Gyda often wondered what the world looked like beyond Kattegat. What did people do in those distant lands to the west? Did they farm and raise animals like her people did? Or did they live in those stone cities that Bjorn and Ragnar talked about after their raids, places where buildings touched the sky and silver filled the temples?
She thought about Ragnar sometimes. He was impressive, powerful, the kind of man who commanded respect just by walking into a room. His eyes could make you feel small, but not in a cruel way. He reminded Gyda that there were many kinds of greatness, and maybe she could find her own version of it someday.
But Bjorn was different. When Bjorn looked at you, you felt like the world was bigger than you imagined. Both men were great, but Ragnar's greatness felt distant, something you could admire but never touch. Bjorn's greatness felt like an invitation, like he was asking you to join him in something larger, larger than even life.
Gyda's gaze drifted to the children playing near the crops. They chased each other between the rows of young plants, laughing and shrieking. She wished she could teach them all to read and write, to know more than just their names and their daily chores.
She imagined it sometimes: a hall filled with children, all of them sitting and listening to stories, learning songs, debating ideas the way she and Bjorn did. Maybe she could build that one day. A place for learning.
But then the fear would creep in. What if being the king's sister meant she was only valuable for marriage alliances? What if her dreams didn't matter when compared to what others expected of her? What if all her ambitions were just foolish wishes?
That insecurity lived beneath everything else, beneath her pride in Bjorn, beneath her confidence in herself.
Gyda wanted more than what was expected. She wanted to teach reading and writing to everyone, boys and girls, young and old, free people and thralls. It didn't matter to her who they were. Knowledge should belong to everyone.
She also wanted to be close to Bjorn's decisions, to help him govern when he was away raiding or fighting. She wanted to be part of something important, not just "the sister of the king."
The path of a shieldmaiden didn't appeal to her. She respected those women, admired their courage and strength. But it wasn't for her.
Gyda didn't like violence. She believed disputes could be solved with words and wisdom, not blades and blood.
Fighting was necessary sometimes, she understood that. But it shouldn't be the first choice.
Education was her weapon and knowledge was her strength.
The planting season had just ended. Gyda walked through the fields, breathing in the smell of fresh soil and new growth. Everywhere she looked, she saw hope on people's faces.
Children skipped between the furrows. Old men leaned on their walking sticks, nodding in satisfaction. Even the women who used to complain about everything now had brightness in their eyes, smiles on their lips.
The next two years' harvest would be bigger than the last years. Much bigger. All because of Bjorn's new farming methods.
And the names people gave him.. they never ended. Gyda couldn't keep track anymore.
Bjorn the Wise, they whispered in the market.
Bjorn of the Fertile Lands, they murmured at feasts.
Some people had started joking that he must be descended from Odin himself, blessed with wisdom no normal man should possess.
Others compared him to Baldur, Odin's son, because of how he fought in battle. A dozen men could attack him at once, yet he walked away without a scratch. It was as if the gods themselves protected him, just as they had made everything in the world swear not to harm Baldur.
But that comparison frightened Gyda. Even Baldur had died. Loki had tricked Baldur's blind brother Hodr into killing him with mistletoe, the only thing that could harm him. The one thing that hadn't sworn the oath.
What if Bjorn had a weakness too? What if someone found it?
Gyda shook the fear away. She remembered what Bjorn always told her: "If you can conquer your fear, you can even conquer death."
She forced herself to focus on the present, on the tangible improvements around her.
Her shieldmaidens walked beside her, chosen by her mother Lagertha, not by Bjorn. Lagertha managed the household now as queen mother, and she had insisted Gyda be protected whenever she left the hall. Gyda didn't argue. Her mother's word was law in domestic matters.
As they walked through the settlement, Gyda noticed all the changes Bjorn had introduced.
The well covers, for instance. Simple wooden lids that kept animals and dirt from falling into the drinking water. Bjorn had designed them and showed people how to make them. Now every farm had one.
Drainage ditches ran around the longhouses, preventing wastewater and rain from pooling near the buildings. Before, the mud had been terrible during spring. Now the ground stayed much drier.
The outhouses were new too. Small covered latrines built far away from the wells, so waste didn't turn the water bad. It seemed obvious once you thought about it, but no one had done it before Bjorn suggested it.
Storage pits for vegetables were everywhere now. Lined with straw and covered with wood and earth, they kept food dry through the winter. Fewer families went hungry when they could preserve their harvest properly.
The houses themselves were warmer. Thicker turf layers on the roofs, plank walls stuffed with moss and grass for insulation. The difference was remarkable. Last winter had been far more comfortable than the one before.
And then there was Bjorn's newest experiment, the one everyone was talking about.
Salt production.
Instead of burning massive amounts of wood to boil seawater, Bjorn said they would let the sun and wind do the work. It sounded too simple, too easy. People were skeptical.
But Gyda had watched them build the salt pans near the shore. Shallow wooden troughs, stone basins, clay-lined pits, all about five to ten centimeters deep with wide surface areas. They filled these with seawater during low tide, then left them alone.
The sun and wind evaporated the water over several days. What remained were salt crystals, which they scraped up and collected. Then they repeated the process.
People said it was too good to be true. But Gyda knew better than to doubt Bjorn's ideas. If he said it would work, it would work. Maybe not immediately, maybe not perfectly at first. But eventually.
Once the salt production was reliable, everything would change. More households could preserve meat and fish. The risk of famine would decrease significantly.
Bjorn planned to sell salt cheaply to his own people, then export it to other kings and jarls at much higher prices. The profit would fund more improvements, more expansions.
Next year, he wanted to establish salt pans in Vestfold too.
He had also made it very clear: anyone who copied his method without permission would regret it. Bjorn could be generous, but he could also be ruthless when necessary. People knew not to cross him now.
Gyda's gaze shifted to the shipyard, where longships sat ready for departure. Two hundred men would sail west today, seeking silver and glory.
She wondered what those foreign lands looked like. Stone buildings instead of wood. Temples filled with treasure. Different languages, different gods, different ways of living.
Part of her wanted to see it. But she also knew her place was here, in Kattegat, learning and growing and preparing for whatever future awaited her.
Eventually, Gyda made her way back to the great hall. Inside, she found Bjorn sitting with two visitors. One was older than Bjorn, probably in his early twenties. The other was younger than Bjorn, just a boy really. Eleven years old, she had heard.
They were brothers from Borre, the place where Bjorn had helped secure justice against Alfheim. That conflict had ended in Bjorn's favor, naturally. He seemed to win every conflict he entered.
The older brother was named Trygve. People called him "the Trustworthy" because he supposedly never betrayed his friends. Gyda didn't know the younger brother's name yet; no one had mentioned it in her presence.
Bjorn had told her both brothers were intelligent, but he seemed particularly impressed by the younger one. "A genius," Bjorn had called him.
"What's a genius?" Gyda had asked.
"Someone smarter than even smart people," Bjorn had replied, which wasn't very helpful but was typical of how he explained things.
What confused Gyda was why they were here at all. The brothers had been following Bjorn around ever since he returned from Borre, sitting in on meetings, talking privately with him, disappearing into the back rooms of the hall for hours.
Nobody knew what they discussed. Nobody knew what Bjorn was planning.
It was infuriating when he kept secrets like this.
When the three men noticed Gyda entering the hall, Bjorn nodded to the brothers. They immediately stood up, respectful and proper.
"Princess," they both said, bowing their heads slightly.
Gyda smiled warmly at them, trying to appear friendly and approachable. They seemed nice enough, even if their presence was mysterious.
The brothers left quickly, walking toward the back of the hall and disappearing through a doorway.
Gyda's eyes followed them until they were out of sight. Her curiosity burned. What were they working on? Why were they important enough for Bjorn to keep them so close?
She would find out eventually. Bjorn always revealed his plans when the time was right. But waiting was the hard part.
For now, all she could do was watch, learn, and prepare herself for whatever came next.
-x-X-x-
Four Days Later
Northumbria, Eoforwic, Royal Seat of King Aella.
These past three years had been the worst of King Aella's reign. His kingdom had suffered at least five major raids, maybe more if he counted the smaller attacks on villages and churches.
He hated the Northmen with every fiber of his being, a hatred so deep it consumed his thoughts during the day and haunted his dreams at night.
It had all started with that cursed raid on Lindisfarne.
The monastery at Lindisfarne had been just the beginning. Then came Jarrow. Then Hexham. Then Whitby Abbey, all stripped bare.
Every single one of these raids, except the raid on Whitby Abbey, had been carried out by the same man : Bjorn, the Northman with the distinctive silver hair.
And now Aella had received fresh reports. Bjorn was coming again. His ships had been spotted approaching the coast. Eight ships this time, double the number from his last raid.
The audacity of this boy enraged Aella beyond words. What made it worse was that Bjorn always seemed to know exactly where to strike. He targeted the richest churches in the kingdom, the ones with the most gold and silver, the most valuable relics.
All of them now stood empty, their treasures gone, their sanctity violated. Great houses of God had been desecrated by pagan savages.
After last year's raids, Aella had finally acted with some wisdom. He sent orders to all the churches to relocate their treasures to fortified locations, places with proper walls like Eoforwic itself.
The Roman walls that still stood around his capital made everyone feel safe. Those ancient stones had survived centuries.
Surely no band of raiders could breach them.
Aella knew in his heart that the Northmen could never successfully attack Eoforwic.
When the first messenger arrived with news of ships bearing the banners of a sword and a raven, Aella immediately sent word to gather a force of two hundred men. He would not be caught unprepared this time.
But three hours later, while he was still waiting for his forces to assemble, another messenger arrived. This one brought grave news.
The Northmen had attacked two outlying villages along the River Ouse. They had burned the granaries, stolen livestock, killed those who resisted, and set fire to everything else. Then they had taken prisoners as slaves before retreating back to their ships.
Aella was too late. Again. He was always too late.
Catching these raiders was impossible. They struck fast and vanished faster. By the time his forces arrived anywhere, the Northmen were already gone, disappearing up the river or out to sea with their stolen goods and captives.
Still, Aella sent his two hundred men toward the villages near the mouth of the river. Perhaps they could catch the raiders before they escaped. But hours later, the men sent word back: the Northmen had already retreated to their ships and sailed away.
Just like always.
What puzzled Aella this time was that Bjorn had brought more ships, which means more men, possibly more than two hundred men, but hadn't attacked any monastery.
That was unusual.
Bjorn always went for the churches, always targeted the richest sources of plunder.
Did he know? Had Bjorn somehow discovered that Aella had emptied the churches of their silver and gold? But how could he know? He knew he was somewhere from the north, meaning he won't have anyone to tell him the news.
The thought made Aella's jaw clench.
He felt old. These past three years had aged him. The constant stress, the constant fear of when the next raid would come, the constant failure to stop these heathens.
It wore on a man.
He had an heir, thank God, but the boy was still young. Too young to rule if something happened to Aella. Too young to defend the kingdom in these dangerous times.
He had a daughter too, a princess who needed to marry soon. A good political marriage could secure alliances, bring military support, strengthen his position. But finding the right match was difficult when your kingdom was constantly being raided by pagans.
His wife had become nearly useless. Every time someone mentioned the Northmen in her presence, she would grow pale and frightened.
Then she would rush off to the chapel to pray for hours, begging God to protect them from the heathens. Aella couldn't blame her, but it didn't help matters.
He wanted to pray too. He needed God's guidance, His strength. But he remembered that tomorrow was a holy day, so he decided to wait until then. He would spend proper time in prayer, seeking answers.
For now, all he could do was wait and worry.
Meanwhile, Some mile away from Eoforwic
"How do I look?" Bjorn asked, turning to face his father.
Ragnar stopped walking and studied his son carefully. His gaze moved slowly, starting at Bjorn's face, then traveling upward to his head. The silver hair was gone, shaved completely away. Bjorn's scalp was smooth and bare, pale skin where that distinctive silver had once been.
It looked strange. Wrong, somehow. Ragnar had grown so accustomed to seeing that silver hair that Bjorn almost looked like a different person without it. Which was exactly the point, he supposed.
Ragnar stayed quiet for a long moment, thinking through what they were about to do. Finally, he nodded. "It's good. They won't recognize the silver hair this way. Otherwise, we would never leave there alive."
Bjorn nodded seriously, running his hand over his bare scalp. The skin felt odd under his palm, smooth and exposed to the air. He knew how famous his appearance had become over these past three years. Every raid, every burned monastery, every stolen treasure had added to his reputation.
Silver-haired Bjorn. Bjorn the Silver. The Norse demon with hair like winter snow.
The name struck fear across Northumbria. It also struck hatred. Walking into Eoforwic with that distinctive hair would be immediate suicide. Someone would recognize him within seconds. The alarm would be raised, the gates would close, and they would both be killed or captured.
Shaving it off had been necessary. But it still felt wrong somehow, like he had removed part of his identity.
Ragnar continued speaking, his tone shifting to something more concerned, more uncertain. "Now that I think about it, I don't even know why I agreed to go with you on this plan." He shook his head slowly. "It's extremely risky. One wrong move, one mistake, and we're both dead."
He paused, looking back toward where they had left the ships and the men. His expression showed mild concern. "And leaving Rollo in charge of the men... I just hope everything goes smoothly while we're gone."
Bjorn looked at his father and could hear the underlying worry in his voice, though it was much less than it might have been a year ago. "Your concern is natural," Bjorn said. "But Rollo has proven himself capable since taking command of Borre. He's not the same man he was."
The question hung in the air between them for a moment. Ragnar seemed to be weighing the truth of those words against his own observations.
Ragnar looked at him thoughtfully, his expression shifting as he considered it. "Maybe you are right." There was something close to pride in his voice now, a warmth that hadn't been there moments before. "Giving him real responsibility, making him command Borre's hird—that was good for him. He needed something that was his own, not just following in your shadow."
Bjorn shook his head firmly at that. "It wasn't my shadow that he was living in, Father. The people never compared him to me. It was yours he couldn't escape."
The words were direct, honest, perhaps more blunt than Ragnar expected. But they needed to be said.
Ragnar grunted in agreement, though there was a touch of old guilt in his expression. His jaw tightened slightly, and he looked away toward the distant walls of Eoforwic. "I never meant to overshadow him. We're brothers. I love him." He paused, struggling with the words. "But things happened the way they happened."
His expression then softened. "I do love my brother. I have fought beside him many times, and i was saved by him many times. He is capable man."
A moment of silence passed between them. Then Ragnar's expression softened, becoming more open, more vulnerable than he usually allowed himself to be.
"I do love my brother," Ragnar said, his voice quieter now, more genuine. "I have fought beside him many times, and I was saved by him many times. He is a capable man. One of the best warriors I know."
Bjorn nodded slowly. He had seen the change in Rollo himself over this past year. Giving him genuine authority and responsibility had done something important for the man. Rollo had something to prove now, not just to others but to himself. He had a position that was his own achievement, earned through his own actions, not just being known as "Ragnar's brother" or "the brother of the famous Ragnar Lothbrok."
"He's ambitious," Bjorn said, choosing his words with care. "But that ambition now has a proper outlet. He wants to prove he can manage lands as well as any jarl, that he can make his settlement safe and prosperous. That's good ambition, if you ask me."
They walked in silence for a while, following the river path inland. The landscape gradually changed from open countryside to more settled land. Fields appeared, then small farmsteads, then clusters of buildings.
Then Ragnar stopped walking abruptly.
He saw it ahead of them: a line of stone cutting across the horizon, solid and imposing.
Eoforwic.
Bjorn immediately noticed Ragnar's reaction and smiled. Though Bjorn himself wasn't particularly impressed. He had seen far more impressive structures in his previous life. But for someone from this time period, seeing Roman architecture for the first time was genuinely awe-inspiring.
"It's called the Roman wall," Bjorn said. "Or whatever is left of it now, anyway."
Ragnar didn't answer. He was too busy studying the wall, taking in every detail.
The walls rose high above the riverbank. They weren't made of timber or turf like the defensive structures in Norse villages.
These were true stone walls, weathered dark by centuries of wind and rain.
The edges were broken in places, patched crudely with earth and wood where sections had collapsed. But even damaged, they loomed higher than any hall in Kattegat, higher than any building Ragnar had ever seen.
Beyond the walls, roofs clustered together in tight rows. Smoke drifted up from countless hearths, individual threads of smoke that merged together into a low haze hanging over the entire town.
Ragnar slowed his pace, his mind working. He could hear the city now, even from this distance. The murmur of many voices overlapping. The clatter of horse hooves on stone. The cries of traders advertising their goods.
As they got closer, Ragnar could see that the market spilled beyond the gate itself. Carts were drawn close to the walls, creating a chaotic scene. Men and women haggled over sacks of grain and bundles of wool. The noise was constant and overwhelming.
Porters hauled heavy sacks on their backs. Coopers worked on mending barrels. Fishermen gutted their catch right there in the open, throwing the guts to waiting dogs.
Merchants shouted their offers in English or in some coarse trade-language that mixed several tongues together.
It was crowded, busy, loud. Nothing like the organized quiet of a Norse settlement.
Bjorn's voice brought Ragnar back from his thoughts. "Let's go. It's time to greet our fellow Christians, don't you think?"
There was amusement in Bjorn's tone, a hint of irony. They were about to walk into the heart of their enemy's power, pretending to be something they weren't.
Thank you for reading. See ya Sunday!
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