"My lord, a messenger from Kattegat waits in the hall."
Kjotve paused mid-thrust, his fingers digging into the thrall girl's hips. The firelight from the brazier cast dancing shadows across the timber walls of his private chamber, and outside he could hear the muffled voices of his household stirring in the evening air.
"Tell him I'll come when I'm finished," he said, his breath coming harder now. "Pour him ale. Give him bread and salt."
The servant bowed and retreated. Kjotve returned his attention to the western girl—fair-haired, taken from a coastal settlement two summers past. She had stopped crying after the first month. That was always the way of it.
When he was done, he pushed himself up and reached for his tunic. The girl lay still, staring at the ceiling beams. He barely looked at her as he left.
The bathhouse stood a short walk from his longhouse, steam already rising from the wooden tub where servants had poured bucket after bucket of heated water. Kjotve sank into it with a grunt, letting the heat work into his muscles. His thoughts circled like carrion birds.
A messenger from Kattegat. Not common, but not strange either. But messengers were messengers. They came and went. Trade routes needed negotiating and border disputes needed settling.
Still, something nagged at him. He scrubbed at his beard, working out dried salt and grime.
After he dressed—a good wool tunic dyed deep blue, his silver arm rings polished to a shine—he made his way toward the great hall. The settlement of Agder sprawled around him in the dimming light: longhouses with turf roofs, workshops where smiths hammered late into the evening, a merchant's stall being shuttered for the night. Smoke rose from cooking fires. Dogs barked. A child ran past chasing a chicken.
The great hall rose before him, its carved doorposts depicting intertwined serpents and the old symbols of prosperity. Two huskarls stood guard. They nodded as he approached.
Inside, the hall buzzed with evening activity. Men sat at the long tables, drinking and talking. Smoke rose from the central hearth, curling up toward the hole in the roof. Tapestries hung on the walls; some showing ships and battles, others displaying his and his family's trading voyages.
The messenger stood near the high seat, waiting. Young, perhaps twenty winters, wearing the colors of Kattegat. And in his hand parchment.
Kjotve had seen plenty of parchment in these past four years since he became King. The monks in the west used it, and increasingly, so did the merchants of Kaupang and Kattegat.
Some folk had thought it unnecessary, some witchcraft.
But he, like any other merchant, knew its value. A message on parchment could travel far, could be read by many, could be kept as proof. It was power made portable.
The runes had appeared on paper in the marketplace of Kattegat. When his merchants brought him word of it, he sent men to learn their meaning. Reading them came easily to him, but writing was another matter entirely. His hand was steady with coin and blade, yet the marks resisted him.
He walked to his high seat and settled into it, aware of eyes turning toward him. The hall grew quieter, conversations dying as men sensed something was happening.
"So," Kjotve said, his voice carrying across the space. "What word do you bring, messenger?"
The young man stepped forward, lifting the parchment. A wax seal, already broken. "I bring word from King Bjorn of Kattegat, to King Kjotve of Agder."
The formal title. Always a bad sign when they used formal titles.
The messenger cleared his throat and began to read, his voice steady:
"King Bjorn speaks: Word has reached me that you, and men under your name and protection, make use of farming methods that were first revealed in my hall, to men sworn to my service. These methods—the three-field rotation, the improved iron plowshares, the way of preserving soil through the winter—were not given to you freely. They were not purchased. No oath was sworn over them and no gift was offered in return.
"I do not say such knowledge belongs to me as a thrall belongs to a master, or as a sword belongs to the man who carries it. But among our people, when the gods show a thing to one man first, and another man takes that thing without word or payment, it breaks the old customs. And custom is what keeps peace between kings when axes are laid aside.
"I have waited to send this message. I have sent no ships, raised no warriors and have not spoken any harsh words in open assembly. This is because I believe you are a man of sense, King Kjotve. Merchants understand the value of what they take. They understand debts and settlements.
"So I say this plainly: send silver for the knowledge that was taken. Send grain from the fields that knowledge has fed. Let it be known between us, before witnesses, that the matter is settled fairly. Do this, and there is no dishonor in it, only the proper way of things being restored.
"But if you will not settle it, then I must think the taking was done in spite of me. And when spite is shown to a king, he must answer it as kings do, or he is no king at all. I have delayed speaking so that tempers might cool and wiser heads prevail. The choice now is yours."
Silence crashed into the hall like a wave.
Kjotve sat very still, his fingers gripping the carved armrests of his seat. Around him, he could feel the weight of watching eyes; his huskarls, his advisors, the ambitious younger men who'd been pushing for war, the older ones who counseled caution.
The silence stretched and lengthened, becoming uncomfortable with each passing heartbeat.
Then it shattered.
"How dare he!" The shout came from Borgarr, one of his more aggressive jarls, a man who'd made his reputation in raids rather than trade. "How dare that boy-king speak to us as if we were thralls caught stealing!"
Others joined in, voices rising in a surge of outrage:
"He insults us!"
"We are not his servants to be scolded!"
"The arrogance; demanding silver like we're merchants haggling over cloth!"
Kjotve let them rage. He sat quiet, thinking.
One phrase kept circling in his mind: I have delayed speaking so that tempers might cool and wiser heads prevail.
Delayed. Why delay? Why send this message now?
The answer came to him with clarity: King Eirik.
The news had reached Agder these past days. King Eirik, the most powerful of the kings who'd sworn to resist Kattegat's growing influence, had been struck down by some affliction.
He could not move or speak. He couldn't even eat or drink without help. His eyes remained open, they said, staring at nothing, as if he watched his own body become a cage.
A curse, men whispered. The gods had marked him. Perhaps for broken oaths. Perhaps for something else.
And Bjorn had waited until now to send his message. Until the alliance had lost its strongest voice. Its natural leader.
'He must have known then of their alliance', Kjotve grimly. 'Did someone betray them? His own men?'
"My lord!" Another voice cut through the din. Hakon, one of his oldest advisors, white-haired and careful. "My lord, we must consider our response carefully. This is not a simple insult to be answered with hot words."
"What's to consider?" Borgarr shot back. "He demands tribute! Silver and grain, as if we were conquered peoples! We'll answer with our axes and shields. Are you afraid. Is that what age has brought you? Fear?"
"I am wise," Hakon said coldly. "Which is more than I can say for young fools who think every problem can be solved with an axe."
Kjotve raised his hand, and gradually, the hall quieted. He could feel them all watching him now, weighing him. Would he show courage or caution? Strength or weakness?
"Wait outside, messenger. You will be called when my answer is ready."
The messenger nodded and withdrew from the Great Hall, the doors closing behind him as the guards took their posts.
He chose his words carefully.
"Hakon, your concern is noted. But how strong is a king demanding payment for farming methods?" He let his voice carry a note of contempt. "They say he is the richest man in all the Norse lands, in the Danish territories, in Svear and Geat kingdom alike. And yet here he is, asking for silver like a beggar who's only just learned to hold a plow. Though I suppose we shouldn't be surprised. Old habits die hard, and he was a farmer once, wasn't he?"
Laughter rippled through the hall. Not everyone laughed—Kjotve noted that—but enough did, enough to shift the mood.
"Aye!" someone called out. "A farmer playing at king!"
"Let him demand all he wants, we owe him nothing!"
But Hakon was not laughing. Neither were several of the older jarls, the ones with lands and families to protect.
"Bold words, my king," Hakon said, his voice cutting through the mirth. "Bold words indeed. But is it wise to fight him? Now? In these uncertain times?"
"Uncertain?" Kjotve leaned forward. "What's uncertain? We are strong. Our warriors are fierce. Our walls are sound."
"King Eirik is struck down," Hakon said flatly. "The man who would have led our alliance, who would have coordinated our forces with the Danish King through the marriage with his daughter; he lies helpless. Men are already saying he angered the gods. That he is cursed. And now we would fight against Bjorn Silver-Hair? The man who carries a blessed sword, whose hair marks him as chosen by the gods themselves?"
Murmurs ran through the hall. Kjotve felt them like a cold wind.
"What are you saying, old man?" Borgarr demanded. "That we should bow? Pay tribute? Kiss his silver-haired arse?"
"I'm saying," Hakon replied, turning to face the younger jarl, "that if we fight, we must fight united. And look around you. Are we united? King Eirik falls, the alliance will fracture. Who will lead us now? Who will the other kings and jarls follow? You, Borgarr? Will they sail at your command? Or yours, Kjotve?"
Kjotve felt the truth of it settle like a stone in his gut. The alliance had always been fragile; a collection of ambitious men held together by common fear of Kattegat's expansion and grudging respect for Eirik's reputation. Without Eirik...
"The alliance holds," he said, but even to his own ears it sounded hollow.
"Does it?" Hakon pressed. "Some are already withholding their ships, I've heard. Some look to their own borders. And that's before the news of Eirik's condition has fully spread. Give it another week, and half of them will be at each other's throats."
"Then we make new arrangements," Kjotve said sharply. "We find new ways to coordinate. The alliance can function without one man."
"Can it?" Hakon looked at him steadily. "Forgive me, my king, but the alliance exists because each man fears what Kattegat will do if they stand alone. United, we might match Bjorn's strength. Divided..." He spread his hands.
"So what would you have me do?" Kjotve's voice rose, anger finally breaking through. "Pay him? Send silver and grain like some tributary vassal? Tell my people that we bent the knee, like the cowards in the west do, to a farmer with silver hair?"
"I would have you think," Hakon said. "I would have you remember how you became King, rashness is not the answer. Many men died because they forgot that lesson."
The hall went very quiet.
Kjotve's hands tightened on the armrests. For a long moment, he stared at Hakon. Then he stood.
"Send the messenger back in."
The doors opened. The young messenger returned, still holding his parchment, his face carefully neutral.
Kjotve looked at him; this boy who carried words that could start a war.
"You will return to Kattegat," Kjotve said clearly, so all could hear. "And you will tell King Bjorn this: King Kjotve of Agder thanks him for his message. We have heard his concerns. We will send him a response shortly."
The messenger bowed. "As you say, my lord. King Bjorn will await your answer."
"I'm sure he will," Kjotve said dryly. "Now go. You'll be given provisions for the journey."
When the messenger had left, Kjotve turned to face his hall. Every eye was on him.
"We will prepare gifts," he said, his voice hard.
Some men smiled, thinking they understood.
He looked around the hall, meeting eyes, reading faces.
"King Bjorn sent this message to us," he said. "But I would wager my best ship that we're not the only ones who received it. He will have sent messengers to all the others. He is testing us. Seeing who will bend and who will break."
Heads nodded. They could see the sense in that.
"So we will not answer hastily. We will not show fear, but neither will we show foolishness. We will take three days to gather information. And then we will decide our response."
He sat back down, the picture of calm authority.
But inside, his thoughts churned like a storm-tossed sea.
'Why would the gods choose you?' he thought bitterly, picturing Bjorn in his distant hall. 'You're just a farmer. A lucky farmer with silver hair.'
But even as he thought it, he knew it was the wrong question. The gods chose whom they chose. The real question was simpler and more terrible:
Could he win?
And if he couldn't win, what price would he pay for his pride? His life? He didn't mind.
That night, long after the hall had emptied, Kjotve stood alone by the hearth, watching the embers die. Tomorrow he would send his riders. Tomorrow he would begin gathering the threads of the alliance, seeing which ones still held strong and which had already begun to fray.
But tonight, in the darkness, he allowed himself to admit the truth that Hakon had been too careful to say aloud:
The alliance was already dead. It had died the moment King Eirik's eyes had frozen open, staring at nothing.
And King Bjorn knew it.
That was why he'd sent his message now. Not because he was demanding tribute, but because he was offering a choice: bend, or break.
Kjotve clenched his fists.
He would break his kingdom through prideful stupidity.
So he would play the game a little longer. He would send his messengers. He would gather his news. He would see which way the wind was blowing.
And then, when he was ready, he would send King Bjorn his answer.
One way or another.
-x-X-x-
"Do you know that after the first move is played, there are millions of possibilities?" Bjorn's voice was gentle, as he gestured to the chess board between them. His fingers hovered over a white pawn, then settled on it with certainty. "Millions upon millions of paths the game might take, each one branching into countless more. Every choice opens doors that cannot be closed again."
The pieces were beautiful; carved from walrus ivory and blackened oak, each one shaped by Bjorn's own hands.
The knights with their proud heads and flowing manes. The rooks like watchtowers. The bishops with their pointed mitres.
The queen, tall and commanding.
The pawns, simple but numerous.
And at the center of it all, the king—smaller than the queen, more vulnerable, yet the piece around which everything else revolved.
Gyda stared at the board, her brow furrowed in concentration. "That's more than anyone could possibly count to. More than the stars, probably."
"Who knows." Bjorn moved his pawn from e2 to e4, the piece clicking softly against the wooden board. "It's your turn now, Gyda."
She didn't move. Her hands remained in her lap, fingers twisted together. Her eyes darted from piece to piece, seeing not carved wood and ivory but something else entirely—warriors, jarls, families, lives that could be spent or saved depending on where she placed her hand.
"I need time to think," she said, her voice smaller than she'd intended.
"Take what time you need. But remember, you must eventually make your choice."
Minutes passed. The afternoon light shifted through the high windows of the hall, casting long shadows across the board. Somewhere outside, she could hear the rhythmic thunk of an axe against wood, the distant laughter of children, the everyday sounds of Kattegat going about its business while she sat frozen before thirty-two carved pieces.
"What if I make a mistake?" The words slipped out before she could stop them. "What if I move the wrong piece, and everything falls apart?"
Bjorn leaned back in his chair, studying her with those eyes. "If you play, you might win or you might lose. But if you don't play at all, you will certainly lose. That is the only guarantee."
"Are we still talking about chess?" She met his gaze now, seeing the layers beneath his question.
"Life is chess. The board is your kingdom and the pieces are your people. Each one valuable and each one capable of being lost. And you are here," he tapped the black king gently, "trying to survive while everyone else makes their moves around you. The question is not whether you will make mistakes. You will. Everyone does. The question is whether you will have the courage to make the move at all."
The courage. She almost laughed at that. Where was courage supposed to come from when the insults kept arriving?
Yesterday, the first response had come from Hordaland. A messenger had entered the hall carrying a burlap sack, his expression carefully neutral.
When they'd opened it, the stench had been immediate and overwhelming; grain, or what had once been grain, now moldy and writhing with weevils. The message had been brief and pointed: "My lady Regent sends her thanks for the farming wisdom blessed by the gods. This is the harvest it brings in our poor soil. Perhaps the gods' favor does not travel so far."
The message was clear: your blessing means nothing here. You are not special. Your gifts from the gods work only for you.
The second response had arrived yesterday from King Sulke of Rogaland. He'd sent a child's wooden sword, barely the length of a forearm, alongside a bent and rusted iron blade so warped it couldn't cut butter. The message: "Since the gods have blessed only Bjorn to wield their sacred blade, my lord Sulke sends him weapons more suited to a man who stands alone. May they serve you as well as your unique gifts serve us."
They were calling him a fraud. Saying his strength was exaggerated, his sword a trick, his blessing from the gods a story he'd invented to make himself seem greater than he was.
But the third response, that one had cut deepest.
King Harald Golden-beard, who is a family to the dead King halfdan, had sent a single silver coin wrapped in a beggar's bowl. No message. None was needed. The meaning was brutally clear: if you want silver, beg for it like the pauper you are.
They had sent their messages together, as if showing their unison to Bjorn. Each insult had landed like a blow. Each one had been designed to humiliate, to diminish, to make Bjorn seem small in the eyes of his own people.
The hall had buzzed with anger after each delivery. Men had called for immediate retaliation, for ships to be readied, for the insults to be answered with fire and steel.
And through it all, Bjorn had remained impossibly, maddeningly calm. He'd examined each insult carefully, even smiled at the wooden sword, then set them aside and returned to his work as if they were nothing more than mild weather reports.
That calmness terrified her more than rage would have because she knew what it meant.
War was coming.
Not the impulsive, hot-blooded kind born of wounded pride, but the calculated kind that Bjorn specialized in.
Gyda was no longer a naive twelve-year-old. She had grown. She had seen what men were capable of and the darkness that could hide behind a gentle smile.
She remembered Uppsala. The smell of tar clung to him that day, the day the temple of the gods burned and nine kings fell. Including King Halfdan.
And now… with Eirik paralyzed, she realized it could be no one else. It was Bjorn. Her brother. The one she had loved, the one she had thought kind… capable of this?
She wondered if Mother and Father knew of this.
And yet... he was still her brother.
Now she had to carry this in her mind. Always.
The warriors were already preparing. She'd seen them sharpening weapons, checking armor. The air in Kattegat had changed, grown heavier with anticipation and barely contained violence. Men walked differently and talked differently.
And here sat Bjorn, playing chess with his sister, as calm as a summer morning.
"I can't move," she said finally, her voice tight. "Every time I look at this board, I see the real one. I see our warriors, our people. I see you." She pointed at the white king. "And I'm afraid that if I make the wrong choice, they'll die. You'll die. And it will be my fault for playing badly."
"Gyda." Bjorn's voice remained gentle, but firm. "The board is no good if you never move a piece. Every king, every jarl, every warrior in this hall would tell you the same thing: a battle never won itself by being postponed. The world is like this board. If you stay in one place, paralyzed, then fear will move you. Pride will move you. The opinions of others will move you. You will be moved by everything except your own will. You must never cede control of the board to anyone else. Not to your enemies, not to your allies, not even to your own doubts."
She looked up at him sharply. "Like those kings did? Like the ones who allied in secret against you? They sat and did nothing. Is that what you mean?"
For the first time since they'd sat down, Bjorn smiled. It was a small expression, barely more than a curve at the corner of his mouth, but genuine.
"Something like that," he said simply.
Something clicked into place in her mind. She looked back at the board with new eyes. The paralysis that had gripped her for the past hour began to loosen.
If she didn't move, someone else would move for her. If she didn't act, she would be acted upon. That was the lesson, wasn't it? Not that she had to make the perfect move, but that she had to make a move. Any move. Keep the initiative and stay in control.
She reached out, her hand no longer trembling, and moved her pawn from e7 to e5. A mirror of Bjorn's opening. The simple symmetry of it felt right, not because it was the best move possible, but because it was her move. Her choice. Her will imposed upon the board.
Bjorn nodded approval and reached for his knight, ready to continue the game.
The door to the hall opened then, and a familiar figure entered. Trygve, the trusworthy, one of Bjorn's... well she have no idea what he does. She hadn't seen him in weeks. He must have just returned from wherever Bjorn had sent him.
"My King. Princess Gyda." He bowed respectfully, his travel-stained cloak still dusty from the road.
Gyda smiled warmly despite her lingering anxiety. "Trygve! It's good to see you. How are you? And how is your brother faring? I haven't seen him in quite some time."
"He's doing much better, thank you, Princess." Trygve's face creased in a genuine smile, the kind that showed all his teeth and reached his eyes. "You look well yourself, Princess. In good spirits, the gods be praised."
But Trygve's attention had already shifted to Bjorn, and his expression became more serious. "My lord, All the gifts we sent were received and welcomed. The responses have been... favorable. Very favorable."
Gifts? Gyda's mind caught on the word. What gifts? Bjorn had sent threats to some kings. But gifts to others? When had this happened? Why hadn't she known about it?
She bit her tongue, forcing herself to stay silent. This was clearly part of something larger, some strategy Bjorn had set in motion while the rest of them had been focused on the insults arriving from the alliance. She would not interrupt. She would watch and learn.
Bjorn's expression didn't change, but Gyda had learned to read the subtle shifts in his posture, the slight tilt of his head that meant he was processing information. "All of them welcomed the gifts?"
"All but one, my lord." Trygve's voice took on a note of wry amusement. "Jarl Gud Hordr of Telemark, brother to Jarl Groald Hryg of Telemark. He'd heard that the powerful chieftains received messages demanding tribute. Threats, essentially. But he received gifts. He took it as an insult, my lord. As you labeling him weak and not worth threatening and beneath your concern."
Trygve paused, clearly about to quote, and his voice shifted into a rougher register, mimicking Jarl Gurd hordr's known manner of speech: "'Tell your silver-haired king that I am no man's bought hound. If he thinks Gurd hordr, brother to Groald Hrygso weak that he can be bought with pretty trinkets while real men receive real challenges, then he knows nothing. I will not be patted on the head like a loyal dog.'"
Despite everything, Gyda had to suppress a smile. The old jarl's pride was as legendary as his stubbornness. Of course he'd be insulted by generosity while others received threats. Only Gurd hordr could be offended by not being threatened.
"And the others?" Bjorn asked, shaking his head.
"The others will play both sides, my lord. That's my assessment." Trygve shifted his weight, choosing his words carefully. "They're shrewd men. Once the word spreads—and it will spread, it's already spreading—that some chieftains received demands for tribute while others received gifts and favorable trading terms, they won't commit fully to either side. Not until they see which way the wind truly blows. They'll send warm words to you and warmer words to the alliance. They'll keep their ships ready but their oars shipped. They'll wait."
"And waiting is a choice in itself," Bjorn said quietly.
"Yes, my lord. A choice to let others bleed first."
Bjorn picked up his knight, the carved horse head catching the light, and moved it to f3. His eyes remained on the board, but Gyda knew he was no longer thinking about chess. Or perhaps he'd never stopped thinking about chess—the real chess.
"Thank you, Trygve. That will be all for now. Go rest and get a drink."
Trygve bowed and left, his footsteps echoing across the hall's wooden floor.
Silence settled between them again. Gyda stared at the board, but the pieces had transformed again. She could see it now—the whole strategy laid bare like a map.
Bjorn hadn't just sent threats to his enemies. He'd divided them. The most powerful had received demands; deliberate provocations designed to test their resolve and force them to choose sides immediately.
Some, like those three kings with their insulting responses, had chosen defiance. They'd committed themselves fully to war, burning their bridges with public humiliation.
But others; the smaller jarls, the uncertain ones, the ambitious ones looking for opportunity—they'd received generous gifts that said: 'you could be my friend instead of my enemy. You could profit from this instead of dying in it.'
And the ones in the middle, the ones who'd received nothing yet? They were the most important of all. Because once they saw that Bjorn rewarded some and threatened others, they would understand the implicit message: choose wisely, or I will choose for you.
"You divided them," she said aloud. "Before they could even gather their forces, you divided them. The powerful ones are insulted and angry, so they'll want war, but they'll be the only ones. The weaker ones are grateful and cautious, so they'll stay neutral or even help you. And everyone else will wait to see who wins."
Bjorn finally looked up from the board, meeting her eyes. His expression was unreadable. "What does that tell you, Gyda?"
She thought about it, replaying Trygve's words, replaying the whole conversation. "That the alliance was never as strong as it seemed. That you knew it would fracture under pressure. That you applied that pressure in exactly the right places."
"And?"
"And..." She looked back at the chess board, at her pawn standing alone on e5, having finally moved. "And that once you hesitate, you're destined to lose. They hesitated. They spent months building their secret alliance, whispering and plotting, but they didn't act. They gave you time. And you used that time to make sure that when they finally did move, they'd be moving against each other as much as against you."
"War is not won on battlefields alone," Bjorn said, his voice taking on the quality of a lesson being taught, wisdom being passed down. "It is won in the hearts and minds of men before the first sword is drawn. It is won in the decisions people make when they think they still have time to decide. By the time armies meet, the outcome is often already determined, not by the gods, but by everything that came before. The alliances made or broken. The doubts sown or dispelled. The choices forced or delayed."
He gestured to the board. "Your move, Gyda."
She looked down at the thirty-two pieces, seeing them clearly now. Not as an overwhelming chaos of infinite possibilities, but as a pattern. A dance. Each piece with its role, its strengths, its limitations.
Each move creating new possibilities while closing others. The trick wasn't to see every possibility—no one could do that, not even Bjorn. The trick was to see enough. To understand the shape of the game. To recognize which moves mattered and which didn't.
To have the courage to act despite uncertainty.
She reached out and moved her knight from g8 to f6, developing her pieces, preparing for the middle game.
Bjorn smiled again, more broadly this time. "That's a start."