The harbor erupted as Bjorn and his men returned. Wagons creaked with silver and stolen cattle, while chains rattled on the wrists of captured slaves. The banners of Eirik, once proud, now dragged in the mud behind Bjorn's horse.
Astrid stood at the gates with their children. She let him lift their youngest high for all to see—proof that the blood of Kattegat was strong. Women wept for their returned husbands, while others shrieked in grief for those who did not march home. Yet even in mourning, the crowd looked at Bjorn with awe.
That night, the great hall roared with fire and music. Oxen roasted on spits, while mead flowed faster than the river in spring. Warriors slammed their fists on tables as skalds sang of Bjorn's victory.
At the high seat, Astrid held her place as queen, calm and sharp-eyed. Concubines circled Bjorn, pouring his cup, leaning close, laughing too sweetly at his words. The people saw this and whispered—their lord is not only a warrior, but a man with the strength to rule, the wealth to feast, and the desire to conquer.
One by one, Bjorn called his men forward. Sven Iron-Foot received Eirik's sword. Haldor the Tall was gifted farmland seized from traitors. Floki, wild-eyed, was showered in silver to expand his shipyard.
Others were granted cattle, slaves, or gold, each prize tying them tighter to Bjorn's rule. The hall resounded with fresh oaths of loyalty, warriors cutting their palms and pressing bloodied hands to his own.
Three men accused of disloyalty were dragged before the crowd. Bjorn's eyes were cold as ice.
"Traitors rot faster than corpses," he declared. Two were beheaded cleanly, but the third was hung upside down over the entrance to the hall. His dripping blood painted the snow outside—a grim warning that loyalty was the only coin Kattegat's ruler accepted.
When the hall quieted, Bjorn returned to his chamber. Astrid greeted him with calm strength, while his children clamored for stories of battle. He let them touch his sword and helmet, their eyes wide with pride. To them, he was more than a father—he was a god made flesh.
Later, when the children slept, the concubines attended him. They soothed his body as warriors' songs still echoed from the hall. Each sought to win his favor, for a place in his bed meant protection, wealth, and status. For Bjorn, it was not only desire—it was power, reminding him that even in the quietest hours, he owned the loyalty of women as well as men.
The next morning, Bjorn strode to the shipyard where Floki already worked. His fingers, black with pitch, traced the curved ribs of a new longship.
"These," Floki hissed with manic glee, "will fly faster than ravens. The Franks won't know what storm has come upon them."
Bjorn studied the design. In his past life, he had known ships—more than Floki could guess. He crouched, running his hand across the frame. "If the keel is widened here, the ship will carry more weight without losing speed. We will need ships that cross not just rivers, but seas."
Floki froze, eyes wide, then cackled madly. "Yes! Yes! You see it too! Odin whispers to you, Bjorn!"
Together, they began sketching, the seed of a new fleet that would one day carry terror across oceans.
That night, Astrid found him again, her voice low as she watched him sharpen his axe. "You bind men with fear and women with your hunger. But fear breaks, and hunger consumes. Remember this when the Franks come. Kattegat must not only be feared—it must be strong enough to endure."
Bjorn said nothing, but when he looked at her, there was a flicker of softness—acknowledgment that she alone could speak such words without feeling his wrath.
When the hall slept, Bjorn walked alone to the cliff above the black waves. Ravens circled, their wings whispering in the dark. He thought of Alexander, of Odin, of empires waiting to be carved.
"Kattegat will not just survive," he whispered to the sea. "It will rule."
The wind carried his vow into the nights