The familiar sight of Kattegat's defenses emerged from the winter mist—tall wooden towers rising every twenty to thirty meters along the settlement's perimeter, connected by a sturdy palisade of sharpened logs.
The main gate stood open in the pale February light, but Bjorn could see guards positioned both there and in the nearest watchtowers, their eyes scanning the approaches as they had been trained.
His frame cut through the bitter winds as he approached, his hood drawn up against the cold. The exceptional physique and tolerance had served him well on the treacherous journey from Uppsala.
"Halt!" called one of the gate guards, stepping forward with his spear at the ready. "State your business in Kattegat!"
The tower sentries above shifted, hands moving to their crossbows and bows as they focused on the solitary figure approaching their lord's seat. In these uncertain times, even familiar paths could bring unexpected problems.
Without breaking stride, Bjorn reached up and pulled back his hood, revealing the distinctive silver white hair that marked him and made him distinctive from everyone.
"My lord!" The guard's spear immediately lowered as recognition dawned on his face. "Earl Bjorn! We did not expect—forgive us!"
The men in the towers relaxed visibly, and word began to spread quickly through the settlement. Their Earl had returned finally.
Bjorn simply waved their apologies away, as they were just doing their duties. He then talked with each of them, calling them by name and asking about their families, as he took it upon himself to remember all the details with his very good memory right now.
After speaking with each man, Bjorn prepared to leave. "Thank you for your hard work. Keep watching the roads."
As Bjorn passed through the gate, he could feel the weight of dozens of stares from those who emerged from workshops and longhouses. Conversations died mid-sentence as people recognized their lord walking among them once again.
His sudden disappearance with little explanation after Uppsala had left many questions unanswered among the household, though none dared voice their concerns directly to him.
As Bjorn approached the great hall, the heavy oak doors swung open and Lagertha emerged, and in her face, he could read the sleepless nights and anxious days.
Her relief at seeing him whole and unharmed was palpable, but it warred with something harder to define—frustration, perhaps, or the particular hurt that comes from being left to imagine the worst.
Behind her, the prominent figures of Kattegat assembled. Ragnar leaned against a wooden pillar with casualness that fooled no one; his sharp eyes catalogued every detail of Bjorn's appearance, searching for clues to the mystery of his disappearance.
The retainers and household warriors maintained a respectful distance, their faces couldn't quite hide their curiosity. These were men who had served the family, yet even they understood the invisible barrier that separated lord from retainer in moments like these.
When Lagertha approached, there was tension in her voice but tempered by respect for his position, especially as this reunion was being watched by dozens of eyes. "Welcome back. Your absence after Uppsala has been... deeply felt throughout Kattegat. When everyone returned returned with the news of what happened in there, and you were not among them..."
She paused, allowing the weight of unspoken fears to fill the silence. "The people have been restless. Some whisper that the gods have turned their faces from us, that the burning of the temple was an omen of greater disasters to come."
Bjorn looked at her for a moment. "Unfortunately, mother i can't speak for the gods. Or what they want. The only thing i know is that no harm has fallen upon our people. To me that still looks like the Gods favor us."
Then he turned to the crowd that had started following him, some were anxious, some were scared. He raised his voice so all could hear.
He talked to them, reassured them by showing them his sword making them remember why was the one leading them. He promised them that he will build a temple worthy of the gods, and whatever storms may come to our shores, whatever chaos may consume distant kingdoms, Kattegat shall and will remain strong.
After he finished his speech; the mob departed, and Bjorn was already striding toward his personal quarters.
"Prepare my bath," he commanded the nearest servants. "And send for Floki and Rollo. Tell them I require their presence in the hall."
The servants and thralls scattered to fulfill his orders.
Steam soon rose from the wooden bathing chamber as hot water was poured into the carved tub, mixed with herbs to ease the journey's toll on his muscles.
After bathing and donning fresh clothes befitting his station, but nothing fancy. Bjorn made his way to the hall where the central hearth cast dancing shadows on the walls. The familiar scent of burning wood and the low hum of conversation greeted him as he approached.
Floki sat closest to the fire, with one leg on top of a stool, Rollo occupied a place near him, his massive frame relaxed but alert, while Ragnar lounged in his chair casually besides Lagertha, who left Gyda and Siggy watching over the sleeping Ubbe.
Athelstan was also sitting nearby in silence.
The moment Bjorn entered the hall, they all turned towards him, as their conversation ended, the only sounds were the crackling of the logs.
The silence stretched until Lagertha broke the silence, "You finally look better." It was an acknowledgment of his improved appearance after bathing.
Rollo shifted forward in his seat, his hands resting on his knees as he studied his nephew. "Why have you called for us, Bjorn? The servants said it was urgent."
Bjorn settled into his chair, the firelight playing across his features. "As most of you know, King Halfdan is dead including eight other kings, two from Denmark, and three from the swedes and three from the geats."
Floki's eyes gleamed with intensity as he leaned back against his seat. "I can still smell the smoke when the wind shifts."
"The screaming was worse than the smoke," Rollo said flatly, his expression grim.
Lagertha leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I've spoken with the women who fled from Uppsala. Some claim they saw no accident in those flames, that the gods themselves set the fire in righteous anger. They say the nine kings had grown too proud, too removed from their people's suffering." She paused, studying each face around the fire. "Now everyone whispers that their heirs are cursed, and the bloodlines are tainted."
Ragnar, who had been silent until now, set down his drinking horn. "Cursed or not, if the people reject these heirs at their respective Things, we'll see wars across every kingdom. Every ambitious jarl will press their claim and the strongest will take what they can hold."
Rollo nodded gravely. "Succession crises are more bloodier than anything you can imagine, because neighbor turns against neighbor, brother against brother. And with so many kingdoms affected at once..." He gestured helplessly. "Is this truly what the gods desire, endless conflict?"
Floki's immediately took his stance when the gods were mentioned. "Question the gods' wisdom at your peril, Rollo. They see patterns we cannot comprehend. Perhaps this chaos serves a greater purpose."
Lagertha shot him a warning look before turning back to the group. "Whatever their purpose, the immediate consequence benefits us. It's fortunate that only one Norwegian king perished. Our borders remain relatively stable while chaos consumes our neighbors."
"Stable for now," Bjorn interjected, his voice carrying an edge of urgency. "But we're not immune to the storm gathering around us. This is precisely why I've gathered you here."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing. "When I separated from our retinue at Uppsala, I witnessed something that changes everything. I saw Helsing following Harald's party."
Ragnar looked up in interest. "You followed them?"
"For days through the cold forest paths." Bjorn's voice grew colder. "He killed everyone in Harald's party. Every warrior, every servant. No survivors."
The hall fell into stunned silence. Even the fire seemed to crackle more quietly.
Finally, Rollo began to laugh—not with humor, but with the dark appreciation of a warrior who understood political opportunity. "By the gods... do you realize what this means? Vestfold and Agder have no clear successors now. No legitimate heir to contest the seat."
Bjorn nodded slowly. "That's correct. Both kingdoms are now effectively without leadership."
Rollo leaned back, his mind already working through the possibilities. "Then perhaps Floki is right. We didn't have to lift a finger, and our greatest threat simply... vanishes." He looked around the group with growing excitement. "Those kingdoms will tear themselves apart fighting over who will become the new king."
But Ragnar's expression remained troubled, his eyes fixed intently on his son. "Convenient," he said quietly, watching Bjorn's reaction. "Almost too convenient."
Bjorn met his father's gaze. "Sometimes the gods favors the prepared, father."
The exchange hung in the air for a moment before Ragnar asked the critical question: "Do they know? Do Vestfold and Agder know their heir is dead?"
"Only myself and Helsing's men witnessed it. And now you four share that knowledge."
Rollo slammed his fist on the arm of his chair with enthusiasm. "Then we control when this information becomes public! We could send word ourselves, let them know the prince is dead and watch the chaos. While they're fighting amongst themselves, we strike at the weakened survivors."
"No." Bjorn's voice cut through Rollo's excitement. "We do nothing. Not yet."
Rollo's enthusiasm dimmed to confusion. "Why would we waste such an advantage? Every day we delay gives someone else the chance to seize control, to unify those kingdoms under new leadership. A new King."
Bjorn stood and moved closer to the fire, the flames casting stark shadows on his face. "Because we're not as strong as you think we are. Yes, we have skilled warriors and the respect of our people, and certain advantage that they don't have, but we lack the numbers for open fight against an entire kingdom. Vestfold and Agder, even in chaos, just one of them can field fighting men three times our size. Maybe even more."
Lagertha nodded slowly, understanding dawning in her eyes. "He's right. If we move too quickly and aggressively, we unite them against us. And they will see us as the immediate threat."
"Exactly," Bjorn confirmed. "We wait for Gandalf to make his move first. He's ambitious, and he has enough motive to act, vengeance against Halfdan's remaining loyal men. When he does, he'll draw the attention and ire of the people he attacks. In the chaos that follows, we'll find our opportunity."
Ragnar looked suddenly weary, and it made him seem older than his years. "Why must we fight them at all?" he asked, staring into the flames as if seeking answers there.
"Halfdan is dead. Harald is dead. The enemies who threatened us have been removed." He looked up. "Why not simply turn our attention westward? We've proven those lands exist, brought back proof of their wealth. Why involve ourselves in this chaos when we could be exploring new horizons?"
Bjorn's response came without hesitation, his voice carrying the absolute conviction. "Because survival demands more than avoiding today's enemy—it requires ensuring tomorrow's don't emerge stronger than we are."
He paused for a second, then continued. "Who can guarantee the next king of Vestfold and Agder won't harbor the same ambitions as Halfdan? Who can promise that a unified kingdom won't arise from this chaos, one that views Kattegat as an obstacle to their expansion?"
He turned to face them all, his silver hair catching the firelight like a crown. "The gods have given us an opportunity that may not come again in our lifetimes. To ignore it would be to spit in their faces."
His voice grew more passionate, revealing depths of ambition that had clearly been burning within him. "Yes, we've raided the western kingdoms successfully. Yes, we've brought back treasure and proof of their wealth. But I am not content with mere raiding parties anymore."
Floki leaned forward, intrigued by the fervor in his voice. "What are you saying, Bjorn?"
"I'm saying the kingdoms in the west are vast, their armies numbered in thousands where ours are counted in hundreds. We've been fortunate that our raids succeeded, but each victory makes them more aware of us, more prepared for our return. Soon, small raiding parties will find only death waiting on those shores."
His eyes swept across each face in turn. "Our people must be united under one banner. All our resources, all our strength, all our warriors fighting as one force. Only then can we take what we deserve from the western kingdoms, not mere raids that bring temporary wealth, but something that secures a lasting future for the next generation."
Rollo was the first to speak after the silence that followed Bjorn's words, his voice uncertain. "You speak of uniting all the Norse kingdoms under one banner. That's been the dream of many kings, Bjorn. Most died pursuing it. Or died by just starting it."
Bjorn replied. "It's because they have been doing it wrong."
Before anyone could respond, heavy footsteps echoed in the hall's entrance. A guard appeared at the doorway, his face apologetic but urgent.
"Forgive the intrusion, my lord," he said, bowing slightly. "But you instructed us to inform you immediately if any of the thralls working on your... matter... required your attention. One of them waits outside."
Bjorn's expression shifted, then he nodded, "Send him in."
A Thrall appeared, he was a young boy, and he came close to the heart but still keeping a respectful distance.
"My deepest apologies for disturbing you, my lord," the boy said, his voice steady despite obvious nervousness. "But the others working on your instructions sent me to report a problem. We have successfully made the mud mixture as you specified, but we did not make the skin. It had been troubling us these past days, but because you were not here..."
Bjorn's jaw tightened with frustration. This was clearly not the first setback in whatever project occupied his attention. "Tell them I'll be there."
The boy bowed again. "Of course, my lord." He backed away carefully before turning to leave the hall.
As soon as the thrall departed, Floki's curiosity erupted like a dam bursting. "Another of your mysterious experiments, I assume? You've always been remarkably secretive about your work."
Bjorn met his gaze with a slight smile. "All in good time, my friend. This particular innovation may change how we approach certain... challenges."
"Which tells me nothing," Floki complained, though his eyes gleamed with interest. "Are you crafting new weapons? Armor? Something for the ships?"
"You'll understand when it's complete," Bjorn replied, moving toward the hall's exit.
Before departing, he turned back to address the group. "Begin preparing our forces for extended campaigning. I want every warrior drilled again and ready. And Floki, ensure all our vessels are combat-ready at any moment."
Floki's grin returned in full force. "Oh, don't worry. My ships are always ready, Bjorn. The question is whether your humble ambitions can match their capabilities."
"We'll discover that together," Bjorn replied, then strode from the hall, leaving them to contemplate the magnitude of what he was proposing.
-x-X-x-
The workshop smelled of boiled rags and acrid lye, a scent Bjorn had forgot over the past weeks.
Inside, a group of his thralls stood around a large bucket, their expressions a mix of confusion and frustration. The bucket held a milky, watery pulp, the very essence of paper. A few feet away sat a crude wooden frame, a failed attempt at a sieve.
Bjorn strode to the bucket and looked at the pulp. He had started with wood, a naive first step. It was a failure.
He then moved on to linen rags, and through a process of trial and error, he had them create a lye solution from wood ash and boil the rags in it for days. He had them beat the pulp. He had done it. He had created the raw material of paper.
But he had run into a wall he could not breach. He knew he needed a fine-mesh screen to lift the fibers from the water and form them into a sheet. He had them try to make a screen out of coarse rope, but the pulp slipped right through.
He even sent for the blacksmith, hoping he could create a screen out of metal wire. He had been told it was impossible with the tools and skills they possessed.
Bjorn ran a hand through his hair, a wave of frustration and annoyance washing over him. The pulp in the bucket was a useless mush.
He had the knowledge, the correct materials, and the patience.
But he was a man from a world with advanced tools, trapped in a world that did not have them. He was an engineer in a world without engineering. The pulp, a triumph of his intellect, yet it was a useless failure.
A bucket of what should have been paper.
Bjorn's frustration lasted only a moment. Hurdles and problem were the norms in his past life, so he did not stay defeated for long.
The pulp was a dead end for writing, but it was still a material, a substance he had created from nothing. It had a physical property—a mass of long, tangled fibers. It was strong. It was light. It could be molded.
His mind began to work, racing through the possibilities. He was a naval engineer. What did a ship need? It needed to be sealed. The longships he created were waterproofed with tar, but what if this pulp could be used? He could mix it with tar or resin and apply it to the seams of a hull. It would dry hard, a new kind of sealant. He had created a primitive, flexible composite material.
What else? He thought of the wind and rain. The cold. A longhouse needed insulation. He could press this pulp into thick, solid planks and use them to line the walls, trapping the heat from the fire. He could make bricks of it, dry them, and burn them as a compressed, long-lasting fuel. He could even press it into a mold and create a shield, one that was lighter than wood but still strong enough to deflect a blow.
His project was not about paper anymore. It was about something new.
A new material to improve their ships furhter, their homes, and perhaps even their weapons. He had not failed; he had simply discovered a different path. The bucket of pulp was no longer a symbol of his defeat, but a testament to his ingenuity. The Earl of Kattegat had a new project.
It is a shame for the paper, but it seems it will wait until he reached the Islamic world, or the arabic, whatever they are called.
The days and weeks that followed fell into a rhythm of preparation and patience. While his thralls experimented with their new composite material, Bjorn focused on the larger game unfolding.
He selected his scouts carefully, who understood the value of listening in taverns and marketplaces. To Vestfold he sent two separate groups with different missions.
The first, posing as hunters and trappers, would observe Tunsberg itself—the seat of royal power where ambitious men would gather like crows around carrion.
The second would blend into the crowds at Kaupang, the kingdom's trading center where merchants carried news along with their goods.
In an age when information traveled at the speed of foot and hoof, rumors multiplied faster than facts. He needed multiple sources confirming the same events before he could act on intelligence.
The waiting proved harder than the planning. Each day brought training for his warriors, maintenance on Floki's ships. But beneath the routine preparations, tension was slowly building. Everyone sensed the approaching storm, though none could predict its exact form.
When the news finally arrived late March morning, it came in the form of a mud-splattered rider who'd pushed his horse hard through the spring thaw. The man's message was brief but momentous: Helsing had attacked Kaupang.
The second source; a merchant who'd fled, confirmed the details two days later.
War had finally begun.