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….
The "advisors" assembled surprisingly fast, at least, fast for long-lived behemoths who hadn't had a reason to rush anywhere for the last thousand years. It took a mere two hours, during which they prepared Laufey's funeral rites, and I used the time to thoroughly sync with the Throne and analyze the geopolitical landscape.
Then came the introductions and the reports.
My new "servants" didn't trust or revere me in the slightest, which was perfectly logical. But they were all ancient, experienced creatures who had seen it all, so they weren't in a hurry to provoke me or test my limits right out of the gate. In short, we could do business.
As for the data they provided me...
Everything was bad. Very, very bad.
Which meant it was exceptionally good. For my plans, anyway.
So, what exactly was Jotunheim?
It was a fully fledged planet, roughly the size of Earth, maybe slightly smaller. But it had drawn the short straw when it came to its orbit and its host star. Not only was it situated roughly at a Mars-like distance from its sun, give or take a few tens of millions of miles, but that sun was a dim White Dwarf. It had the mass of our sun, but it couldn't provide proper light or warmth.
By all laws of physics, there shouldn't have been any life here at all. But they got lucky with the magical background radiation. A very specific kind of background radiation, I should note.
The origins of the divine races are shrouded in myth and mystery, but at some point, life sparked on Jotunheim, and from the very beginning, it operated on parameters far beyond those of ordinary mortals. Naturally, a lush abundance of flora and fauna like in Midgard was completely out of the question. But the world wasn't sterile either. There were hardy mosses, clinging lichens, the insects that devoured them, small game like ice foxes, and larger, nastier predators like glacial boars and some truly massive, incomprehensible mutants.
And at the very apex of this brutal food chain, the crown jewel of local evolution: the Jotuns.
A harsh, unforgiving world breeds harsh, unforgiving children. The Frost Giants were culturally somewhat akin to a mix between Earth's nomadic hordes from the 5th century BC and a Stone Age tribal system. But they were absolutely not mindless savages.
They possessed a strict cult of strength. Cruelty was accepted as a basic fact of life, and the tradition of raiding, pillaging, and devastating their neighbors was considered a natural right. Equality? Or, Cthulhu forgive me, democracy? Never existed here, never could. Only the Law of the Strongest mattered.
Honestly, radical Earth feminists might have actually loved it here. In the sense that a sufficiently powerful, vicious witch could absolutely gut a man she didn't like and use his intestines for divination. Assuming, of course, that the man was a worthless weakling and she was a respected shaman capable of tearing open portals to the Shadow Paths.
As is customary for such "hardcore nomads," their entire economy and lifestyle were sustained by raiding and pillaging.
And they were doing incredibly well for themselves... right up until their expansion hit territory operating under Asgard's protection racket.
What followed was standard historical procedure. Two militaristic empires couldn't just peacefully bypass each other. At the end of a long, bloody conflict, Odin marched into Jotunheim and permanently demonstrated who the biggest dog in the yard was.
The result? An absolute, planetary blockade of Jotunheim.
A species that had lived for millennia off robbery and plunder was suddenly cut off from its sole source of sustenance.
Furthermore, they were cut off from their primary method of quickly "blooding" and training new warriors and shaman-witches.
The Frost Giants had to adapt. Small warbands, occasionally slipping out on covert raids via the magic of their Völvasorcerers, couldn't steal enough to meet the needs of an entire planetary population.
And hunting the sparse, highly dangerous local game wasn't enough to feed billions either.
The Jotuns had been forced to seek other ways to survive. And they found them.
Ice magic isn't solely for killing, even if that remains its most effective application. Over a thousand years, through sacrifices and the study of treasures plundered from more prosperous realms, the children of Jotunheim managed to scrape together a barely tolerable existence on their world. They domesticated some of the local flora and fauna... alright, try not to think about the mammoths from Skyrim... In short, it was possible to survive here.
Survive, but not live. An isolated world couldn't even afford to repair all the infrastructural damage left over from the Aesir's last "courtesy call." Yes, the Jotuns had changed; they had become more cautious, more restrained, and "civilized," but their dream of the "good old days" hadn't gone anywhere.
Nor had the tens of millions of bloodthirsty cryomancer-monsters, capable of crushing the finest Asgardian alloys with their bare hands, who personally remembered the golden age of their expansion and desperately wanted those "old days" back. And considering that every Jotun, from adolescence, knew which end of a weapon to hold and at least a couple of basic Ice magic spells...
Basically, I was sitting on a planetary-sized powder keg that could blow at any second.
This was exactly what Laufey had been counting on when he named me King. He figured that, on one hand, I couldn't just order the Rainbow Bridge to annihilate my own new kingdom, because even setting aside Loki's reputation, many in Asgard would ask: 'If he didn't spare his own subjects, despite sharing their blood, what happens to us if we displease him?' On the other hand, he assumed that a creepy, loner runt wouldn't be able to control this massive horde of monsters thirsting for brawls and loot.
Yes, it really could have become a massive problem, potentially sparking absolute chaos and anarchy that would end badly for everyone (especially if Surtur and his fiery kids, or the Kree, decided to crash the party).
But there was one flaw in Laufey's logic: I knew exactly where and how to point this horde of monsters.
"Well then," I began my prepared speech significantly, having finished listening to the reports. "The situation is indeed... unpleasant. However," I cut off the nascent whispers in the hall, "I believe that as the King of Asgard and Jotunheim, there is no longer any reason for me to keep one of my worlds under blockade."
"That..." Yawar, who had surprisingly quickly established himself as the unspoken leader of the high-ranking Jotuns, couldn't believe his ears.
"Yes," I nodded. "As long as Jotunheim is my domain, Asgard will not lock it away." I smirked. "However, as the King of Jotunheim, I alone decide where, when, and how the strike of my army will be directed. And anyone who disobeys my will shall be declared an apostate and destroyed immediately! Make sure this message reaches everyone."
"It shall be done... my King," the elderly giant bowed his head, simultaneously silencing two younger giants who clearly wanted to object with a single, sharp glare.
Yawar was smart. He perfectly understood everything I had left unsaid. Yes, the Jotuns would be able to go on "campaigns" again, but only where I pointed them. And such a "privilege" would remain available to them only as long as I was their King... and the King of Asgard.
Oh, of course, they wouldn't trust me at first; they'd look for hidden traps. But... after the very first campaign, a successful, lucrative campaign, even the dumbest giant would tear his own veins out with his teeth to ensure not a single hair fell from my head, and that both thrones remained firmly under my ass. As for the exceptionally stupid ones, I assumed their more reasonable kin would explain it to them. And if they didn't understand, they'd help them understand. Probably by tearing their veins out.
True, I had to actually live long enough to see that bright and shining moment. And clarify a couple of details about my intended target, but those were minor issues.
"Then gather the warriors, prepare your gear. Within a year, we march. Until then... I will temporarily depart Jotunheim. I need to finalize a few details regarding our future prey."
"How shall we contact you, my King?" Hmm, this time it took noticeably less effort for them to force those words out. That's what combining the carrot in front with the stick behind does!
"I will contact you myself. In case of an absolute emergency... call for Heimdall. He will pass the message to me."
Perhaps that was overly cruel to the Afro-Asgardian, but I had to punish him somehow for all this crap, right? After all, it was his negligence that set off the chain of events resulting in me busting my hump here, instead of lying peacefully in a hammock somewhere, drinking cocoa, and being charmed by a combat hamster. So, it's completely fair!
With that, the short audience was concluded, and I headed back to Asgard, I had a hell of a lot of preparations to make.
….
If you want to read ahead by 20+ chapters from here you can visit my Patre-on.
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