"And let me guess," Bjorn said, staring at the map spread across the table. "He wants something in return?"
Two days had passed since his fleet returned. Ships heavy with plunder, new horses stamping in the stables, chests of silver and gold.
The people had mobbed the docks again just like last time; farmers leaving their fields, smiths their forges, every soul in Kattegat turning out to see what the young king had brought home this time.
Women had pressed forward, some swooning when he'd smiled their way. Children climbed on their fathers' shoulders just to catch a glimpse.
Another victory and another song for the skalds.
He'd split the silver fairly. Well, fairly enough. Thirty percent for him; his ships, his planning, his risk. The rest divided among the rest. Each man got six pounds of silver and gold. Plus many things like silk and weapons, each divided equally, except the horses and the new ships. They belonged to Bjorn alone.
Lagertha had found him that first night, tried to talk about some Jarl seeking an alliance. But he'd been drinking with his men then, finally able to breathe without someone needing something from him. The allied Jarls had since returned to their halls, bellies full of meat and pride, already thinking about the next voyage.
The celebration was over.
Now came the politics.
"You shouldn't be surprised. You're standing on a mountain peak, Bjorn." His mother's voice had an edge to it. "Every hand reaching up wants to pull something down with it. And this Jarl's no different."
Bjorn traced a finger along the coastline on the map. Rivers. Fjords. Kingdoms that hadn't bent the knee.
"What does he want?"
"What do they all want?" Floki muttered from his corner, not looking up from the piece of wood he was carving. "More than they deserve."
Lagertha glanced at him, then back to her son. "Everything short of your firstborn. The farming techniques. Better weapons." She watched Bjorn's face. "He at least had the sense not to ask about the ships."
"Oh, I'm sure he wanted to," Floki said. "Just knew better."
"Smart enough to keep his head attached," Rollo added.
"Barely," Floki agreed. "Greedy bastard though."
A long silence settled over the room.
Bjorn waited, his finger still on the map.
"He wants your backing to become the sole High Jarl of Trondelag." Lagertha continued.
"Sole?" Ragnar spoke up from where he sat close to the central hearth. "There are what, four other Jarls up there? Maybe more? Less?"
"Three," Lagertha said.
"So he wants us to help him step on their necks," Rollo said.
"He heard you gave that title to the King from the inland kingdoms," Lagertha told Bjorn. "Figured he'd try for the same."
She crossed her arms. "And he wants you to marry his daughter."
The knife in Floki's hand stopped moving.
"There it is," he said quietly.
"Do all that," Lagertha said, "and he'll accept you as king."
Nobody spoke for a moment. Outside, gulls cried over the harbor.
"How old is the daughter?" Rollo asked.
"Does it matter?" Lagertha shot back.
"I'm just asking."
"Sixteen, I think. Maybe seventeen."
"Pretty?"
"How would I know? I haven't seen her."
"Someone must have said something."
"They say she's pleasant to the eye," Lagertha admitted. "And Good with people, apparently."
"Oh, well then," Floki said with mock enthusiasm. "Good with people. That changes everything."
Bjorn looked up from the map. "Are you finished?"
"A really greedy bastard," Floki muttered, returning to his whittling.
"Greedy maybe. But not stupid. He sees which way the wind's blowing. Everyone does by now." He gestured toward Bjorn. "New farming methods, better weapons, better ships and the absurd amount of silver ang gold we bring every time from the west. Six kingdoms already swear to him. Let's not even talk about the sword and that shiny hair of yours."
"It's just hair," Bjorn said, coughing.
"It's never just anything with you anymore," Ragnar replied. "Everything means something now. Everything's a symbol."
Ragnar paused. "You're changing everything. Faster than most can stomach. They can feel the shadow of your hand stretching across their lands, reaching for their halls and their necks, suffocating them."
"So he wants in before the door closes," Bjorn said.
"Exactly." Lagertha's jaw tightened. "He wants his bloodline royal. His daughter in your bed. His grandchildren on the high seat."
She moved closer to the table. "Trondelag is rich, Bjorn. Rich and powerful. You take it without bloodshed, the northern kingdoms will probably follow. They'll see your unification as inevitable, and they will probably join your side faster."
"Probably?" Rollo said, scoffing. "They'll rush to save their miserable lives."
"Maybe," Lagertha said. "Hard to say."
More silence.
Rollo pushed off from the wall. "I don't like it."
"You've made that clear," Lagertha said.
"Have I?" He looked at Floki. "Am I wrong?"
"No, you're right. The man's a greedy bastard." Floki set down his carving. "But let's be honest, they're all greedy bastards. That's not the problem."
"Then what is?" Ragnar asked.
"The marriage part," Floki said simply. "Why should he marry some girl he's never met just to make one Jarl happy?"
"Because it avoids a war," Lagertha said.
"So?" Rollo spread his hands. "We could just sail up there and take what we want. Crush them properly. Then give them the farming methods when they surrender anyway."
"How many men would we lose?" Lagertha asked.
"Does it matter?"
"That's families grieving and widows. How many children without fathers?"
Rollo's shrugged his shoulder. "Lagertga, all wars has costs. This one is no different."
"But at least no one dies." Lagertha said.
"Except Bjorn's freedom to choose his own wife," Floki pointed out.
"Kings don't have that luxury," Lagertha said. "This is the price of what he's built. Every choice from here on out...There's weight to it now."
The room fell quiet except for the scrape of Floki's knife against wood. Slow. Deliberate.
Bjorn studied the map a moment longer.
Then he looked up at his mother. "How would you like to take a trip north?"
Lagertha frowned. "What?"
"A trip. To Trondelag."
"I heard you," she said. "I'm asking why."
"You haven't left Kattegat in...what, Three years?"
"Because I was pregnant. And then recovering. And then pregnant again." She crossed her arms, glanced at Ragnar, who was smirking. "What's this about?"
"I'm sending you to Trondelag," Bjorn said simply.
She stared at him. "You're accepting his offer then?"
"Did I say that?"
"Then why—"
"I want you to go there and talk to all the Jarls," Bjorn interrupted. "Not just this one."
Lagertha's eyes narrowed. "Talk to them about what?"
"Anything. Everything." He paused. "Bring gifts. You're better at that than I am. You know what people actually want. Fine cloth for the wives maybe. Something useful and memorable. Weapons for the Jarls. A different one for each of them."
"I don't understand," Lagertha said slowly. "If you're not accepting the alliance, why are we giving them gifts?"
"Because I want you to listen and learn who they are. Meet their families. Go to their halls." Bjorn said. "Figure out what each one wants. What they fear. Who hates who. Which Jarls have old grudges. Which ones are friends. Who's ambitious. Who's satisfied."
"That's a lot of information," Rollo said.
"That's the point," Bjorn replied.
Bjorn looked at his mother. "And don't take anyone's side. Stay friendly with all of them. Make them all think they might have a chance at our support."
"For now," he added quietly.
Confusion rippled across Lagertha's face. Then understanding started to dawn.
"You're playing them against each other," she said.
"I'm keeping my options open," Bjorn corrected.
"Why?" Rollo's voice rose with frustration. "Why do we need to do any of this scheming? Why do we need to stay friendly with these people? They should be the ones—"
"Because the Southern kingdoms are forming alliances." Bjorn's tone cut through the room.
Everyone went still.
"What?" Rollo said.
"Telemark. Agder. They're right on our borders." Bjorn coldly said.
"I know where they are," Rollo said.
"Then you know they're scared we'll hit them next. So they're building a coalition against us." Bjorn said. "
He let them absorb that.
"How do you know this?" Lagertha asked.
"It's my job to know things before they happen." Bjorn shrugged. "They're trying to keep it quiet until they're ready. To hit us first, probably. But i don't think they will. Mostly to defend themselves if we come i think."
Ragnar's expression shifted. "Who else is joining them?"
"The worst scenario is everyone. The Svear and the geats might as well join this," Bjorn said. "The Danes too."
"The Svears," Rollo repeated. "I thought they all killed each other after Uppsala?"
"The chaos is over and the power struggle's settled." Bjorn's voice was matter-of-fact. "They are rebuilding their forces and making new alliances now."
He looked around the room. Met each set of eyes.
"We can handle enemies from one front" He paused. "But from four directions, the price will... I don't want to even think about it."
Nobody moved.
"So you want to keep the north friendly," Lagertha said.
"I want the north calm," Bjorn corrected. "I want them watching each other instead of watching us. I want them competing for our favor instead of uniting against us."
"Smart," Ragnar said quietly.
A long silence followed.
Lagertha nodded slowly. "How many ships?"
"Take four." Bjorn's tone left no room for argument. "And a hundred huskarls."
"That's too many," she said immediately. "Bjorn, they'll think we're coming to fight."
"Four ships isn't an invasion force."
"It's not exactly a friendly visit either. And a hundred men?" Lagertha shook her head. "Feeding them will strain their hospitality. It'll look aggressive."
"Good," Bjorn said.
"Good?"
"Let them strain." His smile was cold. "They'll stay with the Jarl who made this offer—what was his name. Forget it. I don't care about his name. But If he's bold enough to demand a marriage, he can bleed a little silver feeding my men."
"It's petty," Lagertha said.
Bjorn shrugged. He was a petty man.
Rollo opened his mouth, clearly about to say something.
But Ragnar spoke first. "I'll go with her."
The room went completely still.
Lagertha turned to look at her husband. "You don't have to—"
"I'll go," Ragnar said firmly.
Something passed between him and Rollo. Brief and tense. An old tension, something unspoken but you can feel it in the thick air.
Then Ragnar's eyes found his son's, and there was something in them Bjorn couldn't quite read. Displeasure maybe.
Bjorn held his father's stare for a long moment. Then nodded slowly. "Good. That's better anyway. You'll read the Jarls better than most."
"Someone has to make sure your mother doesn't start any wars," Ragnar said, and the tension broke slightly. Lagertha shot him a look.
"What about Frankia?" she asked, turning back to Bjorn. "I thought you were planning another raid. You always plan two raids each year."
"Plans change. I'm staying here. Floki and I and the two shipmasters need to finish the new ship design before winter hits. And I need to train the cavalry properly. I'ts a new type of fighting after all. And there are other things I need to work on." Bjorn tucked the map under his arm. "We're not raiding this year. But we are not doing nothing. We are consolidation what we have."
"The men will grumble," Rollo said finally. "They're hungry for more silver and glory, not drills."
"They just got silver two days ago. More than they have ever seen. If they don't like it, they can drink and complain and get fat over the winter." Bjorn sighed, massaging his temple.
"If a leader doesn't care about the dissatisfaction of his warriors is an arrogant one. But I suppose only you can afford to be that reckless, nephew." Rollo's voice dripped with envy that everyone in the room could taste.
Bjorn frowned. He couldn't tell if Rollo was testing him or simply being bitter.
"You forget whose leadership got us this far in the first place," Bjorn said. "And I didn't get here by trying to make everyone happy."
Bjorn locked eyes with Rollo. "If you have a better plan, bring it to the table. If not, go back to your home. You have responsibilities there."
Rollo stormed toward the gate. Ragnar glanced at the shadow of his brother as he vanished from the hall. Floki sat in silence, a smirk dancing on his face, while Lagertha watched her son with a deep frown.
"What?" Bjorn asked, meeting her gaze. "If he can't take it, he shouldn't start it."
"When do you want us to leave?" she asked, changing the topic.
"Three days," Bjorn said. "That gives you time to prepare and pick your gifts. I'll brief the huskarls."
"Three days," she repeated.
"Is it too fast?"
"No." She shook her head. "Three days is fine."
-x-X-x-
Bjorn watched the four ships disappear, their sails catching the morning wind. His mother stood at the stern of the lead vessel, Ragnar beside her, both already distant figures. Gyda had waved until the very last moment; his sister wanted to see new lands, and he hadn't refused her. Twenty-five men; his elite huskarls on each ship.
Now came the work.
He turned from the water and walked toward the makeshift paddock where the horses waited. Fifty-two Frankish warhorses, their coats still sleek despite the voyage, though their eyes showed stress. They were worth more than just silver. More valuable still in what they represented; the future of how wars would be fought.
Halvard, his head handler, was already at the fence when Bjorn arrived. A grizzled man in his forties, spitting into the dirt as he studied the animals. He'd spent years managing Kattegat's few horses; draft animals mostly, used for pulling carts. But nothing like these creatures though.
"The horses are beautiful", Halvard admitted, "but they are going to be difficult." He gestured toward them as he spoke, "they were stressed, confused and cold. Weeks crammed on ships, now in a place that smelled and sounded wrong."
Bjorn said. "They would adapt."
"Some would", Halvard agreed. "Byt you should be ready, Lord. Some wouldn't." He expected to lose ten. Maybe more. The weaker ones who couldn't handle the cold, who wouldn't eat Norse feed, who got sick or broke legs in unfamiliar terrain.
Bjorn nodded. They would give them the best chance possible.
The other handlers gathered. All experienced with horses, though none had dealt with warhorses trained for battle. The thralls were already building stables. Simple structures with thatched roofs and straw bedding to protect from rain and cold. They'd be done soon.
The real problem, another explained, was feed. These horses were used to Frankish grain—oats, barley, rich grass. They had some from the raids, but it wouldn't last through winter. Bjorn decided they would mix it gradually with what they had—Norse hay and fermented fish for protein. It would take a month to transition them, slowly shifting the ratio. The horses wouldn't starve themselves. Hunger was a good teacher.
They walked the fence line, planning. The aggressive stallions would be separated to prevent fights—different paddocks, rotated for exercise. One of them, a massive gray with a scar on its shoulder, snorted and tried to bite as they passed. That one would be trouble, one of his handler noted, but Bjorn expected that. They were warhorses. Aggression was bred into them.
They brought up another problem; the commands. The horses only responded to Frankish, to Latin words. Norse commands meant nothing to them. They would need someone who actually spoke the language properly. They had slaves who spoke that thankfully. Bjorn knows Latin, but he isn't going to spend his entire time on horses.
Then there was the matter of the warriors themselves. These were men who'd fought their entire lives on foot, who knew shield walls and ship combat. Norse culture had no real cavalry tradition; horses were for carts or quick overland travel, not battlefield charges.
The warriors would need as much training as the horses. There would be falls, kicks, broken bones. Some might refuse entirely, seeing it as beneath them or simply too difficult.
Bjorn had already considered this. He would select the younger warriors first, the ones eager to prove themselves, the ones who hadn't yet decided what kind of fighter they wanted to be. Make it an honor. A new elite unit. Once others saw the advantage; the speed, the shock of a mounted charge; they would want in.
But it would take time. Everything took time.
The training plan took shape over the next week as Bjorn worked with his handlers. They started with the basics—environmental adaptation first. Clean wounds with boiled water and herbal poultices. Gradual feed transition. Building the horses' resilience before attempting anything more complex.
Then came groundwork and basic obedience, which would take three to six months minimum. They would start on the ground—teaching the horses to yield to pressure, to stop and turn with halters made from leather and rope.
Desensitization would be critical. These horses needed to handle Norse elements—loud noises from banging shields, smoke from campfires, the presence of weapons. They would walk them near the ships, through the forests, across different terrain. Pair them gradually with riders in enclosed areas, focusing on balance and responsiveness without the weight of armor yet.
Halvard warned that horses might bolt or buck if commands confused them. Injuries could sideline trainers for weeks. Winter mud and ice would make footing treacherous.
Advanced riding and combat skills would take another year, maybe eighteen months. Progress to saddled rides using simple wooden saddles with stirrups—Bjorn had seen the Franks use them, and had brought several back.
Training for trots, canters, quick turns in open fields. Then war-specific drills—charging at straw dummies, navigating obstacles, carrying riders in full mail with axes and spears. Teaching the horses to kick and bite on command, reinforcing natural behaviors with careful timing.
Group training would come last. Small units of ten horses, learning formation riding. They would adapt lance tactics to work with flanking maneuvers, pursuit, ambush raids. Cross-training with ships for coastal attacks, learning to load and unload without panic.
A tenth of the horses might not adapt to the weather—maybe fewer, maybe more. But he would bring more next season. He would breed them, no matter how slow the process was.
He divided the cavalry concept in his mind as he watched the handlers work. Two-thirds would be heavy cavalry—shock troops for open warfare. They would carry lances as primary weapons, long and sturdy for couching during the initial impact. Axes or swords as secondary for melee after the lance shattered. Shields hung on saddles for protection during charges.
For armor, the riders would wear mail hauberks and helmets. The horses would have light barding, padded cloth or leather protecting vitals without adding too much weight.
The remaining third would be medium and light cavalry. Support roles to complement the heavies. Used for flanking maneuvers, pursuing routed enemies, serving as quick reserves. Since he already had dedicated scouts, these could focus purely on battle mobility.
They would carry shorter spears and javelins for throwing from horseback, plus axes for close combat. Some would train with bows; he had experienced archers now who could harass enemies before the heavy charge hit.
They would be faster, less resource-intensive, ideal if battle shifted to pursuit or if terrain got tricky. Less intimidating than the heavies, certainly, but still a significant advantage over infantry.
Basic readiness would take more than half a year. To be truly battle-proven, hardened and reliable? Two years minimum.
Bjorn accepted this. Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither would his cavalry.
After finalizing these plans, Bjorn turned to the new ship.
Four masterships were working on it, twenty shipbuilders with five years of experience, the carpenters, the smiths, the ropemakers, the laborers and finally support. More than a hundred and fifty man was working on this ship.
This new ship is the pinnacle of what Bjorn decided he could make with the current technology. It will be the apex predator :
Length: 31 meters – Total size from tip to tip. Longest possible with one oak spine (keel) plus a joined section (scarf joint: overlapped wood with 8 rivets at 1:10 angle). Any longer snaps in waves. Makes it slice through water fast, outrunning foes.
Width (Beam): 5.2 meters – Widest stable setup with overlapping planks (clinker style, like shingles). Past this, planks twist and leak under rivet stress. Gives room for extra crew without tipping.
Depth in Water (Draft): 0.9 meters when loaded – Shallow enough to beach anywhere or row up rivers. Deeper loses that edge. Perfect for surprise raids.
Side Height (Freeboard): 1.1 meters mid-ship – High for ocean waves (avoids flooding), low for jumping aboard enemy boats. Ideal balance for survival and fights.
Weight Capacity (Displacement): ~28 tons – Max load before internal ribs crack in side waves. Carries more loot and men than standard ships.
Crew: 78 people (70 rowers + 8 handlers) – One person every 0.4 meters along the sides. Absolute max without overcrowding.
Oars: 35 per side, 5-meter spruce wood with leather pads to reduce friction – Hits 17 knots (fast speed) in short bursts. Great for quiet attacks or no-wind spots.
Sail: 320 square meters wool, with roll-up lines (reefs) for storms, wooden strips (battens) for shape, and a rope (bowline) for against-wind sailing – 20% more power than basic sails. Covers long distances efficiently.
Ropes & Hardware (Rigging): Hemp ropes, wood guides, iron ring on mast – Simple, no fancy metal. Easy to fix at sea.
Inner Frame (Structure): 42 bent oak ribs every 0.7 meters, plus long supports – 40% tougher against twists than real ships. Survives huge storms.
Bottom Spine (Keel): T-shaped oak, 30 cm deep, joined section – Cuts side-drift by 25% when angled to wind. Keeps it straight and steady.
Steering: Side rudder (3.5-meter blade) with lever for double force – Instant turns. Dodges dangers like pros.