• We have updated our Community Code of Conduct. Please read through the new rules for the forum that are an integral part of Paradox Interactive’s User Agreement.
That's high praise in these circles, thank you! :)

Diablo 3 and our national constitution day (today! Go us!) is chiefly responsible for the lack of updates thus far. Aiming to have some more for you before or during the weekend.
 
Excellent AAR! I cant wait to see what the nobles do to their would be autocrat Queen. One of Harald and Tor's brothers married a princess right? Any chance that ...you know? the good ol' Queen could get shoved off the throne?
 
Really good AAR. :)
 
One of Harald and Tor's brothers married a princess right? Any chance that ...you know? the good ol' Queen could get shoved off the throne?

Harald is married to a Princess (Brigida, the Queen's aunt), and now has a son by her (Are) - and yes, that is at least what the good ol' Queen herself is afraid of. Harald and Tor have no brothers alive, after Skofte died young. If that's unclear I may have to make some edits to avoid future confusion. :p

Hello and thank you to the new faces!
 
- Skiningsal, Vestfold
April, 1113


Together, the four men gathered around a small table represented three fourths of the collected military strength Norway could muster. Only months earlier, this fort had housed the court of their common enemy, Queen Gyda. Her forces had already been overstretched and isolated at the outset of the war. The Jarl of Orkney ostensibly supported her, but the Icelanders had arrived in force on Orkney only days after the massacre at Viken, and thus prevented them from joining the war. The Queen was supported solely by the lend under her direct control, and the militarily impotent Jarl of Østlandet. Her uncle was still imprisoned following his rebellion, and so the Queen had appropriated his territories in Västerbotten – and that was where she had now fled, to the fairly remote eastern coast.

Bereft of soldiers and unoccupied holdings, the Jarls of Vestlandet, Trøndelag and Iceland had assumed she would fold, and – sufficiently humbled – never again attempt to weaken the Jarls while disguising her naked bid for power with some order from Kvitekrist.

But she hadn't. Instead, she had gone begging southwards, through the courts of Europe. In the end, the only troops she had been able to conjure up were a band of mercenaries. A band of Saxon mercenaries. Harald hoped she would at least appreciate the irony. The Saxon mercenaries were veterans from the failed invasions of England, many of whom had found themselves unable to simply return to farming after having spent their entire adult lives at war. Now war was their trade, and fate had brought them to Norway.

«And, unless something goes specacularly awry, on Norwegian soil is where they'll end their careers.»

Tryggve, Jarl of Østlandet, was infinitely more capable than his father, Prince Magnus Yngling. He had only barely been old enough to take part in the fighting during the last years of the Anglerland invasion, but had now started to go grey. From their uneasy partnership against a common enemy only a year before, Harald now counted Tryggve as a true friend.

The Jarl of Iceland grunted enthusiastically. The Haukadalur men were not famed their verbosity, but they represented Norway as it had been before the landnåm, when Iceland was colonized by youngest sons and outlaws. Arnvid was no different – precisely why Gyda had attempted to bring him to her side first, thereby inviting him to expose her plot, remained a mystery. Most of his men were still tied up in Orkney and Katanes, but the Icelander Jarl had taken a single ship and a few men across the North Sea to sit in on the War Councils.

Finally, there were the two Åsanemenn – Harald, the Jarl, and his right-hand man and brother Tor.

«The Queen of Mercenaries, people have taken to calling her.» Amusing as he found it, his voice was tinged with bitterness. Harald had hoped for a quick end to the war. A drawn-out civil war would only serve to weaken Norway as a while. Fortunately, the Danes and Swedes were busy fighting over scraps on the other side of the Baltic.

«They've landed by ship – in Västerbotten, wasting weeks just to get there. And now she's sending them back west. Apparently they flat out refused to cross the mountains... » Tor was interrupted by their mutual laughters. «... And so they'll swing south, conveniently allowing us to decide where we'll meet them.»
Tryggve stroked his beard. «And where is that? An ambush, maybe – or will they expect that?»

«They're professional soldiers, they're bound to expect ambushes. We, on the other hand, shouldn't overthink it. They might have a guide from Gyda's stock, but most of them don't know the lay of the land like we do.»

Harald tended to defer to Tor in military matters, but still offered a suggestion of his own: «They're bound to pass through a lot of valleys on their way south – what if we prick them just enough that they bleed several times, and only then committ to an ambush with the brunt of our forces?»

Tryggve and Arnvid looked ponderous. Tor nodded slowly. «Not bad. Unorthodox, but not bad. Ideally, they'll think we've exhausted our forces from the sieges and initial battles, and that we're trying to avoid meeting them on the field outright... And if they don't, they'll still be uneasy.»

«When will they be here?» croaked the Icelander Jarl.

«It'll be months, at the very least. I hope you brought plenty of drink.»


vikafjellet.jpg

Vikafjell, the common dividing line between the eastern and western reaches of southern Norway – which the Saxons refused to cross


- Somewhere in Västerbotten
February, 1114


Queen Gyda squinted at her makeshift warcamp. It was a testament to how uncomfortable her Uncle's holding was that she preferred her tent, even in winter, to his filthy manor house. Between the sun and the snow, she could barely see anything.

Her Saxons began marching southwest during the spring of last year, but she'd had no word of how they fared – for all she knew they were lost in some mountain still, never having seen battle. That was part of why she needed her gambit to come into play now.

The other part was that her useless relatives had refused to send any kind of assistance. She had been absolutely certain that her strong ties to the Danish throne would guarantee her their support – but they had politely refused, citing the 'important war for their overseas holdings, which the ravenous Swedes were again attempting to seize' – an important war that had lasted for almost thirty years, with only small pauses. Pointless!

And the church hadn't even deigned to send her some kind of monetary aid for her efforts in making Norway a true Christian Kingdom. Useless louts. Once again, she thought, she was left to her own devices. This was still salvageable. All she needed was for the Saxons to do their job – and...

«Vigleik!»

The slavering bishop hobbled closer to the Queen. Nominally, his fortunes had improved greatly since the start of the war – without her normal cadre of advisers, Gyda had been forced to elevate Vigleik ever further.

“Yes, Queen?”

“Have you found me those ruffians I need?”

“Well, yes, but -”

“But what?”

“They're the most loathsome, frightful band of monsters I have ever seen!”

“That's what I wanted, Vigleik. Loathsome, frightful, monstrous – just the sort.”

“They're not even Christians! They dress in bear furs and make sacrifices someone they call Ukko!

Gyda laughed. “That's no worse than what our own Jarls do, is it now? The more brutish and pagan they are, the better. As long as they remain as obviously Finnish as possible.”

“Yes, about that …” Vigleik folded his hands furtively. “What, exactly, are these ruffians going to do for you?”

“The kind of work I can't have my own men do. It's absolutely necessary, but a little – distasteful.”

Truth be told, she didn't find it at all that distasteful – southern rulers did this sort of thing all the time! Necessary, however, it certainly was. Her thrice-damned aunt had given Jarl Harald three children already - but only one a boy - and the rumours of their continued bedroom antics meant their brood was very much liable to grow. She couldn't allow that to happen. The Jarl was clever, but for some reason he didn't seem to realize just how strong a claim to the throne his sons by Brigida would have, through being the grandsons of Harald Hardråde. Gyda thanked God that she was even more clever than him.

Vigleik had secured the employ of some Finnish sellswords, indigenous to the Karelian lands Harald had conquered years before – the Åsanemenn were bound to suspect some unrelated act of resistance, not her own scheming hand. With Brigida, her children, and – if she got lucky, maybe the Jarl as well – dead, the tide of the war would turn in her favour as the Åsanemenn rushed to Karelia with what remained of their army to punish the locals.

“They're going to kill my aunt and her children. And the Jarl, and her brother, and anyone they can.”

Vigleik gaped. “But surely that's not a very Christian –“

They're not very Christian, dear Bishop. I do this in the service of God.”

The sole representative from the sellsword band had only ever met with Vigleik, who had given them a sealed, unsigned letter with their orders from Gyda. They wouldn't be able to trace this back to her.

“Of course.” The Bishop looked furtive. “But Queen, how … How will they get into Bergenhus and do their work? It is a castle, after all, with manned walls ...”

“Don't you worry about that, Bishop.” The Queen smiled. “I have a man on the inside – all it took for him to betray his family was the promise of being made Jarl when this is over.»


- Foot of Dovrefjell
Spring of 1115



dovre.jpg

Dovrefjell, further south, where the Saxons instead opted to cross.

After being poked and prodded for months as they passed through the mountains, a haggard fifteen hundred Saxons had come willingly to their doom when finally given the prospect of open battle. They had spilt out of a valley like a screaming horde, failing to notice the archers flanking them on the high ground. At the mouth of the valley, four thousand Norsemen had eagerly awaited their arrival.

The war had dragged on despite the lack of battles, and the men, as well as their commanders, all hoped this would prove to be the decisive engagement. Unless the Queen had hired even more mercenaries, she had no men left – the general impatience and war-weariness caused the Jarls to lose more men than they needed to, but they wanted a swift, decisive victory. When the few hundred Saxons who were left standing threw down their arms in surrender, they were put to the sword all the same.

Harald called the Jarls to his side. “Tell the men to return home for now. We'll have time to muster them again if the Mercenary Queen conjures up more servants. This year, I want to do our Midtvintersblot surrounded by my own blood – my wife grows restless, and my boy grows a head taller for every time I see him.”
Tor, Arnvid and Tryggve nodded in agreement. “I think we all feel the same,” Tor offered. Tryggve chuckled. “My wife may be well past her childbearing days, but I relish the prospect of seeing her again nonetheless. No harm in trying, after all!” The Icelander Jarl flashed a toothless grin in response.

“It's settled, then. We're going home – for now. The Queen can come crawling with her surrender, and if not, we'll sail for Västerbotten next spring.”

“I'll let the men know.” Tor left the makeshift council table and began bellowing for the attention of the men. Outraged protests from the unarmed Saxons as they were summarily cut down had subsided as they spoke.

“Burn the dead, and we'll head south for the coast.”
 
I'll admit I thought people would people would engage in some jolly co-speculation after this latest sequence. :p

Anyway: My final exam this semester is taking place this wednesday, so I expect the pace to pick up considerably once that's over with. At least one update should be ready before next weekend, as it's all plotted out and just needs writing.
 
-- Bergenhus festning
September 20th, 1115

At six, Are was considered an unusually bright child. He was good with numbers, good with words, wrote very well, and routinely beat older boys at sword practice. Everyone said he took after his father – but truth be told, he had barely known his father until he had unexpectedly returned home from the War a month earlier. The War was something the grown-ups talked about, and it was so important that it could be used to explain any annoyance, and excuse any failing. Why isn't father here? Because of the war. Why are there so many guards everywhere? Because of the war. Why is the food so bland? Because of the war.

So Are hadn't been all that impressed with his father when he rode in along with his party. In fact, he was a little disappointed that his uncle looked so much more formidable than his father. Over time, however, he had observed how they worked in tandem, and come to appreciate that they were like the two interlocking parts of a clever mechanism that made it work. They both had their set of talents, and working together brought out the best in them both. Are was vaguely aware that Halkjell wasn't his real brother, and so he often wondered if he would ever get a real brother who could help him run the Jarldom. So far he only had a sister, and Cecilia was just two years old.

“Are you awake, boy?”

His grandmother snapper her fingers in front of his face. Are snapped back to the present with a start. “Yes, grandmother!”

“Good. Keep reading and you'll be King one day.”

At 70, Ida Billung was a weathered crone, but that didn't stop her from taking an interest in the upbringing of her grandchildren. Truth be told, she had just about had to bring up Brigida as well, who had been right the strumpet when she arrived from Akershus. She had turned into a fine mother, even if she wasn't giving Harald as many children as Ida would have liked.

They were all in Brigida's chambers – she was rocking her daughter to sleep, while Ida used the occasion to tutor her grandson by the lamplight. It had been a long time since Ida had seen her family together like this – there was always some war, some council, something. And now there was even a civil war. It had amused Ida just how Norwegian she had become – when she had heard of what the Queen had done, she had been almost as outraged as Tor and Harald. Fifty years would do that to a woman. She suspected she wouldn't be around to see Are grow into a man, but if Brigida and Harald both did their part, he would be a fine Jarl.

She was utterly content. That was why, when she heard the commotion starting in the hallway, she laconically thought that of course – something just had to go wrong now. Brigida stood up and hurried over to the door, hissing. “What are they doing? They're going to wake her!”

Are turned and looked toward the door. His mothered opened it, and he expected her to shout at the guards.

“What –“ she said, sounding confused, before being cut off.

Are stood up, alert. Something was clearly wrong. His mother made a strange sound, and then he saw something protruding from the back of her dress. She toppled backwards into the room, and Are saw several men framed by the door, swords drawn. His mind was very clear on what he should do – run straight at them, dodge them before they knew where he was, and run for help! – but his body wasn't responding. He froze. His grandmother, however, did not. She calmly picked up their reading lamp and flung it at the nearest man. Splashed with oil, the fire caught his beard, and he tumbled to the ground screaming, as Ida slapped her grandson square across the face. “Are you daft? Run!

The slap brought Are out of his reverie, and without looking back, he ran. He tumbled over the blazing body on the floor, and barely kept his footing as he flew out the doorway. Suddenly men were shouting in a tongue he didn't know, and he could feel hands grabbing after him – one came close, and would have caught his hair if he didn't keep it cropped short – and then he was out in the hallway. He set his mind to nothing but running as fast as he could, all too aware that several pairs of feet were thundering after him.

Then he hit something and, with a blinding crack, tumbled to the floor. That's it, he thought for a fleeting moment. They got me. His ears were ringing, but he thought he could hear swords being unsheathed. He forced his eyes open, expecting to see those same swords pointed at him. Instead he saw several unknown men wearing the guardsman uniforms of Bergenhus, all standing upside down – they had all halted some five yards away from him. He was on the floor. Above him stood a very large man.

“Oh, I see,” he heard his Uncle say. Are touched his nose. It was bleeding – he suspected he had ran into his uncle's knee. He quickly scampered behind Tor. More guardsmen were arriving – real guardsmen, with familiar faces. “I thought there were a few too many of you,” Tor said, and swung at the nearest assassin. Are pulled himself to his feet, and rounded a corner, away from the skirmish, just as the household guard threw themselves into the fray alongside Tor.

Further down the hall he saw his father, flanked by two guardsmen. Are couldn't see their faces. At the sight of Are, Harald broke into a run. “Where have you been? There's a fire, you should – who bloodied your nose?”

The amount of things Harald needed to know straight away was enough that Are wound up simply babbling.

“Slow down, son." Harald put a hand on Are's shoulder. "What was that about the guardsmen?”

“Some of them aren't real guardsmen! They're strangers! They killed mother!”

“They're – what?”

Are could see his father's mind working, and only a slight twitch in his eye gave any indication that he understood, before he grabbed Are by the scruff of his shirt and sent him tumbling across the floor, before immediately drawing his sword and spinning around on the spot. The slash hit air – but only because the nearest guardsman, who had drawn his sword and crept closer while Harald's back was turned, was agile enough to bound backwards and avoid it.

“Who sent you?” Harald barked as he entered a defensive posture. The assassins had dropped any pretense of being actual guardsmen, and were advancing on Harald. Harald feinted, and the nearest assassin took the bait, lunging forward. The riposte opened the assassin's throat, and his comrade began backing away, looking unnerved.

“Throw down your arms, tell us who paid you, and I swear you'll die quickly,” Harald offered. The sellsword grunted in response, and continued backing away.

Are looked down the hall in the other direction, and saw Tor gesturing for half of his guardsmen to double back. Smoke had begun billowing from further down the hall – the lamp must have started a fire. The lamp – what had happened to his grandmother? As the guardsmen filed past Are, he started back down towards his mother's chambers. He could hear his father bellowing – “I want him alive!” – as he ran, trailing after his Uncle.

As he came closer to the chamber, the smoke stung his eyes, and he started coughing. He heard crying – his sister? But that couldn't be, it was getting closer. He didn't have the time to ponder it any further; for what felt like the tenth time that day, someone grabbed him by the scruff and hauled him along.

“Nothing for you to do here, boy,” his uncle growled. Men hauling buckets of water were running past them. The crying continued. With the smoke gone, Are could see Cecilia, resting uneasily on her uncle's vast shoulder.

“But grandmother is in there! And mother!”

“I said there's nothing for you to do.” He let out a long sigh. “If you don't go running back, I'll let you down.”

Are said nothing.

“Suit yourself.”


***


As soon as the castle had been swept and no more unknown guardsmen or servants had been found, everyone not working to put out the fire had gathered in the courtyard. Activity was frantic. Tor and Harald were each talking to men-at-arms, trying to restore some semblance of order.

“Is there anyone not accounted for?”

“We can't find your son –“

Are?” Harald's voice nearly cracked. He had been here only moments earlier! He looked around frantically, and right enough – Are stood only a few paces away, still with that blank look. He had been that way ever since knowing that his mother and grandmother were both dead.

“No, the other one, older – the bastard. Halkjell.”

“Where's he gone to? Did he mention he was leaving?”

A tense silence settled in the courtyard.

“He was here before, but he ain't saying nothing about leavin', m'lord,” a rural guardsman piped up from the crowd. And uh – can I speak frankly, Jarl?”

“Of course.”

He was the one brought them new men on board, see. Some weeks ago. Said they were his, uh, 'person-al ret-new'. Said right then I wasn't trusting them – talk funny, look funny, only talkin' to one another...”

“Wait. Do you mean that every man killed or captured here today was brought in as Halkjell's retinue in our absence?”

“Yes, Jarl, that is what I'm saying.”

Tor and Harald exchanged a glance.

“The bastard,” Tor remarked. “Told you he was a mistake.”

Harald was grinding his teeth. “I'll gut him myself, when I get my hands on his turncloak hide... “ He trailed off. “Are any of the Finns alive?” he bellowed.

“One, Jarl!”
The second of the assassins who had attacked Harald in the hallway had wisely decided to surrender when faced with ten-odd armed guardsmen.

“Take him to the dungeon.”

“Why don't you go and see to your son?” Tor offered as they walked. “I'll make the Finn talk.”

“It's my responsibility –“

“Your wife was just murdered, Harald. Jarl or no, you should probably talk to your son.”

Harald halted. “If you're sure?”

“I am. Go on now.”

Tor had a certain reputation for being able to elicit answers from the unwilling. Harald thought the work a little distasteful, if necessary, and was perfectly content letting his brother interrogate their prisoner. Tor found his brother in the Jarl's quarters. A maidservant was watching over Cecilia, who was now soundly asleep. Are was twisting and turning in his sheets, much to his father's dismay.

“He told me everything I wanted to know, but I think we could have pieced it together without his help, eventually.”

“Well?”

“They were Finns. He didn't know much about who hired them – their boss went alone to meet with a contact. They were paid in advance, with Swedish coin.”

“Swedish?”

“Yes. I suppose it could be misdirection. Either way, their task – as far as they knew – was to kill as many of the Jarl's family as possible.”

“And Halkjell?”

“He was their inside contact. Brought them in, made them a part of the household Guard in our absence. So they knew the layout of the Castle reasonably well, although they assumed they'd have more time before we arrived.”

Harald shook his head. “I can't believe we let this happen.”

“War narrows your view. You can't keep tabs on everything.”

“This isn't everything, it's our home – my family.”

Our family. That's my nephew they almost they killed.”

“Of course.”

“Back to the assassins. They're not really assassins. Average sellswords at best. It's no wonder they made a botch of it, although – if Are hadn't gotten away, things could have turned out very differently...”

“I'd rather not think about that. What about the fire?”

“Not their idea at all. Our mother threw a lamp at them.”

Harald smiled. “I'm sure they can fit at least one old woman into Valhall.”


- Västerbotten, The Queen's Warcamp
October, 1115


Halkjell Haraldsson – denied the right to the Åsane name because of his illegitimate birth – had arrived in Västerbotten with only a single ship. The ship was his; the only favour his father had ever done him. He had accepted the Queen's offer with nary a doubt. The woman his father had married hated him as much as he hated her, and that little runt they had bred together would become Jarl. His father had never been unkind, but never truly kind either. He looked on him as precisely what he was – a mistake, made during in the drunken stupor of youth. If they all had to die in order for him to secure some manner of position for himself, so be it.

Of course, the sellswords the Queen had provided hadn't done anything right. Sure, they had killed Brigida – and only her. Not his father, his uncle, or his half-brother. They had killed his grandmother, for some reason. That made him furious – she had been the only one bearing the Åsane name who treated him with any sort of kindness.

In a way, the Queen's rage was completely understandable. But her shouting still made him angry.

“They killed one of them – the least important one!”

“Yes, but –“

“But what? But what, bastard?

Why did she have to call him that? “When do I get the Jarldom?”

“The – what? Are you daft? You didn't kill the Jarl, so of course you get nothing!

He wished she would stop screaming. “But you swore that –“

If the Jarl and his heir died!” the Queen screamed, right into his face. “Then I would name you Jarl! ”

Halkjell shied away from the screaming woman. Suddenly she composed herself, and continued calmly:

“Now, of course, I can't do that. That would implicate me, and that would be terrible for my reputation. As for you... “

Halkjell sensed a glimmer of hope, and clung to it. “Yes?”

“It can't be known that you were here. But I'll reward you for your services – you're a traitor now, a turncloak, and your dear father will surely have figured out that you are missing, and why. So he probably wants you dead.”

Halkjell's eyes widened. She's going to kill me right here.

“So I propose the following: I have a relative in Sweden, a Jarl – who has an unmarried daughter. She's very charming. Very pretty, maybe not too bright – drools a little. It's been difficult to get her married, and she is past twenty. You'll make a fine husband for her, I think.”

“You want me to – marry an imbecile?”

“Yes. In fact, I don't care who you marry or where you go, as long as you leave my camp and my realm. This is a very generous offer. If you refuse now, there are no second chances.”

“I – yes. I accept.”

“Splendid. A ship will take you there immediately.”

“Can't it wait until tomorrow, at least?”

“No. Go on.”

The Queen walked briskly back into her tent, leaving Halkjell alone to curse his life.

Gyda wanted to break something. The sellswords could have ended the war, removed a dangerous pretender, and – just solved everything. Instead, all they had done was to kill her aunt and an old lady. Admittedly, she was glad that Brigida was dead, but that alone solved none of her problems. And from now on, the Åsanemenn wouldn't let their guards down. None of this was really attributable to Halkjell, and she knew it – but it felt good to lay the blame at someone's feet nonetheless. The Bastard boy had played his limited part perfectly, but the Finnish sellswords had been useless. She had also received word that her Saxons mercenaries had been butchered to a man as they descended Dovre.

There was really no question anymore - she had lost the war. She picked up a goblet and threw it at the tent wall. It didn't break.
 
The more people hate Halkjell, the better. He's got a lot of villainous qualities - such as his comically evil-looking moustache, which he is basically the only person in Norway to sport. :p

By my estimate, things should be coming to a head in about two updates!
 
Sorry for the slowness – applied for a teaching job on a whim and suddenly there were interviews and stuff. Let's try to catch up, and maybe climb on top of all these Game of Thrones AARs.

---

The Queen's Warcamp, Västerbotten
May 17th, 1117


Jarl Harald Aresson av Vestlandet wasn't feeling particularly triumphant, even though they were here to confirm what everyone had known to be true for years – the Queen had lost the civil war. The Papal decrees would be abolished. Most of all, he was weary. The war had dragged on, and only luck had kept the Swedes and Danes fighting one another over scraps of the South Baltic instead of swooping in and establishing dominion over Norway. Of course, Queen Gyda appeared oblivious to this threat. His wife – whom he had come to love dearly – was dead, and as Jarl, the task of sifting through potential brides for when his period of mourning was over, fell to him. He was sure they were all nice girls, and some of them were supposedly very pretty – but they'd never compare to Brigida. That, and as Halkjell had so aptly demonstrated, half-siblings were less inclined to loyalty than true siblings. At least any children borne by his new wife, when he settled on one, would be legitimate. Halkjell's betrayal stung. They had sent no small amount of men to pacify Karelia for good, but the damage to the house of Åsane was already done.

Harald rubbed his forehead and tried to focus on the present. They had arrived some days before, and the Queen hadn't bothered offering any armed resistance. She knew she had lost the war – all she had wanted was a few days to prepare for the negotiations. Arnvid and Tryggve had arrived as well, representing their respective Jarldoms. The Jarl of Orkney had wisely slunk back to his islands. The negotiations would start at noon today – the sun was high, he expected the Queen to arrive at any moment – but he had yet to puzzle out precisely what her preparations entailed. Hopefully she knew that whatever terms the Jarls decided on, she would have to accept.

The Queen was ahorse, and trotted onto the hill flanked by her advisors – Harald recognized only the toady priest, Vigleik.

“Jarls.”

No one curtsied or bowed.

“Queen,” replied Harald.

“I am ready to hear your terms.”

Harald nodded. “I speak for the Jarls. Our terms are simple – rescind your papal decree and swear an oath on your ancestors' honour that you will never attempt to weaken the Jarls by giving concessions to the Church. In return, we will lay down our arms and return your holdings to your control. You will remain Queen until the day you die – but upon your death, your family must accept the heir appointed by the Jarlsting as the legitimate new King – or Queen.”

Gyda's eyes narrowed. “But none of you will support my Sanna's claim to the throne!”

Harald was incredulous, but managed to remain outwardly calm. “Your Danish daughter's claim was weak even before the war, Queen. Surely you don't expect us to throw our lot in with her now?”

“She has the support of the Jarl of Orkney! And mine!”

“That makes two votes. The remaining three all sit on my side of the table.”

Gyda clenched her teeth. “You ...”

“Considering your actions, our terms are generous. I strongly suggest you accept them. You'll be Queen for as long as you live – that means you have more than enough time to make the necessary arrangements to ensure that your daughters will live good lives. Good lives, somewhere other than in Norway.”

Suddenly Gyda sounded more like a scolded child than a Queen. “You just want to see our line ended,” she pouted.

Harald wanted to throw his arms in the air and scream. “Your branch of the line ended when you married the Dane, but the house of Yngling lives on with Tryggve's descendants.”

Gyda's gaze flailed wildly between Vigleik, Harald, and the other Jarls present. After a moment, the Queen spun her horse around, and managed to compose herself by the time she met Harald's gaze again.

“Very well, Jarl. I accept your terms.”

“Wonderful. Then the war is finally over, and we can turn our attention to where it should have been these years – pre-empting Swedish conquest in Finland...”

The Queen's temper flared up. “I'm Queen! I decide where we should turn our attention!”

Tryggve nodded, and said consolingly: “Of course, Queen. The Jarl merely offered you some advice. That is, after all, our calling.”

The Queen harrumphed and made to turn away, before remembering something. She turned back.
“I want to return to Skiningssal, Jarl Harald. I hope you will instruct your men to vacate it as soon as possible. And hopefully clean up whatever messes they have made in my absence.”

“I'll sail down there immediately and bring my men home.”

“Good.” Queen Gyda eyed the three Jarls she had just made peace with. “I will send for you if I want you to return to your positions on my Council.”

The Jarls bowed and began making their way back to the shore, where they had landed.

“So what now, Harald?” inquired the Icelander Jarl. “Your bastard boy must be hiding somewhere, I'm sure we could find him –“

Harald shook his head. “I'll deal with Halkjell later. Right now I suspect the royal treasury is in shambles after the malhandling those lackwits in Gyda's council gave it.”

“You think she'll put you right back on the council?” Tryggve looked both amused and sceptical.

“Now, more than ever she is going to need a set of very competent advisers – I suspect we'll all be on her council in short order. Just wait.”

In the midst of their chortling, Harald felt a stab of red-hot pain in his gut. It was over before he had the time to wince, but he was certain now – he wasn't imagining it. He tried to remember when it had started – a few years ago? Later? Whenever it was, it didn't hurt as much then, so he had continued to ignore it. As before, he shrugged it off. A bit of stomach pain wasn't going to kill him.


Stegeborg, Östgöterland
May 1117


The Jarl of Östergötland, Markus af Sverker, had died mere weeks before Halkjell arrived at his castle in Stegeborg. The illness hadn't discriminated – it had taken the Jarl, his wife, and their eldest, imbecile daughter – the one Halkjell was supposed to marry. Halkjell could hardly believe his luck.
For all purposes, the Jarl of Östergötland was now a girl of ten years: Karin af Sverker.

Halkjell had almost been barred from entering, but Karin had intervened personally – much to the distress of her aunts. The late Jarl had been an only child, but his wife had two sisters. Asta and Ulvhilde were unmarried shrews who, according to Karin, couldn't have been more pleased with the recent deaths. They had assumed a joint regency over Karin, and the young Jarless was never privy to the decisions they made.

This was what Karin had spent the last hour telling Halkjell. In the exiled Norwegian, she saw her chance to oust her usurping aunts. Halkjell couldn't go back home, and with Gyda planning to make peace with his father, he couldn't ask her for any kind of help or advice either. He was left to his own devices.

“So you see my problem, Halkjell?” Karin tried her best to be womanly and alluring.

“I see more than just one problem – but yes.”

“So, would you like to help me solve them?”

“What do you have in mind, Jarless?”

Karin braced herself. This would be the hard part. “Since I am formally the Jarless, I am free to promise myself in a betrothal to whomever I please. My aunts can't stop that – though I'm sure they will try.”

Halkjell didn't catch on. “Do you want me to carry a message somewhere?”

“No. I want you to accept a betrothal between us.”

“What? A betroth … But you're just a – child!”

Karin sighed in exasperation. “Yes, that is the idea of betrothals – you'll marry me on my sixteenth name day. By then, I won't be a child.”

“Why would I do that?”

“If we are betrothed, you can stay at court. While you are here, our betrothal and the fact that you are of age will allow you to assume the regency.”

Halkjell nodded slowly. “And your aunts?”

“I would rely on you to defend me from their schemes until I am of age. You know how to fight, right?”

Halkjell nodded, and patted his sword belt. “I was well trained.” His hulking uncle had taught him.

“Good. Because to assume the regency you may have to challenge one of my aunts to single combat – of course, they won't fight, they'll use a champion.”

Halkjell frowned. “Will their champion be a skilled fighter?”

Karin shrugged. “I imagine they'll use one of the guardsmen who were loyal to mother. I don't know much about fighting, I just hope you're better at it than whoever they pick.”

They sat in silence for a while. Karin broke it. “Please? When we marry, you'll be the Jarl. And I'll be a sixteen-year old virgin. It is said that my mother was quite beautiful in her youth.”

Even if he had a choice, Halkjell thought, this wouldn't have been a bad bargain. He'd have a life, a place at a court – he looked at Karin. She was actually quite pretty. Wasn't she? She had fine features, a shock of dark hair, and a velvety voice – her shape wasn't very womanly, but six years from now … And he would be a Jarl. All he had to do was kill some Swedish guardsman. He could do that, couldn't he? If not, he would die a warrior's death. Good enough, he decided.

“I'll do it. I'll agree to a betrothal, and – all that.”

Karin could have screamed with joy, but remained as graceful and ladylike as she could. “Wonderful!”
She could only hope that he really did know how to fight. This could be her last, best chance to rid herself of her aunts. She needed them gone now, before they tried to poison her, or have her declared insane. She looked at the Norwegian again. He was kind of dashing, wasn't he?
Maybe this betrothal wouldn't be so bad.


Bergenhus festning
December 25th 1117


Shivering from the biting cold, Kunegunda Poraj pulled her enormous fur cloak around her, much like Ida Billung had done some fifty years before. Kunegunda was the daughter of a Polish Duke. Her father hadn't been able to see any downsides to marrying her off to this cold, wintry hell: The Duke, or Jarl as they were called here, of Vestlandet was powerful, clever, and well-connected, and willing to support her father in any military endeavour. Word of the Jarl's successful opposition against his unwise Queen had spread through the courts of Europe like wildfire, and the recent loss of his wife had made many a lord very interested in promising him their daughter. Kunegunda herself could see at least one downside to it all – her new husband had become a widower not because his wife fell to an illness or died in childbirth, but because she had been murdered in her own bedchambers. That was a fate Kunegunda was not eager to share, and so she had protested vehemently to her father, to little avail. She had gone north by ship, and been instructed to carry herself like a proper lady. No screaming or crying.

It could certainly have been worse, all things considered. Harald was a kind man, if solemn and preoccupied. His mother less son, Are, treated Kunegunda respectfully, if a little distantly. Her new, extended family had all treated her very well, but even now, almost a year after the marriage had been consummated, she still felt ill at ease. She wasn't sure if it was the cold, or the strangeness of the northern customs, or perhaps that their partaking in Christian rites felt forced and insincere – she simply had trouble settling down.

Now, they were celebrating Christmas – Jul, they called it here. She suspected they had celebrated something around this time long before they embraced the Christian faith, because the rituals had an air of something ancient and terrible around them, even with all the crosses on display and some perfunctory preaching being done.

Her husband and his giant brother were butchering livestock in preparation for the feast. She was unsure if she would be able to eat much. Months ago, a child had quickened in her womb – their wedding night had been a productive one, at least. The downside was that she now wobbled around precariously instead of walking with her normal, springy gait, and the nausea came in great waves when she least expected it. The smell of meat tended to make it worse. She wanted to complain to Harald, but for once he looked peaceful – laughing as Are tried and failed to butcher a small goat, who broke free and ran madly into the crowd gathered in the courtyard.

Her husband had a very strange sense of duty, that kept him away from her and Bergenshus most of the time. It was obvious he hated the Queen, but he still did most of the actual running of the Kingdom, with a kind of grudging acceptance. The Queen was a lacklustre administrator with no sensible ambitions, and Harald was adamant that Norway's continued power had to be asserted somehow. She thought she had heard Harald and Tor talk about making preparations to conquer more of Finland – whatever the Swedes hadn't yet claimed. Kunegunda's only prior experience with the other northern Kingdoms were with the southernmost; the ones her father always referred to as “The accursed Danes”. Here, the Danes were considered much less dangerous than the Swedes, who – simply put – had more land and better armies.

Harald walked over to his young wife. She arranged her features in a warm smile, though the scents from the feast being prepared were already making her feel unwell.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Yes – or … “ she looked down at her protruding belly.

“What? Oh – if you aren't feeling well, I can take you inside?”

“No,” she waved him away. “That would be silly. I just need to sit down for a bit.”

“If you're sure?”

“Yes, husband, I am sure.” she smiled wearily. “Go and teach your other son how to butcher goats – I'll take care of your unborn one for a while yet.”

“How do you know it's a boy?”

She patted her belly. “I just do.”

Harald suddenly grimaced. Kunegunda cocked her head. “What was that, husband?”

“It's – nothing.”

“It's your gut again, isn't it?”

“I told you – it's nothing.”

He put on a brave smile, and walked back to the goats. Kunegunda closed her eyes, and said a quick prayer for her husband and unborn child. She hoped God paid attention to this part of the world, too.
 
My initial count was a bit off - it looks like we'll need at least a few more updates before we reach the proper climax of this "arc". So in the meantime, here's a simple family tree for the av Åsane house, in preparation for the couple of new names to be introduced next time. Please let me know if it's too messy to be legible or understandable. :p



Image is 1200x900ish, so clickable thumb today.