A Song of Mostly Ice

Intermission II - History Lessons​

This is just to hold you all over until the next proper update, and because the idea of «Rest of the World» summary appealed to me. It's going to be written in the style of History textbooks from within the alternate universe established by the AAR – kind of like my other AAR. If you don't want this «out of narrative» look at things, none of the information here is required to enjoy the story.


Excerpt from A treatise on Medieval Scandinavia, «The War for Mecklenburg – The Linchpin of Scandinavian history?»

«... In order to appreciate precisely how this war over a seemingly insignificant speck of land on the southern shores of the Baltic Sea is held by many historians to be a defining moment in the wider history of Sweden, Denmark, and Norway – Scandinavia as a whole – one must understand the natural tensions between the three powers. A simple look at a map of de facto borders and territorial control between c. 1123 to 1141 around the Baltic sea should illustrate the point:




In the east, all of Finland was being gradually laid claim to by Sweden and Norway, forming a serpentine, constantly shifting border. Across the narrow strips of land connecting Finland with the easternmost populated regions of the north, the Bulgar steppe nomads had risen to notoriety, and their thirst for expansion would eventually lead them west, as they were sandwiched between the much more powerful Rurikovich Rus to the south and the towering Cuman horde to the east.

Queen Gyda of Norway did little expansion in her own right, owing perhaps to a high degree of internal tension during her reign. Her Jarls' ambitions were seemingly boundless – much of the conquests in Finland, all of the Kola as well as the unrelated expansion into Scotland were all undertaken by various Jarls. With Sweden's potential for northward expansion checked by a looming Norway, the natural venue for territorial ambition became the southeast Baltic. That very same area was also the only potential venue for Denmark to expand. The Danish throne was never in a position to challenge the Holy Roman Empire to the south, and locked in a state of smoldering conflict with a vigorous Poland to control most of the Baltic.

Together, all of these political factors made the Southeast Baltic fertile breeding ground for conflict. While the territories were initially populated by remnants of Pre-Christian faith, the Pagan Purgings quickly gave way to a string of Dano-Swedish and Dano-Polish wars.

Norway would typically have had little interest in expansion south of the Baltic, but Queen Gyda's ties to the Danish throne implied certain obligations – particularly as the Danes were routinely outmatched by the Swedes without Norwegian assistance.

... "

Excerpt from A treatise on Medieval Scandinavia, «Overview of Europe and the Near East around 1125»

"... At this time, the dominant powers in central Europe were the Kingdom of France, and the loose confederacy of German Duchies and Kingdoms united by their belief that they were the true successor to Rome – The Holy Roman Empire. Their possession of almost all of North Italy and role as protector of the Papacy from Muslim aggression lends validity to their claim, but the Holy Roman Emperor was usually neither Holy nor Roman, and only rarely an autocrat.

In Iberia, the Christian powers were rapidly waning under a Muslim onslaught similar to that which had originated in North Africa and rapidly consumed Sicily and Apulia. France, too, expended much military strength reinforcing Barcelona and the ever shrinking Christian Statelets. This is generally assumed to be the reason why France barely expanded at all, only making minor inroads into Britanny.



In England, the Godwins solidified their hold on the throne in the immediate aftermath of succesfully beating back two invasion. In keeping with Saxon tradition, the infighting soon resumed – and while the Godwins would remain on the throne, England was always boiling with tension, on the brink of civil war. Ireland was gradually being dominated by the Dukes of Munster, who would attempt to forge a coherent realm amidst the Irish statelets, only to later have their work undone by foreign meddling. In Scotland, the Jarl of Orkney made significant inroads on the behalf of Norway, trading Caithness for all of Moray, seriously damaging the reputation and power of the Dunkeld Kings.



The other political entity viewing themselves as the true successor of Rome, The Byzantine Empire, was thriving in the face of adversity. At this time, still not at its territorial peak, it stretched from the Adriatic in the West to the Caspian Sea in the east, almost completely encircling the Black Sea along the way.



..."



Excerpt from On The historicity of Norwegian Sagas, «Første Aressoge (The first Are's Saga)»:

«... Thus there can be no doubt about the historicity of Are (I) av Åsane, in the sense that he was an actual historical person, and that his meteoric rise to power would become historically significant indeed, for all of Scandinavia. His life and achievements, however, have accrued a kind of mythos – as reflected in the sagas – that are at best romanticized retellings; at worst pure, fanciful fiction. For instance, it is true that Are was «The King's Man», but only in the most literal sense: He served in Harald Hardråde's «Hird», the norse standing armies afforded (at first) only to rulers, before being granted the Bergenhus len by the King. The Sagas, on the other hand consistently establish Are as being the King's de facto right-hand man from around 1066, offering counsel and fighting alongside him in battle - even in battles fought at times when a multitude of other records have clearly established that Are was in Norway, not England, marshaling troops for the war.

Famous quotes such as «I have two sons, but only one county» is impossible to verify exactly, but the early proliferance of that particular quote – first seen in Ida Billung's (very brief) personal journal, later in both Harald av Åsane's notes and Harald's son Are's (II) significant work on the subject of his ancestry – lends it a higher degree of credibility than similar weighty utterings and oneliners prevalent in saga literature."

This is probably going to be my last update before I leave on a holiday (going to Ireland, ostensibly not to pillage this time), enjoy:



Bergenhus festning
June 20th, 1129

Four years passed without the Queen stirring. Are and Boleslava had – as Harald predicted – gotten along very well as soon as their mutual reservation gave way to affection. Even so, Boleslava had taken long to adjust. Norway had greeted her with some of the most bone-chilling winters Are could recall, and his wife had insisted that the cold was somehow colder here than in her homeland. When she wasn't complaining about the cold, she had been either in a foul, spiteful mood, or constantly on the verge of tears. They had talked earnestly about the possibility of Boleslava travelling back to Gardarike, either temporarily or indefinitely, which seemed like the sensible thing to do if she was miserably homesick – but in the end she had refused. – well, her company when she wasn't in one of her moods – but her refusal to go did little to convince him of her well-being.

Then, suddenly, about a year ago, it was as if something fell into place. She left her chambers voluntarily, talked with anyone and everyone, and made great strides in learning the finer points of the language. It wasn't long before she insisted on taking over the household administration, putting her quick head to good use – and freeing up much of Are's time. She went from a misanthropic pariah to a consummate Jarl's wife in a matter of months. Are was at a loss to explain why.

The one part of their relationship that had always worked, was the one that took place in their bedchambers. Are and Boleslava had been instantly compatible, but even as their fumblingly youthful efforts had matured and intensified, Are remained heirless. Until now, he thought, pacing restlessly up and down the hallway outside Boleslava's chamber. From within, he could hear his wife alternate between hoarse, agonized screams, and cursing in both the Norwegian and the Rus tongues at her midwives.

Between trying to produce an heir and trying to help Boleslava adjust, Are had been kept from most of what he had planned to do when he was Jarl. A brief Finnish campaign had netted substantial, if lightly populated territories, and solidified their hold the region. Kola was Are's next goal – but during the preparations, Boleslava had announced her pregnancy, and Are wasn't content to hand the reins of the venture to someone else. His uncle understood and respected Are's need to establish himself as a leader, and hadn't pressed the point, even though they both knew Tor was perfectly capable of taking Kola.

Lost in thoughts about Finland and managing his Jarldom, Are realized with a start that the screams from within had subsided, and burst through the door. He almost ran down a midwife. They both curtsied, and shuffled out of the room.

“Look!” Boleslava called from under the covers, motioning for Are to come closer. “You have a daughter!”

Are's first inclination was a slightly crestfallen one – he had hoped for a son. He walked over, and as soon as he laid his eyes on the tiny creature in Boleslava's arms, he forgot what he had been worrying about. “I know what to name her,” he announced.

“Do tell.”

“For my grandmother – Ida.”

“That doesn't sound very … Local?”

“No, she was from Sachsen - southeast of Denmark.

“Really? You'll have to tell me about that.”

“Well – I was a scant boy of ten, and one night -"

“Husband?” Boleslava interrupted.

“Yes?”

“Not now.”




Skiningssal, Vestfold
July, 1129

«Sanna, come here, darling.»

Queen Gyda's eldest daughter and heir was a woman grown, now 27 years old. She was plump, dandied, and looked like a younger Gyda – she was the most precious thing in the world. Sanna's sister Grethe was eighteen, clubfooted, and looked much like her aptly named father, Glum. She was always moping around, filling poor Sanna's head with lies and worries. Gyda tried her best to replace it with the kind of skills she would need to rule a growing Kingdom, but it just wouldn't stick.

Sanna shuffled into Gyda's study, looking disconcerted. “Mother?” she said.

“Yes, dear?”

“Grethe says I won't be Queen.”

“Oh, that scamp –“ Gyda reined herself in. “But Sanna, I have told you so many times – you mustn't listen to your sister, her jealousy gets the better of her. And that foot, too...”

“She's not jealous.” Sanna pouted. “She doesn't want to be Queen, she says, but she says I won't be either.”

Gyda took a deep breath. “I have told you –“

Grethe burst through the door unanounced, dragging her right foot. “Why do you keep telling her she'll be Queen? You have to know it'll never happen, you're not that deluded.”

“I don't recall inviting you in here, daughter.”

“No, you never do.” Grethe's grin was bitterly triumphant.

“She's doing it again!” Sanna screamed, pointing an accusotary finger at Grethe and gesturing wildly. “I was here first, I was talking to mother –“

Grethe cut her off expertly. “Are you going to cry again, Sanna?” Sanna's features crumpled inwards. Grethe laughed. “Yes, you are!”

Sanna hid her face, shouted a teary “No!” and stormed out of the room.

Gyda glowered at her youngest daughter. “You are a cruel child.”

“You're a terrible Queen and a worse mother.”

Gyda lashed out quicker than Grethe had anticipated, and walloped the young woman square across the face. Reeling, Grethe's weight fell on her bad foot, and she toppled over.

“You dare!?” Gyda screamed, as tears trailed down her cheeks.

Grethe gathered herself up and stood, rubbing her face. “I heard you talking to the priest. And I also know you didn't tell him everything.”

“What do you mean?” Gyda hissed, wiping off her face.

“About what you're really going to do if the Jarls agree to send aid to the Danes.”

“Did you read my journal –”

“Even if you can get the Jarls to support you in that venture, they'll waste no time in leaving to protect their own holdings – and most of them will probably side with Are av Åsane rather than you.”

No, they won't. This doesn't concern them, it's a private matter. If he agrees to return the county to its rightful owner peacefully –“

“It's like you've forgotten how these people rose to power in the first place. His grandfather came from nothing, and now Jarl Are is the most powerful Jarl in Norway – precisely because they're anything but peaceful.”

Gyda was growing frustrated with her petulant daugther. “Look, Grethe, I know you read much, but you can't possibly know –“

“You'd be surprised, mother.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“That I know a thing or two.”

Gyda eyed Grethe suspiciously. “Like what?”

“Like how you tell Sanna that the only reason you lost the war was because the Saxon mercenaries betrayed you.”

“They did,” Gyda said triumphantly. Of all the things...

“There are two thousand corpses at the foot of Dovre who might disagree.”

“That's a lie!”

“No, mother.” Grethe was on the brink of laughter. “What you've always told Sanna is a lie – have you become so invested in your own lies you've started to believe them?”

Blind with rage, Gyda swung for Grethe again. This time Grethe was prepared, deftly closing the distance between herself and her mother with a quick step, before ramming her forehead into Gyda's nose. There was a soft crunching noise, and the Queen slumped backwards onto the floor. A few moments of stunned silence passed, before Gyda unleashed a banshee-like wail. Grethe limped out of the room.





The court at Skiningsal was a abuzz with rumor – the ongoing battle between mother and daughter had apparently taken a violent turn this afternoon. Vigleik found himself out of his official garb, seated inside a dingy serving house in the company of several handmaidens from the castle. The promise of coin had made them uncharacteristically willing to share the details of what they had witnessed earlier.

One of them – young and doe-eyed – was talking animatedly. “And so, the young Princess – Grethe – left the study, as quick as she could.” She giggled. “Which isn't all that quick, because, you know ...”

Vigleik nodded. “So Sanna entered, then Grethe, and then Sanna left first. Grethe was in there for some time before she left, too.”

All three of the women nodded fervently. “I hear she broke her mother's nose”, another said with reverence. “Punched her right on the nose!”

“Didn't she headbutt her?”

“I though she used a serving tray …”

“Why would she have a serving tray, you dumb cow ...”

“I'm a cow? You're the one with those gigantic udders swinging around –“

“Ladies, please!” Vigleik interceded.

They straightened themselves. “Yes?”

“What about the other rumor – did the Queen really throw her own daughter in the dungeons?”

“I saw the guards take her,” the smallest one piped up. “But maybe they're just put her under house arrest?”

Vigleik nodded. House arrest might be acceptable conduct when punishing misbehaving children. Queen Gyda, however, hadn't been very concerned with acceptable conduct lately. He wondered what could have sparked this climax to their ongoing conflict. Gyda had always doted on her idiot daughter, while paying the quick one no mind simply because she was younger, and cursed with a small disfigurement. But this was extreme.

Ever since Gyda had told him of the request for aid her Danish relatives had sent, and how she intended to let the Jarls themselves decide if they wanted to be involved, Vigleik had been suspicious. It was strange, but not because it was a bad idea. It was strange precisely because it was so … Sound. There must be something he didn't know, something the Queen hadn't told him. Maybe she suspected him, and if so, his time was running out no matter what.

He needed to see the young Princess, he decided then.

Bidding the serving ladies farewell, leaving the promised coin, Vigleik hurried to his quarters and put on his priestly robes. He gathered up some books, and made his way to Grethe's quarters. There was no guard posted outside, and – unsurprisingly – the room was deserted.

Continuing to the dungeons, he ran into the Queen and a cadre of guardsmen. The Queen really had a bloody nose – she had tried to wipe it away, but not entirely successfully. The result was anything but regal, he thought.

“Where are you going, Priest?” Gyda demanded.

“Ah, yes.” He slipped into the form of his usual, servile self. “Good day, Queen!” He pointedly ignored her battle scars. “I heard about the ruckus with young Grethe, and thought to offer my services to soothe her mind and soul, perhaps calm her tempers, as well.”

Gyda's smile was sour. “You're welcome to try. I have been trying, for eighteen years. I give up.” She frowned. “What are the books for?”

“She likes her reading, so I thought I might bring her some as an offer of goodwill.”

“The girl deserves no good will, if you ask me – but do as you please. Go on.” The Queen and her entourage walked briskly on. Vigleik breathed a quiet sigh of relief, and made his way towards the dungeons. The books were for show, his real bargaining chip must be something else – probably something that would put him at risk. The guards let him pass without question, and politely directed him to Grethe's corner of the dungeon. They let him in, warning him to shout if she attacked.

You'd think it was a hardened brigand they kept here, not an eighteen-year old Princess.

Grethe sat on a stool, looking furious. “Come to mock me?”

“Not at all. I brought some books.”

“Thank you.”

“You're very welcome. Now,” he began. “I have something I need to discuss with you.”

Grethe perked up. Ack, the dangers of dealing with bright people. “What sparked your skirmish with your mother today?”

“I told her that her latest plan was a bad one.”

Vigleik frowned. “Aiding the Danes to check the Swedes?”

“She didn't tell you everything. That's just a pretext.”

Vigleik mulled over that. “Does it have something to do with Akershus and that forged document?”

Grethe narrowed her eyes. “Yes, but there's more. I'm not telling you that until I get something in return.”

As expected, Vigleik thought. “Name your price.”

She considered for a moment. “I need to get out of here, and then transported somewhere safe – like to one of the other Jarls, where what I know can guarantee my safety.”

“Why do you want to flee?”

Grethe gnawed on her fingernails for a while, then spoke. “I'm terrified of my mother. I'm worried she'll have me killed in my sleep, or poison my food.”

Vigleik was taken aback. He had expected fury, hate, and defiance, but not fear. Then he reminded himself that Grethe was eighteen, and knew her mother only as an unloving, shrieking harpy. If she wanted to run, he would have to arrange her escape. Vigleik knew only one Jarl personally, but if he went there with her, or was found to have been an accomplice in her escape, he wouldn't last long. Not unless he changed his allegiance in earnest, and enjoyed the protection of Are av Åsane. Maybe it could be arranged by messengers, but again, Vigleik didn't know who could be trusted. Which meant no one, which again left him feeling like he was trapped in a vice that was slowly closing.

Being a double agent without a network of spies seems like an increasingly bad idea.

“I'll see what I can do to arrange that.”

“So you're the spy.”

Vigleik blanched. “W-what?”

Grethe smiled wearily. “Mother suspected a spy somewhere, a leak. I can't imagine any other reason why you would be interested in what I know, or how you would be able to arrange for my protection in a Jarl's court unless you are somehow involved with them.”

“If only your mother knew how clever you are.”

“Then what? I wouldn't be Queen anyway.”

“No,” Vigleik admitted. “Probably not.”

They sat in silence for a while, before Grethe broke it. “So – what's it going to be?”

“I'll find a way to get you out and away, but your part of the bargain now also involves not telling anyone about me.”

“I should manage that. But if you take too long ...”

The lingering threat made by the girl shook Vigleik to the core. What bleak times we must live in, he thought, when young girls bargain with the lives of others so easily.



Stegeborg, Östergötland
August, 1129

Karin af Sverker sighed, fixing her eyes at her husband. He was pacing their quarters, still clutching that letter from the Norwegian Queen.

“What's it going to be, husband? Do we play along?”

“I don't know. The Old Queen's gambits have a way of turning against her.”

“I agree, and there are too many ifs in this scheme.”

Halkjell returned to his pacing, grinding his teeth. “What if we tell her yes, only to wait it out and see the first part plays out as she intends?” Karin asked. “And only then do we commit our forces.”

Halkjell looked at her fondly. “Why didn't I think of that?” He stopped his pacing and called for a scribe. The lure of that Jarldom could make him do almost anything, Karin mused. But The Queen's promises were notoriously fickle – that was how Halkjell had become her husband, after all – and so the Queen needed to be so deeply entrenched in this plot that she had no way out, before she could be trusted not to renege on her promise. The de facto Jarl of Östergötland rubbed her temples as Halkjell departed the room. I'm still not sure about this.



Jarlstinget, Viken
September, 1130

At the ancient Jarlsting in Viken, where Harald Hårfagre had first been crowned King of all Norway, Queen Gyda presented her appeal to the Jarls precisely and succinctly. All the men present knew what conclusion she would reach, as they had all reached it long ago – the Danes were weakened enough to not be a threat, and they would concern themselves mostly with the Baltic. The Swedes were aggressively expanding in all directions, and adversarial to both Norway and Denmark. Whatever their mutual distaste for the Danes and Gyda's relatives, a temporary alliance with the Danes would allow a much-needed checking of Swedish power. The point was irreverently obvious, and the only surprise of the day had been Gyda's ability to make the case in such a way that they might have been swayed to her point of view even if they hadn't already agreed.

As it were, everyone had been prepared to support the Queen already. The graying Tryggve, Jarl av Trøndelag, spoke for the Jarls. “Are we all in agreement?” he asked the other four men.

It was Are's first Jarlsting, and he was more than happy to leave the responsibility of a Speaker to the more experienced Tryggve. He would support the cause – he had let on as much to Are. The Jarls of Iceland and Orkney, distant as they were from the Baltic conflict that was today's subject, would agree – but not fervently. Gyda herself seemed to consider intervening to maintain the balance of power a mere pretext to make the Jarls agree to help her fulfill her obligations to her Danish relatives. Ironically, Are mused, he was the one Jarl who had the most to gain from a weakening of Swedish power, both north and south of the Baltic. Bergen was a major trading port, and provided a natural commercial outlet for all goods produced along the western seaboard. Goods from Gardarike, however, needed to pass through the Baltic to avoid the strenuous overland routes. With control of both Bergen, Akershus and parts of Karelia, the Jarls of Vestlandet could easily exploit this and establish trade routes eastwards – but not if the Swedes were allowed to monopolize all outgoing Baltic ports.

“Aye”, said Are. The others followed suit.

Tryggve nodded, and turned to face the Queen. “It is agreed upon, Queen. We will go to war on Swedish soil.”

I think the Cumans had a rebellion, and the Georgians married into the ruling dynasty of the ERE for the alliance goodness. The Georgians then took the opportunity to gobble up a few loose statelets who didn't have the sense to WP out with their liege.

Glad you liked it!

That's great to hear, and welcome to the thread!

Back from my holiday (for the record, Ireland is great), so I'm starting to type out the next update as we speak. It might not be done tonight (though I hope it will), but it shouldn't take long either way.

Well, that was a bald-faced lie - this took a lot longer than I expected. Now that it's done, I can at least promise you that the next update will tie up a lot of plot threads and set the stage for more of the story.




Bergenhus festning
October 13th, 1134
Since Ida, there had been four more. Are's sons – named Harald and Tor for his father and uncle – were four and one years old, respectively. In addition to their oldest sister, now five, there was two-year old Maria, and their youngest child – Svanhild, another girl. A chorus of children's voices usually resounded through the hallways of Bergenhus. Are's immense relief to have male heirs had slowly subsided, only to be replaced by a nagging sense of worry. Ida obviously took after her parents, being a quick-learner and unusually gifted in many fields. Harald was obviously too young by far for any such judgement to be made, but measured against Ida's progress, Tor was coming along slowly. Not slower than most children, just a bit slower than Are would have liked. Then he would chastise himself, remembering that they were just children, and had years of growing and shaping ahead of them. And if his sons weren't up to the task, wouldn't that be a reflection of his own failure to properly raise and educate them?

Are sighed and stretched. The sun had set while he was scribbling away, and he found himself sitting in darkness. He glanced at the parchment he had been filling with ink – he had begun chronicling the lives and work of his forefathers, for his own amusement – and left his study.
Shortly after the decision to render aid to the Danes had been made, Are had been granted his father's customary position at the royal court – he now understood the full meaning of what his late father had meant when he referred to his work as “practically running the Kingdom”. The Queen had been surprisingly pliable when he voiced the condition that he would be allowed to spend a significant measure of time at home in Bergenhus, tending to his family. She had accepted his terms without debate. Boleslava had been pleased, but maintained that the Queen “made her hackles stand on end”. In private, Are agreed. The business with the imprisonment of her youngest daughter had - in the minds of many – once and for all proven the Queen's madness, although the entire incident had been concealed from the wider populace, but handmaidens talk, and rumours spread. In public, the Queen had to at least be commended for not sitting idly by as the Swedes grew ever more dangerous, even if her reasons for intervening were probably not the right ones.

In their chambers, he found Boleslava. She had sent the servants, and was rocking Svanhild to sleep.

“Husband?

“Yes?”

“What would we ever do if we had twins?”

“We – what?” Are blinked in momentary confusion, as Boleslava laughed quietly.

“It's just – I've only ever seen this one cradle here.” She traced the carvings on the wooden cradle with her fingers. “It's a fine cradle, but we barely have time to get one child out of it before the next one goes in. Don't we have spares?”

“Oh – like that.” Are sat down. “I'm sure we have spares, somewhere. Are you hoping for a set of twins?”

“It would be a new experience, at least. But children are children, whether they come alone or in pairs.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching their daughter fall asleep.

“How goes the war?” Boleslava suddenly asked.

The Mecklenburg campaign had been a complete disaster for the Danes, at least until the various armies from Norway arrived. They had never been terribly outnumbered – though their defeated commanders tended to insist that they were – but were consistently caught unawares, outmaneuvered, and generally made to look like fools.

Are shook his head. “I can't believe the Danes have managed to maintain a coherent kingdom – they're nigh-leaderless, flailing, and losing a lot of men in pointless engagements. It would have been a simple campaign if they had been somewhat evenly matched with the Swedes, but now we're left to simply make up for their failings.

Boleslava raised her eyebrows. “That bad.”

“It's not really bad, I'm relatively confident that we'll be able to end it decisively within a few years. If the Danes had been reasonably competent, we would have been done next year at the very latest.”

The general assumption was that either the Swedish spies were particularly efficient, or the Danish commanders were simply outmatched. The Danes insisted on the former, while their Norwegian allies tended to believe the latter. The Norwegian suspicion of Danish incompetence had been reaffirmed when Are's aging uncle had arrived at the helm of a combined Norwegian fleet and in three separate, lightning engagements had devastated the Swedes, sending most of their occupation force scrambling back to across the sound to Skåne.

“It feels like a waste of time,” Are continued. “There are still pagan territories ripe for conquest, and they're going to be ours eventually – the Swedes and Danes are wearing one another down, and the Swedes in particular will have enough trouble holding on to their Finnish conquests when we win this war. That's all given. The only open question is how long we're going to have to chase them around in Mecklenburg and inside Sweden.”

“Don't get cocky,” Boleslava chided. “And where's Mecklenburg?”

“That would be the useless patch of land on the southern side of the Baltic sea this war is nominally about.”

“Who had it first?”

“Technically, the Baltic pagans. But that's just it – the Danes and Swedes allied to oust the pagan rulers, and then settled it together, practically next to one another, perfectly amicably. Now, thirty years later, they've both decided its theirs.”

Boleslava laughed. “That sounds utterly ridiculous – it can't be just that.”

Are nodded. “Mecklenburg is just a pretext, what we're really deciding is who gets to keep expanding. That's why we're allied with the Danes – if the tables were turned, we might well be allied with the Swedes instead.” He paused, and then added: “Or perhaps the Swedes and Danes against us.”

“That sounds ominous. Would they have any reason to do that?”

“Right now? None at all.”

But eventually? Maybe. Shifting the balance of power in Scandinavia would still take generations, Are estimated. Even discounting this overlong war, wearing down the Swedes would be a long-term project in the extreme. And, he thought, might require some kind of outside interference to even the odds. Maybe … –

“Husband?” Boleslava asked pointedly, yanking her husband out of his quiet musings.

“Sorry – I just thought of something.” Are raised his hand, abruptly changing the subject. ”Want to try for those twins?"



Skiningssal
October, 1137

Vigleik was languishing. At least, that was the word he would have used if he had anyone to describe his situation to. Instead, he had to settle for repeating it to himself: He was attending the court of a Queen who might be mad, and possibly suspected that he had quietly changed allegiances. And she would be right. He was left fervently looking for an opportunity to extricate the Queen's unloved daughter from her imprisonment, so that Grethe could throw her bargaining chip – a piece of information vital to the war – on the table, before it was too late.. In addition to all this, he was still a man of the cloth, and had a number of duties to attend to.

Then, whenever he visited Grethe, he would realize that if anyone was languishing, it was probably her. Eight years, each as fraught with tension as the next, had passed since Grethe struck her mother and was sent to the dungeons. Sanna had immediately pleaded on behalf of her sister, and within a month the Queen had consented to let her youngest daughter remain under house arrest in her own chambers, rather than wasting away in the dungeons. Any further attempts to have Grethe released had been met with cold silences from the Queen, no matter the petitioner.

“And do you know why?” he asked Grethe.

“No?”

“Because your mother's nose grew crooked when it healed.”

Grethe laughed harshly, while Vigleik smiled wearily. The Princess still looked dishevelled and surly, but nothing like the apparition that had emerged from a month's tenure in the dungeons.

“What's happening in the war?”

Vigleik sputtered, then hissed: “Not so loud!”

Grethe shot him a vicious look, but lowered her voice to a whisper. “Sorry – but I have to know.”

Vigleik nodded, motioning for the princess to lean closer. “The tide has definitely turned – our armies are making headway, and ...” Vigleik rubbed his forehead. “Ah, what was it again – a multi-pronged attack – is being staged. Victory there is going to be, ah, decisive, I am told.”

Grethe recoiled, frowning. Then she leaned back, whispering intently: “Multi-pronged – that means there are several flanks, right?”

“I – I'm no general, not even a warrior –“

“Yes or no?”

“I would imagine … Yes?”

“Is the Jarl there – the one mother hates?”

“Are av Åsane? I'm not sure if he's there in person –“
Vigleik was flailing, flushing red with the realization. “I mean, I know his uncle and advisor is there, and for all intents and purposes leads the combined army –“

Grethe abruptly stood up. “Then this is it – it has to be!”

“Has to be what?” Vigleik begged, exasperated.

“I've said I'm not telling you, not yet.” She slumped back in her seat and crossed her arms. “You need to make good on your promise – now!”

Vigleik blanched, nearly vomiting as a wave of sudden nausea overtook him. “Now? How do you even expect me to –“

“If not now, then at least today!” Grethe's voiced had dropped back down a piercing whisper.

“Let me think.” Vigleik held on to the sides of his chair as if it stood outside in a storm. “I need to find a ship, and some men to take us west along the coast.”

“What about getting me out of here?” the Princess demanded.

Vigleik glared at the young woman. “Getting you out wouldn't be much use if we had to walk across the entire Kingdom with the Kongshird on our trail, now would it?”

Grethe fell silent, looking at her feet. Vigleik thrust a small stack of books into her arms. “Take these, and pretend to be engrossed until I get back. I have an idea. It might be uncomfortable.”

And it is probably going to mean utter financial ruin for the foreseeable future, with all the bribes this is going to involve.

Without another word, Viglek stalked out of her chambers and past the guard. As parts of the plan clicked into place, he spun on his heel and addressed the household guard posted by the door.

“Guard.”

“Priest?”
The man talked with a slur that suggested he wasn't taking his duties very seriously. That boded well.

“The Princess has expressed a desire to discuss some, ah, womanly aspects of faith with a someone appropriate –“

The guard rudely cut him off. “Womanly whatnow?”

Vigleik pretended to smile knowingly, and shrugged. “You tell me, eh?” While the guardsman was hard at work puzzling out precisely what he meant, Vigleik launched into the rest of his planned tirade. “As I was saying – I'll be bringing by a nun from the congregation later, so that the Princess can ask her questions to a fellow, uh, woman.” After a short pause, he addded: “As is befitting of her status.”

The guard waved Vigleik away. “Sure, whatever.”

Now for the boat, he resolved, as another wave of nausea took him.



Bergenhus
November 20th, 1137

A knock on the door roused Are, who had been nodding off near his wife's sickbed. Her illness had pulled him away from campaigning in Sweden, as Boleslava had gone from having a sniffle to turning pale and turgid, bathed in her own sweat. She was sleeping now, however uneasily.

“What?” he barked at a recoiling guardsman.

“Pardon, Jarl – it's uh – it's that priest.”

“What priest?”

“The priest – from years back, arrived the same day as your wife –“

“Send him in – I look forward to his explanation.”

The guardsman backed away from the still fuming Jarl, mumbling. “Oh, and, er – there's some girl in a robe with him.” Then he turned and jogged away.

A girl? Surely not...

When Vigleik arrived, he was suddenly aware that the Jarl of Vestlandet he once knew, was no more. Are av Åsane still had the same sharp features and straw-coloured hair, but the air about him, something in the way he kept himself spoke volumes – the gangly boy was now a tall, lean man. Wasn't he in Sweden?

“You could have told me,” Vigleik began, “that you had placed men around Queen Gyda's court, and that they were ready to pull me out of there at a moments notice!”

Are chuckled. “If you knew, you would have gotten careless.”

Vigleik gaped.

“Like this,” the Jarl said unimpeded, “if you were ready to make the effort to get here by your own vocation, it had to be something serious. So I am hoping this is indeed –“

“It's –“

“... Something serious.”

Are fixed him with his gaze, and Vigleik knew that if he started talking now, he would stammer. So he took his time, and collected himself. Then he pulled the robed girl forward.

“It is. This is Princess Grethe, the one who's been imprisoned. She knows something of her mother's plans that I haven't been able to figure out, and no one else knows. Supposedly.”

God almighty, let this information she has be worth it.

Are looked from Vigleik to Grethe, who pulled down the hood of her robe and inched forward. The Jarl looked mildly impressed. "How did you get her out?" he asked.

Vigleik smiled weakly. "Brought in a nun, had them change clothes, and left with the Princess - I imagine the nun will have been discovered by now..."

"Clever," the Jarl said, before turning to Grethe. “Speak then."

“My mother,” the Princess began, urgency plain in her voice, “was going to betray you on the field battle when the opportunity arose. Since she has not done so yet, and the decisive battle you have been trying to set up – with the prongs and flanks and everything – leaves you open for just such a betrayal, it will happen now.”

The Jarl took a step back, frowning. The gears in the boy's head must be churning, Vigleik thought.

“How do you know this?” the Jarl demanded.

“I overheard my mother talking at length, with her chosen commanders, about how it could be done. Those same commanders are now, I presume, on the field in Sweden, leading the parts of that army that you aren't. Although …”

Don't voice those doubts now, girl, Vigleik pleaded silently.

“Although what?”

“You're here – everyone thinks you're in Sweden?”

The Jarl looked awry. “I was – I left only days ago. My wife has some kind of serious malaise.”

Grethe lit up again. “Is there a chance the Queen thinks you're still there?”

“She has no reason not to, although her commanders would probably have noticed.”

“They're not brave or clever enough to alter the plan – it'll go ahead.”

“My uncle is leading our men, so – but why?” he said, turning again to Grethe. “Why now?”

Grethe shook her head. “She has been looking for some way to do this – to exact revenge – ever since your father made a fool of her during the civil war. She wants to humiliate you in the same way.”

“By killing us?”

“No, that's just half of it –“

Something seemed to fall into place for the Jarl, and Vigleik guessed right at what it was.

“The false document – about Akershus … ?”

Grethe nodded fervently. “Either you give up the county – or you start another civil war, one which she believes she will win, allowing her to strip you of rank. Either way, you are - ah, humbled and shamed, as she put it.”

“She thinks she'll win... ? “ The Jarl sounded incredulous, and then began moving, walking down the hallway fast enough that Grethe and Vigleik had to jog to keep pace.

“I admit,” Are called back, “I had my doubts when you brought an escaped Princess to my court, Vigleik. This entire scheme sounds ridiculous – but I am going to act on what you've told me. I suspect you both already know precisely how sorry you'll be if it turns out this is just a fancy tale.“

“But – there's more!” Grethe interrupted, her voice pitched with alarm.

“I can only guess”, the Jarl said, offering the Princess a genial smile. “But unless whatever you want to tell me is so important that it can't wait until I've raised my men and gotten ships ready to set out at dawn, then it will, in fact, have to wait..”

Vigleik stumbled his way up to level with the Jarl. “Raise your – but I thought... I thought your men were all in Sweden?”

Are patted Vigleik's shoulder. “It's a good thing you chose the cloth, my friend.”

Grethe caught on quicker. “You didn't send everyone to Sweden.”

Are shot Grethe a musing look. “So you're the smart one.” Her response was a shrug. Turning to the priest, he explained: “The men from my domain that have taken part in the Mecklenburg and Swedish campaigns under mine and my uncle's command comprise roughly one third of our total strength. We have, in all modesty, by far the largest hird of all the Jarls.”

Vigleik thought for a moment. More than a thousand men from Vestlandet embarked when the campaign was initiated, and their numbers had been reinforced whenever losses were incurred. And they were only a third? First the sailors awaiting him at court, now this - was there anything the man didn't plan for?

“Now, however, I am going to muster all the men we can afford to take with us while maintaining garrisons.” The Jarl emerged from the citadel into the torch-lit courtyard, and immediately began barking orders.

In Sweden, someone was about to be unpleasantly surprised.





Grethe and Vigleik joined Are near the prow of Draug, the Jarl's personal longship. “Now we have time,” the Jarl said. The fleet of longships would make three stops along the coast of Norway to pick up men from the hird, before finally landing in Småland. Worry seemed to gnaw on the Jarl – and every man aboard knew why: The warning had arrived late, and they might not arrive in time to avert a potential disaster. Grethe would be getting off at the second stop, in Agder, accompanied by Vigleik. Focusing on the present again, the Princess began relating what she knew. “First, it's several things –“

“I think I can keep up,” the Jarl replied sardonically.

Grethe sniffed, then continued as if nothing had been said. “First, do you know what became of your half-brother?”

“You mean my bastard brother – Halkjell?”

“That's the one.”

“I suspect he ran away and hid after his thugs failed to do whatever they had hoped to achieve.”

“The thugs – Finns, by the way – were here to kill your entire family, yourself included.”

“They didn't do very well.”

“In fact, to the one who paid them, it wasn't as much of a failure as it seemed.”

The Jarl seemed to pause, then turned to Grethe as he walked. “Go on.”

“The Swedish coin that paid the thugs came from my mother.”

“The – what?”

Grethe noted, with satisfaction, that the Jarl actually appeared surprised for once.

“My mother. She wanted you and your father – and your uncle – dead, yes. But to her, killing your mother was somehow the most important thing.”

Are shook his head. “That makes no sense.”

Grethe shrugged. “That's just it about being insane – what seems like madness to everyone else looks perfectly reasonable to you.”

“And you are sure that your mother is indeed mad?”

“She hides it well from the public, but in private – yes, I am sure.”

“Still,” the Jarl protested, “Why would my mother be important? She was just the Queen's aunt –“

“Something about how you could claim descent from the old king – Harald Hardråde – who again claims descent from Harald Hårfagre.”

“... She's worried about the succession. The election. Of course. Paranoid, but it makes a queer kind of sense.”

Grethe sensed a thrum of optimism. The Jarl seemed interested, so she went on to relate what she knew of the bastard.

“At first, he came running to his Queen, demanding to be given the Jarldom like she promised. She laughed, reminding him that the Jarl he was supposed to have killed was still alive.”

“He never was the brightest.”

“Eventually, my mother sent him off to wed the imbecile daughter of a Swedish Jarl she was somehow familiar with – probably just to get him out of her hair. He dared not refuse, and left on a ship that same day.”

“Somehow,” Are interjected flatly, “I sense that he didn't just marry the imbecile and settle down.”

“He went there, and found that both the imbecile, her brothers and their father had been taken by some small remnant of a plague that washed over Götland – the Jarl, in effect, was a girl of twelve. Her name is Karin af Sverker, and on her sixteenth nameday she wed Halkjell Åstasson.”

Are's eyes widened slightly as he recounted the implications. “So he became Jarl, in all but name.”

Grethe nodded.

“How did he convince the girl to marry him? I don't really expect you to know all this – but it does fascinate me.”

“I'm not sure, truly. But there are rumours … “

“Better than nothing.”

“Well, you see, when Karin af Sverker's dear father died, he left two siblings – a pair of vicious harpies, who assumed a joint regency over the Jarldom.” The Jarl nodded for her to go on. “When Halkjell arrived, those two were circling around young Karin like carrion birds, waiting to have her killed or declared insane. Halkjell, being of age, made a deal with the young girl – he would rid her of the vicious aunts, and she would allow him to marry her, bargaining both herself and the Jarldom.”

Grethe paused dramatically. “And he succeeded – challenged the aunts to personal combat to decide the question of regency and killed their chosen champion. With Halkjell at the helm, Karin was able to survive the next four years without coming to harm or being imprisoned. When they married on her sixteenth nameday, the aunts disappeared – exiled or killed, along with all their supporters at court.”

“The worst thing,” Are interjected, “is that it's a pretty good story.”

“I think my mother is conspiring with him again – allegedly he doesn't want just any old Jarldom, he wants yours. His birthright, or so he says.”

“It's not his fault he's a bastard, certainly, but he remains one nonetheless. He might even have inherited, or at least been in line to become lendmann somewhere, if he hadn't betrayed us – do you know what they're planning?”

“Not quite, I think mother caught on to my listening in. They conversed in letters, at least, around the time I was … “

“Misbehaving?”, Are suggested. “If he is the Jarl of Östergötland, logically he would have pledged some part of his armies to the Swedish Throne for this campaign – I wonder what shape they are in... And how many he held back for whatever is to come.”



On the coast of Småland
November 27th, 1137

Tor Aresson felt old. The sky was overcast and the temperature chilling, yet he was chafing inside his leather and mail. Specks of snow fluttered to the ground irregularly, but didn't manage to take hold and cover the field in white. In a matter of days, he knew, it would. This battle needed to happen, now. To their back was the sea – their position deliberately a show of poor tactics. Moving reminded him that his knees hurt, too. His nephew had quietly suggested that he sit this out – after all, advanced age was nothing if not a testament to ones ability to survive battles, as the lad had put it – but in a fit of stubborn denial, he had refused. More fool me. He had told the boy, however, that this would be the last time. He was seventy-two, and had no business on a battlefield. Still, the sword and axe slung at his hips weighed him down with a comforting familiarity, as did the shield on his shoulder. Away from the encampment, the morning air was clear and crisp, and he drank it in with gulping, greedy breaths. His last battle, one way or another – at least it should be a simple job, if the other flanks did their jobs right, and had indeed followed his instructions to the letter during the night, as they promised.

Tor and Åmund trotted up next to him, each on their own shaggy, heavyset horses. “We're beginning to assemble the ranks,” Åmund informed him. “The other armies have assembled.”

Tor nodded. “I'll have them ready soon enough.” He walked up a small hill, and bellowed a set of orders – his voice still held. At the foot of the hill, roughly a thousand men from the Vestlender hird began filing into slightly disarrayed ranks. His sons cajoled men from the outer flanks, driving them like cattle until they were positioned right.

“Now we wait” he shouted as they finished assembling.

They waited, and hours passed. Near midday, the ragged column of Swedish soldiers – a seemingly haphazard mix of hirdmenn, haggard peasants and beasts of burden – arrived, became aware of their presence, and wheeled around to assault the smaller force of Norwegians. This is all that remains of the Swedish army? They had taken the bait, their overwhelming numerical superiority against the only force they could see proving too tempting. Tor estimated that the force numbered around two thousand men in fighting condition. When the four Norwegian armies positioned behind the far hills joined the fray, the tables would be turned, leaving the Swedes both outnumbered and surrounded. As soon as the Swedes engaged, outriders would bring word to the other armies, and the vice would snap shut. Again, they waited, bracing themselves.

When the army of Swedes finally began its roving motion across the hills to meet them, Tor despatched the outriders. “Quickly now,” he muttered, before rejoining the lines. The Swedish charge quickly snowballed as the battered warriors, sensing a chance of victory, threw doubt and caution to the wind and charged. They advanced without order, screaming and flailing their weapons.

The first sign of trouble came with the outrider who had been assigned to the nearest hidden army, as he came back galloping, looking utterly bewildered. Tor pulled out of a small engagement, drawing the infantry line back with him. They held against the onslaught, the first wave of madly charging Swedes having been absorbed by an unflinching line of – mostly – collected discipline. The approaching outrider shouted: “There's – there's no one there!”

“Did you look in the right place, you daft – ?”

“Yes! I'm sure! Really –“
The panic in the outrider's voice made his earnest disbelief and outrage plain.

Tor frowned, watching his men reinforce the line in several places were a more cautious and coordinated assault had thinned the ranks. “Did you see the other riders?”

“No – or, there's one now!” he pointed. Tor follow his gesture and saw another rider approaching. They were supposed to fall in with the other armies and lead them here. The second approaching rider bore the same look of confusion and desperation the first one had, and began shouting immediately upon arriving. “I swear it, m'lord, there's no one behind the hill!” I know it, I double-checked, I triple-checked – “

“Calm down – I've heard from your comrade already.”

As Tor went looking for his sons, the other riders arrived, all telling the same tale. More than half the combined army was simply gone, leaving the Vestlendermenn with their backs against the sea, encircled by a horde of desperate Swedes smelling victory for the first time in years.

We've been betrayed. The realization wasn't at all startling, as if he had seen it coming. The Queen? Again? Suddenly, their gambit had turned into a genuinely bad position, leaving them outnumbered and with no room to maneuver.

As the line began to buckle near the centre, Tor ordered them all to back down the hill and give the archers some room. The shower of arrows cleaned the hill, but the fallen Swedes were immediately replaced by comrades – and now the Vestlender army had relinquished that hill. Wading into the lines, Tor shouted: “Men! Our lovely Queen has seen fit to betray us – again!”

Howls of outrage rose from the army. The old warrior continued. “The armies meant to seal this victory will not arrive – they have left us here to die!” The din silenced momentarily. Even the Swedes took notice as the haggard old man shouted one last time: “We stand alone, but I, for one, have no intention of dying!”

With a rush of cheers, his men surged up the hill and retook the ground within moments, the Swedes caught off-guard by their sudden momentum. It couldn't last, Tor knew, but they would have some breathing room. Now all they could do was retreat fighting, never turning their backs on their enemies, and hope the Swedes gave up before they were all pushed into the sea.

My last battle indeed.

An hour later, they had relinquished not one hilltop, but three, and the ground under their feet was getting less grassy and more sandy for each pace they were forced back. Two things were now clear – the Swedes would have their victory, but it would be a costly one. Tor saw Åmund amidst the crowd and began making his way there. His axe was torn away as he buried it in a screaming face, the crumpling body wrenched away by the surging mass of his comrades. “Åmund!” he bellowed as he levelled with his son. The younger man turned, teeth gritted, to acknowledge his father's presence.

“The Jarl must know – take the horses and circle around the Swedes!” he said, his voice raspy from hours of commanding. “No,” his son replied.

“What do you mean, no?”

“If I leave, it will be in the company of my comrades – not alone on horseback.”

“The Jarl –“

“The Jarl will know, one way or another.”

At least I raised my sons right.

***​

Are remained near the prow of Draug even as they approached the coast. Småland was a vast swathe of land, with a long coastline, but he had a rough idea of where the agreed-upon staging point was. Unless they changed their plans at the last moment.

He needn't have worried, he realized, as they rounded a bay and the remnants of a sandy beach stretched out on the port side of the fleet. The sand had turned into a reddish sludge of mud and blood, dotted with corpses. We're too late. They've been butchered to a man. A cold, sinking sensation surged through Are even as he signaled towards the stern of the ship, and chains of orders were then barked along the entire fleet. They turned, approaching the shore at an angle that made it possible for each ship to land directly on the beach. The battered remains of what must be a Swedish army was visible on the field. They were bloodied and in disarray, alternately looting the dead and tending to fallen comrades – slowly, they were beginning to take notice of the approaching longships. The characteristic shape had struck terror into coastal denizens across Europe for hundreds of years, and the Swedes reacted predictably – careening, gesturing frantically and trying to ready themselves for a second battle they were doomed to lose. Are guessed that they numbered no more than five hundred at most.

As the ships cut through the water nearest the shore, floating corpses joined the waves in slapping against the ships' sides. Seeing the numbers they faced, the majority of the Swedes turned and ran – they weren't trapped with their backs to the beach. They were, however, weary and burdened. The men waiting on the longships were rested and now – as the ships slid across onto the beach with a soft, rushing sound – howling for blood.

The beauty of longships, Are thought, is that your men are ready for battle as soon as the ships touch solid land.

As the ship came to a stop, he grasped the railing and disembarked with a vault, soon followed by a cadre of his most trusted warriors. All over the beach, hirdmenn leapt into the blood-smeared mud and immediately began pursuing the Swedes. After scaling a few hills, they overtook the first of the Swedes. Some simply sat down and waited to die. Others fought back with what strength they could muster. The Norwegians ignored the early ranks they overtook, instead maintaining their pursuit until an encirclement of the fleeing force had been completed. When the circle was eventually joined, the pursuit came to an abrupt end as the Vestlender force pressed the attack on all sides, and the Swedish ranks buckled within moments. Before an hour had passed, the slaughter was complete. With barely a loss amongst them, Are ordered his men to kill anyone still moving, before they jogged back to the site of the battle they had arrived too late to join.

As a host of massive funeral pyres raged behind them, Are walked among his men, telling them what would be next. There would be no peace when they returned home – the priest had been right. His men were eager. When his tour was complete, he stood next to the pyre where the remains of his Uncle and two cousins smoldered, addressed them as one.

“Men – bid your fallen comrades a worthy farewell, for when we sail tomorrow, we sail home – home to blood and strife, and an audience with our gracious Queen!”

They cheered.

“We must impart on her an important knowledge – the knowledge that blood begets blood.”

I've begun writing numerous, then I get distracted or inspired by something and start a new one. This AAR is kind of an exercise, both in the writing and in being able to pace, continue and eventually finish a story. Hopefully it'll set a precedent for my future works

I originally planned for this to be one monster update, but because life intervened, I instead hope you'll all settle for two smaller ones instead - the good news is that the second one is almost ready to go, as well. Nothing's been cut, it's just split so I could update earlier.



Half a day's march from Akershus festning
December 23rd, 1137

When future chroniclers told of her many exploits, Gyda mused, this would surely be recorded as her crowning achievement. She had outwitted a notable Jarl – sent him to his certain doom on the Swedish shore – and now she would take his land, too. Part of it, she corrected herself. But his heirs were all children, and with some luck, that pesky uncle of his had fallen to her gambit as well. All of Vestlandet would return to her, and the Jarls would be forced to bow, rather than snicker behind her back. The sound of hooves trampling the dry snow tore the Queen from her reverie. It was midwinter, and even at midday, in the southernmost reaches of Norway, there was a sharp chill in the air. Gyda huffed, and pulled her fur cloak tighter as she took measure of the approaching rider. She disliked approaching riders – they usually bore urgent, bad news.

“Queen,” he began, offering her an awkward bow from horseback. “Our southern flank is under attack – I have been told to suggest that you take a guard and retreat north … And further north-west if the battle turns against us.”

“What do you mean, under attack? Turn against us?”

“That is, regrettably, looking like a very real possibility right now.”

Slowly, the din of battle was making it way to where the Queen could hear it. “But who?” she demanded. The southern flank was marching along the shore, right next to the sea – there was no way they could have been outflanked.

“We're not sure – they came northward by sea, and engaged immediately after reaching the shore.” He turned away, as if seeing through the snowy pines to observe the battle he was missing, then turned again, and continued: “I was ordered away before I could make out any distinguishing feature. I would guess that they are Norsemen, at least.”

Well, she corrected herself. Maybe there was one way they could have been outflanked. The Swedes? Gyda had counted on Jarl Are's ability to bloody the Swedish army sufficiently to keep them off her back – had she overestimated the man?

“Well, then, Soldier – lead the way!”

The young soldier bowed again, spurring his shaggy, slightly bow-legged mount forward. Gyda followed at a canter, and gradually found herself surrounded by additional members of her personal guard.

“Have any of you been near the battle? I can't command when I don't know what's going on!”

“The men commanding in your stead are all competent, Queen – but you should know we're outnumbered,” said Magnus, a greying veteran and the senior member of her guard. “So, just as a precaution, we're leading you away from the battle, rather than into the thick of it.”

The Queen did not discuss the finer points of Magnus' assessment, opting instead to move swiftly on to the next order of business: “Did any of you at least get a glimpse of something that can tell me who these people are?”

Magnus shook his head. “Wasn't ever close enough to get a look at them. Longships, though – definitely longships.”

As they rode, the sounds of battle had subsided. Were they simply too far away, or was it over? I have to know!

“We're turning around – now, “ The Queen barked. Just as her retinue began voicing their protests, she reined her horse around, charging off before her bewildered protectors could intercept her. Ha!
She felt triumphant as she raced across the hills, eyes fixed ahead to catch a glimpse of the enemy – a standard, a tabard, a familiar face –

As she scaled a hill, she began noticing a steady trickle of men – her men – stumbling towards her. Frowning, she blocked the path of one, nearly causing him to crash into her mount's heaving flank. Upon realizing his path was blocked, he tilted his head back to look up at the queen from under the brim of a dented skullcap. “What? Outta the way!”

Such insolence! “Is the battle done? Who were they?”

“Done – what – move, you crazy hag!” he blurted, trying to round the horse.

“The battle, soldier – the battle!” Gyda insisted.

“Done – we're done. We're all done – you're the Queen?” he asked, suddenly. As Gyda fumbled for an appropriate answer – he doesn't know his Queen? – the soldier ducked under her horse and scampered to the other side, between the hooves. As he resumed his flight down the hill, finally reaching the safety of the pine forest, he turned and shouted: “You're done, too!”

Unsettled, Gyda trotted to the top of the hill. Her retinue had almost caught up. On the shore, a fleet of longships covered the entire beach. Most of her men had not made it back up the hill that lead down the shore. They had been butchered to a man between the ships and the hill, by a force that – by her estimates – was impossibly large. The battle was indeed over, and she had lost. When a tall, mail-clad figure turned and retrieved his longsword from the neck of a fallen foe, Gyda also knew to whom she had lost. Seeing the woman on horseback cresting the hill, Are av Åsane raised his sword in mock salute to the Queen, who screamed in fury as Magnus, accompanied by what remained of her personal guard, forced her mount to turn and start back down the hill.


Stegeborg, Östergötland
March 1st, 1139

Karin af Sverker was still doubtful about the entire scheme, but knew better than to voice her doubts now – they had already committed themselves, and Halkjell seemed to have decided that this would be his last chance to claim his birthright. Much of the Queen's gambit had been an unmitigated disaster – The Jarl, Halkjell's half-brother, hadn't even been in Sweden when the demented Queen's betrayal had taken place. His uncle and cousins had been commanding in his stead, and yes, they had all died, but Jarl Are was not a fool, nor was he no longer a boy just come of age. For two years, he had outwitted the Queen at every turn, summarily crushing both the Kongshird and – from what she heard – several companies of mercenaries. Word had spread, and the Queen was now having trouble finding new mercenaries – not that she would have been able to pay them, anyway. She had never met the man, yet every mention of Are av Åsane terrified Karin right down to the bone.

However, with arms and armour that befitted his status, Halkjell looked every bit the fearsome reaver, too, she consoled herself. And she would be there to advise her husband – perhaps not on the battlefield itself, as she couldn't abide all the death and maiming. But at the negotiating table, where the real decisions would be made …

“The carriage is ready, ” her husband informed her.

“Are you sure it's not better to travel by sea?” she replied, arguing the point mostly out of habit.

“Yes, I'm sure – we don't have enough ships to transport the army, and if we split it, we'll be easy pickings,” Halkjell responded wearily. “We need a large, combined army to take on Vestlandet and their mercenaries. Joining our army to what remains of the Kongshird is ...Well, not just our best chance, but probably our only chance.”

Karin bit her lip. “But there is something –“

“I don't want to hear it, wife.”

Realizing the conversation was quickly going sour, Karin added an acidic “Are you sure?” before moving to retire into her carriage.”

“Yes. Everything's in order already – we need just one engagement, a decisive battle!”

Karin wanted to scream, but settled for slamming the carriage shutter in her husband's face. Fuming, she sat silently in the carriage until it began rumbling along. The handmaiden elected to accompany her on the journey tested the waters by resting a gentle hand on Karin's shoulder, who brushed it away and gave the girl a withering look. The handmaiden jumped and found the opposite seat, folding her hands in her lap.

Halkjell and Gyda's reasoning was that two years of campaigning had drained Are's hird – they saw his hiring of a small mercenary company as evidence to support that. None of them seemed to care much about the other Jarls of Norway – at least two had supported Are's father in the previous civil war instigated by Queen Gyda. This time, there had been no confirmation of any kind of conspiracy amongst the Jarls. In fact, no one seemed to be certain of anything, and that – that – thought Karin, was almost as good as a confirmation that something was in fact going on behind the drapes. That conspicuous silence, coupled with the growing amount of rumours indicating that Jarl Are would depose the Queen if he won the war, made Karin relatively certain that simply discounting the other Jarls could prove to be a fatal mistake. Her husband should at least have some kind of plan for how to deal with them, if they stirred. If – but her husband would hear nothing of that particular if, which had been the source of many an argument over the past couple of months.

And here they were, rolling the dice, with every last egg in one basket. Sighing, Karin motioned for the handmaiden to join her again. “Come on, I don't bite,” she added upon seeing the girl hesitate.



Rogaland
January 26th, 1140

Thus far, the joint campaign had been a resounding success as far as Halkjell was concerned. Since crossing into Norway six months ago, they had driven the Jarl's host before them like frightened sheep. They had found Akershus abandoned, and left a token force to garrison it. The Vestlender holdfasts in Agder had been found in much the same state, and the Queen had been jubilant ever since – she had taken the abandoned keeps and fortifications to mean that the Jarl was so desperate for soldiers that he simply couldn't spare the men to garrison them. Since they had secured Agder, the Queen had taken up temporary residence there along with her hird, leaving the rest of the campaign – “mopping up” – as she called it, to Halkjell. He, on the other hand, didn't believe for a second that the garrisons were empty because there were no men to garrison them with, so the Queen suddenly deciding to split their forces was not one that sat well with him. His brother, mousy and cowardly as he was, had always been one for schemes. Halkjell planned to be one step ahead this time; and the obvious ploy was to give the impression of a depleted force – this was apparently enough to fool the Queen – and then launch a surprise assault with numbers higher than expected.

Too obvious.

The problem was, for all Halkjell wrung his mind, he couldn't think of what the real scheme could possibly be, and then plan accordingly. He suspected Karin might have had some ideas, but their arguments had only escalated since the war started – and he wouldn't be the one to fly a white flag first by asking for her help. Which, he knew, was both boorish and spiteful, but he couldn't just sit by and let her usurp his authority. They had left the carriage behind, eventually, and now Karin rode with an escort behind the main army – when he was at the army's head and she was behind it, at least she couldn't undermine him directly by contesting his orders. In the midst of Halkjell's musings, a smattering of sails rounded a large island off the coast – Karmøy, he thought someone had called it – and set a course straight for the shore. Marching this close to the shore was not something Halkjell would have preferred, but from Agder and northwards along the enormous west coast that made up half of Norway, the shore seemed to creep ever closer to the mountains. This sort of seaborne ambush was precisely what he had wanted to avoid, and now he found himself in the middle of one, with an army of men who had barely unsheathed their weapons for a full year.

As he turned and gallopped towards the main column, shouting “Men!”, a detachment from the Queen's hird, here because he knew the lay of the land, blocked Halkjell's path, forcing him into an abrupt halt. Before Halkjell could voice the angry protest he was preparing, the man pointed towards the approaching ships.

“I know what it looks like, but they're not the Jarl's ships!”

“What?”

I don't have the time for this, Halkjell thought frantically, as he watched the ships make contact with the shore.

“I mean,” the soldier continued ramblingly, “they're a Jarl's ships, but they're not Jarl Are's ships –“

“If they're not his – then whose are they, and why are they attacking?” Halkjell found himself reeling. The other Jarls were supposed to stay out of this!

“I, uh – there – they're not attacking, look!”

Halkjell turned, with some reluctance, to see the crewmen of the frontmost ship upending an oar the length of three men, waving it as best they could to indicate the white rag tied to it like a flag.

“Why would they ambush us only to surrender?” Halkjell mused aloud. His attendant answered: “Suppose they're on our side, and needed to get here fast – I volunteer to ride down and investigate, for what it's worth.”

“Do you now? Well – ride, then.”

The man rode, and Halkjell waited anxiously. His army had, after some rummaging about, sensed that something was going on, and begun preparing. Halkjell's envoy had reached the flag-bearers, and now seemed to be chatting animatedly with them. After exchanging a few more words, one of the crewmen swung himself up on the horse along with the envoy, and the heavily-loaded horse began making its way back.

When they arrived, the newcomer slid off the horse as quickly as possible, seemingly thankful to have solid ground under his feet again. “Good day to you, Jarl!” he said cheerily. Halkjell was dumbfounded. “You … You are a Jarl, right?”

“I – uh... Yes, I am. Jarlen af Östergötland.”

“Good, good. I am an envoy – here on the behalf of my lord, Håkon av Orknøy.” Sensing Halkjell's bewilderment, the man helpfully added: “He's a Jarl, too.”

***​

The message from the Jarl of Orkney had been short, concise, and had disastrous implications.

“Just behind the ridge here,” the jovial envoy had said, “you'll walk into an ambush set up by Are av Åsane and the other Jarls – excepting Håkon, of course – none of whom have taken the Queen's side.”

And Halkjell had slowly realized that they would be outnumbered – and that he had no idea precisely how deep the ruse went. Then the envoy had merrily continued delivering his message, informing them that the Queen had been seized in Agder by Jarl Are's mercenaries, who had been closing on Halkjell from the south for some time now.

Hoping, perhaps vainly, that the men from Orkney would be enough to make up the difference, Halkjell had followed the envoy's advice and wheeled his army south, hoping to surprise the mercenaries and break through the vice. Even as they marched, the ships gliding by on their flank – as if mocking their futile attempt to survive – made it plain that there would be no surprises. They were trapped in a vice slowly snapping shut, and the Jarls were making it obvious that Halkjell's gambit had failed – they were marching only a short distance behind him.

Halkjell had learned – both on his own and with generous contributions from his wife – that his rage tended to cloud his judgement. Thus, he knew, when he felt it well up, red and boiling, that he would make mistakes, and should try to calm himself if he were to lead his men into what could very easily turn into their last battle.

Every last thought of discipline, however, vanished when his column reached the already-formed ranks of the mercenaries, their numbers now swelled with reinforcements from the Jarls' hirds. He threw another panicked look behind, scouting for the other army closing on them – and fervently hoping that they would at least be merciful to his wife, who was still riding in the back –

“Form ranks!” he bellowed, shaking himself out of the panicked stupor. “We either go through them or we die!”

Seeing his men putting less than all their heart in preparing for battle, he added half-heartedly: “And quickly, or we'll be run down from the rear!”

“They're already here!” someone shouted in response.

Halkjell blinked. What? “Stop spouting nonsense – and form those ranks!” Then he turned, and saw that whoever had shouted had been telling the truth. The army of Jarls had caught up with them, and were already forming ranks behind them.

Spitting with rage, Halkjell shouted an incoherent stream of curses, unfastened his helmet and flung it at the nearest man. It took him in the nose, and he stumbled back, responding with his own string of curses.

Why does nothing ever go the way I plan?

Suddenly he found himself flanked by Karin, who looked equal parts furious and worried. “What's going on?”

“We're surrounded.”

She trotted her mount nervously in circles. “Surrounded? So – what do we do?”

Halkjell laughed. “What do we do?” Ha – we fight, and if we're lucky, die well.”

Karin blanched. “I don't want to die.”

Now she realizes this isn't a game.

“Well, take it up with them!” Halkjell said, motioning to the force mustered behind his.

Huffing, she turned her mount. “I'll do that, then.”

“You – what?”

Before Halkjell could stop her, Karin sped towards the Jarls' banner. He could nothing but watch – trying to catch up with her on foot was pointless. He hoped, faintly, that they wouldn't kill her. They didn't – instead, after a brief conversation, a smattering of what looked like grizzled veterans and one tall man astride a horse followed Karin nearer their lines. She quickly made her way back to Halkjell.

“They accept a parley.”

“You – you can't do that!” Halkjell said, groaning, realizing that his wife had taken the reins from him.

Karin raised an eyebrow, and remained silent. Halkjell gave in, and muttered. “Well, what do I do – go down there with you?”

“Yes. You can take the horse – I'll stay here. I made up some story about how it was just expedience that you sent me, because I was mounted – faster, and all that.” Even as she described how she had lied to save his honour, Halkjell resented his wife. She continued, getting out of the stirrups. “Now you go back – cut a deal. I expect to walk out of here, husband.”

As he approached the gathering, now mounted, it dawned on Halkjell that the tall man on the horse was none other than who the Queen had wanted to chastise – Jarl Are av Åsane, his half-brother.

When did he get this tall?

The recognition was mutual, Halkjell realized, as Are looked him up and down, taking measure. Halkjell had simply grown older since they last met – Are had grown into his prime. With that realization came a cascade of others – the green boy he thought he had been waging war on had, all along, been a man with a taut posture, an authoritative voice and a prematurely lined face. Everything about the young Jarl radiated implacability, and the Queen had underestimated that quality – that, and all his other qualities. This war had been pointless – the outcome given from the outset. Yet somehow, Halkjell had believed the Queen, and now he stood to lose everything. He could have screamed. Instead, he composed himself.

“We are at your mercy – what are your terms?”

Are responded without hesitation. “Order you men to lay down their arms and leave this land – and they'll still have their lives, if not their dignity.”

“You'll let us go?”

Are shook his head. “Your men, yes – not you, Halkjell Åstasson.”

“What would you ever want with me, little brother?”

“You are no brother of mine. For your part in killing my mother, however – ” Are said bluntly, “I'll defer judgement to a ting.”

Halkjell felt his gut sinking. How does he know?

Halkjell was ready to throw himself into a furious assault and go down fighting, rather than being dragged away in chains, only to later be executed. Desperation, however, brought him momentary clarity – his family has built their name on tradition – and quietly voiced his challenge: “I … I – challenge you to single combat! To settle this – this dispute with holmgang!” Silence fell.

“That is your right.” Are looked around. “There are witnesses present.”

The crowd surrounding the half-brothers suddenly erupted in a throng of raised voices, as men from both sides volunteered to champion their leader – “Jarl! You should choose a champion – I volunteer!” - and were summarily cut off when Are raised his hands and bellowed: “Silence!”

Within moments, nothing but the uncertain chirping of birds filled the air around the battlefield.

“I thank you all for your offers, but I will answer the challenge myself, as my honour and Jarldom demands of me.” Are said, calmly sheathing his sword. Locking eyes with Halkjell, he continued: “We meet for holmgang tomorrow, at dawn – on an islet of your choosing. Now, remove yourself from my sight.”

The fate of the daughters probably isn't going to be very dramatic or altogether plot-centric, as that was kind of how the game settled on it. I can reveal, however, that the competent one is going to be a lot more well-off than the moron. As for The Queen, the Jarls, and the Kingdom - it shall all be revealed! ... In the second half of this update.

I should just stop saying things like "almost done" and "quickly", because it never turns out that way. If this seems short it's because it's technically part two of the last post. Here we are, however!


The Coast of Rogaland
January 27th, 1140

“The Queen is dead.”

It begun as a curt piece of news, delivered impassively, and grew to a rumor that fluttered through the two enemy camps, situated only a few hundred yards apart. By the time it reached Are, everyone seemed to know.

“Dead?” he asked. “How?”

“By her own hand, as they say it – flung herself from the chamber where they kept her in house-arrest.”

“So there will be no proper administering of justice.”

“Perhaps, my lord Jarl, the Queen saw fit to sentence herself –“

“Perhaps.” Are sighed. “But tell me – why did they leave her, cornered and utterly defeated, in a high chamber with a balcony?

“No balcony, m'lord – it was a window. Small one, too, but she squeezed through, though. And, uh...” The man Are was engaging in conversation – a lowborn, veteran member of his hird – flundered. “It wasn't that tall. But she, uh … Went out head-first. To make sure, probably.”

“I see.”

The Jarlsting must convene - but for now ...

Night was slowly turning into dawn. Within the hour, the sun would have made its way over the mountains currently shading them. Are let the armourer and his apprentice add their finishing touches – tightening the odd strap, double-checking every detail – before retrieving his sword belt and fastening it himself. Trepidation was slowly sinking into his bones. He knew it would dissipate before the first blows were traded, giving way to cold purpose. Right now, however, he was wracked with nausea, and a small voice was reminding him that this was no ordinary battle – not war, but single combat. Defeat likely meant death, but death paled in significance next to everything that was on the line. Defeat here would rob him of any esteem, in both life and death, as well as besmirch the legacy of his father, grandfather and uncle. Their work and sacrifices would be in vain.

At least, he thought uneasily, Boleslava is not here. Anywhere but here.

Halkjell had let his wife accompany him on this campaign. Deliciously ironic, wouldn't it be, if her likely spontaneous effort at parley which had in turn led to Halkjell's challenge, turned out to be Are's downfall? She would probably be watching from the shore.

Nearly every man in the camp had volunteered to serve as Are's honour guard, which would be accompanying him down to the shore. In the end, he had picked a mix of his most senior men and raw recruits. Now, ambling down toward the shore as they were, he could only hope his own look matched their faces, grizzled veterans and young men alike wearing their steely determination as a suit of armour. From the other camp, a similar procession made their way toward the shore. A tiny rowing boat, hastily assembled during the night, had already been placed on the beach, and men were in place to launch the boat by simply pushing as soon as the rower and his two charges had embarked. As expected, Karin af Sverker was among the Swedes.

A gnarled, burly man nodded curtly to Halkjell and Are as they approached. “I'll be taking you out, m'lords, and I'm tellin' you now – one swipe while we're in the boat, and I'll drown you both, Jarls or no.”

“Of course,” Are said mildly, turning his gaze to Halkjell. He didn't look the bastard in the eyes – rather, he gauged how he had armed himself. Halkjell's approach was as if made to underline the ancient worth of the duel they were about to partake in – he bore a short-handled war axe, a round shield, and was clad in simple leather and mail, donning a skull-cap. Are himself bore a single longsword, the steel not of norse origin – making the weapon light enough for one hand, but with a grip long enough for two hands if need be. Are's armour was largely unadorned, but the mail and plate rendering it much heavier than Halkjell's – he suspected the overlapping plates would cause the coarse iron axehead to glance aside with ease, but if he was pushed into the water he would drown. That was a risk he was willing to run. Over a coif, Are, too, wore a skullcap, albeit with a noseguard. From underneath it, he saw Halkjell looking him over in much the same manner, making observations.

“Shall we, then?” grumbled the oarsman.

The sun was now bathing the fjord in a crisp, golden light as Are and Halkjell were deposited on opposite sides on an islet perhaps a hundred yards from the shore. As soon as the oarsman cleared with his boat, the islet – holmen – would become an arena, from which only one man would emerge alive - victorious. Such was the custom of holmgang.

Halkjell saved no time for pleasantries, and arrayed himself for battle, axe at the ready, shield raised as he advanced upon his half-brother. Are stood his ground, sword lowered. Halkjell had always been sturdily built – but unlike their uncle, who had never let his immense size compensate for lack of skill – Halkjell had quickly grown lazy and complacent when he realized few could match his reach and brute force. Are could match his reach, and had possessed no such notions of inherent superiority – he had practised swordplay zealously since the day his mother died. Halkjell's disposition had not changed with age, Are then concluded, as the former suddenly lunged forward with a savage, if clumsy, overhead strike. Sidestepping, partly expecting a feint – and realizing none would come – Are drove the pommel of his sword into the side of Halkjell's jaw as his axe split air, throwing him forwards and past Are. A downward slash intended to hamstring his adversary missed by a hair's breadth as Halkjell, taken off-guard by the hilt strike, slumped sideways and crashed to the slick, rocky ground on the islet. Careful not to press his advantage carelessly, Are circled, aiming a testing blow at Halkjell's head as he found his footing and began to rise. This time, he raised his shield in response. By virtue of the blow being light, the sword simply rebounded from the wood rather than catching. Halkjell scrambled to his feet, spitting blood and teeth before gritting his teeth.
He'll be more careful from now on. Should have taken his head off while he was still confident.

Silently chiding himself, Are focused again on his adversary. Halkjell was visibly disoriented from the strike, his circling uneven.

“I had your mother killed, you know,” taunted Halkjell.

“I know,” was Are's measured response.

“Now, I very much regret not being there to finish you off mys – “

Halkjell's jibe was cut off and replaced by a low grunt as he raised his shield and pivoted to meet a slash from the right – which turned out to be imaginary, as Are flowed from a feint to a low slash aimed at Halkjell's unguarded knee.

Things happened in rapid succession, then. Halkjell – in a feat of agility Are would never have thought him capable of – jumped forward, over the sweeping blade, and swung his axe around as he landed. Are yanked his blade upwards, severing Halkjell's shield-arm at the elbow just as the axe made contact with Are's head, a burst of sharp pain covering the left side of his face and robbing him of all vision, a loud clang marking the moment when the axe was thrown aside by Are's noseguard, which in turn cracked. Fleetingly, Are realized he was still alive, and saw through a hazy veil of mist that Halkjell, bereft of his shield arm and disoriented by the rebound of his axe, had left himself wide open. Are lunged into a full-bodied charge, slamming his shoulder into Halkjell's chest to throw him off-balance, before trapping his remaining arm in a lock-grip. A strike with his armoured forehead against Halkjell's face was rewarded with a satisfying crunch, blood spattering Are's face. As Halkjell reeled backwards towards the end of the islet, Are released his grip, switched to a two-handed grip and swung, extending his arms and the sword to their fullest in a committed sweep aimed at his half-brother's head. At first Are counted the strike as a miss, not having felt the blade connect – until Halkjell toppled backwards, revealing the wide gash in his throat.

Moments later, it was over, only the pools of blood on the sea-washed rocks and the ripples on the water slowly disappearing giving any hint as to what had occurred. Are stood alone on the islet. He removed his helmet, and tried wiping the blood from his face. He blinked, repeatedly. Blood was pooling in his left eye, blinding it, but no amount of wiping or blinking seemed to clear it.

Turning towards the shore, he saw a sole, dress-wearing figure sinking to its knees. Moments later, Karin af Sverker's undulating cry of despair reached him.



The Jarlsting
January 28th, 1140

The Kingdom of Norway needed a new King and so the Jarlsting had gathered in the wake of Qyeen Gyda's inglorious death. Posthumously, the Queen's vote for her daughter Sanna was counted – and then discarded. With only one vote of support, Sanna Glumsen would never be Queen of anything. Of the men gathered here, Tryggve Yngling, Jarl av Trøndelag, could only think of two men who would be able to bear the responsibility of a King – who had the abilities, the ambition, the drive. The first was himself.

Humility – my foremost virtue, the ageing Jarl thought, amusing himself.

The other was Are av Åsane. He had arrived only hours earlier, barely a day after slaying his brother – well, his divested, bastard half-brother, in all fairness – in single combat, losing his left eye in the process. All this on the back of defeating the Queen's forces and outwitting Halkjell and his Swedes. Now he sat – tall, grim, expressionless, and recently disfigured – and waited. Waited for him, for Tryggve. For all intents and purposes, the old Jarl would be either King – or the Kingmaker.

He had recounted the candidates a dozen times already. Sanna – out. Sanna's brighter, younger sister Grethe – she was sharp as a tack, and would have been a great administrator, but by her own word had no desire to claim any kind of candidacy. Arnvid the Younger, the Jarl of Iceland, would have reluctantly accepted the responsibility should it be laid at his feet, but had expressed no particular desire. He would support whomever Tryggve supported, as long as that entailed a guarantee that traditions would be followed, including an implicit promise of near-sovereignty over his Island realm. Håkon, the Jarl of Orkney, had thrown his lot in with the Queen, and lost. He knew this, and had immediately withdrawn his candidacy, vowing to support whomever Tryggve supported. Are had maintained his candidacy, but also made it clear he would be bow to Tryggve's seniority if the old Jarl desired the crown.

Tryggve glanced again at Are. He didn't know the boy as he had known his father, but he saw the same spark within those eyes. That eye, now.

An omen, perhaps?

During Harald's time as Jarl of Vestlandet, the arrangement had been obvious – if the throne was to change hands, Tryggve would assume it, with Harald as his right-hand man and staunchest supporter. Now, things were unclear. By his own admission, Tryggve was old. Accepting the throne now, it was likely he would simply be keeping the seat warm for a few years, until his own heir … Inherited. And his own heir – painful as it was to admit...

Ack.

Are was young, capable, and – by all accounts – utterly implacable. Discounting himself – maybe – Tryggve could think of no better man to be King.

So what's holding me back?

It would be a tremendous weight on the young man's shoulders. Not just because he would rule a land wreathed in ancient custom, where the old ways were themselves revered, and every petty lord wanted to rule himself. With Are av Åsane, that would be only the half of it. He would never be content as simply an adequate King. He would feel the need to be Great – to rule better than any King before him, expand further, conquer more, secure a worthier heir … He was his father's son, and Harald's high expectations – of himself, foremost – had, Tryggve suspected, played a large part in his early death.

Tryggve stood. All eyes turned.

“I... “ he began. Utter silence followed. “I withdraw my candidacy. I support Jarl Are as King.”

The silence continued. No one seemed to know precisely what to do or say. “What say you?”

Arnvid spoke first. “I trust your counsel – I, too, support Jarl Are.”

Håkon looked sour, Tryggve noticed, but the Orkneyan nodded. “I am a man of my word – he has my support.”

“And you,” continued Tryggve, “Are Haraldsson, Jarl av Vestlandet – will you be our King?”

Are stood, and bowed. “I am humbled by your support. I will be your King.”

Tryggve nodded. “It is settled, then. The Archbishop of Nidaros will crown you intermittently.”

“Long live the King?” Håkon suggested.

“Long live the King!” Tryggve and Arnvid responded.

Forgive an old man, boy.

And yet again, I haven't abandoned the AAR, I've just been lax in my duties. I'd like to apologize for the prolonged silence, anyway. I'm glad you liked the last update - I felt if was a satisfying conclusion to the arc, if perhaps not the most surprising.

Let me know if there were any plot threads that were never really gathered up and resolved, it's not entirely unlikely that it happened.

I'm going to spend the afternoon writing an interlude update, in narrative form, to showcase the reactions of other European courts. Grethe's fate will be dealt with as well, and a certain missive to the Pope, which will have many and serious long- and short term effects on Europe's political and cultural map, will reach its destination.

Finally, I've figured out where to resume the narrative in order to avoid treading water for years. Remember the very proliferate Bulgars from the map in the ROTW update?