Sons of the North - An Alternate History of the Ynglings
Prologue - Wrath's End
Part One - The Sins of the Father
To Pay the Bloodprice
Remembering the days of old...
Things we lost in the fire
Prologue - Wrath's End
March, 1066
The air was wet with the coming of rain.
Spring came late to Norway, even here, at the southern fjord of Viken, snow had just recently receded and with thaw came the seeming everlasting rain. The grey skies failed to contrast against the greying wood of the palisade surrounding the hill above the small town of Oslo. The town was small, or so at least Olafs father had told him, in Olafs eyes the town always seemed bustling with life. Of course, his father had wandered the world for many years during his exile, had travelled the rivers of the eastern land, served many a lord and fought many foes under strange stars. The great Harald Yngling had even served the mighty emperor of legendary Miklagård in his wars against numberless barbarians, and had returned home with mountains of gold to lay claim to the throne, and to the throne he had been raised. Young Olaf on the other hand, had never travelled further than Nidaros in the north and Kungahälla in the south. The eastern forests of Värmland and the seas of the west was as of yet mysteries to him although his father had told him that one day Olaf would ride the longships far and wide, commanding his own hirdmen and tear at the fat belly that was the green isles of Britain and the lands of the Franks. Maybe he would even travel east to see the fabled lands where his father had once roamed.
Olaf stood above the gate in the palisade, in the one tower of the fort, watching the horizon, fingers on the hilt of the sword he had carried but a fortnight. A gift from his father, for the upcoming war. The waters of the fjord was as grey as the skies. The world was as cold, wet iron. His father probably saw it as fitting. The king was in council with the jarls, had been for several days now, trying to gain their support for his newest ambition. For years they had resisted his war against the Danes, resulting in the killing of Einar Eindridesson, and thus the image of Einar had become the one enemy Harald had never been able to slay. The men of Trondelag, who Einar had once led, had risen against Harald and the king had not been able to commit his entire force against Sweyn Estridsen, Usurper of Denmark. And even though Sweyn had failed time and time again in the field Harald had been unable to hold the land he conquered. This time his father had said things would turn out different. Olaf looked back upon the longhouse where the council was held. Most of the time he sat at his fathers side during council but this day his father had dismissed him early, giving him some precious time outside.
The waited rain suddenly began to fall, not the slow dripping that always seemed to fall in the early spring, the sort of rain one learned to ignore if one wanted to see the sky before summer, but a violent downpour, soaking everything within sight in a matter of minutes. Olaf quickly jumped down from the tower and ran for the longhouse, even before he was halfway there he was wet unto the bone, his long blonde hair clinging to his head and neck. Outside the house stood two of his fathers hirdsmen, one of them, a tall, fair-haired youth just a year older than Olaf, smiled at him. The man’s name was Erik, and the two had grown up together. Erik was the son of Olafs wet nurse and had followed the King when he moved his residence from Nidaros to Oslo years before. The two were friends, as much as a son of a king could be friends with anyone, and Erik had always been much more of a brother to Olaf than Magnus ever could have been.
“Nice weather, don't you think, my Lord?”
The older guard, a grey-stained wolf of a man called Shatterspear laughed a four-toothed laugh at Olaf as the boy tried to get the worst wet out of his hair before stepping inside.
“Oh, in you go, lad. Ere's no'dryin up ou'ere in this. The rain's comin so hard it almost bounces up me'nose.”
Olaf gave the old guard a look. When he was younger he had always feared the grey, damp-smelling man. The fact that the guard was the only one who could handle his father when the king was in his cups was part of that too. There was nothing in the world even half as fearsome as king Harald when the man was drunk, and a man being able to tame that beast must truly be at least as dangerous as the beast itself. Some of the older guards, those who had travelled with Harald in the east and been with him at Miklagård, had told Olaf that his father hadn't always been like that. They had told him of a young man who liked to sing and who stole women out of young lordlings fingers at court, but the man they had followed south had changed when he came back north. The accusations after his nephew's death, the killing of Einar. The burden of a crown which had broken many a man had not broken Harald. It had merely changed him, hardened him, stripped away all the colour and life that had once surrounded the iron at the core of the man.
Inside the longhouse the air was damp. The house differed from most longhouses in having two stories, not the single one. This was one of the few benefits coming with his fathers position as king. Thus the thralls and the animals was kept below, and his father, himself and some of the older hirdsmen slept upstairs together with a few freemen servants. The house was perhaps the largest one in all of Norway, except maybe the longhouse they had left to Magnus in Nidaros when Harald decided to leave the town in the hands of his eldest son and position his court at Oslo. Surely it was the most grand longhouse in all of the north, or so had the hirdsmen claimed at least, and among them were many who had travelled far and wide and had seen both Skara, Birka and Jelling. Olaf pulled of his wet tunic and was handed a dry, warm one by a thrall and seated himself by the kitchen fire. The cook, an elderly thrall-woman who had always seemed sorrowfully fond of Olaf gave him a fresh-baked bun of bread and a bowl of broth from the ham cooking in the fire before she scampered of to continue her work for the feast. The thralls had been working endlessly the last few days to be able to prepare the every-nightly feasts that came with the jarls meeting. Not only had all the jarls of mainland Norway gathered, but they had brought twenty men each, bolstering the forts populace with over a hundred men.
“Olaf!” The voice was that of Olaf's brother Magnus. Even calling out loud the mans voice sounded a bit faint. Magnus had aged half a lifetime by the look of it, since he became jarl of Nidaros and Trondelag.
“Yes, brother?”
“Our father has need of you. Come!”
Olaf put the half-eaten bun aside and marched immediately towards the stair to the main hall now serving as council chambers for the lords of the realm. When he entered the room his father motioned for him to sit down at the empty seat at the table, between jarl Aslak and jarl Jon. Had Olaf been of age, his seat would have been that to the immediate left of his father, Magnus taking the right hand seat, now that seat was taken by Johan Magnusson, leader of the kings hird, a position once held by Magnus and that might one day come to be Olafs. Should one day be Olafs. His father hardly spared him a glance, not that Olaf minded, he tended to shiver under his fathers intense azure gaze, and he did not want to look weak in front of the jarls.
“...but my Lord. The Saxons will surely unite the minute we set foot upon their shore. We have no strongholds left on the islands, no one will give us shelter or supplies. Yes, one thing would be to raid, to burn and pillage, but to conquer? To hold the land against Harolds combined might? No. It cannot be done!” The man who spoke was the aged Aslak, jarl of Rogaland. He had been a respected man in his life but Harald had always told Olaf that the man was a coward at heart. However the man met Haralds gaze in stride. Even at sixty-five Aslak was well-built and strong. He walked freely and sat in council with a sword at his belt.
“Let us ravage the islands and bring home all the wealth of Britain, let her sons fall under our axes and the rivers of England run with the blood of Saxons, like in the days of old, but why should my sons bleed for you, Hardrada? Bleed so you can put another crown upon that towhead scalp of yours? No. I will not have it!” The jarls of Vestlandet murmured in agreement to this.
Olaf realised that the council did not at all go as planned. His father had been sure of the allegiance of the jarls in the west. His concern had been convincing the jarls of the northern lands to join him, or at least to approve so he didn't lose one crown to gain another. Aslak was well on the way to ripping this, Haralds newest ambition, to shreds.
“Bah! I tell you Aslak. Edward is dead and the unity of England lies in tatters. The northern lords hates Harold fiercely. They will never join him. They might even join us against him, given the right incentives. Harold spends his days hiding under his bed, in fear of the Leofricsons, in fear of the Bastard on the other side of the channel...”
“Yes, and when you have taken on Harold shall you then vanquish William too, harassed by the remnants of the saxon army? You don't have the men, and you won't lead mine to death!” The old jarl stood up suddenly. Seemingly preparing to leave the council he gave Harald a hard look and then spat at the floor.
“So you will be running back to your walls then, Aslak? All the better. You were never the man your father was. Go home, and teach your boys to hide behind their mothers skirts as you hid behind yours. Or was it just that you felt more at home among the skirts, so it wouldn't seem so odd when your father fucked you at night?”
The look on Aslaks face was one of pure rage. The once dignified looking face was twisted into a red, blubbering mask of wrath. The old man suddenly drew his sword in a strangely fluid motion for such a old man. He then started a lunge at the unarmed, unarmoured king, still sitting quite calm in his seat at the end of the table. The lords was at their seat. Magnus had drawn his sword and threw himself between his father and the grey behemoth. However, the grandness of the gesture, it was ultimately quite unnecessary. Before Aslak had taken three steps he stopped, his roar interrupted, looked down at his chest and saw the bloody tip of a sword sticking out of it. He tried to speak, but only bloody bubbles came dripping from his mouth. The sword slid out of his chest as he turned around and looked upon the face of his killer. A smooth face. The face of a boy. Aslak collapsed as Olaf dropped his sword.
“Let that be a lesson to all of you!” The kings voice seemed like thunder. “Go home. Be prepared. Those of you who do not come when I call shall see a fate to make that of Aslak and Eindridesson seem merciful, and remember the folly of drawing iron against a man under his own roof!
Olaf stood, surprised he wasn't shaking. He met his fathers appraising look without a wisp of fear.
Last edited:
