Chancellor Athelstan adjusted the heavy fur-trimmed robe that marked his elevated station—rich blue wool edged with marten fur, a gift from King Bjorn himself. The silver brooch at his shoulder bore the King's seal, marking him as one who spoke with royal authority. Six years had passed since his kidnapping from Northumbria, and the monk's simple robes had given way to the regalia of power.
From slave to one of the most influential men under the King. A journey worth chronicling, and he did, meticulously recording every detail in his careful script.
The scratching of quills on parchment filled the Great Hall, punctuated by the crackling of the hearth fires. Athelstan sat at the high table, his workspace organized with precision. He was a man who understood that details mattered in governance.
"Where should I put these, Chancellor?"
Gyda's voice drew his attention. She stood before him, arms full of brown leather ledgers, their brass clasps gleaming in the firelight. She wore a dress of deep green wool, the sleeves fitted in the Frankish style she heard about and favored, with gold thread embroidered along the neckline.
Her hair was plaited in intricate braids woven with small gold beads—a style that declared both her royal status and her refusal to be confined by it.
Athelstan gestured to the table beside him, where other ledgers were already stacked. "Just there, thank you. The tax collections begin arriving today. We'll need them within reach."
She set them down with care, then turned to him with eyes bright with enthusiasm. "It's exciting, isn't it? Being part of something entirely new. To be the ones building it from nothing."
"It is." Athelstan allowed himself a small smile. "We are all proud of what Bjorn has and is achieving."
"Did you have something like this in Northumbria?" Gyda pulled a stool closer, settling herself at his table as if she belonged there—which she did as his assistant. "This system of taxation, I mean."
Athelstan set down his quill, considering how to explain the differences. "Not quite like this new tax and defense warriors. In Northumbria, it was... simpler, like here before Bjorn's ideas. The folk owed their lords food and labor. During times of war or famine, the kings extracted additional tribute, often leaving people with barely enough to survive."
"That sounds terrible," Gyda said, frowning.
It was unpredictable, which made it worse. But we had the Church, and the kings enforced the tithe; a tenth of everything a person produced, given to God. Or rather, to the Church that claimed to speak for God. That brought its own disasters now that he thought about it after experiencing many new things.
But he didn't tell her. He still had a soft spot in his heart for his home.
Before anyone of them could utter another word, the heavy doors of the Great Hall swung open. A messenger strode in, mud splattered across his leather boots and wool cloak, his breath coming in visible puffs from the cold outside.
Every scribe in the hall looked up. Gyda straightened on her stool. They all knew what this meant—word from the King.
The messenger approached, his hand on a sealed letter tucked inside his cloak. "Word from King Bjorn, under his royal seal."
Gyda immediately rose and stepped forward, extending her hand with as much authority she could muster. "I'll take it."
The messenger's expression became apologetic, though he didn't move to hand over the letter. "I'm sorry, Princess, but I cannot do that. You know the protocol."
"Protocol?" Gyda's voice sharpened. "That letter likely contains family matters. Which means I have every right to receive it."
"It still bears the King's seal, Princess Gyda." The messenger held his ground, though he bowed his head respectfully. "Only the Queen or the Chancellor may break the King's seal. Those are the rules established by the King himself."
Gyda's lips curved in a wry smile. "Well, it was worth attempting."
She turned and climbed the steps to the raised platform, settling herself in Bjorn's high-backed chair with ceremony. The carved dragon heads on the armrests seemed to frame her as she fixed the messenger with a look that could only be described as withering.
They said a woman's angry eyes were like daggers, but Gyda's were more like rusted butter knives—irritating rather than dangerous. She wasn't one for violence, but she could certainly make her displeasure known.
Athelstan rose from his seat, his robes rustling as he moved. The other scribes continued their work, though he could see them listening intently.
The messenger nodded with genuine respect. "Chancellor." He produced the letter, displaying the wax seal bearing Bjorn's mark—a sword and a raven.
As the messenger's footsteps echoed away across the wooden floor, Athelstan picked up a small knife from his table. Then he paused, glancing up at Gyda in the King's chair.
There was a rule about the King's sealed messages, they represented the King's voice, and thus one should receive them with the same formality as if the King stood present. Which meant standing, at minimum.
"By the gods, Athelstan." Gyda's exasperation was palpable. "It's a family message, not a formal decree. There's no one here but us and the scribes. We don't need to perform the full ceremony. Just please, read the letter."
Athelstan considered this.
Well, she had a point.
So he broke the seal.
Bjorn's handwriting sprawled across the page, confident, but lacking the elegance Athelstan preferred. His eyes moved quickly over the words, and something settled in his chest.
"Well?" Gyda leaned forward. "What does he say?"
"It seems," Athelstan said slowly, "it has finally come to an end."
"What has? Give me that." Gyda descended from the platform and took the letter from his hands.
Athelstan returned to his seat, listening as she read aloud:
"First, I hope this letter finds you all—my family—in good health and good spirits.
Since I departed Kattegat, we have brought the Jarls of Møre to heel. They resisted, as expected, though they knew of our coming. Interestingly, they refused to meet us at sea—fear of the fire we used at Kaupang last year has apparently made quite an impression. Neither would they face us in open battle on land. Instead, they cowered behind their walls like frightened children."
Athelstan smiled slightly at that. If it had been Bjorn who was outnumbered, he would have found a way, or reinforced his walls and called it smart defense rather than cowering.
Gyda continued reading, her voice taking on an amused tone as she mimicked her brother's braggadocio:
"They believed their walls would protect them, and that I wouldn't dare touch the farmers and villages under their rule. They were half right, I did spare the normal folk. But their walls proved useless when their entire population numbers fewer than eight hundred souls. I sent them challenges for single combat, offering to end the conflict with minimal bloodshed. They refused, claiming it would be unfair for ordinary men to fight one so blessed by the gods."
"Gods save us from Bjorn's humility," Gyda muttered, then continued:
"But they fell into my trap. I named my champions; Rollo and Jarl Styrkar. They brought forward their own champions, though notably, none of the Jarls themselves had the courage to fight. In any case, more than half their population consisted of women, children, and the elderly, which made defending all sides of their palisade impossible. Their leaders died fighting, refusing to surrender to the last. Their sons and daughters are being sent to Kattegat. Athelstan will know what to do with them."
Athelstan nodded grimly. Boys would be integrated into the military system, trained and absorbed into Bjorn's growing forces. The daughters would become tools of alliance—married off to secure loyalty from lesser jarls and ambitious warriors. It was fate of the losers.
"We then moved against the remaining Jarls of Møre. Some surrendered after their first defeat. Others fled on their ships to destinations unknown.
The campaign in Trøndelag followed a similar pattern. Jarl Haakon had a seeress constantly at his side. He was quick to surrender when he saw which way the wind blew. The other two Jarls there barely put up a fight. None escaped; all chose submission when they realized they were losing. These hostages will arrive with the first group from Møre.
Naumdal and Hålogaland proved easier still. The Jarls who didn't surrender immediately accepted my challenge to single combat. They were brave and proud men, I'll grant them that. But my champions were better, and they triumphed.
The last Jarl took his own life. Whether from fear or honor, I cannot say.
I have rewarded the loyal with land grants, though these are not hereditary. The land belongs to the person who served me, not to their descendants. They must earn their own way.
So, Chancellor Athelstan, you have new history to write.
Also, casualties on our side were minimal. We focused on slow siege tactics rather than reckless assault since we had a protected supply line.
King Bjorn."
Gyda lowered the letter, her expression complex, pride mixed with something harder to name. "We're part of something larger now. A destiny we didn't choose."
"I thought each man chose his own destiny," Athelstan said quietly.
"Father and Bjorn say so," she replied, "but I still don't have an answer. Someday i will."
Before Athelstan could respond, the doors opened again. Lagertha entered, flanked by Ubbe and Hvitserk. She carried Ivar in her arms, wrapped in soft furs against the cold. The baby was awake, his strange serpent-like eyes surveying the world.
Behind them came Siggy and Thyri, both wearing the wool dresses of house servants—simple but well-made, dyed in muted colors. Siggy's was a soft brown, while Thyri wore dark blue. Both had served Bjorn's household since the death of Jarl Haraldson.
Athelstan's gaze lingered on Thyri for a moment longer than necessary. She met his eyes briefly before lowering her gaze, a small smile playing at her lips.
"What news?" Lagertha asked, shifting Ivar in her arms. She looked tired, Athelstan noticed, more fragile than the proud Shieldmaiden he first saw.
She never strayed far from Ivar now, constantly vigilant against the whispers and the stares. In a society that valued strength and martial prowess above all else, a child born unable to walk was seen as cursed.
Athelstan could see the guilt eating at her, the way she blamed herself for Ivar's condition. But she clung fiercely to the prophecies—Bjorn's assurances, the seer's cryptic words about the gods' favor. It was all she had.
"Bjorn is victorious," Gyda announced. "All the northern territories have submitted. The hostages are being sent here."
"And Bjorn? Ragnar? Are they safe?" Lagertha's voice cracked slightly on the question.
"The letter mentions minimal casualties," Athelstan assured her. "They'll be home soon."
Relief washed over Lagertha's face. "Then we should spread the news. The people deserve to know. And we should make offerings to the gods in thanksgiving."
"I'll arrange the sacrifices," Athelstan said. Animals only, as Bjorn had decreed. No more human offerings. Athelstan had never understood that practice anyway, the waste of human life.
As the family departed to prepare for the celebrations, the first tax collectors began arriving.
The harvest season was ending, and the new system of taxation was being tested for the first time. Kattegat's residents were the first to comply—hundreds of people bringing their payments in grain, livestock, honey, and silver or Drottir coins.
"Gyda," Athelstan called. "Time to begin verification and recording."
She joined him at the high table, along with the other scribes. They worked through the afternoon, cross-referencing the payments against the surveys they'd conducted across the lands. Each farmer's assessment had been carefully calculated based on land holdings, livestock, and projected yields.
Hours later, Athelstan sat back, rubbing his eyes. "No discrepancies. Everything matches the assessments."
"Did you expect anything different?" Gyda asked. "In Kattegat, at least, only a fool would try to cheat the King's tax."
"True enough." Athelstan studied her—still energetic despite the tedious work, only slightly tired. "Excellent work, as always, Gyda. You have real talent for administration. I'm certain that in time, you'll have your own position in the new government."
Her face clouded. "Tell that to my silver haired brother. He still treats me like a child who needs protecting. I'm excluded from every important discussion. He schemes with father and tells me nothing."
"Your brother loves you," Athelstan said gently. "Each person loves differently. He doesn't want you to make mistakes early in your career. People's favor is fickle, they'll cheer you when you succeed, but one misstep and you're cast aside like refuse."
Gyda looked unconvinced, but nodded.
"Everyone," Athelstan addressed the room, "excellent work today. We'll resume tomorrow morning."
The scribes began gathering their materials. As they filed out, Gyda turned to Athelstan with narrowed eyes.
"You're not staying?"
"No, I think I'll work from my house tonight. Change of scenery is good for one's mental health, Bjorn told me so himself." He spoke quickly, gathering his own papers.
Gyda crossed her arms, her expression skeptical. "Uh-huh. One of the guards should accompany you. For your protection. Bjorn's orders."
'She knows,' Athelstan thought. "That's really not necessary. You should rest. I'll see you tomorrow."
He made his escape before she could protest further, though he could feel her eyes on his back as he left the Great Hall.
Outside, the cold hit him immediately. Winter was approaching fast. Athelstan pulled his fur-lined robe tighter and hurried toward his longhouse, which thankfully wasn't far from the hall.
He'd only gone halfway when he sensed someone following him. His pace quickened.
As he reached his door, he heard soft footsteps behind him. He spun and grabbed the hooded figure, feeling soft hands and hearing a feminine giggle.
In one motion, he pulled her inside and shut the door, then peered out to ensure no one had witnessed their entry. Satisfied, he turned to face his visitor.
"Stop being so afraid, Athelstan." Thyri pushed back her hood as he lit the candles. The warm light illuminated her face—pale skin, bright eyes, white teeth flashing in a playful smile. "You're a freeman and I'm a freewoman. You're the Chancellor of the King, and I'm a servant of his household. There's no law against this."
"I know." Athelstan studied her face, the way the candlelight caught in her hair. "But I want to tell Bjorn myself, not have him hear it as gossip. I'm waiting for him to return."
Thyri stepped closer, and he could smell wine on her breath. "For someone so close to him, you really underestimate Bjorn. My mother says he already has men watching you—for your protection, supposedly. Not everyone appreciates your rise to power, you know. There are many who resent you."
'That sounds like Bjorn.'
"Their resentment is wasted energy." Athelstan felt the warmth of her proximity. "I don't make decisions. I simply record them."
"But you have the King's ear. " She removed his cloak; the heavy blue wool of his station slid to the floor, forgotten in the straw. "And Ragnar's ear as well. That's real power."
She whispered the last words against his ear, and Athelstan felt desire surge through him. He looked into her eyes, then drew her close.
He kissed her not with the grace of a nobleman, for he was none, but like a drowning man reaching for shore.
They undressed each other with fumbling urgency, losing themselves in physical connection, seeking comfort in flesh and warmth.
Afterward, they lay in his bed, Thyri's head resting on his bare chest. She traced idle patterns through the sparse hair there.
"Do you still have those dreams?" she asked softly.
Athelstan tensed. He stared at the ceiling, seeing memories he wished he could bury. "No. They've stopped, thank the gods."
It was a lie. The dreams came every night.
"His death wasn't your fault," Thyri said. As if she could see right through him. "He chose to steal from the King. He chose to run."
Brother Cuthbert. That had been the monk's name. He'd worked under Athelstan in the treasury, had seemed devout and trustworthy. Then he'd stolen newly minted coins—drottir pieces that Athelstan was responsible for accounting. Brother Cuthbert had planned to flee back to his family in Frankia.
But Athelstan had discovered the theft. And Athelstan had reported it.
Bjorn's punishment had been swift and brutal. He'd ordered Brother Cuthbert sewn into a large sack and placed in the training grounds. Then he'd had his war horses driven over the sack at full gallop. Again. And again.
Athelstan hadn't stayed to watch, but he'd heard the details later. Bjorn had forbidden anyone from retrieving the body or giving it burial. The ravens had taken care of that.
Now Brother Cuthbert appeared in Athelstan's dreams; bloodied and broken, staring with soulless eyes that seemed to ask: Was this justice?
Since then, Athelstan had felt a desperate need for connection, for something to anchor him to life and warmth. His old monastic vows of celibacy seemed meaningless now. His soul was already compromised.
What difference did one more transgression make?
Thyri shifted against him, her breathing growing slower as sleep claimed her. But Athelstan remained awake, staring into the darkness, waiting for the dreams to come.
Author's note: I don't think I needed to show Bjorn fighting the remaining kingdoms, since it wouldn't add anything new. I've shown enough already, and anything more would feel like stalling. Instead, I decided to focus on character development for Athelstan with a small time skip, since I feel I've neglected him and the others a lot.