If any lines come off as cringe, let me know lol.
A thing(Assembly) and Every karl and bondi who claimed land, every elder and holder of status, had to be present. Women and thralls did not speak, though their voices reached the ears of powerful men through whispered counsel at night. Men without standing could watch, but they could not vote.
-x-X-x-
The hill smelled of peat smoke and damp wool. Men shifted on rough-hewn benches, their weight making the wood creak. Children stood at a distance in small clusters, eyes wide with curiosity, trying to understand why their fathers looked so tense.
The lawspeaker climbed the ancient mound, positioning himself where everyone could see and hear. He raised his staff and called the Thing to order. His voice carried across the open ground.
"All men here will speak truly and plainly. No weapons shall be drawn while the Thing is in session. Any man who breaks this peace will be named outlaw."
The field fell silent. His words held weight because he was bound by tradition, not ambition. He could not pass judgment himself, but he could guide the proceedings and recite the law so that every man present understood the measure by which they would judge one another.
He turned toward the assembled men. "The defendant may now present his case."
A broad-shouldered man stepped forward from the crowd. Bjorn recognized him immediately—Eirik Bone-crusher. Behind him stood fourteen other men, all huskarls, all carrying themselves with the same exhausted pride.
"I am Eirik Bone-crusher," he began, his voice rough. "I served as huskarl to the Jarl of Borre. So did my brothers here." He gestured to the men behind him. "We were more than thirty once. Now we are half of that."
He paused, letting that number settle over the crowd.
"We come here to speak for the dead. Freemen and freewomen of Vestfold who can no longer speak for themselves. We name Helsing, son of King Gandalf, and the warriors he commanded. They came to our lands, burned our farms and slaughtered our people."
His voice remained controlled, but something dangerous flickered in his eyes.
"The king is dead now. His son is dead. But who answers for what they did? Who pays for the homes that burned? Who pays for the men who were cut down in their own fields? Who feeds the children and widows they left behind to starve through winter?"
Murmuring rippled through the Alfheim men. Bjorn watched as shoulders tensed and eyes darted sideways.
He could read their thoughts clearly enough, avoid responsibility at all costs.
Eirik was doing well to contain his rage. His words came out measured and clear. But the same could not be said for the men behind him.
One of the huskarls stepped forward, his face flushed. "Your prince took everything from us! He left us to freeze alongside our families!"
Another voice joined in. "Our children will die because of what he did!"
The lawspeaker struck his staff against the ground three times. The sharp crack of wood on stone cut through the rising noise.
"There will be order! Every man will have his turn to speak, but only when recognized."
The crowd settled, though anger still simmered beneath the surface.
The lawspeaker turned his gaze toward a particular section of the seated men. "Who speaks for the house of Gandalf? Let his kin or sworn men step forward and answer these charges."
For a long moment, no one moved. Then a man stood slowly, reluctance in every line of his body. He was neither tall nor particularly imposing; nothing like the stories of the berserker prince or the fierce king was in his youth.
"I am Hallstein," he said. "I share blood with Gandalf. But we very not close kin."
He stopped there, as if hoping that would be enough. When the lawspeaker simply waited, he continued.
"But I gave no orders for these raids. I commanded no attacks. When the king called for men, I sent what I could. As did everyone else here."
Nods and murmurs of agreement spread through the Alfheim contingent.
"We all answered the call."
"The king commanded it. What choice did we have?"
"Every man here sent warriors when summoned."
Eirik's laugh was bitter. "And you think your obedience will fill our children's bellies? Your loyalty will rebuild our homes?"
Hallstein's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Another Borre huskarl spoke up, his voice shaking with fury. "Someone has to pay for what happened. The crops are gone. The livestock is dead or stolen. Winter is coming and we have nothing. Nothing!"
Several chieftains glanced at Hallstein but remained silent. They would not openly undermine a man of royal blood, but their silence spoke volumes. They were not going to defend him either. It was for the best that he took all the blame.
The lawspeaker's eyes remained fixed on Hallstein. "According to our law, kin must answer for kin. When a man dies, his debts and obligations pass to his blood. The king is dead. The prince is dead. You are what remains of that line."
He let the weight of those words settle before continuing.
"Tell this assembly what you offer in compensation for the dead."
Hallstein spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "What can I possibly offer? Look at me. My own lands are stripped bare. The men I sent to the king's war never came back. I have no silver hidden away. I have no warriors to enforce my will. Should I cut open my own hand to pay for orders I never gave with my own blood?"
Eirik took a step forward. "Better your blood than the blood of children who will freeze this winter! The law says kin answers for kin. You're the last man carrying that blood, so you're the one who answers!"
Voices erupted throughout the assembly. Some men shouted agreement with Eirik. Others muttered that it was unjust to demand payment from a man who clearly had nothing to give. The unity of the Thing fractured along invisible lines—old loyalties, blood ties, personal grudges.
The lawspeaker raised his staff again. "Quiet!"
When order returned, he addressed the entire assembly. "The law is clear. Kin must answer for kin. But when kin cannot provide justice, the Thing must find another path to settlement."
Eirik's expression shifted. He was a warrior, not a politician, but he understood when a battle was lost. Time to change tactics. His eyes moved deliberately across the crowd until they landed on Bjorn.
"Then we demand compensation from those who can pay. Blood-price for every life taken. Payment for every farm burned. And Justice for every wrong done to our people."
The meaning was clear. If Gandalf's surviving kin could not pay, and the others were avoiding payements, perhaps the young Jarl could force them to do so.
The division in the assembly deepened. Some men wanted to declare the matter settled with the king's death—close the wound and move forward. Others bristled at the presence of the young Jarl of Kattegat. He was an outsider. A foreigner. And worse, he was indirectly intimidating them with his present huskarls.
He only said one thing when they questioned him, he responded with "They are my guards."
The only Jarl in Alfheim sat among his chieftains, some of whom had served under him, others who had pledged to the now-dead king. They watched Bjorn with calculating eyes. The boy—was he still a boy?—sat there with nearly a hundred huskarls at his command.
The Jarl himself barely had thirty.
Everyone knew the Kattegat jarl had brought back tremendous wealth from the west. That was how he could afford so many warriors. But he had not raided last year, and rumors said he was building ships constantly. The silver must be running out by now. How would he keep those men loyal when the silver dried up?
Still, they kept their thoughts to themselves and simply watched. The boy had strange silver hair, unlike anything they had seen before. But hair meant nothing. What mattered was power, and power was a thing that shifted like sand.
Bjorn had remained silent throughout the proceedings. The crowd kept glancing his way, expecting him to speak, to argue, to make demands. But he simply sat and observed.
Finally, one of the chieftains stood. He was a broad man with graying hair and a face lined by decades of politics.
"Let us not forget," he said carefully, "that we too have suffered losses. Good men died in that conflict. And we lost six ships. Burned as we came to understand. Who compensates us for those losses?" He glanced towards Bjorn form time to time, as if telling him to pay up.
One of the Borre huskarls shot to his feet, his face purple with rage. "Six ships? You're asking about six ships?"
His voice cracked.
"Entire villages are going to die! And you want to talk about ships?"
He pointed an accusing finger at the chieftain.
"You started this! Your prince led the raids! The gods struck him down for it—that's justice! Earl Bjorn defended us and nothing more!"
A few farmers near the back murmured. Some of the women present shifted uncomfortably, keeping their eyes down, but their expressions spoke clearly enough.
Then the insults began. One accusation led to another. Voices rose. Men stood and pointed fingers. Old grudges surfaced. Every slight, every past conflict, every resentment found its way into the argument.
Bjorn continued to watch in silence. He noted who spoke and who remained quiet. He saw which men looked to others before voicing opinions. He mapped the invisible web of alliances and enmities that connected every person in the assembly.
The chaos continued until the lawspeaker struck his staff against the ground repeatedly. "Enough!"
The noise gradually subsided.
"Remember why we gather here. We come to the Thing to resolve our conflicts without blood feuds and outlawry. We come here so that law, not violence, governs our people."
One of the Borre men called out, "Then let the law be followed! We demand full 'weregild'(paid in atonement for blood guilt) for every freeman and freewoman killed!"
An Alfheim chieftain stood. "And what sum are you claiming?"
"The law sets the price at eleven pounds of silver for each free person killed."
The lawspeaker nodded slowly. "That is indeed what the law prescribes. Present your count."
One of the Borre huskarls began tallying aloud. "We have lost approximately one hundred people. Perhaps more; we are still finding bodies. Among them were more than sixty huskarls, all freemen of standing."
He paused for effect.
"The total compensation owed is one thousand pounds of silver."
The assembly erupted. Men leaped to their feet. Shouts of disbelief and anger filled the air. Some called it madness. Others called it extortion.
The Jarl in Alfheim rose slowly, and his presence commanded enough respect that the noise gradually died down.
"We cannot pay one thousand pounds of silver." His voice was flat, stating a simple fact. "Even if we sold everything in the kingdom; every farm, every boat, every piece of treasure—we could not raise that sum. If we tried, Alfheim would cease to exist. There would be nothing left."
He looked directly at Eirik.
"And let us not forget our own dead. We also lost over one hundred men, or more. Loyal men who will never return home. We lost countless levies. We lost ships and supplies. We face the same winter you do, with the same empty stores and the same hungry mouths to feed."
Eirik's voice was cold. "So what are you proposing?"
"I propose we acknowledge this as mutual destruction. Both sides suffered and both sides lost. Neither side can pay what the other demands."
"Convenient," one of the Borre men spat. "And what about King Halfdan's ships that you captured? Let me guess thay are also yours now?"
"Those are ours by right of victory. Spoils of war."
Rollo leaned close to Bjorn and whispered, "A thousand pounds. That's more silver than most kingdoms see in a decade." He let out a low whistle. "We brought back maybe four hundred pounds from all our raids in the west combined."
Floki, standing on Bjorn's other side, said nothing. His eyes darted between speakers, reading the room with the same intensity Bjorn showed.
Bjorn finally stood.
The effect was immediate. Conversations died mid-sentence. Heads turned. Even those who had been arguing moments before fell silent.
"I have something to say."
His voice was not loud, but it carried across the assembly with perfect clarity.
He turned slowly, making eye contact with different sections of the crowd as he spoke.
"Both sides sit here with empty barns because one man's ambition led to war. I understand why the Borre men are angry. I understand why the Alfheim men feel they have no choice. I even understand why you all sent warriors when your king called—loyalty is what binds our people together."
Several men nodded, though they watched him warily. They did not buy his neutral stand.
"Kattegat also lost men in this conflict. Fathers and sons. We came here to stop a war that benefited no one."
He paused, letting his words sink in.
"Since no one here can find a solution, here is one i offer to all of you. Next summer, we sail west again. And I am offering places on my ships to any man willing to earn what is owed."
Murmurs spread through the crowd. Some men leaned forward with interest. Others frowned in confusion.
He reached down and drew his sword.
The blade emerged from its scabbard with a sound like distant thunder. And men rose in alarm at a weapon being used in the assembly. But after seeing Bjorn not moving, they sat back.
The runes along its length seemed to pulse with their own inner light.
Men leaned forward to see better. They had heard the stories—every settlement had a version by now—but seeing the sword up close was different.
"I paid for this blade with my life," Bjorn said quietly. "I died with it in my chest. The gods saw fit to return me to the world and place this weapon in my hand. I did not understand why at first. Now I think I do."
He looked across the assembly.
"This fighting between our people can end. All this death over pride and old insults—it can end. I believe the gods gave me this sword for that purpose."
He drove the blade point-first into the earth. It sank deep, the crossguard level with the ground. He placed both hands on the exposed hilt.
"If any man here doubts what I say, you are free to try and claim this sword for yourself. But I warn you now, you will feel pain unlike anything you have experienced. I cannot explain why or how. I can only warn you it will happen."
The crowd drew back slightly. Merchants had spread the story from town to town. Skalds had sung about it in halls across the kingdom. But hearing the man himself speak about it, standing close enough to touch the blade, made every rumor suddenly feel real.
A woman near the back clutched the small Thor's hammer pendant at her throat, lips moving in silent prayer.
The Jarl of Alfheim rose slowly from his seat. He was a practical man, not given to superstition, but he understood politics.
If this was a trick designed to intimidate the assembly, it needed to be exposed. And if it was real, better to learn the truth now than remain in ignorance.
"If this is some clever deception to frighten simple folk," the Jarl said carefully, "then someone must test it. I am Jarl. The burden of leadership means I face dangers so my people do not have to."
Bjorn almost cringed. Almost.
He approached the sword, studying it closely.
"Is it like the stories of Mjolnir then ? Can only the chosen one lift it?"
"The chosen One? Well, Try and see," Bjorn said simply.
The Jarl reached down with both hands and grasped the hilt firmly.
Then the Jarl immediately screamed in pain. His legs buckled. He collapsed backward onto the ground, breath coming in short, rapid gasps. His eyes rolled back. Then he went limp.
The assembly froze. Some men stepped back instinctively. Others pushed forward to see better.
One of the Jarl's men dropped to his knees beside the fallen leader, fingers searching for a breath from his nose.
"He lives," the man said shakily. "But he is unconscious. By the gods, he is out cold."
That single moment transformed the entire assembly.
People who had been skeptical moments before now looked at the sword with new eyes. Some of the more devout dropped to their knees in prayer. Others made signs of protection. A few brave souls stepped forward to make their own attempts.
Each one ended the same way. A scream. A collapse. Unconsciousness.
Rollo could not contain his laughter when one man shouted, "Freya's tits!" before dropping like a stone. The crowd turned to stare at Rollo, but he just grinned back at them. He remembered himself being in that position.
Whispers spread like wildfire.
"Remember the story—he was stabbed through the heart."
"Should have died, but he lived."
"His hair turned silver after he woke."
"No natural man survives that."
"The gods touched him."
The powerful men of Alfheim looked at each other with growing unease. They knew how to navigate politics. They knew how to claim divine favor when it suited their purposes—a convenient dream, a lucky omen, a timely victory.
But those were always open to interpretation. This was different. This was undeniable proof that something beyond the normal world was at work.
Bjorn let the moment stretch. Then Bjorn walked forward and grasped the sword's hilt with one hand. He pulled it from the earth as easily as drawing it from a scabbard. No pain and no struggle.
He looked across the assembled faces, deliberately making eye contact with those who had shown the most doubt.
"I believe that answers any questions about the sword's nature."
He held the blade up so the light played across its surface. "Anyone else wish to try?"
Silence.
Finally, one of the true believers—a farmer who had stood in the back throughout the proceedings—found his voice.
"How can we ignore what we have seen? The gods have spoken! This is their will!"
But humans are difficult creatures. Even in the face of the divine, they look for ways to preserve their own interests.
One of the chieftains stood. He was an older man. He stroked his beard thoughtfully while looking at Bjorn with what appeared to be genuine curiosity.
"No one here disputes what we have witnessed. The gods have clearly blessed you with power beyond us, normal men."
He spread his hands in a gesture of openness.
"But for what purpose? That is what we need to understand. Are you meant to be our king? Are you meant to lead us in war? Help us understand what the gods intend, because I think we are all confused here."
Masterfully done, Bjorn thought. He acknowledged the divine power while planting a seed of doubt about political authority. Being chosen by the gods did not automatically mean the right to rule. Those were separate questions.
The Alfheim leadership nodded carefully. They could not dispute the sword or what they had witnessed, but they would not simply hand over their authority either.
Even the believers fell silent, waiting to hear how the chosen one would respond.
Bjorn stood at the center of all those watching eyes. One wrong word and everything would collapse. The peaceful integration he sought would turn into bloodshed.
His hands rested comfortably on the sword's hilt. Nothing happened.
He let his gaze sweep slowly across the assembly—the grieving huskarls of Borre, the calculating men of Alfheim, the common farmers and merchants who simply wanted to survive the coming winter.
He inclined his head slightly, a gesture of respect to everyone present.
"I see clearly what has happened here," he began, his voice carrying without shouting. "Homes have been burned. Stores have been emptied. Families have been torn apart. Men are dead. Women are dead. Children are dead. Those who survive face winter with nothing."
Several of the Borre huskarls straightened, their expressions a mixture of grief and desperate hope.
But the elites did not like this, they just wanted a direct answer to their questions.
"The prince who led these raids is dead. I killed him in single combat—a fair duel witnessed by many. The king is also dead. The men who ordered this destruction are gone. But the suffering they caused remains."
His eyes moved to Hallstein and the other survivors of Gandalf's line.
"No one can bring back the dead. No one can undo what was done. But something must be done for the living. Your families cannot eat promises or survive winter on good intentions."
A ripple of agreement moved through the crowd.
"Some people believe the gods send signs to guide us. I will not claim to understand all their purposes. But they brought me here to this moment. I am not asking to be your king. I am not claiming any seat of power. I am simply saying that this problem has a solution, and I am offering it to you."
He paused, letting them absorb his words.
"Look honestly at what your internal fighting has accomplished. Winter is coming and you are weaker than you were before. What did anyone gain? Nothing except grief and death."
Uncomfortable murmurs rose from various parts of the assembly.
Bjorn turned and pointed west, toward distant lands beyond the sea.
"There are kingdoms across the water filled with riches beyond what you can imagine. Gold in their churches. Silver in their monasteries. More wealth than you could carry away in a dozen raids. Enough for everyone who has the courage to take it."
He let that image sink in before continuing.
"But only if you work together. Only if you stop killing your own neighbors and save your strength for real enemies."
He looked back at the assembly.
"I will see that the dead are honored with proper wergild. I will see that the living have a chance to survive. Those who caused harm will answer for it. Next summer, we sail west. Every man who joins us will fight side by side, earn side by side, and share in the wealth we take. Not for revenge or to settle old scores. But to ensure none of our people starve while arguing over who is more right."
The silence that followed was complete. Even the children in the distance had stopped their whispering.
Bjorn's voice remained calm, almost gentle. "The choice belongs to you. You can continue this cycle of burning each other's farms, killing each other's sons, weakening yourselves until an enemy comes and destroys what is left. Or you can stand together. We sail west as one people. We take what we need from those who have plenty. And then We return home strong enough to face winter and any challenge that comes."
He paused one final time.
"I will act whether you join me or not. But I am offering you a chance to be part of the solution instead of remaining part of the problem. If the gods placed this sword in my hand and brought me to this place, perhaps it was not to give me power over you. Perhaps it was to show you a path forward that does not end in your own destruction."
His voice rose slightly, carrying to the furthest edges of the assembly.
"We must look in front of us, Onward. And Upward. Winter is coming, and we will not face it as broken, scattered people fighting amongst ourselves."
He pulled the sword free from the earth and held it high.
The Thing remained silent for three heartbeats.
Then a roar erupted from the crowd. Not everyone, some held back, but enough voices joined together to shake the ground.
"Onward!"
"Upward!"
"Winter is coming!"
The chant spread like fire, rolling louder with every voice that joined.
The believers shouted it like a revelation. Even some of the skeptical found themselves joining in, caught up in the moment.
Trygve stood closer watching them, his brother at his side. He leaned close, sadly smiling. "He speaks beautifully, doesn't he?"
His younger brother had been in despair since he found him, broken and unwilling to live.
But now...now his gaze was alive, fixed on Bjorn. The fire in the people's voices reflected in his own.
Trygve faltered, startled. "Brother?"
"This man…"
Trygve's chest clenched with relief, after so long his brother spoke again.
They were the last of their family, and his voice had returned. He followed the gesture, eyes settling on Bjorn. "What about him?"
The reply came, with as much conviction can a ten year old speak with.
"He is the strongest person in the world."