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36- Envoys from Vestfold, And the Friend-Zoned Future King.
🕑 Added 2025-08-08 06:15:48 +0000 UTCAs autumn deepened, Kattegat’s leaders turned their focus toward strengthening their naval capabilities. The village’s existing docking area, situated on the Bygðey (Bygdøy peninsula), was transformed into a functioning shipyard designed to build, repair, and maintain the fleet.
Work began with the careful carving of a dry dock, a sloped trench along the riverbank where longships could be safely rested and repaired without risk from the tides. Nearby, covered workspaces rose, providing shelter for sail and rigging repairs, while racks were erected for drying ropes and seasoning timber.
An ironwork table was established, alongside designated storage for tools and materials needed for ongoing construction and maintenance. A secondary dock was added, intended for cargo vessels and supply rafts to support the village’s growing logistical needs.
Under Bjorn’s guidance, alongside Floki’s seasoned craftsmanship, shipbuilding progressed steadily. A single warship, enhanced by Bjorn’s innovative design improvements, including better balance, tapered sails, and iron reinforcements at key points, was completed and readied for battle before the onset of winter.
Meanwhile, the construction of a knarr cargo ship and one or two smaller supply boats or rafts commenced, with plans to finish them when the spring thaw returned.
To streamline future production, standardization of ship parts began. Apprentices were selected and trained under Bjorn and Floki, their hands learning the craft that would ensure Kattegat’s fleet could grow efficiently in the years ahead.
Logistics were carefully managed: barter expeditions sought out fine linen, wool, and hemp needed for durable sails and rigging, while local materials such as horsehair and pitch were gathered and preserved. Limited iron supplies were rationed strictly for essential reinforcements.
All these efforts were balanced so as not to impede the village’s vital food preparations, firewood gathering, or defensive works.
By late November, Kattegat stood with a fully functional shipyard, a completed warship ready for combat, additional vessels underway, and a small but capable group of apprentices prepared to sustain the fleet’s growth in seasons to come.
Here is a simple version to remember:
'Bjorn and Floki took the old docking spot on the Bygdøy peninsula and turned it into a proper shipyard. They dug a dry dock to work on ships safely, built covered workshops for fixing sails and ropes, and set up places to dry wood and ropes. They even made a second dock for cargo boats and supply rafts.
They finished one improved warship with better design and started building a cargo ship and smaller boats, planning to finish them after winter. Bjorn and Floki also trained some apprentices to help build ships faster next time.
They organized trading trips to get good materials like linen and hemp for sails and used local stuff like horsehair and pitch. Iron was scarce, so they saved it for the most important parts.
All this was done without slowing down the food gathering, firewood cutting, or defense work.
By late November, Kattegat had a real shipyard, one battle-ready warship, and more boats in progress, plus a team ready to keep building.'
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The light caught his silver hair. He walked through the frosty courtyard wearing only a thin tunic.
He gripped his sword and set a small iron pot on the blade, near the tip. It made a soft clink. His fingers tightened on the leather hilt. His arm rose slowly, in one controlled move, until the sword was perfectly level.
The pot wobbled. He shifted his wrist just enough to stop it. The iron scraped lightly against the steel as it found its balance again.
He swung the sword forward in a wide, careful arc. The blade cut through the air.
The pot shook from the movement, but he shifted his weight to keep it centered. His body adjusted without him needing to think about it.
The pot stayed on.
His muscles stayed tight, holding the sword steady against the pot's weight. He kept his breathing slow and even as sweat formed on his skin.
He pulled the sword back, moving slower this time. Then he began to trace smooth, deliberate circles in the air. Over and over, he made tiny changes to his grip and arm to keep the pot balanced on the moving blade. His focus was entirely on the task.
He continued the exercise with patience, repeating the swings.
The sword drew careful patterns in the air, and the pot stayed on through every turn and lift.
When he finally lowered the sword, he carefully plucked the pot from its perch. His control had not slipped once. He set the pot down and raised the sword again, this time without the extra weight. It moved easily through the air, as his practice is complete.
Just then, the sound of boots crunching on the frost broke the quiet.
A figure in a thick wool cloak came toward him with his breath making clouds in the cold air.
"They are here, my lord." Hrafn announced.
Bjorn lowered his sword and turned to Hrafn. Then nodded.
He looked toward the horizon where the envoy would appear. "Looks like the games have already begun.”
Hrafn’s eyes narrowed as he shifted his weight, fingers tightening briefly on the hilt of his sword. “Games or not, the men are ready, and already sick of this cold.”
Bjorn turned slowly, looking genuinely surprised at that. He held up a hand. “Well, calm down. It hasn’t come to that... yet. They’re guests. And I’m honor-bound to welcome them, allies or not.”
Hrafn gave a brief nod. “I only meant afterward, my lord, after they’ve gone.”
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In the heart of Vingulmark, Kategatt’s great hall stood defiant against the November chill, its timbers creaking under a fresh blanket of frost. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of pine smoke and mead.
Bjorn leaned back in his high seat.
A gust of cold followed them in, and twenty cloaked figures stepped through.
The first man was broad at the shoulders, his beard streaked with ice and age, his cloak fastened by a silver brooch worked in the shape of a boar. His gaze swept the hall once. Behind him came his warriors with shields on their backs, their spears were unthreatening but visible.
A völva trailed them with her staff clinking with runic charms, her eyes were sharp as a hawk’s.
The banners told the rest: Vestfold’s black raven.
The old seer stirred in his corner, his lips were moving without sound. Athelstan glanced up from his spot near the hearth with ink drying on the vellum stretched across his knee.
At the high seat, Bjorn stood.
He wore no cloak, only a fine wool tunic.
Bjorn stepped down from the dais, past his father Ragnar, who watched with one hand loosely around a horn of ale, and his mother Lagertha, her gaze narrowed as she studied the newcomers.
Rollo stood further off with his arms crossed, and his jaw was tight with his usual suspicion of diplomacy.
Bjorn approached the envoy, snow crunching softly beneath his boots. He stopped a respectful pace away and reached out, clasping the leading man's forearm firmly.
“Guthrom, brother to Queen Ragnhild. Welcome to my hearth in this harsh season. That you’ve braved these roads means your business is urgent.” He nodded toward the fire. “Come, let your men rest and warm themselves by the fire. Your message from King Halfdan will be heard and honored.”
Guthrom stepped forward, removing his helm with practiced ease with his eyes flicking over Bjorn’s form.
His gaze lingered briefly on the young man’s silver hair, pale and shining in the dull light, it was a striking sight, rare beyond the old men’s white locks.
The envoy’s men shifted while watching silently with curiosity and cautious respect in their stance.
Bjorn was no older than a child, yet here he stood.
The name Bjorn Ragnarsson was whispered through the lands like legend.
Guthrom’s voice was steady, carrying the weight of one sizing up truth. “Thank you, Bjorn Ragnarsson. It is good to finally meet the young man I’ve heard much about.”
Bjorn’s lips twitched into a half-smile, eyes flicking to the watchers behind Guthrom. “Hopefully not all the stories.”
The exchange drew soft chuckles from both sides.
Bjorn started the introduction. "My father, Ragnar Lothbrok"
Ragnar raised his horn in casual salute, his eyes bright with interest for these newcomers.
Guthrom’s gaze shifted to meet Ragnar’s directly with a slow nod acknowledging the name. “So you are Ragnar Lothbrok, the man who sailed west.”
A faint smile tugged at Ragnar’s lips, but his eyes lifted in genuine surprise. “I’m surprised that you’ve heard of that.”
Guthrom’s stance remained steady, his voice carrying the undeniable certainty of reputation. “How could it be otherwise? Everyone has heard of your exploits. The first to find the west, to bring back plunder and riches that stir envy even among kings.”
Ragnar’s smile deepened, a spark of pride and challenge flickering within it. “Then you know the cost that comes with such tales.”
The two men measured each other in the firelight, it was a silent exchange filled with respect and wariness.
Then Bjorn spoke, breaking the silence. “And my uncle, Rollo.”
Rollo stepped forward with his eyes fixed on Guthrom with a guarded coolness.
Guthrom met Rollo’s gaze and nodded slightly. “I also have heard of you, Rollo. They say that you are a great warrior.”
For a moment, Rollo’s eyes brightened and a flicker of hope that maybe the envoy recognized his worth. “Well?” he prompted wtih a low voice, expectant.
Guthrom raised his eyebrows as if he didn't understand and said nothing more.
The silence stretched.
Rollo’s hopeful expression faltered. He shifted, crossing his arms tighter as a dark scowl started creeping in. “Is that all?”
A quiet chuckle passed in the hall.
Bjorn’s eyes flicked between the two and internally shook his head. 'Rollo finally has his eternal enemy.'
Then he presented his mother. "My mother, Lagertha." The shield-maiden inclined her head with one hand resting on her rounded belly.
Even with child, something in her bearing suggested a wolf at rest.
Guthrum's gaze lingered on Lagertha, the firelight catching the edge of his smile.
"Shield-maiden Lagertha, your name carries weight even in the longhouses of Vestfold. I have heard men swear you fight with the strength of two. And many women admire you, including my sister."
Lagertha inclined her head in acknowledgment, though her eyes softened. "And how fares your sister, Queen Ragnhild? I last saw her at the summer gathering in Tunsberg… only from a distance, but her laugh was loud enough to wake the dead."
A murmur of amusement rippled through those seated nearby.
Guthorm chuckled. "She is well. The winter keeps her restless — she curses the snow for grounding her hawks, swearing they will forget the feel of the wind. She speaks often of that gathering… though she claims the horse races were the finest part, not the warriors who fought for her favor."
Several warriors laughed, and even Lagertha’s mouth curved into a smile. "Then tell her this , when the ice breaks, she should come to Kattegat. I will see she rides with me across the fields, and we will see if her hawks still know the wind."
"I will tell her, and she will take it as a challenge."
He turned slightly, drawing forward a youth who'd hung back among the warriors. The boy was perhaps twelve, with the kind of careful posture that spoke of royal tutoring and the bright eyes that suggested not all lessons had taken. "And this is Harald, son of King Halfdan the Black."
Harald stepped forward, his young face serious with the weight of representing his father. He offered the proper greeting, but Bjorn caught the way his eyes wandered over his silver hair, and the weapon at this side, drinking in details he'd likely heard described in a hundred fireside tales.
Bjorn looked at him for a second and only one word appeared in his mind to describe him. 'friend-zoned king.'
"Come, let your men warm themselves by my fire and eat their fill. I'm sure we have so many stories to talk about."
Guthrom does indeed that and takes his place. His men followed suit, settling into seats prepared near the high table.
The skalds among them, two wiry men with lyres, eyed the hall, already weaving verses in their minds.
The old völva, paid no mind to the political theatre swirling in the hall. Her gaze was fixed solely on Bjorn, the boy with silver hair, the scar that would not heal, the sword at his hip that seemed less weapon and more relic.
To her, these were not signs of mere happenstance but of something far greater: a genuine supernatural event. Bjorn was no longer simply a man or a jarl; he was an omen, a nexus of fate intertwined with the will of the gods themselves.
Her eyes lingered on where the scar would be, seeking the spiritual residue left by the wound that had refused death; on the sword, attempting to discern whether it carried the blessing of Thor or some darker force; and on the silver strands of his hair.
She understood that her role was not to engage in courtly politics but to assess this power for her king, Halfdan.
Quietly, she prepared herself to offer counsel, either to warn of the holy strength Bjorn represented, urging alliance at any cost, or to caution that he was an unstable omen, a fire that could consume them all.
Bjorn caught her assessing. And just smiled at her.
The low murmur of the hall dipped as Guthorm set down his horn and leaned slightly forward. He studied Bjorn for a moment before inclining his head.
"Earl Bjorn, I have heard the songs of how you struck down Earl Haraldson, how a sword was driven into your chest and yet you stood as if the steel feared to keep its hold. Then you shaped a kind of ship faster than any seen in our harbors and took another voyage to the west."
He let the words hang for a moment, watching Bjorn closely. Then, narrowing his eyes, he asked, “These stories… Are they truth, or just the dreams of men who have drunk too much mead?”
And so Guthrum asked Bjorn for tales of the west, what he had seen, what spoils had been taken, and whether the songs matched the truth.
Bjorn answered with care, offering glimpses rather than full accounts, speaking of rich lands and fierce defenders, of storms that could shatter fleets, and of men who never returned.
At times, he deflected with a question of his own, turning Guthrum’s curiosity back on him, gauging what the envoy already knew.
The exchange drew the hall’s attention without slipping into open challenge, a measured duel of words beneath the surface of polite hospitality.
The dinner was only the pleasantry and the real reason behind this visit is yet to be seen.
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The smaller hall behind the great one felt intimate after the previous night's feast. No servants moved between the walls here, no curious ears could catch wayward words. Only the crackle of fire in the central hearth and the occasional shift of settling timber broke the morning silence.
Three chairs faced three others across a scarred oak table that had seen decades of such conversations. Bjorn sat in the center, flanked by his father Ragnar on his right and uncle Rollo on his left.
Across from them, Guthrum occupied the place of honor, young Harald to his side, and a third man, older, scarred about the face, introduced the night before as Orm the Far-Traveled, one of Halfdan's most trusted advisors.
"Since the pleasantries are done, it's time to hear the reason for your visit." The voice of Bjorn broke the quiet of the room.
Guthrum set down his horn with deliberate care, the gesture marking the transition from courtesy to statecraft. "Gandalf of Alfheim has grown troublesome again in these last fights we had with him in the summer. As our neighbor, you must know that we raid his lands, and he raids ours."
Bjorn's expression remained neutral, but his eyebrows rose slightly and he said nothing.
The look wasn't lost on Guthrum. A muscle twitched in his jaw, but his voice remained steady. "The reason King Halfdan sent me here is to give you an offer, for he is growing tired of this war. My king means to strike at him when the winter season ends, and asks if Kategatt will stand beside him."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice taking on the practiced cadence of a man used to making such proposals. "And of course, there is much to gain in this war, land, silver, and the friendship of a king who rewards very handsomely his... friends."
The pause hung in the air like smoke. Harald watched the exchange with the keen attention of a young man learning statecraft, while Orm's weathered fingers drummed silently against the table's edge.
Bjorn said nothing for a long moment, his pale eyes studying Guthrum with intensity. When he finally spoke, his question cut to the heart of the matter.
"Remind me again, what is the reason you both are fighting?"
Guthrum's face grew solemn. This was the question he'd hoped to avoid, or at least postpone until after agreements had been reached. His eyes flicked briefly to Orm, who gave the slightest nod of encouragement.
"While it's true that both he and Halfdan seek to claim Vingulmark..." He paused, choosing his words with the care of a man walking on thin ice. "Let's not forget that you only hold Kategatt directly, but beyond it lies land no one fully controls."
Ragnar's laugh was sudden. "Ah, there it is. You want us to help you take land that borders our own territory. Land that, once Gandalf is dead, you'll expect us to respect as Vestfold's rightful property."
"The situation is more complex than—" Guthrum began.
"No," Rollo's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "It's simpler. You want our ships and our men to help you win a war of conquest, and in return we get the privilege of having King Halfdan as our nearest neighbor instead of this Gandalf."
Harald shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This wasn't going as his father had hoped, and the boy was smart enough to recognize when a negotiation was turning sour.
Guthrum raised his hands in a placating gesture. "You misunderstand our intentions. King Halfdan has no designs on Kategatt itself. This is about bringing stability to the region, ending the constant raiding that disrupts trade and—"
"Trade?" Bjorn's voice carried a note of genuine curiosity. "What trade would that be? I wasn't aware Vestfold conducted much commerce through Vingulmark."
Orm leaned forward, his scarred face serious. "There are routes through the forests, paths that connect the inland settlements to the coastal trading posts. Gandalf's raids make these unsafe for merchants."
"And Halfdan's raids don't?" Rollo asked dryly.
"That's different," Harald spoke up for the first time, his young voice was carrying more conviction than diplomatic wisdom. "Father only strikes at Gandalf's holdings because Gandalf struck first."
"When?" Bjorn asked mildly.
The simple question caught Harald off-guard. He looked to Guthrum for support, but the older man was studying the grain of the wooden table with sudden fascination.
"Last spring," Guthrum said finally. "Gandalf's men burned a farmstead that had sworn loyalty to King Halfdan."
"And before that?" Ragnar pressed, clearly enjoying himself.
"There were... incidents. Disputed territories. Questions of tribute and allegiance."
Bjorn nodded slowly. "So this war began because both kings claimed the same lands and the same people. And now you want our help to settle the matter in Halfdan's favor."
"Our king's patience runs thin," Guthrum said, abandoning diplomatic euphemisms. "And in return, Kategatt gains a grateful ally, a share of whatever wealth Gandalf has hoarded, and the assurance that the next war—and there will be a next war—won't find you standing alone."
Bjorn traced the rim of his horn with one finger, thinking. "What makes you so certain Gandalf will lose? He's survived this long against Halfdan's attentions."
"Because," Harald said, his young face bright with certainty, "he's never faced ships like yours. The vessels you built, Father says they're faster than anything on the water. With those, we could strike his coastal settlements before he could gather his forces."
Guthrum nodded. "Your reputation as a shipwright has reached Vestfold. The innovations you've made, the speed and maneuverability you've achieved... yes, that would make the difference."
Bjorn’s gaze sharpened as he met Guthrum’s. He let the moment stretch before speaking, voice low and deliberate. “But it’s not just my ships you seek, is it?”
Guthrum’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile, eyes flickering with a mix of amusement and calculation. “And what else could we want, if not the strength behind those ships?”
Bjorn raised a finger, gesturing to his collarbone where the mark of Thor is, and Ragnar and Rollo forwned at that as if they didn't understand. The same for Harald.
“The delicate matter of my uprising has reached far beyond these halls. Those close to me believe that any action I take must carry the gods’ blessing and will. That blessing is what you want. That blessing... is what gives your war its true legitimacy.”
For a moment, Guthrum's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his features. He hadn’t expected such understanding from a youth, especially one so young to grasp the power of faith and legitimacy in war.
Orm blinked, then slowly nodded, respect creeping into his tone.
"The world is changing," Guthrum said, his voice carrying genuine conviction. "The old ways, where a jarl could hold his land and ignore his neighbors' wars, those days are ending. Men like Halfdan, like Gandalf, they think bigger now. Plan bigger. The choice isn't whether to fight or not fight. It's whether to choose your battles or have them chosen for you."
Bjorn, "Here is my choice. Time to think. You'll have my answer when the ice breaks and the sailing season begins. Until then, you're welcome to return to Halfdan and tell him his proposal is being considered."
It was a non-answer, committing to nothing while keeping all options open. Guthrum's face showed his frustration.
"Then King Halfdan will remember who his friends were when the choice mattered," Orm said quietly. "And Gandalf, should he survive and grow strong, will remember the same thing."
The threat was subtle but unmistakable. Neutrality was not being offered as an option.
The silence stretched until Rollo broke it with a sound that might have been laughter or disgust.
"At least you're honest about it now. Help us or face the consequences later."
Bjorn said nothing, he just sat there as if the threat carried no weight at all.
"King Halfdan had hoped for a swifter resolution,"Guthrum said carefully.
"King Halfdan," Bjorn replied, "will have to content himself with knowing his message has been heard and will be given all the consideration it deserves."
With that they have slowly rose and started leaving.
Bjorn followed them with his gaze until they disappeared beyond the hall’s threshold.
A quiet gleam sparked in his eyes.
'Time to start creating better swords for the men.'
Then Rollo spoke up and broke the silence. “We should prepare the men and strike them first. They won’t expect it, and we’d have the advantage.”
Bjorn and Ragnar turned toward him, sharing the exact same expression, a perfect mix of disbelief and “Are you serious?”
Bjorn and Ragnar exchanged a look that said: We’re definitely going to have to keep an eye on this one.
Comments
Aymane Hajjami
Kattegat (modern Oslo) is in Vingulmark, also Halfdan and Gandalf have been fighting for a long time over this region, and the rest of Vingulmark is just villages and farms etc. I'm curious if u were Bjorn how will you solve the problem of 2 strong kings staring at you like that.
JL
Don’t join this war just seems like nonsense
