Conqueror Queen

Chapter 6: Part I

The air inside Thorolf's tent was thick with tension as the two kings weighed their options. The flickering light from the fire cast sharp shadows on their faces, accentuating the furrowed brows and tight lips of men deep in calculation.

"Did you see her?" Svein asked again, his tone half awe, half irritation.

"I have eyes, Svein," Thorolf replied curtly, his voice laced with impatience. He had seen more than enough to understand the gravity of the situation. The girl’s unexpected victory over Hildegunn Oxen-Might had turned the tide in her favor. Her name was already being whispered with reverence, her connection to Einar Jorgenson a point of growing pride among their people.

"She’s clever, far more than we gave her credit for," Svein admitted, setting his cup down on the wooden table between them.

Thorolf leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the armrest as his mind worked. "I remember Einar Jorgenson," he said finally, his voice tinged with disdain.

"My father spoke of him," Svein said, leaning forward slightly. "But I was just a boy then. Was he as great as they say?"

Thorolf’s lips curled into a sneer. "Great, yes, but reckless. He was too ambitious for his own good. Men like him are dangerous."

"Ambitious men can change the world," Svein countered, though there was a note of caution in his voice.

"Ambition is what killed him," Thorolf said coldly. "Great king or not, he was a fool. He reached too far, and it cost him everything."

Thorolf’s jealousy was barely concealed. Though a king himself, his envy of Einar Jorgenson’s legacy and the loyalty it still inspired gnawed at him. He tolerated Svein’s presence only because their families were bound by an alliance—Svein’s youngest son, Guntur, was set to marry Thorolf’s daughter, Torgärd. It was a marriage of convenience, one that would bolster Thorolf’s power and keep Norway and Sweden aligned against their shared enemies. But Denmark remained a thorn in his side.

"She’s just like him," Thorolf continued, his tone sharp. "I can see it. If she takes the throne, she’ll be impossible to control, just like her father. And I will decide who rules these lands—not her, not Ragda."

Svein raised an eyebrow. "She already has power, Thorolf. Have you seen how they look at her? The people respect her, and they’ll follow her. Fame and the Gods are all that matter to them."

"Then we must humble her," Thorolf said, his lips curling into a sly smile. His fingers stopped drumming, and he leaned forward, his sharp eyes locking with Svein’s.

Svein frowned, setting his cup aside. "And how do you propose we do that? She’s no fool, Thorolf. She’s cunning."

Thorolf’s smile widened. "Cunning can be met with cunning. We’ll let her believe she’s won their favor. But the moment she stumbles, the moment she shows weakness, we’ll be there to remind the people of her mortality. A few well-placed rumors, some…misfortunes on the battlefield—there are ways to break even the strongest legend."

"And Ragda?" Svein asked. "He won’t stand idly by if we try to harm her."

Thorolf chuckled, a low, menacing sound. "Ragda is a man, like any other. Men are predictable. If we strike carefully, he’ll be too distracted to see the knife until it’s already in his back."

Svein leaned back, considering Thorolf’s words. The firelight glinted off his cup as he reached for it again, the golden liquid swirling inside. "You’re playing a dangerous game, Thorolf. If this goes wrong, it’s not just your head on the line."

Thorolf’s eyes darkened, his voice steady. "It won’t go wrong. I didn’t come this far to lose to a girl and her lover."

Outside the tent, the camp buzzed with life, the men celebrating Aiya’s victory and preparing for the battles to come. But within the shadows of the tent, Thorolf and Svein began to weave a plan that could either secure their power—or destroy them all.