Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Two weeks had passed since the confrontation in the hutt. Geowulf stood by the narrow window of his chamber, looking out over the city he had conquered and now ruled. The streets bustled with life, though quieter than before his arrival. The people of Sarlan had quickly adapted to their new overlords, their shoulders hunched and gazes averted whenever one of Geowulf’s warriors strode past.

He rested his hand on the cold stone of the windowsill, his calloused fingers tracing the rough edges. He would be lying if he claimed not to feel anxious. The weight of what he had wrought bore heavily upon him. There was no precedent for what he sought to achieve. Never in the history of the tribes had rulership passed through blood. The traditions of their people were unyielding—leadership was earned, not inherited.

The memory of those ceremonies came unbidden to his mind: brutal fights to the death, held beneath the open sky, where contenders laid claim to their right to lead. No matter the alliances, no matter the lineage, it was the blood spilled and the strength displayed that crowned a ruler. He sighed, his breath misting in the cold air of the chamber.

”And yet,” he muttered, ”here I am, trying to plant roots where none have ever grown.” His gaze fell on the streets below, watching the interplay of daily life.

He knew full well that what he contemplated went against everything their people held sacred. To name an heir by blood, to pass rulership from father to son—or in this case, from grandfather to grandson—was an affront to their traditions. Leadership was earned not in blood but through it. The tribes would resist, perhaps even violently. He would not be surprised if blades were drawn and challenges issued before he could see his vision realized.

Yet, for all the risk, he saw no other choice. The future stretched before him in stark clarity: if he left the tribes to decide their leader by tradition, his death would mark the beginning of chaos. The strongest and most ambitious would rise, and Beor would be seen not as a boy but as a threat—a potential claimant to the mantle of leadership. That alone would be enough for his successor to ensure the boy never reached manhood.

Geowulf exhaled sharply, the sound filled with frustration and resolve. ”It’s this or see my line end...” he murmured to himself. His jaw tightened as the weight of the decision pressed down on him. ”Better they hate me now while most of their warrriors are underground than see the boy’s life snuffed out because I clung to old ways.”

He straightened, his grip tightening on the edge of the sill. Tradition had its place, but it would not dictate the survival of his bloodline. If he had to fight to bend the tribes to his will, so be it. He had fought to conquer this land; he would fight to protect his grandson’s future, if he was lucky perhaps the giants would lend an hand.He knew better however than to count on that.

”They won’t understand,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, ”but they don’t have to. They only need to obey, and to die if they do not ” His gaze darkened as he turned back toward the room waiting for the person he had called.

In the wait Geowulf’s thoughts turned to the leaders of the other tribes, his mind sifting through their faces and temperaments as though preparing for battle. Most respected his rule, that much was clear. They had bent to him, not willingly, but because he had proven himself stronger. Yet respect was a fickle thing, especially among warriors. The moment he declared kingship by blood, he knew their respect might sour into rebellion.

”Their minds will churn with suspicion,” he mused, his expression grim. ”Some will believe I aim to inherit the tribes whole, to make their lands and their people my own—retaining overlordship over all as if I were some southern king.” He clenched his fists, the very thought of it appealing yet unattainable.

Others, he thought with a wry twist of his lips, might rise in revolt not for ambition, but for tradition. ”They’ll paint themselves as defenders of the old ways, righteous and pure, claiming my actions defile what makes us strong.” Yet he was not naive. He could see through their hypocrisy, at least for some of them. Many would use tradition as a guise, masking their true motives—a desire to claim the position of Great Knotur themselves, Klarik was simply the first of many.

His eyes narrowed, his knuckles whitening as he leaned against the window. ”Better it comes to a head now,” he muttered. ”While I’m alive to meet them with axe in hand.” His gaze swept over the city again, his jaw tightening. If he allowed the resentment to simmer, it would only grow, boiling over after his death. His successor would face a war they could not win, and Beor—his grandson, his hope—would be caught in the crossfire.

The door creaked open, and Geowulf turned to see a figure enter—a man with a tall, broad frame, dressed in furs that clung to his powerful form. His long black hair fell in thick waves over his shoulders, and his dark eyes, keen and sharp, scanned the room with quiet purpose. This was Edvard Ironhand, the man Geowulf had raised after the death of his father, his old comrade and friend. Edvard, now in his early thirties, had been like a son to Geowulf.

His father, a warrior who had fought beside Geowulf in many skirmishes, had died early, leaving the young boy to fend for himself. Geowulf had promised his old friend that he would care for his son, and true to his word, he had. Now, Edvard had grown into a strong, capable man, someone Geowulf trusted implicitly, and one of the few he could share his most dangerous thoughts with.

Geowulf studied Edvard for a moment, his piercing gaze holding a depth of emotion rarely shown. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice steady but carrying the weight of their shared history.

”Edvard, we’ve known each other for twenty years. I’ve cared for you as I would a son—or at least, I tried to.”

Edvard’s lips quirked into a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes but carried an unmistakable warmth. ”You don’t need to try, old man. You’ve done more than most fathers I know. You’ve taught me how to fight, how to lead, and how to survive. You’ve given me everything I needed.”

Geowulf nodded, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. ”Aye, but not everything you wanted, I’m sure. I was never much for kindness, was I?”

Edvard chuckled softly. ”Kindness doesn’t build warriors. You gave me what mattered most.”

The older man’s expression softened for a moment, a flicker of pride in his stormy eyes. Then, as if grounding himself back in the present, his face grew more serious. ”Tell me, Edvard—if Klarik had bested me in the Hutt, what would you have done?”

Edvard’s response was immediate, his tone steady and filled with conviction. ”I’d have avenged you. I would’ve killed Klarik and every one of his sons.”

Geowulf’s brow furrowed slightly, though he was not surprised by the answer. There was a fire in Edvard’s voice, one that echoed the loyalty and ferocity Geowulf himself had instilled in him over the years. ”And if that started a blood feud between our tribes?”

Edvard shrugged, his expression hard. ”Then so be it, I have never feared to spill blood . ’’

Geowulf turned his gaze toward the window, his weathered face hard as stone. Without looking back at Edvard, he spoke, his voice carrying the weight of years of battles and burdens. ”If all the tribes raised their banners against me, if they marched to tear down what we’ve built here—what would you do?”

Edvard stood firm, his tone unwavering. ”You already know the answer”

The old warlord turned to face him, his eyes narrowing as he studied the younger man. ”Aye, I do. But I need to hear it.”

Edvard’s voice was like iron. ”I’d fight them. I’d crush their uprisings, burn their banners, and drive them into the dirt. I’d do what you’ve always taught me—to never let a challenge go unanswered and to make them regret their foolishness.”

Geowulf nodded, a flicker of approval in his expression as he laid out everything that he held within himself, as for his plan to works he had to trust Edvard to see them done after his demise.

”I plan to declare kingship by blood.’’ He said with all the strenght he could muster

’’It’s the only way to ensure the boy’s survival after I’m gone, as any successor of mine will probably kill the boy or maim him, as they fear what he will grow up to be.

The tribes respect me, most of them anyway, but this goes against everything they’ve ever known. Some will rise against it outright, thinking I’ll keep overlordship of them all, passing it down to my grandson. They won’t stomach the thought of losing their autonomy to a bloodline. Others will cry tradition, but only to cover their real intent—to push me out and claim the Great Knotur title for themselves. And the rest... they’ll wait, silent, to see how the pieces fall.”

He stopped speaking and turned to Edvard, his voice firm. ”It’s better to stir this fight now, while I’m still here and strong enough to break them, than to let it boil over after I’m gone. If I die before this is settled, they’ll gut the boy like a lamb before he’s even old enough to understand what’s happening.”

Edvard clenched his fists, his jaw tight. ”Then don’t die. You’ve come this far. You can hold them together for a few more years, until the lad grow up....”

Geowulf shook his head with a wry smile. ”My body tells me otherwise. I’ve got five winters left, maybe less. My strength wanes, and while I can still swing an axe and crush an upstart like Klarik, time is catching up to me. If I fall before Beor comes of age, he’ll need someone to protect him. Someone I trust.”

The words hung heavy in the room as Geowulf’s piercing eyes met Edvard’s. ”That someone is you. I want you to be his regent. Guard him. Guard this land. And if they try to take what’s his, make them remember why they feared my name.”

Edvard’s shoulders stiffened, his face betraying the pain of the promise he was being asked to make. He looked away for a moment, his hands flexing as if the weight of the task was already upon him. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. ”You know I’d rather follow you into the grave than think of you gone, Geowulf. But if this is what you need of me, then I’ll do it. I swear that I shall do everything in my power, so that your grandson shall lead the tribe after you. ”

Geowulf stepped forward and placed a hand on Edvard’s shoulder, his grip as steady as his resolve. ”I knew you would, lad. That’s why I chose you. You’ll make them remember my legacy, and you’ll make sure they respect yours and that of my grandson....my only regret will be not being there to see that happen..”