CHAPTER 6: STEEL FROM THE NORTHDamned traitors! A traitor among my war council has alerted Harald Hardrade about my trap in Caithness. I sit among the 14 members of my war council around a large, rectangular table with a map of the islands at the center. Along with my small council are my 9 vassal lords. It couldn't have been anybody from my small council. The small council spends most of the year at Castle Moray and I know every detail of their lives, and their allegiances. If one was suspected to be a traitor, the other 4 would inform me and I would have the traitor arrested and beheaded. My suspicions shift to the burghers. Malcolm of Cawdor is Scotland's greatest friend and confidant, he has prevented 2 major revolts by the lowland lords, but Mayor Lulach of Inverness was furious when I raised city taxes by 30 percent to fund this war. But he is like most other burghers, elected from among the smallfolk with little interest in faraway places like Norway. Finally, there are the noblemen. Gospatric Dunbar is my most powerful vassal, and he has a widespread reputation as a sleazy, ambitious brown-nose. It isn't hard to imagine him taking a bribe for military secrets. There is Gudrod Crovan, who is of Norse ancestry and I had subjugated him where he had previously been independent, but Malcolm of Cawdor had spent some time in Crovan's islands, and had improved relations with the Crovans as he did with the Dunkelds. Malsnectan Muirebe and Malcolm Dunkeld need no further discussion, I usurped their titles, and it's plain as day that they only tolerate me for the good of the realm. For all I know, there could be a conspiracy between several of them. I have no evidence as to who alerted Hardrade, as the only person who knew who the traitor was, the leader of my scouting party, had returned blinded, his tongue cut out, and the word "Caithness" and "Other Scots Great Blot" cut into his back. The books in my library said that the Great Blot was an ancient, pagan ritual where peasant criminals along with members of rival tribes were sacrificed to Odin. The ceremonies were said to be especially savage, with the victims dumped into the peat bogs after hanging for days outside the castle. If only the Pope were here to see this living proof that Harald had been disgracing the Catholic Church by sacrificing men and holding heathen Blots in it's honor, he would excommunicate him and give the other kings free invasion rights to Norway while Harald and his 8800 man army were at sea.The small councilSails of the Norwegian ships come into view, and they keep heading west. I send my men onto the ships and chase them. Only my small council knows about the traitor, since the traitor is one of my vassals, and revealing the fact that there is one to my vassals would just cause fighting that would deplete our levies and guarantee all of our deaths at the hands of the Norse. We are at least 2 weeks behind them, and lose sight of them quickly. The Norse are master shipbuilders, and even with fewer ships to keep track of, and fewer men to weigh them down, there was no way I could chase them down at sea. We had stopped at the docks of Argyll to restock our ships' food reserves when a raven came to the mayor. It was from the king of England, seeking his assistance in stopping the Viking horde. They had been pillaging small peasant enclaves south of Carlisle for the last week, and were headed north. After they sack Carlisle, there would be nothing stopping them from occupying and sacking Galloway and Carrick (their levies had been raised and taken to Caithness with me) before my armies catch up with his.I stop my pursuit of the ships, and land in Carlisle. The local count believed us to be invaders and pathetically sent a small team of 600 men to attack us. I had captured their commander and told him about the coming Norwegian invasion. 8800 men were to arrive late at night. The English had changed succession to elective, so a few dukes held a strong claim on the crown. They had been busy with civil wars for over a year now and had shown no sign of stopping. England sent no soldiers to assist us. We are outnumbered by over 2500, but we have the higher ground. I can see his horde in the distance, running in our direction. They can't be more than a thousand feet away.CHARGE!!!The first of the Norwegian berserkers break through our battle lines. Each of my councilors and vassal lords command a cavalry regiment. The infantry are taking heavy losses by these berserkers, so I take my horsemen to the thick of the fighting. They are relentless. One man cuts down 4 of my bodyguards before I dismount to face him in single combat. He swings his axe at my head, but I block it at the last second. I had found that my grandfather Rhaegar's armor had fit me well, and I used it during battles and tournaments after I had repaired it. It had failed him against Robert Baratheon at the Trident, but I had gotten Maester Qyburn to infuse the metal, while molten, with a chemical I had little knowledge about, making it stronger than before. The axe kept bouncing off the armor and the berserker got more and more furious. I had taken several slashes at him, and he lost part of his nose and a few fingers, but still wouldn't give up. He struck me on the knee, and I felt a horrible stinging pop as my leg went limp. I had lost my footing, and I was certain I was going to die. Another of my bodyguards distracted him, as I pitched my sword into the ground and pulled myself up. He made a fatal mistake of swinging for my bad leg. I plunged my sword into his shoulder, causing him to drop his axe. One more swing, and his head was rolling along the ground, separated from the rest of his body. I had called my horse over and got back on him. I would be spending the rest of this battle on horseback. Seeing their leader dead, the berserkers lost their will to fight and were cut down by my cavalry. I had gone over to the thick of the fighting along with my cavalry. My men were outnumbered and losing badly, so my presence was a welcome sight for them. It seemed to reinvigorate their morale. Our strategy was to separate the army. Facing them head to head was a recipe for disaster, so the only way to outnumber them was to divide and conquer. While the infantry was busy fighting hand to hand, I would take my superior cavalry and hit them in the flanks. This worked like a charm over and over again. I must have killed over 100 vikings myself in the course of the battle.Harald Hardrade, on the other hand, had spent his youth in the Varangian Guard. Many second and third sons of Scandinavian rulers join the Varangian guard with the promise of money and glory, since they aren't in line to inherit anything in their homeland. Most Varangians are killed in battle by Muslims or the emperor's rebellious bannermen, and those that return often come home blinded, maimed, or as eunuchs. Harald had risen up to the position of Lord Commander when he got the news that an epidemic of smallpox had killed his brother and infant nephew. He was now the king, and he took the grit and ferocity he learned in the Varangians with him as he united his kingdom of Norge before he was 30 years old. Now 57, his ambition has taken him to Scotland, where he wants to conquer to gain the last piece he needs to form his own North Sea Empire. I see Hardrade and his bodyguard, many of whom are former Varangians themselves. I gather my best men; all of my war council fights beside me as Varangian after Varangian falls to the ground dead. I hear a sickening scream. Reza had taken a sword through the chest, dying as Harald wiped the blood off his sword. Malcolm Dunkeld rushes to his aid, but dies after Harald throws his axe into his helmet. Duff is pinned down by another guard as I rush over to help him. I kill the guard easily but not before he stabs Duff through the thigh. Harald's last guard runs away in fear as Malcolm of Cawdor drags Harald off his horse, Harald slashing at him wildly as he falls to the ground in disgrace, and I tie him up to take back to my dungeons after the battle has ended. Seeing their king captured made the remaining Norsemen turn and run to their ships. There were still 4000 left as they started to rout, but that number was halved by the time they reached their ships.The final results of the battleHarald Hardrade in his final moments.The Norwegians had been defeated, but it was not a time to celebrate. Malcolm Dunkeld had been killed, and so had my steward Reza. Duff MacDuib's leg injury would require amputation, and Malcolm of Cawdor, who had been running a slight fever in the days before the battle, had gotten stabbed a few times as he arrested Harald, and those wounds had become infected. We had returned to Moray and held the customary feast, but Malcolm couldn't attend. He had developed typhus and could die at any moment. He was my first friend when I had arrived in Scotland. He called me to his chambers once the feast was over, and asked that nobody else come along, not even Matilda or Jon, who, by now, was 6 years old and starting his martial education with me.He told me "Look under my bed, I was waiting for the right time to give you this, but I don't have much time left". I find a sheath under the bed, holding a bastard sword, similar in size to Longclaw but with a golden lion's head on its hilt. I pull it out. It was much lighter than a normal bastard sword, and had red ripples in the metal. "This is Valyrian steel! How did you get this?", I asked. "It has been mine since I was 12. It's name is Widow's Wail, and it was forged from Ice. It is yours by right of blood." I am in shock. There is another Westerosi here in Scotland. I have to know more about this, so I ask him to tell me how he got here. "My real name is Tommen Baratheon, and I've been here for almost 25 years. After my mother confessed that Joffrey and Myrcella and I were Jaime Lannister's bastards, the Sparrows tried hunting me down to kill me. I fled to Highgarden, where Mace betrayed me and turned me in to the septon there, then to Winterfell. I had granted it to Roose Bolton years ago, so I thought he would be grateful and protect me. Instead, he took me to the crypts, where he said his bastard was waiting to make me his new pet. I hid behind the statues as Ramsay had his dogs sniff my scent out. I hid between the statues of Eddard and Lyanna Stark, and suddenly found myself in the green pastures of Moray. I was mayor of Cawdor for a while before you came, but when I heard your name I dyed my hair to hide my real identity. I knew had to earn your respect as a Scotsman. It's assuring to know I have family in Scotland." "Family?" I ask, puzzled. My father was going to tell me about my mother after the Battle of Winterfell, but he thinks I am dead. He said she was a bastard with no titles, and that she died in childbirth. He said I couldn't know the truth until I was older for my own good. "You're my nephew, Aegon. Myrcella was your mother. I wanted to kill your father when I heard she had died, but then I held you that day, I vowed to serve your father for your sake and to protect you to the best of my capabilities.""This can't be true" I told him. "I still know my history lessons from Maester Qyburn. She was poisoned by the Dornish, two years before I was born." "That was what he wanted you to think. She was his second great project, and it was a success. His genius and knowledge of science and black magic had saved her life. She would have died in a few more hours, and you wouldn't have been born if not for Qyburn and his arcane arts." That explains why Jaime Lannister took such an interest in training me. I was the only family he had left in Westeros, with Tyrion living on the other side of the world. I was curious about the type of magic Qyburn used to keep my mother alive. Still, the news shook me to the core. I had grown up learning to hate the Lannisters. It turns out I have more of Tywin Lannister's blood than that of any Stark or Targaryen. It raised more questions than answers. How could Tommen, the High Septon, and the Kingsguards all know, but not me? Why would my father, who I looked up to as an example of chivalry and honor, sleep with a hated Lannister? Before I leave, I take Widow's Wail out from under his bed. I pay Harald Hardrade a visit in my dungeon, and Valyrian steel is the last thing he feels before he enters hell.These things I would never find out. I returned to Malcolm/Tommen's chambers the next day, and he looked much worse than the day before. He gave me one final request. He and Margaery had a son named Morgan shortly before he left for Winterfell. He had sent the boy to Meereen to be raised by Tyrion for his safety. "If Morgan ever finds himself in Scotland, make sure he always has a place to call home, my good friend" were his last words. I thanked him for his service and loyalty, and promised him I would. He died a few moments later. My new steward, who didn't like me very much, told me to burn his body to stop the fever from spreading. I couldn't do that. I had him buried by the bishop in the dungeons of Castle Moray and had a tomb carved in his likeness, an honor formerly reserved only for leaders of House Muirebe. It read simply "Malcolm Baratheon, 1029-1076. Mayor of Cawdor. A humble burgher, but Scotland's greatest friend, servant, and peacemaker."RIP Malcolm. I got the idea for the ending of this chapter because, besides the hair, he looks just like Jaime/Tommen from the AGOT mod.