Freya was but one of her father’s seven noble-born children, and with so much noble blood around it was all but inevitable it would come spurting out. The sole sister among a brood of brothers, Freya refused every suitor brought to her and took to the sea instead. She would raid, like her father before her, and came to be known by the bright red sail of her flagship. If you saw that sail, you knew that death was coming in with the tide.

While Freya went a Viking, her brothers smiled at each other across the table but plotted behind close doors. It seemed that every time she returned, another brother had met with an unfortunate accident, a hunting arrow gone astray, a fall from a horse, accidentally falling on one’s one sword several times in a row.

When Freya left her on her last raiding season before the seas froze over, only two brothers remained. The oldest and the youngest, and she hoped that when she returned, the surviving brother would be greeting her with open arms and not waiting weapons. When she finally returned, she found herself greeted not by a brother, but by a father, still defiantly clinging to life. He had grim news, both brothers had met with another unfortunate accident. The clan would need a strong leader for the dark times ahead, he told her. A storied warrior with a reputation to be feared.