Leofric looked east. Through the haze, he saw them: a hundred Viking long-bearded warriors dragging timbers, and at their head, a man taller than any other—Jarl Skarth, called “the Boneless” for the way he could twist through a shield-wall, not from any weakness. Skarth had already claimed three kingdoms. Now he stared at Wessex, the last ember of English rule.
Leofric’s younger sister, Aelfwyn, tugged his sleeve. “Thegn,” she whispered, using his new, unwanted title. “The ships have not left. They are building a burh . On our holy ground.” A.Total.War.Saga.THRONES.OF.BRITANNIA-TENOKE.to...
Torf-Einar poured mead into a cracked horn. “Go on, little Saxon. Tempt me with treason.” Leofric looked east
The smoke did not rise so much as hang, a thick, greasy shroud over the ruins of Grantaceaster. Leofric, son of Aldwyn, knelt in the mud that had once been his father’s hall. A charred banner—a golden dragon on faded red—lay crumpled beneath a collapsed beam. Now he stared at Wessex, the last ember of English rule
The Great Summer Army had come not as raiders, but as conquerors. They did not come for silver or slaves. They came for land. For thrones.