par Bill Tiepelman
The Saga of the Warlord of the Frozen North
The Blood Debt Long before he was feared across the frozen wastes, before his name was whispered by terrified warlords, Hakon the Unyielding was just a very angry man with an axe and an unhealthy grudge. It started, as most good revenge stories do, with an absolute pile of betrayal. Hakon’s younger brother, Sigvard, was butchered by a sniveling little piss-stain of a jarl named Guthrum the Fat. The reason? Sigvard had won a bet against Guthrum over who could drink more mead before collapsing face-first into a fire. Turns out, petty men with big titles don’t like losing. One poisoned cup later, and Sigvard was puking up his insides in a pigsty while Guthrum cackled like a walrus who’d just learned to speak. Hakon was not amused. Instead of mourning like a reasonable person, he stormed into Guthrum’s hall that very night, kicked the doors open, and proceeded to cleave the first five people he saw in half before anyone even realized what was happening. Unfortunately, Guthrum had come prepared. The jarl’s personal guard swarmed in, and even though Hakon fought like a rabid bear on fire, he was eventually overwhelmed, knocked unconscious, and dragged out into the snow. When he woke up, he found himself tied to a tree, half-naked in the freezing wind, while Guthrum stood there monologuing about honor and consequences—like anyone gave a shit. The jarl ended his speech by carving a bloody “X” into Hakon’s chest, laughing as he proclaimed, “If the gods favor you, perhaps you’ll live to seek revenge.” They really shouldn’t have let him live. Hakon bit through his own ropes (because he's stubborn as Hel) and disappeared into the mountains, where he spent the next winter turning himself into an absolute nightmare. He trained, he hunted, he killed, and he made a vow under the frozen stars: He would return, and he would burn Guthrum’s hall to the ground with the bastard still inside it. And so, with nothing but his axe, a bad attitude, and an unholy thirst for revenge, Hakon set off to do just that. The Reckoning Winter passed. Then another. And another. By the time Hakon the Unyielding returned to civilization, he had become something more akin to a force of nature than a man. His body was carved from cold and war, his eyes burned with a madness that only revenge can forge, and his beard had grown so magnificent that lesser men wept when they saw it. He did not come alone. Somewhere in his mountain exile, Hakon had acquired a **band of lunatics** who shared his enthusiasm for violence and drinking. They were warriors, outcasts, and murderers who had looked into his rage-fueled eyes and said, “Yeah, let’s follow this guy.” And so they marched. Through blizzards, across fjords, and over the bones of anyone foolish enough to stand in their way. Their destination? **Guthrum the Fat’s stronghold, a walled village as bloated and overfed as the bastard who ruled it.** By the time they reached its outskirts, it was a quiet evening, and the villagers were enjoying a feast in the great hall. There was singing. There was laughter. Then there was screaming. Hakon’s warband hit the village like **Thor’s personal temper tantrum**. The first man who saw them had his head split open before he could finish screaming. The second was impaled and used as a battering ram to break down a door. The fighting spilled through the streets. Women and children fled. Guthrum’s warriors—drunk, lazy, and woefully unprepared—came stumbling out of the hall, only to be **cut down like wheat in a storm**. Hakon himself **kicked down the doors of the great hall**, eyes wild, axe dripping, and roared: “GUTHRUM! YOU FAT SACK OF HORSE SHIT! I HAVE COME TO REPAY YOU FOR MY BROTHER!” Silence. Then a loud belch. Guthrum sat at the head of the feast, goblet in hand, meat grease running down his chin. He squinted at Hakon, snorted, and said, “You again? Thought I left you tied to a tree.” Hakon grinned. “You did.” And then he threw his axe. The axe **sailed across the hall**, spinning end over end, **and lodged itself in the chest of the nearest nobleman**—who promptly died choking on his own surprise. Hakon blinked. “Meant to hit you, but that works too.” Guthrum lurched to his feet, **pulling a sword from his belt that looked like it had last seen battle before Odin had a beard**. “You think you can waltz in here, kill my men, and challenge me in my own hall?” Hakon cracked his knuckles. “I don’t think, Guthrum. I know.” The Duel With the hall in chaos—flames licking the walls, men brawling, and one particularly stupid guard getting stabbed with his own sword—Hakon and Guthrum **charged each other**. Guthrum fought like a man who had spent more time **lifting roasted pigs than training with a blade**, but to his credit, he was strong. He swung like a madman, his blows heavy enough to split shields. Hakon, however, fought like a man who had spent **years fantasizing about this exact moment**. He was faster. Meaner. And he had a deep personal hatred for Guthrum’s stupid, fat face. The fight was brutal. It ended **when Hakon caught Guthrum’s wrist mid-swing, twisted, and snapped it like a dry twig**. Guthrum howled, dropping his sword. Hakon, breathing hard, leaned in. “Tell me, Guthrum… do you think the gods favor me yet?” And with that, he **grabbed Guthrum by the throat and threw him—screaming—into the fire pit**. The hall erupted into chaos as Guthrum **flailed, bellowed, and sizzled like an overcooked hog**. His men either surrendered or died trying to avenge him. When the fire died down, and Guthrum was nothing more than a greasy pile of regrets, Hakon turned to the survivors and bellowed, “**This village belongs to me now. Any objections?**” There were none. And so, standing in the ruins of the hall that had once been his brother’s tomb, Hakon the Unyielding raised his bloodied fist and claimed his first throne. The Legend For the first time in his life, Hakon the Unyielding was a man of power. He had **killed the jarl, taken the village, and claimed the hall**. His warriors drank deep from Guthrum’s mead, feasted on his food, and threw his surviving noblemen into the pig pens to get shat on for a few days before deciding what to do with them. Everything was great—until the messengers arrived. See, Guthrum had been a bastard, but he had also been **a bastard with powerful friends**. Turns out, when you set a jarl on fire and take his land, people notice. And they don’t always clap. The War Council Hakon sat in what was once Guthrum’s great hall, drinking straight from the jarl’s favorite goblet like an **absolute disrespectful legend**, while his warband argued over what to do. “We could fortify the village,” suggested Erik the Bald, a man whose only notable skill was **not having hair**. “We could flee,” muttered Torvald the Unfortunate, whose name really said it all. Hakon took a long, thoughtful sip of mead. Then he **threw the goblet at Torvald’s head**. “**Flee?**” he growled. “I didn’t drag my hairy ass through the mountains for three winters just to run at the first sign of trouble.” “You also didn’t kill a jarl for fun,” Erik pointed out. Hakon considered this. “That’s debatable.” The problem was simple: **two warbands were coming**. One led by **Jarl Sigmund the Wolf**, a war-hardened bastard who had once chewed out a man’s throat because he didn’t like the way he looked at him. The other, Guthrum’s own brother, **Halfdan the Ruthless**, who had promised to **flay Hakon alive and use his ribs as a drinking rack**. So, yeah. Not ideal. Hakon stood, cracked his knuckles, and said the most **Hakon thing possible**: “**Then we fight.**” The Siege When the armies came, **they came in numbers**. Hundreds of warriors, banners waving, torches blazing, all marching toward **Hakon’s very stolen throne**. The village defenders—**outnumbered four to one**—watched this and collectively thought, “Well, shit.” Hakon, however, saw opportunity. He gathered his men, sharpened his axe, and addressed his warriors: “Men, we are surrounded.” Silence. “We are outnumbered.” More silence. “We are also very drunk.” Raucous cheering. “But most importantly,” he roared, “these poor bastards have walked all this way just to **die at our gates**.” And with that, **the siege began.** For two days, **the battle raged**. Arrows flew, men screamed, and the village **became a charnel house of blood and splinters**. Hakon’s warriors fought like **cornered wolves**—because, well, they were. They set **traps**, they lured men into **narrow alleys**, and when the enemy breached the gates, Hakon personally **set the whole damn entrance on fire**. Jarl Sigmund died first—**his skull cracked open by Hakon’s axe** in the mud outside the village walls. His men, leaderless and afraid, scattered into the trees, where they were promptly hunted down like **scared rabbits**. Halfdan, though, was a different beast. The Final Duel Halfdan was not the sort of man to **die easily**. He had **the strength of a bear, the scars of a hundred battles, and the personal motivation of a man whose brother had been roasted like a hog.** When the dust settled, **only he and Hakon remained standing**. The battlefield was littered with corpses, the village was burning, and the air reeked of blood and mead. Halfdan sneered. “You killed my brother.” Hakon grinned, wiping blood from his beard. “Which one was he again?” Halfdan **roared like an animal and charged**. What followed was **less of a duel and more of a brutal, knock-down, no-holds-barred street fight**. Swords were thrown away. Shields were smashed. **Fists met bone**. At one point, Hakon **bit off Halfdan’s ear just to be an asshole.** In the end, **Hakon stood victorious**. Halfdan lay in the dirt, **bleeding, broken, and very much dead**. Hakon, exhausted and grinning like a madman, **planted his boot on the corpse and raised his axe high.** **The battle was won.** The Legend is Born By dawn, **the village still stood**, but just barely. The survivors gathered, watching Hakon in silence. One of them—a warrior who had fought against him just days before—stepped forward and asked the question that would **change everything**: “What now?” Hakon, bloodied, battered, and standing atop a mountain of corpses, **grinned through broken teeth and said**: “We drink.” And so the legend of **Hakon the Unyielding, Warlord of the Frozen North, Slayer of Jarls, and All-Around Pain in the Ass** was born. They would tell his story for generations. They would whisper his name in fear. And somewhere, in the halls of Valhalla, the gods **raised their horns in amusement**. Hakon's legend lives on, and now you can own a piece of it. This epic Viking warrior image is available for prints, downloads, and licensing in our Image Archive. View and purchase here.
