Three hundred years ago, at the dawn of the Viking Age, there existed a group of people who called themselves the Westerners. These were the dreamers, the explorers, the peace-lovers, who spurned the traditional way of pillage and plunder. Among them were members from all walks of life—warriors and shieldmaids, poets and inventors, adventurers and settlers.

When the land grew weary from too many mouths to feed, and Chieftains began looking East towards the wealth and riches of Continental Europe… the Westerners looked in the other direction. Their gazes passed through waves and storms and Thor's mighty wrath, and where others saw danger, they saw their hope. The Western Exodus, it was called—scores of longships departing from docks and beaches all over the land, laden with food and brave people, sailing towards a brighter future.

For several moons, all everyone talked about was the Western Exodus, and it seemed the West might hold salvation after all.

Then the first survivors drifted ashore. They came back, less than one for every hundred that had set out, on makeshift rafts salvaged from the blackened husks of once-proud longships. They came back weeping, crying, screaming; of billowing smoke, of eternal flame, of great winged beasts rivaling the fearsome Níðhöggr itself.

Death lies in the West, they said to anyone who would listen. Death lies in the West.

And so these words were repeated, passed down, and hammered into truth. Death lies in the West, proclaimed the great Sagas of old. Death lies in the West, declared the gigantic runestones dotting the land. Decades turned into centuries, and by now everyone knew: Death lies in the West.

So, for three centuries, the Norsemen fought amongst themselves, and with anyone else who seemed to have loot worth taking. They raided far and wide—across straits and channels, up prosperous rivers, striking fear and devastation into the heartlands of Europe.

And in three hundred years of raiding, they never again ventured West.

.oOo.

It was the Year of Our Lord, 1060, and King Cnut the Great ruled with an iron fist over the entirety of Northern Europe.

The squabbling petty kings of Ireland had bowed under his overwhelming force, as had the barbaric tribes of Sweden, where pagan cults and human sacrifices were still the norm.

With the Holy Roman Empire sitting strong on his southern front, and with his hand bound by alliances or vassalage over smaller, weaker neighbors, the King seemed to be at the zenith of his power. Yet, when seated alone in his chambers, the map of the known world spread out before him, he would time and again look to the northwest, past the string of miserable islands that dotted the Scottish shores, into the blank unknown.

And in those quiet moments without his courtiers bothering him with trivial matters, he let his mind drift to the old mariner's myth he'd heard when he was but a young prince—legends of a whole new land, of islands uncountable in number; large and small, warm and cold, lush and bare… an endless chain of them dotting the waves like the Lord's own treasure map, a vast Archipelago stretching across the Great North Sea.

It was called the 'Wilderwest', where the last remnants of the Westerners dwelled, isolated from the world.

The King was a practical man—a common trait for powerful rulers, who forged empires from ships and steel. As fascinated as he was by the myth of the Wilderwest, he sensibly restrained himself from throwing perfectly good ships and men to explore beyond the edges of the map. Instead, he focused his attention on domestic matters—he had three kingdoms to rule, after all.

But one day, a whaling longship had ventured too far from the coast, and got sucked into a mighty storm. Most thought her lost, and proper prayers were offered to both the Lord and the old god Njord. Life went on like normal, and the King wasn't even aware of the incident… until the ship pulled in at Nidaros, carrying a massive dying form sprawled across its deck.

It was not a whale, nor a kraken, nor even some mythical leviathan.

It was fire made flesh.

And fire was power.

From that day on, the King knew two things:

One, the Wilderwest existed.

Two, he needed to conquer it.

Author's Note:

1. This prologue is only here to set the scene; from the next chapter on, this fic will go back to the Haddock family. I hope you enjoy reading, and please review/comment about what you liked/didn't like.

2. Cnut the Great was a Danish/Viking King who ruled over the North Sea Empire (1016-1035), which consisted of Denmark, Norway, and England. This is purely an alternate timeline where he survived past 1035, and continued to consolidate power. I didn't research a whole lot into him, so if you're a history buff, I'm sorry for butchering historical accuracy!