York, England, 25 September, 1066
"Dread King, it is time to go."
Harald Hardraada did not suffer flattery for the sake of advancement. He was king of Norway though, and as such he suffered such flattery often. So he survived. He replied to this certain suckup: "Alright. Gather all the troops and let's be off. Those hostages are valuable!"
"All the troops?" asked the man, or rather the boy, a young page barely fifteen winters old and only showing a slight fuzz on his cheeks. Hardraada did not like being questioned either. "Yes,all of them. Did you not hear me? Now,off with you, or your head shall be off as well!"
Stamford Bridge awaited them.
Harold, son of Godwin, king of England elected by the Witan, stood at the bank of the river called Derwent, and waited for his brother. It was his fault, all of this, you could say. If he'd supported Tostig instead of Morcar and Edwin, they'd all be south of here, destroying the Bastard's army...
But maybe they'd all be dead. But now was not the time to reflect on what might have been. Now was the time to make sure people would not ask that and say, "If Harold had acted differently, he'd be alive..."
An hour passed. Then two. The huscarls started fidgeting. Leofwine was already counseling retreat. Gyrth suggested they attack York. But Harold always took the middle ground. The third hour of their waiting came, and then it ended. The Raven Banner of Norway was appearing, and with it a terrible sight: Forty five thousand men had assembled on the north side of the river, and they all shouted a terrible sentence: "Drepe saxserne!