Ragnar picks it up.
Freya, make everything go well
today. Make sure Lagertha lives,
and is delivered of a healthy
A beat. The thunder cracks again. Then Ragnar shrugs and puts
the figure down.
I know you can’t really change
ANCIENT WOMAN V.O.
Ragnar hurries back through.
His wife’s legs are spread wide open and something is
emerging between them: a head, with a halo of bright hair.
The ancient woman continues her sing-song chant and the
younger women help with the birth, one of them holding the
baby’s head as the rest of its body slithers out in an abrupt
rush of blood and afterbirth...and Ragnar gasps at the wonder
of it. Stares at the bloody bundle even as they cut the chord
and begin to wash it.
What is it?
(with a laugh)
It’s a boy.
How do you know?
What are you talking about? Didn’t
I promise you a son?
Ragnar looks at the ancient woman.
Is it a boy?
Look for yourself, Ragnar Lothbrok.
Ragnar looks. Satisfies himself.
Give him here. I have enough milk
for a herd of boys.
The baby is lifted to her breast, where it suckles.
EXT. VIKING SETTLEMENT - DAY
Ragnar emerges from his house carrying the baby, wrapped in a
blanket. The storm has passed. The wood and turf building is
one of several in the small hamlet perched on the edge of a
deep fjord. It’s a vision of stillness and utter
tranquillity. The thickly wooded slopes of the fyord drop
down sheer to the water, and above them the bare rocks are
still capped with snow. The whole landscape has a strange,
magical luminosity - a heightened, almost unnatural beauty.
Ragnar takes his son to the water’s edge and holds him out in
his arms, like an offering.
Look Odin. Look, I have a son.
Thank you, lord. Thank you for my
We move in CLOSE on the baby’s face - then the camera tilts
up towards the sky.
And suddenly the sky begins to darken...
EXT. THE HEAVENS
Darkness - and out of the darkness a noise like no other, of
horns and hooves and the shrill cry of birds and the roaring
of men and women. And over the dark fields, fringed with
fire, high in the darkling sky flies a tumultuous host:
thousands of Viking warriors and Valkyries packed together
and riding plunging horses, armed with spears and swords, and
half-naked shield-maidens with bows and shields, sweeping
across the heavens in a wild hunt amidst thick flocks of
And in the midst of this vast ghostly army the huge figure of
Odin, the god of dead warriors, lord of Valhalla, riding his
eight-legged horse Sleipnir, carrying his spear, two ravens
perched on his shoulders, his cloak streaming out behind him,
his single-eye surveying this great, ecstatic, thundering
host of the risen dead.