Who Are The Main Characters In The Nibelungenlied?

The Nibelungenlied is this epic medieval German poem that feels like a wild mix of heroism, tragedy, and betrayal—kind of like 'Game of Thrones' but with more mead halls and dragon slayers. The two central figures are Siegfried and Kriemhild. Siegfried’s the golden boy—superhumanly strong, bathed in dragon blood (almost invincible!), and owner of that cursed treasure from the Nibelungs. He’s charming but also a bit reckless, which… well, doesn’t end well for him. Kriemhild, his wife, starts off as this sweet Burgundian princess but morphs into a vengeance-driven force of nature after Siegfried’s murder. Then there’s Hagen, the ultimate shady advisor—loyal to Kriemhild’s brothers but also the one who stabs Siegfried in the back (literally). Brunhild, the warrior queen Siegfried tricks into marrying Kriemhild’s brother Gunther, adds this explosive pride-and-honor dynamic. The way these personalities clash—love, oaths, revenge—it’s no wonder things spiral into a bloodbath by the end.

What’s fascinating is how the poem plays with loyalty. Siegfried’s downfall comes from his own naivety, while Kriemhild’s grief twists her into something terrifying. Hagen’s brutal pragmatism makes him both villain and tragic figure. Even Gunther, the weak-willed king, is pitiable. The characters feel larger-than-life yet deeply human, their flaws dragging them toward doom. And that ending—Kriemhild getting beheaded mid-revenge spree—still leaves me staring at the ceiling, wondering who, if anyone, 'won.' Medieval literature didn’t pull punches.

Kriemhild’s arc in The Nibelungenlied guts me every time. She begins as this radiant, almost ethereal figure—her name literally means 'mask of power,' which is hilariously ironic because early on, she’s all demure smiles and courtly grace. Then Siegfried dies, and it’s like a switch flips. The scene where she uses his severed head to confront Hagen? Chilling. Her brothers betray her, her new husband Etzel (Attila the Hun, no less) gets dragged into her schemes, and suddenly she’s orchestrating a massacre at a feast. The poem doesn’t judge her, though—it just shows how grief and systemic disrespect turn a woman into a monster. Meanwhile, Siegfried’s legacy haunts everything; even dead, he’s the reason kingdoms burn. The supporting cast—like Dietrich of Bern, the weary exile who tries to mediate—adds these layers of futility. It’s less about 'heroes' and more about how honor cultures eat their own.