On March 13, the Frankish army arrived on the southern bank of the River Thames.
Even at this point, Gunnar still clung to a shred of hope. He dispatched envoys into the palace at Londinium to persuade Aslaug.
Stripped of all pleasantries and rhetorical polish, Gunnar's message was simple:
Sigurd won't last much longer. Once the boy-king dies, you lose all legitimacy to rule in his name. In the past year alone, you've offended far too many people—your future will be grim. If my eldest son marries Enya, you will still remain Queen Mother. You can stay in the palace and enjoy wealth and comfort, with no reduction in your standard of living.
With the situation already beyond salvage, Aslaug appeared unusually calm. Reclining lazily against the throne, she replied with thinly veiled scorn:
"If Sigurd dies, there's no point in me clinging to this wretched throne. I've long grown tired of this cursed place. Get out."
The negotiations collapsed.
Gunnar turned his attention to plans for attacking Londinium.
The Thames was nearly three hundred meters wide, spanned by a long stone bridge. On the southern bank stood a small bridgehead fortress.
He had no intention of storming it. Even if taken, his army would be forced to advance across the narrow bridge, unable to deploy formations—let alone assault the city walls.
"Draft the nearby civilians. Dig trenches outside the bridgehead and blockade the enemy."
Unfortunately, torrential rain suddenly fell. With no choice, Gunnar dispersed his forces across nearby settlements on the south bank to shelter from the storm, planning to reconsider crossing once the weather cleared.
Still, he spread word that he would guarantee the lands of any Viking great lords who surrendered.
Notably absent from this promise were lesser nobles and Viking landholders of the royal demesne. They immediately grasped the implication: if Gunnar became king, his soldiers would have to be rewarded. Since the great earls' lands were untouched, the burden would inevitably fall on others.
After heated debate, they sent envoys to Ireland, inviting Ivar to ascend the throne.
Dyflin, Ducal Residence
It was a rare clear day.
Ivar lay reclining in a chair, basking in the sunlight. His abdomen was wrapped in plain linen, carrying the faint scents of blood and medicinal herbs.
According to teachings passed down from the Tynemouth School, alcohol should be avoided after serious wounds. Forced to abstain from fine wine, Ivar lingered idly in Dyflin.
War, conquest, rebellion, suppression—these had consumed more than a decade of his life. The local nobles, repeatedly defeated, still refused to submit. Even when driven into the western hills by well-equipped Viking cavalry, they struck back at every opportunity, endlessly harassing his rule.
"When will this ever end?"
That afternoon, an attendant delivered a parchment scroll. Its contents were blunt: Viking nobles and gentry from Londinium unanimously invited Ivar to inherit the throne. The bottom bore signatures and fingerprints.
Those bastards ignored me before—now they want me to risk my life for them?
Ivar closed his eyes for several minutes, then summoned a scribe and dictated letters.
Recipients included Lennard and other power-holding nobles, as well as the governors of York, Nottingham, Tamworth, and Cambridge, urging them to swear loyalty and unite against the Franks.
After half an hour, the scribe rubbed his aching wrist.
"My lord… you seem to have omitted Tynemouth."
"Not yet," Ivar replied. "I haven't decided how to phrase it."
Following last year's upheavals, royal authority had sharply declined. Control over regional magnates was nearly nonexistent. Reflecting on Vig's behavior, Ivar sensed the quiet ambition of his old friend and sighed repeatedly.
"What was Father thinking?"
As the eldest son, Ivar possessed both the strength and prestige to rule the entire kingdom. Neither the nobles nor his brothers would have dared defy him. Yet his father, in a moment of madness, had placed the youngest—Sigurd—on the throne.
A long-circulating rumor surfaced in his mind: that Aslaug and the palace steward had conspired to alter the will. The more he thought about it, the more plausible it seemed.
"When I take Londinium, I'll investigate this thoroughly."
Over the following week, Ivar's envoys visited noble houses across the realm. One was sent to Tynemouth, urging Vig to march south.
"The troops are still in training. Give me two more months."
"Two months?" The envoy stared in disbelief, convinced the duke was stalling. "Are you certain this is the reply you wish to give His Majesty?"
After several seconds of silence, Vig repeated heavily:
"Yes. I cannot deploy at present."
Once the envoy departed, Vig sat slumped in his chair for a long while.
First, he truly was reorganizing his army and lacked the time to fight.
Since learning of Gunnar's impending invasion, Vig had begun mobilization in early February, eventually raising eight thousand soldiers. Roughly seventy percent were Vikings, whose martial traditions gave them higher morale, fitness, and mobilization rates. The remainder consisted of Anglos, Welsh migrants, and Highland mercenaries—Gaels.
The soldiers were serviceable. The real problem was officers.
Vig's regimental system—regiment, battalion, company, platoon, squad—offered tight organization and rapid command execution, but it required vast numbers of trained officers. As a result, Vig was utterly overwhelmed.
To accelerate progress, he dismantled the standing army: veterans were promoted to squad leaders, squad leaders to platoon leaders, then concentrated for training.
Because some illiterate men couldn't read orders, maps, or rosters, Vig even drafted seventy-five junior academy students from Tynemouth Public School as field clerks, assigning them to battalion and company headquarters.
There was also a more selfish reason for his inaction.
If Gunnar seized Londinium—and perhaps more—then when Vig marched south as the savior, the rewards would only be greater.
Receiving replies from across the realm, Ivar felt both hope and dread.
Most nobles and governors agreed to fight—but all with conditions.
Lennard of Manchuni, for example, demanded Liverpool. The governor of York sought elevation in rank. It was like a pack of wild dogs tearing at a carrion.
Worse still, Æthelbert of Wessex and Vig of Tynemouth both refused immediate participation, insisting on delay.
Ivar sensed their caution and estrangement. Of all, Vig's hesitation disappointed him most. If possible, Ivar truly wished to avoid the day when they would face each other as enemies.
"A king is destined to be alone. Heh… Father was right. Perhaps this crown brings no happiness—but I have no choice."
Ireland's Viking population numbered only forty thousand. Ivar scraped together five thousand soldiers, keeping two thousand behind to defend Dyflin from rebellion.
At the end of March, Ivar's army sailed to Liverpool, moved upriver along the Mersey, landed at Manchuni, and called on forces from across the land to assemble.
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