Late at night on May 25, Paphis incited a mutiny within the Royal Guard. Taking advantage of the chaos, he opened Londinium's eastern gate, allowing large numbers of Frankish heavy infantry to pour into the city.
By daybreak, organized resistance had been largely crushed.
"I'm finally back."
Gunnar rode slowly through the city gates. His mount was an exceptionally fine white Arabian horse, its gait light and steady, its silky mane drifting gently in the morning breeze.
Draped behind him was a broad cloak of pure Tyrian purple, rare and regal, embroidered with intricate golden patterns. As the horse moved, the hem brushed against its flanks, picking up a trace of road dust.
Behind him came an endless stream of cavalry entering the city—men clad in mail, lamellar, and padded armor, gripping three-meter lances in their right hands, longswords hanging at their waists. The crisp sound of hooves, the faint clink of metal, and the occasional snort of horses became the dominant sounds on the streets.
Crowds packed both sides of the road. Clad in coarse linen, they neither cheered nor spoke. Most eyes followed that cloak—so splendid it seemed almost unearthly. Now and then, a suppressed cough could be heard. Silence blanketed the entire city.
Entering the palace's main hall, Gunnar saw Aslaug, her face ashen. She sat indifferently upon the throne, cradling the frail Sigurd in her arms, with Princess Enya, only ten years old, standing beside her.
Looking up at the family of three, Gunnar forced a smile.
"It's been a long time, Aslaug."
"A long time indeed, Duke."
Noting her cold tone, Gunnar's smile did not fade.
"You'll remain in the palace from now on. Your food, clothing, and daily provisions will remain unchanged. Once the situation stabilizes, my family will move here as well. Robert is a strong, intelligent child—you'll like him."
Hearing the victor's arrangements, Aslaug's heart turned to ash. She hugged her son and walked back toward the bedchamber, pausing only to remove Sigurd's crown and toss it toward Gunnar.
"It's yours now. This thing brings no good."
Gunnar caught it steadily. From up close, he examined the dozen or so gemstones set into the crown. Its design was plain enough; its value roughly equivalent to the Eastern Roman purple robe on his shoulders.
Before the watching officers and surrendered nobles, Gunnar stepped up and sat upon the throne. It felt cold and rigid—far less comfortable than the chair back home.
Next came the tally of losses and spoils.
The Frankish army had lost three hundred men, captured fifteen hundred prisoners, and seized two thousand suits of armor, along with mountains of iron swords, hand axes, yew bows, shields, arrows—and enough grain to feed the entire army for half a year.
"My thanks for your assistance, Lord Chamberlain."
At the call, Paphis emerged from the crowd, wearing a servile, harmless smile.
"To serve you is my greatest honor."
To stabilize the situation, Gunnar promised to grant earldoms to Paphis and four officers (one had died during the coup).
"I lack detailed maps of Ireland and the North for now, so borders cannot yet be drawn," Gunnar said. "But both regions are vast enough to satisfy your ambitions."
According to his original plan, Ireland and the North had to be broken apart. Though Vig's stance remained unclear, Gunnar already regarded him as the most dangerous enemy—more threatening even than Ivar, who was stationed at Oxford.
He thought to himself:
Taking Londinium is only the first step. Joining forces with Wessex to deal with Ivar is the second. Then comes the North. My old friend Vig—let's see what new tricks you have this time.
Oxford
Upon learning that the capital had fallen, nobles such as Lennard erupted into furious arguments, blaming Oleg's incompetence and Paphis's treachery. Some proposed retreating to Tamworth, only to be loudly rejected by Seawulf.
"Retreat without fighting a single proper battle—how will the soldiers look at us?"
Mercia lay on the front line. Seawulf could not bear to abandon Oxford, his direct domain. Once lost, it might take three to five years to recover.
Lennard snapped back, "Then what's your plan? Sit in Oxford and rot?"
The argument dragged on until deep into the night. After the others stormed out, Seawulf sought out Ivar alone.
"Your Majesty, are you truly considering Lennard's proposal?"
Ivar remained seated, his right hand unconsciously pressing against his abdominal wound. His original plan had been to attack Wessex, but persuaded by the nobles, he had lingered in Oxford instead. Now that Londinium had fallen, only three options remained:
Retreat to Tamworth — abandoning Seawulf's lands and risking a severe blow to morale.
Hold Oxford — risking the army's supply lines being cut.
Strike Wessex first — an extremely risky move, with less than a 20% chance of success.
"Your Majesty? Your Majesty?"
Seawulf's voice snapped Ivar out of his thoughts. Exhausted and unfocused, Ivar could not decide.
"Give me the night," he said at last. "I need time."
After Seawulf left, the estate fell silent.
Ivar stared blankly at the moonlight spilling through the window, suddenly nostalgic for a time ten years past.
Back then, his father had not yet grown old. He, Vig, Gunnar, Niels, and the others had stood united—crushing the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms one after another, then landing in West Francia, annihilating the Frankish main force along the Seine and forcing their king to sue for peace. They had been young, unstoppable. Bjorn had even spoken of marching on Rome itself.
Who would have thought that the future would be destroyed not by Anglos or Franks—but by civil war among Viking nobles?
In that moment, Ivar lost all desire for the crown. It felt hollow, tasteless.
Were his brothers really dying for this?
The next day, the nobles again crowded into Ivar's residence to debate their next move.
That afternoon, a scout captain burst into the hall.
"Several thousand Frankish troops are advancing from the north!"
Their retreat threatened, Ivar clutched his wound, sweat breaking out across his forehead.
"How many?" he demanded through the pain.
The scout's face was grim.
"Too many cavalry for us to approach. At least three thousand."
"That's impossible!" Seawulf roared. "The Franks only have two thousand cavalry!"
Ivar frowned, recalling the rumors from Londinium—how Gunnar had been requisitioning pack horses and draft animals from nearby villages, provoking widespread resentment.
"He gathered horses… to create a highly mobile force of mounted infantry?"
His thoughts drifted back to a war two years earlier. After Charles the Bald defeated the Viking main force, he had sent Gunnar to pursue Vig. To move faster, Gunnar had requisitioned vast numbers of pack horses to transport infantry.
Was he recreating that tactic now?
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