For the next half month, southern Britain fell into a strange stalemate.
Ivar camped at Oxford, Æthelbert at Reading. Neither side made a move. The only ones truly suffering were the Frankish army outside Londinium—enduring endless rain while felling trees and building siege works, exhausted and miserable.
So far, Gunnar's forces had lost seven hundred men in total. Actual combat deaths were few; most losses came from desertion, illness, and exhaustion. Two hundred warhorses had fallen sick, and large quantities of grain had gone moldy due to poor storage.
Inside the city, the defenders were holding up well. They tacitly accepted Ivar as the new king. Their sole task was to hold the walls and wait for relief.
At this point, Aslaug's authority extended over only a single city. Having laid down her burdens, she spent her days strolling through the garden feeding birds, leaving all defensive matters to "White-Haired" Oleg. In her mind, the war of succession was already over.
One day, the Lord Chamberlain, Paphis, came to her with troubling news.
"Your Majesty, something terrible has happened. Word from Oxford is that Ivar intends to thoroughly investigate last year's events. We must prepare in advance."
Aslaug sat on the lawn, ignoring him.
Paphis grew increasingly agitated.
"Even without concrete evidence, Ivar has become suspicious. Once he takes power, he will not allow you to remain in the palace. At best, you'll be sent to some temple and placed under lifelong house arrest!"
To persuade her, Paphis cited the power struggles of the Eastern Roman court:
"Your Majesty, once such purges begin, there is no turning back. If you stop now, Ivar still has countless ways to deal with you. Lifelong confinement would already be the best possible outcome.
"Compared to Ivar, Gunnar is a better choice. He lacks legitimacy and needs your prestige and governing experience. Once Princess Enya marries Robert, you could remain in the palace and continue wielding influence."
Aslaug gazed at the clouds drifting slowly across the sky, her expression indifferent.
Her days were now leisurely. Sometimes she even dressed as a commoner and wandered the city incognito. After several such outings, she had heard little but resentment and criticism.
"No need," she said calmly. "The people's complaints are justified. I am not suited to ruling a country. Perhaps I should never have conspired with you in the first place."
His efforts having failed, the Lord Chamberlain left hunched over. Disappointment turned into despair—then into venomous hatred.
"I risked my life helping you, and this is the result? No. I escaped once in Constantinople—this time, I will not run."
The following evening, he invited five Guard officers he knew well to dine with him. During the meal, he casually mentioned a rumor.
"Have you heard? Ubbe was assassinated. Most of his left hand was chopped off, and he was hit by several arrows in the back. Fortunately, he was wearing mail under his coat and barely survived."
The officers' expressions darkened.
The rumor had been circulating since the day before. Merchants claimed the assassins were from the Royal Guard, and that after the failed attempt, they declared they were acting on Aslaug's orders.
Paphis poured wine for each guest, his voice low.
"Aslaug killed Sola without evidence. Now she's sent assassins after Ubbe. Sigurd is dying—when Ivar ascends the throne, how do you think he'll deal with her?"
Faced with royal intrigue, the officers' instinct was to distance themselves.
"This is an internal royal matter. It has nothing to do with us."
Paphis raised his head.
"You think it has nothing to do with you—but the world disagrees. To the great nobles, you and I are Aslaug's hounds. The common people hate the Guard as well. They believe you helped her raise taxes, driving families into exile and even forcing some to sell themselves into slavery.
"When Ivar takes the throne, what will he choose—protect us? Or put us on a public trial to win the nobles' and people's support?"
The five officers had no personal ties to Ivar. After Paphis's words, fear crept in. One of them lowered his voice.
"My lord… are you planning to betray Ivar?"
Paphis spoke plainly.
"No. I never swore loyalty to Ivar. I owe him nothing. The king is dying, the queen regent has lost all will. We can only look after ourselves now. Gunnar has no foundation in Britain—he is our best option."
The officers neither agreed nor objected outright. After a moment, one voiced a concern:
"I've heard the Franks are looting Viking villages and destroying temples. I'm worried about the future…"
Paphis cut him off.
"Then convert to Roman Catholicism. Gunnar converted years ago—he's doing just fine. The gods haven't punished him. What are you afraid of?"
These five men had been carefully selected. They had no connection to Ivar, shallow faith in the old gods, and were the most likely to defect to the Franks.
As the discussion stalled, Paphis summoned a Frankish man. The man presented a handwritten letter from Gunnar.
"Once Londinium is taken and Aslaug and her son are captured, Gunnar will grant us earldoms. The opportunity is right in front of us—why hesitate?"
The officers were tempted. They began discussing the details of a coup. The greatest obstacle was "White-Haired" Oleg, the commander-in-chief, whose loyalty to the royal house was unshakable.
Someone suggested, "What if we make him a duke?"
Another immediately rejected it.
"A duke? Where would the land come from? The five of us and Lord Chamberlain need six earldoms. Gunnar's own men need land. And land has already been promised to Æthelbert. There's nothing left for a new duke."
A third voice proposed, "What if we give him the Tynefort family's lands?"
Watching the candlelight flicker on the table, Paphis let out a cold laugh. Power corrupted everyone the same—Vikings, Anglos, Greeks alike.
After more than ten minutes, a Viking man dressed as a commoner entered and leaned close to whisper in Paphis's ear.
"Speak up," Paphis said calmly, lifting his cup. "Everyone here is my brother."
"Yes, sir," the man said loudly. "The assassination went smoothly. With help from household servants, we infiltrated the estate and killed Oleg and his eldest son with crossbows. The proof is here."
He produced Oleg's ring, and a blood-stained short sword—the symbol of command over the Royal Guard.
The officers passed the items around. Their breathing quickened, faces drained of color.
At last, the deputy commander forced a laugh.
"The Lord Chamberlain truly learned real skills in Constantinople. Dealing with country folk like us is effortless for you."
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