After the ceremony ended, Rurik found Bjorn standing at the edge of the crowd.
"Why didn't you go up and give a speech?" Rurik asked.
Bjorn's expression was solemn.
"There was no need. I've finally understood something—what I truly seek isn't power, but the unknown. Let you all fight and scheme as you please. My destiny lies upon this vast, surging sea."
Bjorn had no intention of competing for the inheritance. Once the Tynemouth shipyard perfected the new sail design, he would continue sailing west, exploring onward until the very edge of the world.
"An explorer?" Rurik asked, puzzled.
After a few polite exchanges, Rurik took his leave. All five Royal Guard officers he had previously recruited were dead, and with such a rare opportunity at hand, he hurried off to recruit a new batch of officers to serve him.
Rurik was not alone. Halfdan, Ubbe, and Little Eric were all aggressively recruiting these elite fighters. Only Niels did not participate.
As the former commander of the Royal Guard, Niels knew their tactics inside and out—some of them he had personally taught to the mid-ranking officers. Now those same methods were being used against him. Thinking about it left him with a bitter sense of irony.
As a result, Niels had no interest in recruiting these officers with their exorbitant demands. Instead, he focused his attention on the thousands of commoners who had come to observe the funeral.
Commoners were far easier to manipulate. Given enough time, they could be molded into a respectable fighting force. His only constraint was money.
"Sigh… this won't do. I need to find a way to raise funds."
After rounds of bargaining, Ubbe attracted the largest number of Royal Guard veterans, mainly because he controlled vast tracts of unused land. The others also managed to recruit some, and in total over four hundred guardsmen defected.
With royal authority in decline, Oleg was powerless to stop this. He could only confiscate their armor and weapons, then record them as "missing" in the rosters.
By October, the North Sea grew increasingly violent. Oleg led his troops back to Londinium.
After landing, he ordered the soldiers back to their barracks and went alone to report at court. Along the way, he saw a depressed cityscape and heard open resentment toward the royal house.
"They dare insult the Queen Regent in public? These aren't just unruly peasants anymore."
Oleg was seething inwardly. Upon entering the great hall, he found Aslaug listless, leaning against the throne and staring blankly into space.
After hearing the report on the situation in the north, Aslaug neither lost her temper nor asked about Ragnar's funeral. Surrounded by her attendants, she simply left.
Oleg stood there, stunned. Asking the palace guards, he learned that the young king had fallen ill again, and the shamans responsible for his treatment had taken the opportunity to flee—likely fearing the Queen Regent's punishment.
As Sigurd's health deteriorated, the kingdom's situation slid inexorably toward collapse. The great nobles stopped paying tribute and instead fortified their lands and ramped up arms production, preparing for an inevitable civil war.
At this critical juncture, the Grand Chamberlain sought out Aslaug and urged her to plan ahead.
In the palace's rear garden, Aslaug walked alone across the lawn, occasionally scattering grains to feed the birds. She seemed distracted as she listened to his proposal.
"Lord Chamberlain, what solution do you propose?"
"A marriage alliance," Paphis said.
He suggested marrying Princess Enya to the son of a powerful noble, inviting that noble to reside in Londinium. That way, if Sigurd were to die, the Queen Regent—and the chamberlain himself—could retain their power.
Aslaug sneered.
"What nonsense is this? Marrying Enya into a powerful house is equivalent to handing power over to that family and letting them inherit the throne of Britannia. And how do you think Ragnar's remaining four sons would react? Would the other nobles accept it?"
After more than half a year in power, Aslaug's political instincts had sharpened. She immediately saw that the plan was fundamentally flawed.
She reviewed the faces of the realm's great nobles in her mind. Only the House of Tynemouth had the strength to counter Ivar, Halfdan, and Ubbe—yet Vig was far too cautious to allow himself to be surrounded and crushed by rival factions.
"Your Majesty… won't you reconsider?" Paphis pressed.
Aslaug's expression turned cold. She looked down at the chamberlain's short, heavy body, her gaze piercing straight through him.
"All these years, I struggled against Sola for one reason only—to place Sigurd on the throne and see him grow into a ruler worthy of Ragnar. If Sigurd survives this illness, I will continue to hold the realm together. But if he does not—why should I care about this rotten mess any longer? I am tired. Whatever comes next has nothing to do with me."
With that, Aslaug turned and walked away.
As Sigurd's condition worsened, panic spread through Londinium. Many quietly sought escape routes, and rumors of a royal marriage alliance spread across Britannia.
At the same time, Vig was inspecting Glasgowshire. According to local reports, a handful of minor gentry were suspected of plotting rebellion.
With civil war looming, Vig treated the matter with utmost seriousness to secure a stable rear. He moved swiftly, eliminating numerous destabilizing elements and confiscating their lands.
Afterward, he ordered clerks to survey the reclaimed farmland—forty knight's fiefs in total, perfect for rewarding the next generation of loyal service.
"At last, that's settled."
Eight years after conquering the north, Vig had not expected unrest of this scale. Once stability returned, he sought out Connor the "Latecomer," the inspector in charge of undercover work, and proposed forming a dedicated intelligence organization.
To Vig's surprise, Connor declined. He asked that, in recognition of his years of service, he be given a legitimate position—one that could finally be done in the open.
"You're sure?" Vig asked.
Connor nodded firmly. For years he had operated under the sheriff's office, doing dirty and dangerous intelligence work, narrowly escaping death countless times. Just two weeks earlier, he and a contact had nearly been bitten by a venomous snake during a rendezvous in the wild. The fright had left him sleepless for days.
"If this continues," Connor admitted, "I won't make it to forty."
Moved by his subordinate's confession, Vig immediately knighted Connor and reassigned him as Deputy Sheriff of Edinburghshire.
"Thank you, my lord. May the gods bless your rule."
Relieved to escape that life, Connor handed over his network's files and recommended a Viking–Pictish mixed-blood man named Gwen as his replacement.
After careful consideration, Vig promoted Gwen to Chief of Intelligence.
"From now on, you report directly to me. Build an intelligence network—prevent rebellion within our lands, and place informants in Londinium, Calais, and Bergen to gather information."
Eager to prove himself, Gwen asked whether the Duke was interested in the royal marriage alliance.
"Marriage alliance?" Vig realized. "You mean Princess Enya? I have no such intentions. Your duty is intelligence gathering—don't rush things. Start by planting agents in taverns near the ports. The palace is deep water. You're not ready for that yet."
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