October came with the gray breath of early frost, and Rurik found a brief window amid his duties to travel south to the city of York.
This year, because the realm's great lords had campaigned at the king's side, the crown had excused them from tribute; attendance at court was ceremony enough.
The royal banquet was held in the long hall of the old Roman fortress, its arches draped with woven banners of crimson and gold. Queen Sola sat on King Ragnar's right, her beauty remote and brittle, saying nothing through the feast, her lips stained dark with wine. On his left sat Aslaug, heavy with child yet radiant, conversing animatedly with the assembled nobles, her laughter ringing like silver bells against the cold stone vault.
Ivar ignored the queen's fleeting, glacial glances and leaned toward Rurik in low conversation. "There's talk of moving the royal seat to Lunden—what say you to that?"
