Two hours dragged by. The hall had grown so tense that some nobles drew their swords, threatening one another—on the brink of bloodshed.
Before the quarrel could erupt, Ragnar, Erik, and Pascas returned. Feeling the weight of every gaze, Ragnar cleared his throat.
"Brothers, through this greatest of all expeditions, we have achieved glory beyond our forefathers' reach. As the one who launched this raid, I am proud—and deeply grateful for your toil."
He lifted his cup, led the hall in a round of wine, then gestured for Pascas to unfurl a vellum map, marked with every settlement in Northumbria.
"This honor I will not hoard. Speak your wishes freely."
"Wait." Lennart's voice cut sharp across the tables. "Your Majesty—when you say 'brothers,' who exactly do you mean? Us alone? Or will new men be admitted?"
At once the other six nobles stirred. The more newcomers, the smaller each old wolf's share. They exchanged quick glances, wordless pact forming—to resist.
Ragnar sipped his wine, the smile stiff on his lips. "Yes. Some outside this circle earned merit. I intend to enfeoff them as well."
At once Ivar strode into the center, calm and defiant.
"At Manchester, I seized the royal banner of Northumbria. At Leeds and York, I was first upon the walls—twice—and it was by my hand that King Ælud and his queen fell. Are these deeds not weight enough?"
The hall thundered. Captains banged their cups upon the tables, chanting the name of the Boneless. None could deny his glory.
Then Vig stepped forward, face unflinching as dozens of eyes fixed upon him.
"At Manchester, it was my stratagem that turned defeat to victory, breaking Ælud's household guard. At York, I oversaw the engines—towers and trebuchets—and planned the ambush that forced near three thousand to yield. Tell me, without towers, without stones to hurl—would the city have fallen? Or would we have bled out, ladder by ladder?"
"God's Chosen!"
The cry rose, if less thunderous than Ivar's. For all their awe of warriors, even the fiercest raider knew York had been won by Vig's contrivances. From a peasant of Gothenburg to the lords' table—he had crossed the chasm at last.
"To sit among kings and nobles… it was worth every peril," he thought, heart tight with relief. Had he failed tonight, he was ready to quit Britain altogether—to seek Rurik in the Rus lands, or serve as a sellsword in Constantinople. Anywhere but here, as a beggar to his own.
Next came Bjorn, boasting of two Anglo lords he had slain. But the hall stirred little. The seven nobles whispered, then shook their heads.
Ragnar held York. Ivar and Vig had won recognition. To admit more of the king's loyalists would tip the balance—and Lennart's faction would not allow it.
Bjorn stormed out in fury. Nils tried his chance.
"At Manchester, my bowmen struck King Ælud himself, forcing his retreat. At York, my archers rained death upon the walls—"
"That order was Vig's," Ulf cut him off coldly. "And shooting from behind a line? That is a bowman's task. No more."
The disdain for archers was plain. One by one, Gunnar and Orm too were denied.
Only by Ivar and Vig's blinding merit had Ragnar won even these two seats. Otherwise, the nobles would have shut out his men entirely.
Seeing Ragnar's temper quiver at the edge, Erik smiled inwardly, though he kept his face smooth.
"Reward by merit—that is our forefathers' way," he said blandly. "Now the seats are set. Let Pascas explain the lands, so we may choose."
Vig spoke first. Knowing his weakness, unwilling to vie for the fertile south, he claimed Tynemouth—on the northeast coast.
A thin land, gold at the edges, straw in the belly, he mused. But for him, it was perfect—close to the Pictish border, far from Mercia and Wessex, safe from southern reprisal, yet open for future conquest.
"You are certain?" Ragnar frowned. "The land is poor. Think again."
"I am certain."
"So be it." Ragnar sighed.
Then Ivar demanded Derwent, another barren stretch on the northwest coast. The hall was startled.
"I can't outbid you jackals. Let me have my rock. Any quarrel with that?"
None objected. He shot Vig a sidelong glance. The two smiled, knowing.
Vig's eyes were north, to Scotland. Ivar's were west, to Ireland—an isle fractured and ripe, famed for its goldsmiths and silverwork.
Even Ragnar's own cup bore proof of their craft: silver body, gold-rimmed, inlaid with enamel, malachite, amber, mica—woven into beasts, birds, and knots of wonder.
"Earl is only the first step," Ivar thought, eyes alight. "Nothing less than a crown will fit me. One day, I will be King of Ireland."
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