In October, Vig found time to make a trip to York.
That year, since the nobles had followed the king on campaign, they were exempt from paying tribute—merely showing their faces at court was enough.
At the banquet, Queen Sola sat silently at Ragnar's right hand, saying nothing throughout, sipping her red wine alone. On his left sat Aslaug, full of energy despite her pregnancy, chatting animatedly with the gathered nobles.
Ivar ignored the cold, cutting glances from Queen Sola and spoke to Vig in a low voice.
"Some are suggesting that the royal court move its capital to Londinium. What do you think?"
Vig thought for a moment, glancing toward the group of Anglo clerks seated farther down the table.
"Let me guess—Pascas and Godwin were the ones who proposed it?"
After half a minute of contemplation, he calmly laid out three reasons for the move:
During the Roman occupation, Londinium had been the center of administration, the military, and commerce. The Romans left behind an extensive network of roads—linking York, Chester, and Winchester—still functional centuries later.
The River Thames provides access deep into the English interior (as far as Oxford) via inland shipping, while also allowing overseas trade through the North Sea. Exporting wool to Flanders would bring in enormous profits.
Relocating the royal court to southern Britain would help consolidate control over newly conquered lands and intimidate the three southern lords—Wessex, Mercia, and East Anglia.
After a pause, Vig summarized:
"Comparing York, Tamworth, and Londinium—Londinium is the better choice for a capital."
"That's about what Godwin said," Ivar muttered, frowning deeply. "But if Father moves the capital south, we'll be closer to West Francia. Knowing him, he'll want to strike first—to teach 'Charles the Bald' a lesson before the Franks can even think about attacking."
He exhaled in irritation.
"This year it's Wessex, next year it's West Francia… At this rate, I'll never have time to handle Dofrin's affairs. By Odin, when will this end?"
"You're not alone," Vig replied. "Bandits in the northwest, raiders on the coast—it's a mess. Let's just hope next year's campaign ends quickly and doesn't turn into another endless war."
Aside from Ivar and Vig, Nils, Orm, and Gunnar—newly ennobled—were all preoccupied with their own territories and had little enthusiasm for the Western campaign.
By contrast, idle nobles like Leonard, who had little to do at home, eagerly supported the idea of war—hoping to make a quick fortune.
Thus arose a strangely twisted situation:
Ragnar's most trusted vassals—Vig, Ivar, and the others—opposed his new expedition, while the nobles he usually distrusted supported it. The Anglo clerks like Pascas and Godwin, who wouldn't be fighting personally, maintained a neutral stance.
But against Ragnar's unparalleled prestige and authority, no one dared to truly object.
When Vig returned to Tyne Town, he summoned his treasurer, Mitcham, and instructed him to find a few reliable merchants.
"When they travel to Edinburgh for trade," Vig said, "have them gather intelligence—especially anything about the Picts and Gaels forming an alliance."
"My lord," Mitcham replied, "you needn't worry too much. The North has never been united. Each noble house has tangled grudges and blood feuds that can't be resolved easily. Only when a new generation rises and forgets the old hatred could an alliance truly form."
"Maybe," Vig said, "but I never bet my safety on the enemy's stupidity. Pay the merchants whatever it takes."
After dismissing him, Vig turned his attention to next year's campaign.
Knowing West Francia relied heavily on cavalry, he recruited eight hundred Viking settlers:
200 shield-axe infantry
200 archers and crossbowmen
400 spearmen
Each spearman carried a round shield, a spear, and a standard Viking iron axe at his belt.
The spears were made two and a half meters long, effective for thrusting or bracing against cavalry. Vig considered lengthening them but abandoned the idea—it would make one-handed use too unwieldy.
For the next few months, he drilled his men relentlessly—not only in individual combat, but in forming phalanxes to resist cavalry charges.
In February 848, the snows had yet to fully melt when a palace messenger arrived at Tyne, exhausted and wind-burned.
"My lord," the man said, "Chancellor Pascas has fallen ill. His Majesty commands you to come to Londinium to oversee preparations for the expedition."
By the warm fire, Vig handed his child to Heligif.
"Shipbuilding or armament production?" he asked.
"Both," said the messenger.
"Understood. Get some rest—I'll leave tomorrow."
The next day, Vig bade farewell to his wife and child, leading over eight hundred men southward. Boarding ships, they crossed the river. Before stepping off, Vig looked back at the far bank—Tyne Town stood upon its low hill, scaffolding rising from stone walls. By the time he returned from war, his new home might finally be complete.
Four days later, as the column passed York, Vig entered the city to pay his respects to the king.
Suddenly, darkness fell over his vision.
"What's happening?"
Instinctively, he leapt from his saddle, rubbing his eyes—but the world remained dim and ashen. He looked up: the sky had turned the color of inked parchment, and the sun seemed devoured by shadow.
A solar eclipse.
In an instant, chaos erupted through the marketplace. People screamed and shoved; horses neighed in panic, dogs howled and spun in circles. A shaman climbed to a rooftop, raising his arms to the heavens, shouting Odin's name, begging the god to drive away the monster devouring the sun.
The strange phenomenon lasted about three minutes before light returned to the world. Vig glanced at his pale-faced guards and motioned for them to follow.
Entering the palace, he immediately sensed tension. Asking a guard, he learned that Queen Aslaug was in labor.
"My lord, His Majesty is attending to the queen. He asks that you wait here."
"Understood."
Vig stood silently in the great hall. Time passed slowly—until the faint sound of newborn cries reached his ears.
Through the murmurs of maids came the news: the queen had given birth to twins, a boy and a girl. Ragnar named them Sigurd and Enya.
The boy's eyes were an uncanny shade of deep emerald, his pupils narrow like a serpent's.
Word spread swiftly through the palace—people began calling the infant "Snake-Eye." Combined with the solar eclipse that marked his birth, many Vikings whispered that the child was blessed—or cursed—by Jörmungandr, the great serpent of legend.
Vig, however, showed no reaction. His face remained expressionless, as if none of it concerned him.
It was not until evening that Ragnar finally summoned him.
"Another son," the king said, smiling broadly. "Tell me, Vig—how should I celebrate?"
"A festival," Vig replied simply. "Let the whole city rejoice."
"Ha! You're right—we should celebrate properly." Ragnar's voice trembled with excitement. After chatting briefly with Vig, he hurried back to the chamber to see his newborn children.
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