After settling the dispute among the three knights, another visitor entered the hall—
a man in a short-sleeved tunic who claimed to be an envoy from a Pomeranian tribe, requesting a boundary demarcation.
"Wait in the next room."
Once the envoy left, Niels turned to Princess Eve with a piece of bad news:
"Erik the Younger heard you're here.
He sent a letter—demanding that I return you."
In the letter, Erik claimed their father missed his daughter terribly.
Niels didn't believe that nonsense for a moment.
The truth was obvious:
Erik feared that if Eve married Niels, their children would also possess a claim to the Norwegian crown.
And Eve—ambitious as she was—might one day incite Niels to march on Oslo, threatening Erik's new rule.
To coax Niels into sending Eve back, Erik added a subtle promise:
If Eve were safely returned,
he would withdraw the royal garrison from Zealand
and surrender control of the island.
"Zealand…"
By prior agreement, Zealand was to be granted to the surrendered noble Favel.
The man had been pestering Niels almost daily, demanding his fief.
His nagging had begun to unsettle the remaining Danish nobles, who were starting to wonder whether Niels truly intended to honor his promises.
Enough.
It was time to get that chattering raven out of Schleswig.
Having made up his mind, Niels beckoned a bodyguard.
"Choose a sturdy longship. Escort the princess back to Oslo."
Then he turned to Eve—whose face had gone pale.
"Don't worry. Erik won't kill you. Kinslaying angers the gods.
He'll send you to the temple as a shaman.
Food and shelter for life, no war, no toil—it's a blessing the common folk would envy."
"No! I don't want my face painted in those grotesque patterns—I don't want to eat those hallucinogenic mushrooms!"
Eve threw herself at him, clutching his tunic as tears poured down her cheeks.
"Do you remember what you once said to me?"
"Of course," Niels sighed.
"There was a time when I felt something for you.
But that was the foolish dream of a nobody…
and it faded long ago."
He pried her hands off his clothes and signaled the guards.
"Take her home.
We're nobles now—you can't cling to me in public like this.
You'll make us both a joke."
Realizing the irreversible truth, Eve's spirit collapsed.
She stumbled back two steps, tears dropping uncontrollably.
"You're right…
It's my fault.
I misjudged you."
"No.
You judged the right man—
at the wrong time.
In those days, the young raider Niels would've given everything for you.
But a decade has passed.
Now I'm the lord of Denmark.
I have responsibilities more important than old fantasies."
He gave her one last glance.
There was no affection left—only regret for his own past foolishness.
"Dwelling on romance…
that's why I was never like Ivar, Vig, or Gunnar.
They were ruthless.
Single-minded.
They built power until they became great dukes.
And I—
I wasted years chasing after you like an idiot.
I ought to slap that younger me senseless."
Cutting off the past, Niels gained his reward—
Zealand.
He immediately ordered Favel to depart and take up his fief before his presence in Schleswig stirred further unrest.
August — Denmark Still in Turmoil
Rebellions broke out everywhere.
Niels was exhausted trying to put down fires across the realm.
Some Viking farmers, realizing their new overlord was an Angle, became furious.
"In the old days, Vikings plundered Angles.
Now an Angle rules over us?
Unacceptable!"
Niels's response was uncompromising.
He had brought 1,500 Anglo levies from Nottingham; 1,200 remained.
A dozen officers had already become earls and barons, and the rest—knights, retainers, small landholders—formed the core of Niels's regime.
To him, these Angles had no home but him.
Their loyalty far exceeded that of raiders or sailors.
"These damned Viking oafs…
They say they oppose Angle lords,
but what they really resent is me.
Fine.
Then I'll give them a lesson they won't forget."
He flipped through the account books.
Before he could issue orders, a familiar figure appeared:
A battered guardsman of the royal household.
"General… thank the gods we found you.
Please—help us.
We're almost out of grain."
What?
I conquered Denmark with two thousand militia.
You had fifteen hundred royal guards—and hundreds of berserkers—
and you STILL lost everything?
Niels was speechless.
The soldier explained their plight:
"Gothenburg was taken.
We had nowhere to run.
We stormed Kalmar and took it—but the defenders fled with all the ships.
We've been building new ones from scratch.
The first finished vessel brought me here to beg for help."
Niels nearly laughed out loud in disbelief.
—Even fifteen hundred armored pigs would've done a better job.
After long consideration, he decided to help.
At least he could show Ragnar that he had attempted to assist.
He gathered what little grain he had left, brought five hundred men, and sailed north along the coast.
Returning to his childhood homeland—the muddy farms around Kalmar where he, Ragnar, and Gunnar had once been nobodies—he met the exhausted commander "White-Hair" Oleg.
"General," Oleg said with relief, "thank the gods you're here."
"How else could it be?
Would I allow fifteen hundred suits of royal armor to fall into enemy hands?"
The officers silently accepted his authority and followed him into the longhouse.
Within half an hour, Niels understood the situation and made the call:
Forget Gothenburg.
March straight for Stockholm.
His reasoning:
"Food.
Denmark is drained by war.
Gothenburg and Kalmar are battlefields—empty.
Our only hope is to march north along the Swedish coast, seize grain as we go, and take Stockholm.
If we can't hold it, fine—we carry the grain back to Denmark.
At least we'll survive the year."
The royal guards approved unanimously.
Halfdan, marginalized by everyone after his series of blunders, said nothing.
The next day, 2,500 men marched north from Kalmar, plundering grain and livestock along the coast.
By late August, they reached Stockholm.
—------------------------------
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