Londinium, the royal palace.
After presenting his credentials, Vig passed through the gate guarded by the King's Household Warriors and walked toward the main hall.
Suddenly, a group of children burst out from a corner—laughing, shouting, darting past him like a flock of chattering sparrows.
The oldest was Ubba, now thirteen.
Then came the seven-year-old twins—Sigurd and Enya—followed by Niels' two children, held in Londinium as hostages, and several unfamiliar faces.
Vig paused, amused, watching this cluster of future kings, dukes, and earls.
Ubba charged around like a sturdy brown calf, leading the chaos.
Sigurd was the schemer—constantly whispering tricks and mischief to the others.
But Vig's gaze settled on the small boy at the edge of the group.
Wrapped in thick wool, eyes clear as spring water, he followed the others quietly.
He neither tried to outshine Ubba or Sigurd, nor did he shy away from teasing; when provoked, he retaliated just enough—never too much.
Steady. Calm. Neither servile nor arrogant.
A rare talent.
Vig beckoned a nearby palace guard.
"That child—there's something unusual about him. What's his name?"
"Alfred, youngest son of Æthelwulf. Six years old."
So it was him.
Compared with his own two little troublemakers, Vig felt a stab of helplessness.
In strategy and martial skill, he far surpassed Æthelwulf.
Herligev was brilliant—fluent in Latin and Greek, responsible for nearly a quarter of the Tyne Town Code.
They had never relaxed their children's education.
So why… why were their own children still inferior to that?
A faint, persistent anxiety stirred in his chest.
"After today's meeting, I'm writing to Herligev. Increase their study hours—daily. Send me reports every fortnight.
Enough of this so-called 'happy education.' To the abyss with it."
He entered the main hall and bowed to Ragnar upon the throne.
The King looked frail and dispensed with formalities, signaling the attendants to hand Vig a ring.
It was a gold ring, the bezel engraved with a set of scales—Pascal's symbol of a chancellor's duty: justice and the balance of the realm.
Staring at the man who had followed him for fifteen years, Ragnar spoke softly:
"Do it well. Do not fail me… or Pascal."
"It is my honor to serve you."
Vig left the hall and followed a palace usher toward a stone building on the left.
From the outside it was plain, but inside—luxurious.
Thick wool carpets of Eastern weave—no doubt bought from Berber traders.
Tapestries depicting old Norse and Anglo legends hung from the walls.
A single panel of pale-yellow glass filled the room with soft gold light.
"Lord Chancellor! We've been waiting so long for your arrival!"
Paphes—an eunuch from the Eastern Roman Empire—waddled over with exaggerated cheer.
Short, plump, clothed in gaudy colors, jingling with little trinkets—he looked like a circus jester.
As the newly appointed Master of the Palace, Paphes held a seat on the Council.
Vig greeted him politely, showing not a trace of contempt.
Eunuchs are the same everywhere, he thought. Treat him as I would a Grand Chamberlain.
He went to the long table and hugged an old comrade—Orm, Minister of War and Commander of the Household Warriors.
Another member of the old Hunting Party; their friendship stretched across fifteen years.
After taking his seat, Vig turned to Goodwin, the Minister of Justice.
As the senior civil official, Goodwin should have succeeded Pascal.
Yet now that the role had passed him by, he hid his disappointment well and offered Vig a courteous welcome.
Next came Æthelwulf, Duke of Wessex, serving as Minister of the Navy—overseeing the customs at Southampton, Dover, and Londinium, and the suppression of piracy.
Age had overtaken him.
White hair, sunken eyes, his frail body slumped in the high-backed chair.
"Welcome… my lord Chancellor," he murmured, voice slow and tired.
Too old to be a real threat, Vig thought—
Then caught himself, as a sharp instinct flashed:
Never underestimate an old fox. Not after Sima Yi, nor Tokugawa Ieyasu.
Better to err on the side of caution.
He straightened, replied with solemn respect:
"It is an honor to work alongside you, my lord."
Opposite Æthelwulf sat Horst—formerly the lord of Schleswig, brother to Queen Sola.
Under constant pillow talk from the Queen, Ragnar had appointed this self-important man as Governor of Londinium and its surrounding district.
He also held the title of Foreign Minister—but since Britain, ruled by pagans, was ostracized by the Franks and the Church, and Norway was their only diplomatic contact, the title was little more than decoration.
Horst, nearly forty and softening at the waist, had heard repeatedly of the Serpent of the North and did not dare underestimate the tall, sharp-featured young duke before him—though he secretly felt he should have been Chancellor instead.
He nodded with carefully measured composure.
"Lord Chancellor, welcome."
At the end of the table sat Paphes, who gave Vig another syrupy, harmless smile.
After exchanging greetings, Vig swept the council with his gaze.
He sat at the head—Chancellor and Treasurer.
To his right: Goodwin and Æthelwulf.
To his left: Orm and Horst.
At the far end: Paphes.
He drew a long breath.
"How does the council normally operate?"
Goodwin smiled in reply:
"Meetings begin at the eighth hour each morning. Once we reach decisions, we send the records to His Majesty—before midday.
He normally works only in the mornings."
With Ragnar's schedule explained, the council began.
Orm produced a neatly written document—clearly penned by a secretary.
"This is this year's plan for purchasing warhorses. Gunnar sent a messenger last month—he's under heavy pressure and plans to raise prices again. Four pounds per horse."
Vig skimmed the document, signed at the bottom, and pressed the Chancellor's Ring—his left middle finger's signet—onto the wax.
"Next."
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