Ragnar, who had no idea that international politics were about to crash his industrial party, was busy arguing with a sheet of paper.
"The ink is bleeding," Ragnar complained, holding up a prototype map of York. "Brother Osric used too much water in the mix. The city walls look like a soup stain."
Princess Gyda, sitting across from him sharpening the Valkyrie's Sting, didn't look up. "It's a beta version, Director. Use the charcoal stick. It's drier."
Ragnar sighed. He was about to launch into a lecture on the importance of binding agents when Aethelwulf "The Weasel" ducked into the tent.
Usually, the Weasel slunk in like a guilty dog. Today, he walked in with the nervous energy of a man holding a live grenade.
Behind him stood two strangers.
One man was dressed in fine wool, dyed a deep, expensive emerald green. He wore a silver brooch the size of a dinner plate. He looked like a Jarl, but his beard was trimmed in a way that screamed "civilized." The other man was clearly a bodyguard, silent and holding a wrapped bundle that looked suspiciously like a heavy weapon.
Ragnar had no clue why a delegation from outside the Great Army was here. He didn't have enmity with other Viking factions, but business was business, and unauthorized visitors were usually bad for business.
"Long live the Builder," the man in green said, bowing with a flourish that was far too polite for a war camp.
"I am Floki," the guest continued smoothly. "An envoy from the Kingdom of Dublin. I come with goodwill and... curiosity."
Ragnar nodded, putting down his ruined map. "Please, guests. Sit. Gyda, pour the ale."
Gyda raised an eyebrow at being ordered around, but she played the role, pouring two horns of the good stuff.
"So," Ragnar took a sip, trying to look like a wise warlord instead of a tired engineer. "What brings the Irish Vikings to the mud of Northumbria?"
Floki smiled. It was a merchant's smile—sharp and devoid of warmth.
"Your Highness or Director, as they call you we are here on the orders of King Olaf the White of Dublin. We wish to discuss a... merger."
Ragnar was surprised. Dublin was the Silicon Valley of the Viking world a trade hub of immense wealth. "Explain in detail."
Floki leaned forward. "It is like this, Director. We came to know, through a mutual associate in Mercia, that you are capable of mass-producing cast iron. Specifically, we know about the Blast Furnace."
Ragnar dropped his charcoal stick. It hit the table and rolled onto the floor. He was in disbelief. The "Dragon's Gut" was a state secret.
Did Toke talk? Ragnar thought frantically. Did the Monks send a pigeon? Or did Leif get drunk and brag about the lava?
He quickly composed himself, but he knew he had flinched. The mistake was made.
Since the secret was out, Ragnar dropped the "friendly host" act. His eyes went cold.
"Floki," Ragnar said, his voice dropping an octave. "This is a matter of proprietary technology. You better tell me who leaked the IP address... I mean, the location?"
Floki raised his hands in a placating gesture. He knew that if he offended the man who built the "God Hammer," he might not leave the tent alive.
"Peace, Director," Floki said quickly. "No one betrayed you. We deduced it."
He reached into his robe and pulled out a heavy, black object. He placed it on the table. It was one of Ragnar's "defective" iron skillets. The ones sold to the Mercians.
"We bought a shipment of these from a Mercian smuggler," Floki explained. "We analyzed the metal. It is high-carbon. It is brittle. But most importantly... it is uniform."
Floki tapped the skillet.
"Hand-forged iron has layers. It has grain. This? This was poured. And the volume... to flood Mercia with cheap iron requires a furnace hotter than anything in Europe. We did the math. You have a Blast Furnace."
Ragnar picked up the skillet. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"Clever," Ragnar admitted. "Your King has smart assayers."
"King Olaf is a visionary," Floki agreed. "He realized that if you can make bad iron by the ton... you can also make good iron. And Dublin needs iron."
Floki pulled out a letter sealed with white wax. He handed it to Ragnar with both hands, treating it like a holy relic.
Ragnar broke the seal. The paper was vellum (expensive), and the handwriting was neat.
The letter outlined a proposal. King Olaf was fighting the High King of Ireland. He didn't need skillets. He needed the Standard Bolts. He needed the Torsion Spikes. And he was willing to pay in silver, slaves, and rare spices. But it was the logistics that stunned Ragnar.
"We know you cannot transport weapons to Dublin easily," Floki said, pointing to a paragraph in the letter. "The sea is rough. But King Olaf proposes using the 'Weasel's' network in reverse. Your man sells the bad iron to Mercia. Our ships raid the Mercian coast and 'steal' the cargo. The Mercians think it's just Vikings being Vikings. In reality, it is a secure supply chain."
Ragnar stared at the letter. "Genius," Ragnar thought. "This is money laundering, but for weapons."
He realized he was still thinking too small.
"Your King proposes a secret alliance," Ragnar said slowly. "We supply the tech. You supply the logistics and the silver."
"Precisely," Floki nodded.
Ragnar looked at Gyda. She was reading the letter over his shoulder.
"The economics are sound," Gyda whispered. "Dublin silver is pure. And having an ally in the West squeezes the Saxons from both sides."
"What else?" Ragnar asked Floki. "A deal this big usually comes with a hook."
Floki cleared his throat. He looked a bit nervous.
"Your Highness, we also wish to trade for... biological assets."
"Slaves?" Ragnar frowned. "We don't trade our own people."
"No, no," Floki waved his hands. "Bloodlines."
As if on cue, the silent bodyguard stepped forward and placed a small portrait—painted on wood—on the table.
It was a painting of a young woman with fiery red hair and a stern expression.
"This is Princess Aud the Deep-Minded," Floki announced solemnly. "King Olaf's daughter. She is eighteen. She speaks three languages. She manages the Dublin treasury."
Ragnar felt a cold sweat break out on his neck. He knew where this was going.
"King Olaf has heard that the Builder is... unmarried," Floki continued. "He wishes to bind this alliance with blood. He offers Princess Aud's hand in marriage to the Director of Industry."
Ragnar froze. He slowly turned his head to look at Gyda.
Gyda was sitting very still. Her hand was resting casually on the hilt of the Valkyrie's Sting. Her expression was calm, which was terrifying.
"Is that so?" Gyda asked, her voice light and airy. "King Olaf is very generous."
Floki, sensing the drop in temperature but not understanding the source, pressed on. "It is a great honor! Princess Aud is known for her intellect. The King believes that a marriage between the Builder and the Deep-Minded would produce children who could rule the world with math."
Ragnar's internal monologue was screaming.
In my past life, I was single because I worked too much. Now, I have two Princesses trying to marry me for my GDP output.
He looked at the portrait. Princess Aud did look smart. And rich.
But then he looked at Gyda. Gyda, who had helped him build the Academy. Gyda, who aimed the Torsion Spike. Gyda, who was currently looking at Floki like he was a target on a range.
Ragnar cleared his throat.
"Floki," Ragnar said, standing up. "This is... an incredible offer. King Olaf honors me."
"So you accept?" Floki beamed.
"However," Ragnar continued, walking around the table to stand next to Gyda. He placed a hand on her shoulder. "There is a slight logistical error in your intelligence."
"Error?" Floki blinked.
"The Director," Gyda said, standing up and unsheathing a small dagger to clean her nails, "is already a 'Protected Asset' of the Oakhaven clan."
"I am betrothed," Ragnar clarified, trying to sound regretful but mostly feeling terrified of his fiancée. "To Princess Gyda. The Mistress of the Ledger."
Floki's smile faltered. He looked from Ragnar to the woman with the knife. He realized his mistake instantly.
"Ah," Floki gulped. "I see. The intelligence was... outdated."
"Very outdated," Gyda confirmed. "But tell King Olaf this: The Builder cannot marry his daughter. But we accept the alliance."
She leaned over the table, her blue eyes locking onto Floki's.
"We will send the bolts. We will take the silver. And in exchange, we will send Princess Aud a gift. A Torsion Spike. Custom made. Tell her... it is a gift from her sister in commerce."
Ragnar watched Gyda handle the negotiation. She hadn't killed the envoy. She hadn't screamed. She had pivoted the deal, asserted dominance, and kept the customer.
She is terrifying, Ragnar thought with admiration. I definitely picked the right one.
"We accept!" Floki said hurriedly, relieved he wasn't being executed. "A Torsion Spike for the Princess. She loves gadgets. It is a perfect gift."
"Good," Ragnar said, sitting back down. "Now, about the shipping rates for the first crate of bolts..."
Later that Evening
The Dublin envoys had left, carrying a crate of sample bolts and a very distinct fear of Northumbrian women.
Ragnar and Gyda sat alone in the tent.
"You hesitated," Gyda said, not looking up from her ledger.
"I was shocked," Ragnar defended himself. "It's not every day someone offers me a kingdom."
"Dublin is damp," Gyda noted. "And the food is boiled."
"True," Ragnar agreed. "And I prefer your auditing style."
Gyda stopped writing. She looked at him.
"We need a spy network," she said abruptly.
"What?"
"If Dublin deduced the Blast Furnace from a skillet, the Saxons will too. King Aelle isn't stupid. We got lucky this time that it was a friend. Next time, it will be an assassin."
Ragnar nodded. She was right. He had focused on offense—machines, iron, paper. He had neglected defense.
"Intelligence," Ragnar mused. "We need a department that doesn't exist. Shadows."
"I will build it," Gyda decided. "I have the ledger. I know who spends money they shouldn't have. I know who talks."
"The Mistress of Whispers?" Ragnar smiled.
"No," Gyda stood up, blowing out the candle. "The Auditor. Everyone fears the Auditor."
Ragnar chuckled in the dark.
"Tomorrow we hit York," he whispered.