When the discussion finally died down, Vig explained his reasoning:
"Much of Gunnar's supplies were burned by our fleet, and the recent riots in Londinium finished off what remained of his logistics. Yesterday was his last attempt to defeat me—and he failed. Now he has no choice but to withdraw. If this drags on any longer, his mercenaries and irregular troops will mutiny. I've already won this war. There's no need to risk everything with a reckless pursuit."
At noon, two severely understrength ranger cavalry companies rode out to reconnoiter. Searching steadily southward, they discovered traces of a camp fifteen miles away—the remnants of where the Frankish infantry had bivouacked the previous night.
Going farther south, the rangers ran into Frankish scouts who tried to block their advance. A few rangers slipped through the interception and continued south, eventually confirming that the main body of Frankish infantry was indeed retreating.
Out of caution, Vig waited until the third morning. He sent prisoners and wounded men back to the rear towns, replenished the baggage train, and only then resumed the march toward Londinium.
With his cavalry at a disadvantage, he could only adopt a relatively conservative strategy. This awkward situation resembled that of the Song dynasty: Song armies repeatedly relied on heavy infantry (the Bu Ren Jia) and powerful crossbows (the Divine Arm Crossbow) to repel enemies, yet were unable to expand their victories. Rash pursuit often led straight into ambushes, ending in defeats after initial success.
On August 18, Vig's army reached the northern border of Cambridge, only eighty kilometers from Londinium.
That evening, by bright candlelight, Vig was writing his campaign journal when he heard faint voices arguing outside the tent.
"His Majesty is busy. You'd disturb him over something so trivial?"
"That old man doesn't seem to be lying—I swear on my honor!"
Vig frowned, stepped forward, and lifted the tent flap. "What is it?"
The guards were arguing over an elderly man who claimed to be the Chancellor of the Realm and Earl of Suffolk, requesting entry into the camp.
Gudwin's face flashed through Vig's mind. "Let him in."
Five minutes later, Gudwin staggered into the tent, reeking of filth. He wore a tattered cloak and leaned on a wooden staff. His first words were a plea for food.
Leif quickly brought over two hardtack biscuits, a piece of cheese, half a smoked sausage, and a bowl of water. Gudwin grabbed the hardtack and bit down hard—nearly breaking a tooth.
"Gods above, what is this stuff?"
He abandoned the dry, rock-hard biscuit and devoured the cheese and sausage instead. Only after regaining some strength did he explain what had happened over the past few days.
"Everything collapsed—utter chaos. The citizens of Londinium looted the entire city. I escaped in the confusion, only to find that things outside were even worse. Vast numbers of peasants turned into bandits, slaughtering travelers at will. My guards were killed or fled. I was swept along by a gang of brigands into Cambridge—only to run straight into Frankish cavalry…"
Vig had no patience for an old man's tale of wandering misery. He cut straight to the point, asking about Aslaug and Princess Enya.
"They?" Gudwin let out a long sigh. "When I fled Londinium, the palace was already surrounded by rioters. Later, while traveling with those bandits, I heard people claim the palace had fallen and that Aslaug was tortured to death by the mob. I suspect they were lying—she may still be alive."
At this point, Gudwin urged Vig to hasten his advance, rescue Aslaug and Enya, marry his eldest son Frode to the princess, and rule as regent.
To Gudwin's surprise, the proposal was rejected outright.
"Titles and legitimacy have their uses," Vig said calmly, "but they're not worth risking my entire army. Whether Aslaug lives or dies is irrelevant. Since antiquity, countless emperors have fallen by the sword—what is one British queen dowager by comparison?"
Beyond military considerations, Vig also weighed political realities:
First, in recent years the Ragnar royal house had accumulated enormous debts—to nobles, merchants, monasteries, and temples alike. From Britannia to the Nordic lands, royal creditors were everywhere. By rumor alone, the total debt had reached a terrifying forty thousand pounds.
If his son married Enya and openly inherited Ragnar's banner, that meant inheriting his debts as well—at least four thousand pounds of interest each year, much of it compounding. That crown would be crushingly heavy. It was better to start anew.
Second, the soldiers wanted their commander to become king—not to serve as chancellor or regent.
Over the past months, the core troops had displayed astonishing fighting spirit. Soldiers dared to charge cavalry with leveled spears under junior officers' leadership. Beyond equipment and training, the true driving force was desire.
Common soldiers wanted loot and farmland. Junior officers sought knighthoods. Knights wanted baronies. Barons like Joren and Sparrowhawk aspired to become great nobles. The Raven-Seers wished to spread the Nordic pantheon. Civil officials like Mitcham sought greater authority. Everyone craved advancement, all expecting lavish rewards once the duke became king.
If the commander hesitated now—if he propped up Enya or Halfdan instead—someone might draw a sword the very next moment and say something like, "Your Majesty, why abandon us? Do you look down on your brothers?"—a lament on the surface, a threat beneath.
"Sir, in truth, I have no choice."
With that, Vig rose and stepped outside the tent, drawing a deep breath of crisp night air. Looking up, he saw the Milky Way stretching across the sky like a river of luminous mist, countless stars blazing in the vast, boundless cosmos. For a moment, a strange blend of insignificance and calm washed over him.
On reflection, this was only natural. Every loyalty came with a purpose. Having accepted their loyalty, he was obliged to pay its full price.
Han Xin had once served under Xiang Yu but fled because Xiang Yu treated subordinates like nominal brothers yet grudged them rewards—unable to grant titles even when merit demanded it, a flaw known as "the mercy of a woman."
If expectations went unmet, resentment would inevitably follow, and the soldiers would seek a more generous master.
At this stage, even if Vig himself did not wish to be king, the army would carry him onto the throne regardless. Fortunately, the Second West Frankish War and the civil strife had wiped out many barons, knights, and gentry—leaving ample land to reward this pack of hungry wolves.
"Pass the order," Vig said quietly. "March as usual over the next two days. No rash actions."
Meanwhile, Gunnar led his cavalry back to Londinium. The city lay in ruins—corpses everywhere, the air thick with blood and a strange, burnt stench.
"Where is that idiot O'Neill? Drag him out to see me!"
Cursing, Gunnar rode straight to the palace, searching for Aslaug and Enya.
At dawn, a rotting corpse was discovered in a nearby residence, mutilated beyond recognition. Gunnar interrogated captured rioters; they all insisted it was the Queen Dowager. As for Princess Enya, no one had seen her.
"A living person—how could she just vanish?"
Gunnar flew into a rage and ordered a citywide search. Not only was Enya nowhere to be found, but Gudwin, Paphis, and other officials had also disappeared. Even the city's wealthy merchants had fled.
By this point, the bureaucrats and merchants clearly understood that Frankish defeat was inevitable. The only thing left was to loot what they could before leaving—so they scattered faster than rabbits, terrified of being caught by the Frankish army.
After a sleepless night, Gunnar was utterly exhausted. He realized that after six months of struggle and nearly ten years of accumulated savings, he had gained nothing at all.
Brushing aside subordinates who tried to console him, he sat alone, brooding over how to make a dignified exit.
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