Two hours passed, and the atmosphere in the great hall grew ever more volatile. A few nobles had even drawn their swords in threat, nearly sparking a melee.
Before the situation spiraled out of control, three men returned to the chamber. At once, all eyes turned toward them with a mixture of hunger and expectation. Ragnar cleared his throat and spoke:
"After the greatest expedition in our history, we have achieved glory surpassing all who came before. As the one who first set this venture in motion, I am proud beyond words—and deeply grateful for your valor and sacrifice."
He lifted his goblet. The company followed, downing a round of wine. Then, with a signal, Paschal unfurled a broad sheepskin map, marked with the settlements of Northumbria.
"My brothers," Ragnar continued, "this triumph will not be mine alone. Speak your desires, and let us divide the spoils."
"Wait." Leonard’s sharp voice cut through the chamber. "Your Majesty, when you say ’brothers,’ whom do you include? Us alone—or will there be... new additions?"
The question jolted the other six nobles into alertness. The more newcomers at the table, the less each elder would receive. After a swift, silent exchange of glances, they tacitly allied themselves—at least for this moment—against the new king.
Ragnar sipped from his cup, his smile tightening. "Some men rendered great service. I intend to raise them to noble rank."
At once, Ivar strode calmly into the center of the hall, meeting every eye without flinching.
"At the battle of Mancunium, I seized the royal banner of Northumbria. At Leeds and York, I was first upon the walls, and it was my blade that cut down King Ælla and his queen. Tell me—are these deeds not weighty enough?"
His words were followed by a thunderous clamor. The lesser chieftains roared his epithet—The Boneless!—hammering their cups against the tables in salute.
Then Rurik stepped forward, his expression unnervingly calm beneath the scrutiny of dozens of eyes.
"At Mancunium, it was my stratagem that turned defeat into victory, shattering the king’s guard. At York, I oversaw the engines of siege—catapults, towers, rams—and devised an ambush that forced the surrender of nearly three thousand militia. Tell me, my lords—without trebuchets, without towers—could York have fallen? And if it had, with mere ladders, how many warriors would lie dead at our feet?"
"God-Chosen!"
"God-Chosen!"
The hall rang with his title. His claim was acknowledged, though the acclaim fell short of Ivar’s. In a society that worshipped raw valor, Rurik’s hands lacked the blood of kings and champions. Yet, he had passed the trial.
From a peasant in the fields of Gothenburg, through fire and peril, he had risen to claim a seat among rulers.
To settle a king’s fate, to win renown for both life and afterlife—at last, I have a place at the table. Gods, it was no easy road.
His heart surged with mingled pride and weariness. Had he failed here, he had already resolved to quit Britain—whether to Rurik in the east, or to Constantinople as a mercenary. There were always paths for the strong. But never again as a nameless drudge.
Next came Bjorn, who spoke of slaying two Anglo-Saxon lords. But such deeds barely stirred the chamber. His plea was dismissed by the seven nobles, who sought always to curb the crown.
Ragnar was king now, master of York, with Ivar and Rurik already raised as his loyalists. Any further appointments from among his own circle would tip the scales too far. Thus, Bjorn stormed from the hall in fury.
Niels pressed forward with forced courage. "At Mancunium, my archers wounded King Ælla, forcing his retreat. At York, we filled the walls with Saxon corpses!"
"Concentrated fire was Rurik’s idea," Ulf replied coldly. "As for killing men upon the walls—archers only did their duty. No singular merit, no title."
The hall murmured agreement. Vikings revered the armored champion, the breaker of shield-walls. Archers were tools, not heroes. Niels fell silent.
Gunnar and Aum soon followed, boasting of minor feats. Both were dismissed without ceremony.
The pattern was clear: the nobles’ instinct was to check the king’s power. If not for the brilliance of Ivar and Rurik, Ragnar’s chosen might have been wholly denied.
Sensing Ragnar’s temper fraying to the edge, Erik hid his delight, masking it beneath a facade of neutrality.
"Rewards must follow merit, as our forefathers decreed. Now that we have settled the titles, let Paschal describe the lands, so each may claim his due."
Rurik, knowing himself newly risen and weak in faction, had no wish to contest the rich southern fields. He spoke first, choosing Tynemouth as his fief.
That strip of coast lay on Northumbria’s northeastern shore, bordering the Pictish lands—what future ages would call Scotland.
Gold corners, silver edges, but grass in the belly. So the farmers said: the edges glisten, but the heart is barren.
To Rurik, it was ideal. Close to the frontier, it opened a path northward, while sparing him the vengeance of Mercia and Wessex in the south. A shrewd, balanced choice.
"You are certain?" Ragnar asked, surprised that his confidant should choose such meager soil. But Rurik stood firm. At last, Ragnar sighed. "As you will."
Ivar followed, demanding the barren tract of Derwent, on the northwestern coast—every bit as bleak. The company was stunned.
"Couldn’t best you lot," Ivar sneered, "so I’ll settle for the scraps. No objections, I trust?"
His claim passed. He cast a glance at Rurik, and the two exchanged a knowing smile. Their designs were alike: Rurik sought the northern highlands, Ivar cast his gaze westward, to Ireland.
That island, as he knew, was a patchwork of petty kingdoms, loose and ripe for conquest. Its goldsmiths and silversmiths were famed, producing torcs, brooches, goblets beyond price.
Ragnar himself raised such a vessel now—a vast silver cup, inlaid with gold bands, its body gleaming with enamel, malachite, amber, mica, alive with beasts, birds, and intricate knots. A wonder of Irish craft.
"To be an earl is nothing," Ivar mused, his eyes alight. "Only a crown will suit me. And Ireland shall give it."