Mid-April, Londinium.
After receiving Halfdan's plea for aid, Ragnar looked faintly disappointed.
"He still can't compare to his two elder brothers."
His eldest, Ivar, wild and unrestrained, had repeatedly insulted Queen Sola. Even after Ragnar reprimanded him, Ivar never once requested royal reinforcements—choosing instead to fight alone in Ireland.
Three times over the years, the Irish nobles formed encirclement coalitions against him.
Rather than bow his head, Ivar pawned off his wife's jewelry just to keep fighting—enduring each crisis on sheer talent and grit.
His second son Bjorn charted the Mediterranean, opened up Iceland and Greenland, and likewise relied on no help from his father—building everything through his own efforts.
Listening to her husband's sigh, the two queens remained silent.
They had witnessed Halfdan's dissolute years at court, and his disastrous defeat in Wales.
Neither held him in the slightest regard.
A nearly identical thought flickered through both women's minds:
"High eyes, low hands. All brawn, no brains. Far inferior to my son Ubbe/Sigurd."
From his throne, Ragnar reviewed the faces of his vassals, trying to pick someone for the rescue mission.
Ivar?
Rumor had it he had just taken another territory and enfeoffed thirty new sub-vassals. He had no time to spare.
Vig?
Unlikely. Years ago he had accepted a group of Welshmen—the same brigands who shot Halfdan in the arm. The two men had been cold toward each other ever since. Cooperation would be nearly impossible.
Æthelwulf?
The only vassal who actually got along with Halfdan, but too old now to endure such a long campaign.
Theowulf?
Militarily incompetent—no better than Halfdan. Not suitable.
Gunnar?
Busy helping the Frankish king suppress Breton rebels—couldn't be spared.
None of these would do.
Ragnar shifted his attention to the earls.
Suddenly, the Commander of the Royal Guard, Niels, stepped forward to volunteer.
"Uncle, send me. I haven't gone home in years—I might as well take a look around."
"Very well," Ragnar agreed.
After its expansion, the Royal Guard now had 2,000 infantry and 500 cavalry, all in iron armor.
Since horses were ill-suited for long sea voyages, Ragnar assigned Niels 1,500 infantry, ordering him to recruit local militia as needed—enough to assemble more than 2,000 men and suppress the chaos in Sweden.
"Yes, Majesty!"
Niels immediately ordered his deputy, "White-Hair" Oleg, to prepare ships and supplies.
Niels himself rode through the night back to Nottingham, scraping together every coin he owned to recruit 1,500 militiamen. Then, in Londinium, he hired a band of unemployed raiders.
Counting the sailors, the expedition swelled to 4,000 men—far beyond what Ragnar had expected.
Upon hearing the report, the king was genuinely moved.
"The boy is earnest. I must reward him well afterward… Blood truly is the most reliable bond."
Crossing the Narrow Sea
In early May, with 10 cogs and 70 longships mustered, Niels led the expedition down the Thames, toward Dover, then across the English Channel to Calais.
For a northern expedition, caution was paramount.
The fleet hugged the continental coastline, circling around the Jutland Peninsula before reaching Skagen, Denmark's northeastern tip.
Denmark and Sweden were separated by the Kattegat Sea.
From Skagen, a half-day sail east would bring them straight to Gothenburg under Favelable winds.
With afternoon approaching, the fleet planned to rest overnight and cross at dawn.
"Finally… home."
Standing atop the cog's sterncastle, Niels inhaled greedily.
The gray-blue sea churned restlessly, black-backed gulls wheeled overhead, their cries torn apart by the wind.
Far beyond, the faint silhouette of Sweden blurred against the horizon.
Oleg approached and reported the army's condition:
"Three thousand nine hundred remain after removing the sick and injured. One cog has a leaking lower deck—some grain got soaked. I'm arranging repairs."
"That won't matter. At first light we sail east. I'll lead the flagship; you follow at the rear."
"Yes, my lord."
Oleg withdrew, a growing unease gnawing at him.
These past few days, the atmosphere aboard the fleet felt… wrong.
But perhaps it was only fatigue.
Sudden Madness
At dawn, as the mist lifted and anchors rose, sailors prepared to set course—
—when Niels suddenly drew his sword and slashed viciously at thin air, eyes ablaze like a starving wolf.
"Pass the order! The whole army—follow me south!
The enemy is in Denmark!
The enemy is in Aalborg!
The enemy is in Schleswig!
Wealth and glory await—who dares gamble with me!?"
His household guards roared in unison, drawing their blades:
"South! South!
The enemy is in Denmark!
The enemy is in Schleswig!"
Terrified, the sailors dared not resist.
As they turned the flagship southward, they relayed the command down the line of ships.
"Enemy in Denmark!"
"Enemy in Aalborg!"
The chant rippled from prow to stern until it reached Oleg.
He removed his helmet and listened for half a minute, stunned.
"Niels has gone mad.
What in Odin's name is he trying to do?"
A pale-faced aide whispered, half-terrified and half-thrilled:
"The Lord of Nottingham wants to plunder Denmark…
Easy profits."
A realization hit Oleg like lightning.
"No. I've heard the Anglo militia muttering—Niels raised huge numbers of men, even mortgaged his lands to merchants to buy equipment.
Helping Halfdan was only a pretext.
His true aim… is to seize Denmark!"
At noon, the fleet anchored at a river mouth to rest.
Oleg confronted Niels publicly, accusing him of ambition and treason.
Niels ignored the drawn sword and answered calmly:
"Yes. My plan is to conquer Denmark first, then go rescue Halfdan.
If you don't wish to follow, you may lead the Royal Guard and depart."
In truth, "rescue" was merely a fig leaf.
Niels had long despised Halfdan.
A fool who'd once been beaten by Welsh hill-bandits, who relied only on his father's shadow and stirred up trouble everywhere—
not worth a moment of Niels' time.
Sweeping his gaze across the officers, he added:
"The Royal Guard belongs to the king—you're free to leave.
But the rest? The militia are from my lands.
The raiders are my hirelings.
You have no right to take them."
"You're insane. The king will never forgive this."
Oleg sheathed his blade, face dark, and walked away.
Behind him came Niels' final, resolute answer:
"Desperate times call for desperate measures.
If fate wills it, I will die in Denmark—
but I refuse to rot away in Londinium."
—------------------------------
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