The sea was a black mirror when the first of Ivar's ships made landfall.
By dawn, Dunwich was his again — a ghost town reclaimed by the dead. Smoke curled from its half-burned churches, and bones cracked underfoot as his men dragged Saxon corpses into heaps.
Inside the desecrated chapel, where once prayers to Christ had echoed, Ivar held council.
The walls were draped with Saxon banners hung upside down — trophies of humiliation, flapping in the cold draft that crept through the shattered stained glass.
Around him knelt his jarls and Rollo's envoys, the latter standing rigid and silent, like men who had wandered into a dream and feared to wake.
Ivar's pale eyes gleamed with feverish light.
"They speak of kings," he said, pacing before the altar. "Of lines and crowns, of thrones shaped by blood and birth. But I am beyond kings."
He slammed his iron staff against the floor; the sound echoed like thunder.
"From this day forth, I am not king—but Master of the Uniting. The hand of the gods made flesh. I will cleanse this island of weakness—Saxon, Dane, and Frank alike—and forge a single people from the fire of death."
His voice rose until the rafters shook.
"Let the cowards pray to their pale god. I shall give them one worthy of worship."
Some of his men roared in answer, others crossed themselves when they thought he couldn't see. The line between prophet and madman had long since vanished.
The younger of Rollo's envoys stepped forward, voice trembling.
"My lord Rollo bids you choose your path with care. Francia watches. There is still time for alliance—"
Ivar's laughter cut him off, sharp and wild.
"Alliance? Tell my brother I need no allies. Only graves deep enough for kings."
He threw a torch into the brazier. The flames leapt high, catching the edges of the banners and turning them into ash.
"Go," he said softly, "and tell him the cleansing begins tonight."
The Spreading Word
By week's end, word of Ivar's declaration had swept across the kingdoms like wildfire.
Messengers galloped from Dunwich to Winchester, from Winchester to Thetford, carrying tales of a warlord crowned by madness, calling himself "the chosen of the gods."
In Winchester, King Edward raged.
"Master of the Uniting?" he spat. "He dares name himself above kings—above me!"
His council muttered in fear and fury, but the poison of suspicion had already begun to stir.
One of Rollo's envoys, still lingering in the court, whispered that Eadric of East Anglia had been seen consorting with Norsemen, that his Frankish allies were slow to move for a reason.
Edward's face hardened.
"If Eadric bends the knee to this heretic, then he is no brother of mine."
The Anglian Resolve
In Thetford, Eadric listened to the same tidings with grim calm.
"So, the cripple crowns himself master of England," he murmured. "Then the cleansing begins where it was born."
He gathered his thanes and Frankish captains around the war-table, tracing the coastlines with his finger.
"He will strike where we are strongest—or where we are least prepared. Dunwich is bait. He means to draw our eyes east while he sails south."
Æthelswith, his queen, entered, her eyes bright with fear.
"My brother calls for aid," she said softly. "Winchester burns."
Eadric froze. "Burns?"
"A messenger from Wessex arrived at dawn. Ivar's longships have turned upon the southern shore. The city was taken in a night. Edward's son—the young prince—was slain before the altar."
The words hung in the air like frost.
Eadric turned to his men.
"Sound the horns. We march for Wessex. I will not let the serpent take another crown."
The Deceiver's Hand
Far to the south, amidst the charred ruins of Winchester, Ivar stood before the shattered cathedral. His cloak fluttered in the wind, black against the orange glow of fire.
"East Anglia watches the wrong shore," he whispered to his jarls. "Good. Let them pray while Wessex burns."
He ordered the prince's body hung from the cathedral gates — a message to every king who still dared defy him.
Then, beneath the light of a burning cross, Ivar sat and dipped his quill into a bowl of blood.
He wrote upon stretched vellum in a steady hand:
"King Edward, beware your ally. Eadric of East Anglia marches not to save you… but to seize your crown."
He sealed the letter with wax pressed by a serpent's fang and handed it to his swiftest rider.
"Ride hard," he said. "Let the poison reach his heart before the truth."
The rider vanished into the smoke.
The next morning, as Edward's court gathered amid the ashes of his fallen city, the letter arrived.
He broke the seal with trembling hands — and as he read, his grief turned to fury.
"So it is Eadric," he hissed. "Even now, he plots to wear my father's crown."
Those words would echo through England for years to come — the beginning of a war not only of swords and shields, but of faith, pride, and vengeance.