The Vizir of Granada and the deposed Prince of Francia weren't about to sit by the fire and drink wine while the Iron Father's empire was potentially besieged.
The circular chamber was dominated by a massive table bearing a relief map of Northern Europe and the British Isles.
Four wind-chapped scouts were already huddled around it, pointing frantically at the eastern coast of England.
"Talk," Ragnar barked, striding to the head of the table. "You said banners we haven't seen. Give it to me straight, before I throw someone off this fucking balcony."
The lead scout, a grizzled veteran named Torstein, swallowed hard. "They didn't hit our shores, they hit the English coast. East Anglia and Northumbria. We had forward cutters out in the fog, and we saw them make landfall."
Ragnar leaned over the map. "Frankish galleys?"
