In Rome, the early autumn sun cut through narrow windows of colored glass, casting bars of ruby and sapphire across the marble floor.
Within the Lateran Palace, Pope John XIX sat flanked by his cardinals, their crimson robes bright against the pale stone.
Scrolls lay open upon the broad table; letters from Norman abbots, hastily penned reports from itinerant priests, the formal instruments of Richard’s forced tonsure bearing both Robert’s seal and that of the archbishop of Rouen.
A heavy silence lingered after one of the papal secretaries finished reading aloud the terms of Richard’s renunciation; the ex-duke of Normandy, once proud and defiant, now cloistered in a quiet monastery far inland, his house’s claim smothered by solemn oath.
Pope John drummed his ringed fingers against the arm of his chair, eyes hooded beneath his mitre.
"So Richard lays aside his crown for the tonsure. Forfeits all claim, and bids his house to die with him in cloistered silence. Normandy now sits firmly beneath his brother Robert’s hand."
A cardinal across from him, old and bent with the weight of years, inclined his head.
"Yes, Holiness. Yet there is little comfort in it. This Robert is ambitious, cunning, and more secular than pious. Some whisper he even courts apostasy by his cold dealings; his willingness to break oaths, to lay hands upon the clergy’s temporal privileges when it suits his purpose."
Another cardinal, slimmer, younger, adjusted a jeweled cross at his throat.
"Normandy is powerful, Your Holiness. Perhaps the most formidable Christian principality at present. The Frankish king grows weaker by the year; the Empire squabbles over minor crowns. If Normandy should wander from God’s law..."
He let the words trail off, letting dread speak louder than pronouncement.
Pope John exhaled, waving a hand as if to brush away cobwebs.
"Yet what choice have we? Normandy is recently tamed from pagan chaos. The Church has invested too dearly there to abandon it now, simply because Robert’s methods bruise delicate consciences."
The elder cardinal cleared his throat.
"And there are... troubling reports from the far north. Whalers and traders speak of a new power rising in Islandia. That having burnt Connacht’s coasts, they now set out for Groenlandia. Rumors whisper that they now build halls of stone where only frost lay before. Some even name their king a second Romulus, forging a new Rome amidst the snows."
At that, the Pope gave a short, derisive laugh.
"Fishermen’s tales. Drunken sailors inventing wolves in crowns to justify high prices for their catch. Connacht has always been a nest of petty kings. If their cattle were raided or villages burned, it was likely by their own kin. These Norse are fractious, given to killing each other for fish rights and insults."
But the younger cardinal looked uneasy, fingertips tapping the parchment before him.
"Holiness... we cannot wholly discount these rumors. Normandy may soon be tested not by internal strife, but by these same wolves if the tales hold any grain of truth. And Robert is no Richard; he does not bend the knee so easily to Rome’s moral direction."
"If war comes, will Normandy stand firm in the faith? Or will its new duke see opportunity to consolidate under his own hand, paying lip service to the Church only where it profits him?"
John sat back, folding his hands together. His rings caught the candlelight like small trapped suns.
"Then let us watch. Let us guide Robert’s conscience through patient diplomacy and quiet reminders of eternal consequence. For now, he remains the best hope for Normandy’s stability and a buffer against wilder threats should these fantasies of a northern empire prove more than wind."
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Still... prepare letters to the Archbishop of Rouen. And to Robert himself. A show of papal favor, tempered with caution. If Normandy stands strong under the keys of Saint Peter, we will weather whatever winter specters the sea vomits forth."
The cardinals nodded, each privately turning over darker thoughts. They knew well how quickly the world shifted. How men who built their thrones on blood and oaths could rise in a season to eclipse all careful plans.
Outside the hall, bells tolled across Rome, calling the faithful to prayer. Yet beneath the solemn chime lurked a chill, as if some wind from beyond Greenland’s ice had already begun to creep southward; carrying with it the distant echo of wolf howls.
Night settled heavily over Constantinople, gilded domes dark against the stars.
Along the length of the old walls, braziers burned low, and the distant murmur of the Bosphorus lapped at stone docks below.
In the Varangian quarters near the Blachernae, men sat crowded around a long table hacked with old scars.
They spoke quietly in tongues foreign to most of the empire; the thick northern syllables of Norway, Iceland, Denmark.
Long axes leaned close at hand. Their beards were braided with bronze rings, their mail still smelling of sweat and salt from the last drill.
At the table’s end, a tall Varangian with hair bleached almost white by sun and sea leaned in, his voice little more than a growl.
"Constantine grows fatter by the day, swilling honeyed wine while the Bulgars mutter in the hills and taxes choke the merchant streets. This is no empire such as Basil built. It rots already, like a tree black inside the bark."
Another laughed harshly, though his eyes were cold.
"Basil’s empire was built on our axes. Now we stand idle, polishing shields while Greek lords bicker over coin. And still they clutch the treasury close, trusting eunuchs more than the men who guard their walls."
A third Varangian leaned forward, lowering his voice even more.
"But have you not heard of our captain? They say he has gone north, returning to Ísland where he is building an empire of his own... One not of crowns and crucifixes but of groves and steel."
A tense silence. Then the first man spoke again, eyes gleaming.
"Then why should we rot here under Constantine’s gold? Better to take what we have earned, a share of the vaults we have guarded with our own deaths for years, and sail our longships to follow him. To build kingdoms rather than die here in service to withering Rome."
Around the table, heads nodded slowly. Hands curled tight upon cups and dagger hilts.
"Swear it then," the tall Varangian rasped. "If it comes to it... if Constantine grows even weaker and the streets turn to knives; we will take our hoard, our ships, and return to our captain’s side once more. Better to stand on frost-bitten shores with blood singing in our chests, than drown forgotten in silk and rot."
They clasped hands over the table, iron rings clinking together. In that dim chamber, far from Ísland’s shores, the first true promise was laid; that soon, even Constantinople’s famed Varangian Guard might break oath, and swear it beneath Vetrúlfr’s banner instead.