Watching the young noble in the green cloak fidget and stammer, Æthelwulf quickly guessed the truth—so that's it.
If his instincts were right, it was this man who'd shot Halfdan through the arm.
"Relax, my lord," Æthelwulf said with a forced smile. "His Majesty has decreed that all Welsh nobles who swear allegiance will be pardoned. That includes you… probably."
He scratched his head mid-sentence, the words sounding less certain with every breath. Finally, he turned toward Oleg the White-Haired for help.
"Why are you looking at me?" Oleg muttered. As a newly promoted captain of the royal guard and knight of recent appointment, his footing was still shaky. He couldn't afford to offend Halfdan. "His Majesty sent me only to witness this ceremony—to accept the oaths of those who submit and to grant them pardon. Everything else has nothing to do with me. If you want answers, ask Vig—he commanded this campaign."
Damn it! Vig's eyes narrowed dangerously. He glared at Oleg from head to toe as though choosing where best to stab him.
I fought the war, negotiated the peace, handled the surrender—and now they dump this mess on me?
Before he could explode, two more minor nobles stepped forward, asking how Ragnar intended to deal with the Welsh who had defeated Halfdan and Æthelwulf in the first place.
Their question stirred unease throughout the gathered chieftains. Whispers spread; glances darted. Suspicion hung heavy in the air.
Seeing the mood sour, Vig turned sharply to Oleg.
"His Majesty announced a pardon for all Welsh nobles willing to submit. Did he attach any conditions to that statement?"
"Uh… I didn't hear any."
Vig placed one hand on the hilt of Dragonsbreath, his sword, and closed the distance between them.
"Didn't hear—or weren't there any? You were the royal envoy—can't you at least repeat the king's message properly?"
The killing intent in his voice made Oleg's hair stand on end. He stammered quickly:
"H-His Majesty said, 'Vig has done well. If the Welsh are willing to submit, Oleg, you will accept their oaths in my name and pardon all who surrender. Be polite about it—the kingdom can't afford more war.' That's what he said. Exactly."
Vig exhaled slowly and signaled the interpreter to relay those words to the nobles. He declared that the green cloak and the other chiefs were indeed covered by the royal pardon.
Yet the reassurance didn't help. The green-cloaked noble and two others only grew more anxious.
"Will you personally guarantee," the man pressed, "that Halfdan will never be made Duke—or Governor—of Wales?"
Vig froze in place.
"Gentlemen, as Lord of Tyne Town, I have no authority over royal appointments."
He turned again to Oleg.
"What's the king's attitude? Any rumors from the court? Speak!"
Oleg blanched.
"Uh… some of the palace maids said Halfdan might become Duke of Wales. But according to a few guards, that's probably just gossip—it doesn't seem likely."
Æthelwulf sighed, rubbing his temples. A solemn oath ceremony reduced to farce—wonderful.
Time dragged on. The air in the hall thickened with tension until Rhodri finally broke the silence.
"If Lord Shrike"—he nodded toward the green cloak—"and the other two chiefs fear retribution from a future duke, why not migrate north instead? If you don't trust Halfdan, surely you trust Lord Vig's word."
The idea suited him perfectly: the three chiefs would leave, their lands—conveniently located southeast of Mathrafal—would fall vacant, and he, King Rhodri, could seize them. They get protection, I get land, Vig gets loyal settlers. Everyone wins, he thought smugly.
After brief discussion, Shrike and the other two leaders exchanged nods.
"From what we've seen, the Serpent of the North possesses rare virtues among Vikings—restraint, discipline. He's a worthy lord."
"Agreed."
"So do I."
Then, together, they turned to Vig.
"My lord, will you accept our fealty and grant us your protection?"
Every gaze in the room focused on him. If Vig rejected them now, the Welsh nobles might take it as a sign that the Vikings' promises meant nothing.
Vig groaned aloud.
"You people… You've truly made my life miserable."
He looked to the heavens, sighed, then drew Dragonsbreath from its sheath.
"I, Vig of Tyne Town, under the witness of the gods, accept your oaths of fealty. I grant you my protection and bestow upon each of you a fief suitable to your needs."
Twenty miles northwest of Tyne Town stretched vast tracts of hills and mountains—ample land for hunting, herding, and settlement.
After a moment's thought, Vig decided to exempt their tribes from taxes for two years. Thereafter, they would pay only light fur tribute in peacetime and serve as a mountain infantry force during war—ideal for scouting and ambushes.
"How many people do you command?"
"Two thousand in my tribe," said Shrike. "The other two have about fourteen hundred each."
Barely five thousand total, with barely a thousand fighting men. And Halfdan lost to these?
Vig concluded that Æthelwulf must have deliberately thrown that battle—and poor Halfdan, oblivious, had even spoken in his defense.
"Tell your people to pack up. We leave in two weeks. As is tradition, new settlers are tax-exempt for two years. You'll have food and land—no need to worry."
"Understood."
At last, the chaotic ceremony came to an end.
Five days later, Vig traveled to Lundenwic to deliver his report.
Inside the royal hall, Ragnar's court gleamed with new splendor. The High King sat atop a five-tiered dais on a gilded throne, a golden crown on his brow and a crimson velvet cloak embroidered with intricate patterns draped across his shoulders.
On the fourth tier, two lesser thrones flanked him: Queen Sola, sharp-faced and regal, sat on his right; Queen Aslaug, cold and composed, on his left. Around them stood rows of guards, their eyes sweeping every corner of the chamber.
For ten minutes, Ragnar perused the battle report and the register of surrendered nobles. Then he sighed.
"Your terms were far too lenient, Vig. At this rate, it'll take a century to recoup the cost of this war. You've let those rebels off far too lightly."
Despite his frustration, Ragnar could not deny that Vig's campaign had secured at least a symbolic victory—one that restored the crown's prestige after Halfdan's defeat and cowed the restless Anglo-Saxon lords. After a moment's brooding, he relented.
"Very well. What reward do you ask for?"
At this, Queen Sola stiffened.
Ivar was still mired in Ireland; Bjorn had exiled himself to some desolate northern isle; Halfdan had fallen into dissipation after his failure. That left only Ubbe, her son—and Wales should rightly belong to him.
She cleared her throat, ready to interrupt, but Vig spoke first, his tone calm and distant:
"To serve my king is my duty as a vassal. But if Your Majesty insists on rewarding me… then perhaps you could fund my next campaign. I intend to march on the Northlands."
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