When the Welsh envoy nervously finished reciting King Hywel's terms, Vig accepted them without argunt. Then he ordered a bonfire lit on the docks.
"Go back and tell Hywel this—if that fire burns out before he surrenders, then from this day forward there will be no such kingdom as Gwynedd."
Ten minutes later, King Hywel himself appeared at the harbor. The mont he spotted Rhodri standing beside Vig, his eyes widened in shock.
"You shaless traitor! You've sided with the Vikings?"
Rhodri, long used to such insults, rolled his eyes, turned his back to the man, and stared out to sea—too weary to even respond.
With both Welsh kings subdued, Vig decided the atmosphere was just right. He led them back to Mathrafal, sending envoys throughout Wales to summon the remaining nobles.
During the wait, Vig—having nothing else to occupy him—observed the locals' way of life. Welsh agriculture was primitive, and their system of equal inheritance divided land thinner with every generation. No wonder they so often turned to raiding rcia.
"The root of their raids lies in poverty," Vig mused. "Hmm… I'll have to give them sothing else to do, or they'll rebel again in a few years—and then Ragnar will bla ."
He decided to channel Welsh labor into sothing productive: draining the swamps and reclaiming farmland.
Under the puzzled eyes of local peasants, a thousand Vikings marched southwest, shovels in hand, digging a web of canals to lead the stagnant marsh water into the River Severn.
In low-lying areas where gravity alone couldn't drain the water, Vig combined knowledge from old Roman and Persian designs—vertical-axis windmills, Archidean screws, and waterwheels—to construct a ten-ter-tall drainage windmill.
"Clear the area—don't get in my way," he barked, waving off curious onlookers.
When a gust of mountain wind finally caught the sails at noon, the massive blades began to creak and groan. Beneath them, muddy water surged through the newly cut ditches, which divided the marsh into a checkerboard of damp plots. Barefoot warriors stood knee-deep in sludge, scooping muck onto the embanknts, their legs crusted in brown clay. Frogs leapt from the reeds, splashing into the yellowish channels.
Inside the tower, enormous wooden gears shed with the vertical shaft, transferring the wind's power to the screw pump below. The iron helix plunged into the water, lifting it upward through a tilted pipe until it gushed from a wooden trough overhead.
Tests showed that a single windmill could raise the water level by only one ter. So Vig built three in succession, creating a multistage drainage system that lifted the water in steps until it spilled naturally into the Severn.
Gradually, the marshland began to dry. The reeds wilted, the black soil cracked open, and wild ducks fluttered away into the sky.
Next, Viking laborers dumped clay over the exposed ground and planted willows around the edges to hold the soil, preventing it from turning swampy again.
Once the main work was done, Vig advised Rhodri to sow grass seed over the reclaid land. Grazing livestock there, he explained, would enrich the soil with ash and manure—fertilizing it for future farmland.
Rhodri gazed over the five hundred acres of fresh land, delighted but confused.
"Why do all this?"
Vig yawned.
"Because your lord has a soft heart—and can't stand seeing poor folk suffer."
The drained area was modest, no larger than a dium estate. But across Powys lay countless other bogs waiting to be cleared. Rhodri, it seed, would have his hands full for years.
The project took more than a month. By the ti it ended, other Welsh nobles had begun to arrive in Mathrafal. Seeing the windmills at work, they were all struck by curiosity—and a desire to copy them.
Watching their expressions, Vig exhaled in relief.
"Good. Let them pour their ti and energy into reclaiming land. As long as they're busy farming, they won't have ti to raid anyone."
And in the future, even if Wales grew strong from its new farmlands, any expansion would target rcia to the east or Wessex to the southeast—not the northern realm of Tyne Town.
"In the early sixth century," Vig reflected, "the Britons were defeated by the invading Anglo-Saxons. The survivors fled west into the mountains and beca the Welsh. Old enemies, those two—they can keep fighting forever. It has nothing to do with ."
On September 20, Ragnar sent Oleg the White-Haired as his envoy to Mathrafal to formally accept the Welsh nobles' submission.
Rhodri hastily prepared a venue on the grassy slope below the wooden fortress, blending Druidic symbols with rustic decorations. Before the envoy, the nobles swore solemn oaths never to rebel again.
When the ceremony ended, the clerks spent two hours registering the nas of thirty-five nobles. Since Oleg couldn't read Latin, he rely flipped the parchnt back and forth for show—never realizing the register was upside down.
"Let see that."
Vig took the list and glanced at the final page. Their combined annual tribute—three hundred furs and three hundred barrels of salted fish—amounted to less than one percent of what the campaign had cost!
Economically, Ragnar had lost a fortune. Politically, though, he had salvaged the prestige lost after Halfdan's defeat and gained a few nominal vassals. In the end, it balanced out.
When Oleg finished reciting the royal decree of pardon, a young noble in a green cloak stepped forward.
"I've heard a rumor—that King Ragnar plans to appoint one of his sons as Duke of Wales. Is that true?"
"No idea," said Oleg bluntly. "My duty is to deliver the king's pardon to those who submit. Everything else is beyond my concern."
The noble turned to Vig instead.
"Then… my lord, will you be the one granted that title?"
By now, every Welsh noble had witnessed the Serpent of the North's power—both in war and in governance. If anyone deserved to rule, it was him.
"Don't overthink it," Vig replied flatly. "It has nothing to do with ."
In truth, Wales was already carved up among its lords. Even as duke, he'd have no direct lands—only an empty title, a puppet like the Zhou Emperor or Emperor Xian of Han, left for others to manipulate.
And Ragnar, Vig knew, would never allow a vassal to rule both Wales and the Northlands (Scotland).
Between the two, the North was richer in coal and iron and more suitable for Norse settlent. Wales, with its rugged terrain and isolation, simply wasn't worth it.
Hearing his answer, the man in the green cloak grew visibly anxious. In desperation, he sought out Theowulf, slipping him a silver arm-ring as a bribe.
"My lord, I've heard from rchants that Ragnar has five sons. The first two already have lands. So the Duchy of Wales will likely go to one of the remaining three. Tell —do you think Halfdan could be the one?"
Theowulf declined the gift and sighed.
"I've only been a vassal for two years. Do you really think I have any say in such matters?"
Sensing the young man's nervousness, Theowulf gently probed further.
"You seem awfully concerned about whether Halfdan becos Duke of Wales. Is there… so particular reason?"
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