Perhaps it was age, or the memory of his brother's dying request, but Ragnar's heart finally softened.
He ordered a groom to hand him a riding whip, then lashed Niels hard—just like twenty years ago, when he used to beat young Björn and Niels for mischief.
"From today onward, you are no longer the Lord of Nottingham.
You will keep only the southern part of Denmark.
Do you understand?"
Ignoring the burning welts across his back, Niels was inwardly ecstatic. He tried desperately to suppress his excitement and nodded repeatedly.
"I obey your command."
Ragnar tossed the whip to a guard and caught his breath.
"Your two children will remain in London. They will be raised and educated by the royal household until adulthood. Any objection?"
Niels bowed deeper.
"To receive Your Majesty's and the queens' care—there is no greater blessing for them."
Losing northern Denmark was nothing. Leaving his son in London was also acceptable—he could simply father more.
What mattered was escaping stifling Nottingham and finally gaining room to expand.
Once he accumulated enough strength, he could march southeast to Pomerania, where numerous Slavic tribes offered perfect opportunities for gradual conquest.
Those witnessing the exchange showed varied expressions.
Theowulf tugged his black wool cloak and muttered under his breath:
"So after we marched more than ten thousand men across Britain, Francia, and the North—throwing all three realms into chaos—that's… it?"
Ivar snorted.
"The old man bullies the tough and spares the weak. The older he gets, the softer he gets. What can you do? March up there and stab Niels yourself?"
Vig yawned—he had expected exactly this outcome.
If Ragnar executed Niels, the Anglo-Saxon militia, raiders, and sailors Niels had ennobled would panic, and the hard-won stability in Denmark would collapse again.
Punishing the Mutinous Royal Guards
With the nephew dealt with, Ragnar turned on the mutinous Royal Guards.
He ordered the realm searched; any who resisted arrest were cut down on the spot, and ringleaders were sentenced to hanging.
The remaining five hundred and thirty men were allowed to live—but Ragnar sentenced them to exile.
Stripped of armor and weapons, they were forced face-down on the ground while smiths heated branding irons.
"No! I fought in countless battles—I killed a Frankish knight!
Why do I deserve this?!"
The soldier thrashed like a fish on a butcher's block as the glowing iron descended.
When it touched the flesh of his right wrist, a hiss burst forth—burning meat filled the air with an acrid stench.
The soldier choked out an animal-like moan.
Nearby, a scribe wrote rapidly:
"***, soldier of the Royal Guard, 1st Battalion, 1st Company, 3rd Squad.
For participating in mutiny: stripped of rank, exiled for life on April 23rd, 854.
Forbidden from entering any Viking lands.
Any free man has the right to kill him if he returns."
Seeing their comrades' fate, Oleg and the remaining five hundred felt a spike of terror—and immense relief they had avoided involvement.
As a reward for their loyalty, Ragnar announced they would be ennobled—choosing either northern Denmark or Sweden.
To Ragnar's disappointment, the vast majority chose Denmark—it was clear they had no faith in Halfdan's abilities.
To counterbalance Niels, "White-Hair" Oleg was granted the central region of Vejle.
Now a great noble, Oleg was ecstatic.
But at the end of the ceremony, he asked a fatal question:
"Your Majesty… who will rule northern and central Denmark? Prince Ubba?
He's twelve now—another three years and he'll be an adult—"
Ragnar's expression froze instantly.
Oleg stiffened.
He wished he could rip his own mouth off.
Why would he spout something so stupid at a solemn ceremony?
The Question of Succession
For years Ragnar had refused to name an heir—a constant topic of gossip.
Ivar, Duke of Dublin: hot-tempered, but with proven prestige and military talent.
Björn, the first to explore the Mediterranean and the discoverer of Iceland and Greenland: a legend in reputation, a bit weaker in command.
Halfdan, repeatedly beaten in Wales and Sweden, now nearly hopeless—bookmakers put his odds near zero.
Ubba and Sigurd, still minors—their prospects depended entirely on palace politics.
Ignoring Oleg's slip, Ragnar continued the ceremony.
When it ended, Halfdan finally arrived with his five hundred berserkers.
Seeing this unprecedented army, Halfdan's confidence returned.
He immediately urged an offensive—to crush the Swedish nobles at once.
"You spent an entire winter, and that's your brilliant plan?"
Ragnar stared at him with deep disappointment.
"No nobles?
Then who governs the land?
Your five hundred mushroom-eating madmen?"
He jabbed a finger at the berserkers.
"Fine. Bring me twenty men who can do simple accounting.
If you can, I'll let Ivar, Vig, Orm, and the rest split up and conquer every settlement within three months."
Halfdan turned around in confusion.
"Anyone here know how to count?"
Silence.
The long-term use of hallucinogenic mushrooms had clearly damaged their wits—they couldn't manage even "complex" tasks like basic arithmetic.
"Pff—"
Ivar burst into laughter.
The other nobles soon joined him, and the entire camp roared with amusement.
Vig, after half a minute of laughter, suddenly understood Halfdan's tragic circumstances.
Exiled to frigid, barren Gothenburg at twenty-one…
No population…
No mines…
No future…
He had only one viable path: gather berserkers—cheap but powerful infantry—and let them plunder the countryside, snowballing until he could conquer Sweden… or even invade Denmark and Norway.
Unfortunately, Halfdan's command skill was too poor; his rise collapsed before it began.
Crushed, he could only obey his father. He followed the army back to Gothenburg to await the arrival of the Swedish nobles.
Negotiations with the Swedish Nobles
At the feast, Ragnar warmly welcomed them.
"Gentlemen, I did not come for war.
I came to restore peace in the North."
Halfdan's prestige and administrative ability were nowhere near sufficient to rule vast Sweden.
Ragnar chose a compromise: as long as the nobles nominally acknowledged him as overlord, all else was negotiable.
The Lord of Kalmar, Lexar, spoke first:
"Then forbid the warriors of Norseblade from roaming and looting."
Ragnar nodded.
"If anyone pillages your land, strike them down.
That is your right as lords."
—------------------------------
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