Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry

Queen Morwenna of Brittany and Queen Aelis of Burgundy approached the head table.

They were draped in exquisite dresses made of the finest crimson and azure fabrics, woven on the automated looms of Titan and imported directly through Ragnar Ulfsson’s guarded trade routes.

Delicate, precision-crafted silver jewelry rested upon their necks and wrists.

Rudolf smiled proudly as his wife poured him another goblet of spiced wine. He placed a hand over hers, satisfied with his ability to provide such immense luxury for his family.

Like a true patriarch, he took deep pride in the fact that his submission had shielded his wife and children from the horrors of the Frankish wars, wrapping them instead in an unprecedented blanket of security and opulence.

"You look radiant tonight, my dear," Rudolf complimented. "It seems the Iron King’s merchants have brought out the true beauty of Burgundy."

Queen Aelis flushed. "It is only because of your wisdom, my King. The women of the court speak of nothing else but the safety you have brought us. While the Frankish widows weep across the border, we feast."

Salomon nodded in firm agreement, wrapping an arm around his own wife. "And it shall remain this way. As long as we provide our quotas of grain and maintain our musket battalions, the Iron Kingdom’s shield will never falter."

The doors at the far end of the Great Hall swung open once more, and the deafening noise of the Breton nobles gradually died down into a tense, respectful murmur.

Walking through the center of the hall were not local lords, but a delegation of men who represented the authority of the sovereign across the sea.

Leading the group was Alfred, a man who was once the proud King of Wessex, but had long since been reduced to the title of Lord of Wessex under Ragnar’s iron grip.

Flanking him were the Lord of Winchester and the Lord of Exeter. Unlike the drunken, reveling Breton and Burgundian nobles who wore gaudy, mismatched tunics, these three Iron Kingdom lords were dressed in immaculate, standardized attire.

They were here by the direct order of Leofric, the competent right hand of the Iron King.

The Breton and Burgundian were unaware that Leofric viewed their kingdoms as subsidiary provinces.

Alfred and the English lords had been dispatched across the channel to ensure that the exact same stringent laws, agricultural quotas, and infrastructural mandates that had transformed the British Isles were being universally enforced upon these new continental vassals.

When Alfred reached the head table, Salomon and Rudolf instinctively stood up.

"Lord Alfred," Salomon greeted, offering a polite smile. "We are honored by your presence. Please, sit. Have some wine, partake in the venison!"

Alfred offered a nod. He did not sit. "I thank you for your hospitality, King Salomon, King Rudolf. However, we are not here to partake in the festivities. We are here on behalf of Lord Leofric to review the implementation of the new legislative codes."

Rudolf’s boisterous demeanor faltered slightly. "Of course. As requested, we have fully transitioned our northern farmlands to the four-field crop rotation system. The legume yields have already replenished the soil exactly as your agronomists predicted. Our winter stores are at maximum capacity."

The Lord of Winchester pulled a small ledger from his coat, flipping to a specific page. "And the standardization of weights and measures in your merchant guilds? Leofric’s reports indicate a 5% discrepancy in the taxation of iron ore coming through the port of Calais last month."

"Corrected," Salomon answered quickly. "I personally oversaw the execution of the corrupt guild masters who attempted to skim off the top. The new scales have been calibrated to match the exact metrics of Titan."

Alfred finally allowed a smile. "Excellent. The laws that bind the men of Wessex, Winchester, and Exeter are the exact same laws that must bind the men of Brittany and Burgundy. A localized discrepancy in law breeds a localized discrepancy in loyalty."

Every new law they enforced, every standardized weight they adopted, and every northern agricultural system they implemented further eroded their identities, slowly transforming their realms into identical carbon copies of the Iron Kingdom’s provinces...

As the three English lords meticulously audited the reports of the two kings, a younger figure approached the head table.

It was Rudolf’s eldest son, Prince Charles, a sharp-minded adolescent who was scheduled to depart for the newly established academy in York by the end of the month.

Charles stepped up beside his father, his brow furrowed in deep contemplation as he looked at Alfred.

"Lord Alfred," the young prince interrupted.

Rudolf shot his son a warning glare, not wanting the boy to offend Leofric’s emissaries, but Alfred merely held up a hand, signaling for the king to let the boy speak.

"Go on, young prince."

Charles gestured toward the banner of the Iron Kingdom that had been hung above the throne, overshadowing the smaller banners of Brittany and Burgundy.

"I have read the histories of the great empires of the past," Charles began. "When the Romans or the Franks expanded, they deposed the native rulers and installed their own generals and lords to rule the conquered lands directly. Yet, the Iron King could easily take our crowns, tear down our banners, and install you, Lord Alfred, as the Duke of Brittany."

Charles locked eyes with the Lord of Wessex, a genuine look of confusion on his face. "Why does the Iron Kingdom take vassals? Why allow us to keep our crowns and our titles, when you could simply conquer us and place these lands under your own banners and your own lords?"

"..."

King Rudolf opened his mouth to scold the boy, to apologize profusely to the emissaries of the Iron Kingdom, but the Lord of Wessex held up a hand to stop him.

If Prince Charles, or indeed any of the native continental nobility, could read the internal thoughts of the Lord of Wessex, the Lord of Winchester, and the Lord of Exeter, the grand illusion of their omniscience would have shattered in an instant.

The devastating truth of the matter was simple, yet deeply unsettling to the emissaries themselves: They did not know.