Jarl Hakon did not walk toward the high seat. His eyes were still wide, his ears likely still ringing from the concussive force of the high-explosive shell that had vaporized a piece of his mountain.
Instead, he gestured to a rough-hewn bench near the fire.
"Sit," Hakon muttered, his voice hoarse.
Ragnar stood tall, planting his iron-tipped cane into the dirt floor.
Gyda stood at his right, her fox-fur cloak draped over her shoulders, already unrolling a thick parchment scroll of tallies and weights.
Bjorn stood at the door, arms crossed, a cruel smirk playing on his scarred lips as he watched the terrified villagers.
Sigrid, Ragnar's mother, sat near the hearth, her sharp eyes studying every brass button, every stitch of fine cloth her son wore.
"Let us speak of oaths and silver," Ragnar said, his voice carrying easily through the silent hall.
