The Great Hall of Kattegat
Ragnar picked up a chunk of roasted venison, inspecting the charred edges before taking a cautious bite.
He chewed. And chewed.
"This is... remarkably tough," Ragnar muttered, swallowing hard. He picked up a piece of flatbread, tapping it against the wooden platter. "And tasteless. Is there no salt in Kattegat?"
Jarl Hakon, sitting across from him with a horn of ale, scowled deeply. "It keeps us alive in the freezing dark, Ragnar. We do not all dine on Frankish wine and spiced peacock. The winter is harsh, and the Gore-King's taxes took our salt months ago."
"You should eat better," Ragnar replied, dropping the hard bread. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, silver-chased flask, taking a sip of distilled grain spirit. "My foundry workers eat better than this. Even the men hauling slag from the furnaces get salted pork and fresh ale every evening."
