The Iron King, Ragnar, sat in the center of the vast dais upon the most luxurious chair.
While the gathered kings and dukes took their assigned places upon the long wooden benches carved from the ancient oaks of the conquered forests, they were acutely aware of their own inferior status in the presence of such a legendary warlord.
King Aedh MacNeill of Ireland, a man who possessed immense courage and a lineage of fierce, blood-soaked warriors, sat rigidly in his heavy woolen cloak, his hands resting upon his knees as he beheld the staggering wealth displayed upon the walls.
And so, sitting across the aisle, King Donald the Second of Scotland, who had brought his fiercely loyal dukes and their noble, gem-draped wives from the freezing northern highlands, surveyed the grand hall with eyes wide.
King Donald had fought long, bitter wars among the crags and glens of his homeland, yet he too had ultimately bowed his head to the Iron King's authority.
