Lord Lothair stood near the throne, his hand resting on his broadsword, ready to order the destruction of Denmark just to prove a point.
King Horik slowly opened his tired eyes.
"Calm down, Lothair," Horik said quietly, "Sit down and drink some ale before you do something stupid."
Lothair's sharp eyes narrowed. "You think I am joking, old man? My knights are already cutting your peasants down in the mud. I can have this wooden town reduced to ashes before the sun comes up."
"I know you can," Horik agreed smoothly, gesturing to the bleeding Danish guard to step outside and wait. "But you won't... and do you want to know why?"
"...Because you have thirty thousand hungry men sitting in that mud outside my walls," Horik stated firmly, sitting up straighter on his throne. "You need my grain. You need my salted fish, my timber, and most importantly... you need my ships."
