Olaf watched the burning longship from afar, arms crossed, standing on the balcony of the great hall to watch his old friend drift out into the bay on his last journey. Detached by distance, he allowed the tears to run down his face unchecked, detached in body, but linked by memory. Standa, murdered, the crime demanded revenge. He clenched his fist and swore he would find a way.
Over the course of the next weeks, Olaf sat in the hall and received the fealty of those remaining landowners who had yet to bend their knee. He went through the motions, smiling or scowling when needs must. At the end of every long day, he would retire to his chambers and fall onto his bed, stare sightlessly towards the rafters, until eventually sleep overcame him. Another day dawned, another charade.
On one dis
