Snow fell soft over Aachen, blanketing the palace roofs and muffling the clatter of hooves in the courtyards below.
Inside the great hall, however, there was no hush, only the murmur of counts, bishops, and captains pressed shoulder to shoulder beneath banners of the Empire.
Conrad II sat at the high seat, the Reichs Crown of Charlemagne heavy upon his brow, though his gaze was colder still than the steel it bore.
A table stretched before him, upon which maps of the North Sea lay pinned by daggers and cups of wine.
The chamber quieted as he raised his hand.
"Cnut is dead," he said, his voice carrying with the weight of finality.
"His son Svein drags Norway's fleet into England, chasing ghosts and crowns. His armies are divided, his lands stripped bare of men. Denmark lies empty."
A ripple passed through the assembly, whispers, nods, even a few smirks.
