Once, there was a King, proud and mighty, who ruled a rich and fertile land. One day, he received an invitation from a Jarl of the northern lands—rugged people of ships and swords. Thinking to impress upon them his majesty, the King traveled across the sea to the Jarl's great hall.
When the king arrived, he was greeted with welcome but no bows, and he was led to a seat among the commons, barely more than a stool, far from the high table where the Jarl sat. The Jarl's throne, carved from the rough wooden remains of a ship and adorned with simple engravings, was seen as a mockery to the eyes of the King.
The King raised his voice and told of his conquests, his wealth, and his wit, expecting applause. Yet his jests landed heavily, drawing only polite smiles from the hall. Meanwhile, the Jarl’s laughter was infectious, his tales of storms and sea monsters brought gasps and cheers. He spoke not of himself but of his crew and the bonds they shared.
The King left that hall humiliated by the indignity shown to his grand station, his heart burning with rage.
Upon his return to his kingdom, he immediately devised a plan. He would host a grand banquet of his own and invite the Jarl to sit among his small folk, while he himself sat on his tall, gilded and bejeweled throne.
Then, would the impudent Jarl learn who held the true power.
The day of the banquet came. The king’s hall was a marvel—rich tapestries, golden candelabras, and a table groaning with local and foreign delicacies. The Jarl arrived, smiling, dressed plainly but standing tall. As planned, the king directed him to sit among the commons, far away and well below the throne.
The Jarl took his place without hesitation, greeting the common folk with warmth and laughter. He shared their food and drink, told stories of daring raids and great feasts, and soon had the entire hall roaring with merriment. The servants poured his drink before the King’s and clung to his every word. Even the king's lords seemed drawn to the Jarl, leaning in to hear every word of his tales.
The King sat stiffly on his golden throne, his fingers clutching the bejeweled arms. Each cheer for the Jarl felt like a knife to his pride, each laugh a drumbeat of his growing rage. As the hall grew louder, drowning out the grand musicians he had hired, the King’s face turned red. He clenched his fists, his voice trembling with anger as he stood.
"I AM THE KING!" he bellowed, slamming his fist on the arm of his throne. "I sit here, above you all, on this great throne! This throne is the seat of power, a grand chair apart and above you all, and not where this lesser man chooses to sit!"
The hall fell silent, and all eyes turned to the Jarl. The Jarl’s eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, held the King’s as he stood. He set his cup down, the clink of metal on wood ringing through the silent hall.
“The power I carry is mine, King. And wherever I sit, there is the throne.”
