[b]Henrik Havarr of Týr[/b].

Koval.

To say he had been a thorn in King Beron's side was not true. Henrik was not a genius, or even cunning -- but rather true to his word, and if asked to describe the Jarl Koval of the Northern Provinces after a few too many drinks, he'd probably relate him to the very Jarl he ruled over. [i]Cold.[/i] There was a certain honor in the ruthless efficiency that Koval carried with him, and while Henrik burdened himself with the virtue of truth and justice, Koval had mastered the meticulous antics of a man not so easily swayed.

"[i]The Gothran Wars saw many things, Jarl Koval, and King Beron acted with the wisdom of that particular winter. The Gothrans[/i]," Henrik sighed, he was there, at Wallachia. "[i]were beaten. They were tired dogs. Who at this table could know the Gothran King, Vlad would let his anger boil over?[/i]"

Henrik mulled, as he did -- a warrior who had seen been at the borderland sieges, the butchering at Wallachia, the final victory, -- he was a fledgling statesman. "[i]You misjudge the giving of our late King, Jarl. You have made your thirst for war apparent at this Jarlmoot, Koval, but as King I will seek to hoist Norsia to an age of glory, not one of war[/i]."