The females were arrayed before him. Their king looked on in shackles, forked tongue tasting the air. They huddled in clusters, stroking each other nervously, displaying scaly portals of magenta and blue to their captors. Such was the way of these creatures.
He felt a mixture of revulsion and duty. He had killed hundreds if not thousands of their countrymen, had gorged on the yolks of their eggs, had finally brought their king to his knees – yet still they readied themselves to couple with him. Thoughts of the atrocities visited upon the villagers who had fallen to the lizardfolk did nothing to lessen his distaste for the task at hand. No, it was duty that bid him to carry it out.
For their raiding and killing would continue until they were thoroughly beaten. And no surrender would come until their king's harem had been defiled in front of him. Only then would the one-time king slink back to his swamplands, disgraced, an outcast, unable to muster an army.
And so he unbuckled his girdle and waded in, as if to battle.