The docks of Ullrsfjörðr bustled with noise and color, the salt wind thick with gull cries.
Vetrúlfr's fleet crept into the narrow harbor like returning wolves, hulls heavy with grain, iron, bright cups of stolen gold, and darker prizes besides.
Men leaped ashore, calling for kin to help offload thralls and cattle. Fáfnirsfangr lay deepest at the quay, its dragon prow shining where it had been newly polished by the spray.
Róisín stood among the gathered families on the pier. Her red braid wound close to keep the wind from worrying it loose.
Their son, an infant with ice-blue eyes, sat silently in her arms. His silent gaze was curious to see the ships that seemed to his young mind the stuff of legend.
When Vetrúlfr stepped down from the gangplank, helm under one arm, sweat and old blood still crusting his mail, the boy gazed upon him, a small smile forming upon his lips.
The first he had made since his birth.
