Summer blurred to Autumn. Where once only seabirds wheeled, now knarrs dotted the fjord like drifting leaves, each one heavy with men, timber, iron, goats, and grain.
Every tide brought more shipments from Ísland, from Ullrsfjörðr, from Færeyjar and even traders of curious Slavic cut.
Vetrúlfr stood upon a rocky spur above the growing settlement, watching as his men raised the first rough palisades.
Timber hauled from ships was sunk into frost-hardened earth, their tops carved into biting teeth.
Stone followed: scavenged from nearby scree, set with cunning mortar the Byzantines had once taught him to mix with lime and crushed bone.
The Grænlanders watched, wariness in their eyes slowly yielding to something else; awe, perhaps, or relief.
Here was a king who did not simply drink their ale and take their daughters.
He drove posts deep to shape new fields. He brought thralls skilled in the use of foreign seed and dung, men who could coax life from grudging soil.
