The great hall of Ullrsfjǫrðr was packed with guests from ever corner of Vetrúlfr's empire. Men who had sailed west with him, and returned.
Jarls and thegns. Hard men, seasoned and frost-scarred. Some had once been raiders. Others were kings in all but name. Each bore a torque of iron or silver, the mark of his station.
Vetrúlfr sat at the head, not on a throne, but a stone bench carved in the likeness of Ullr, bow in hand, eyes cast far.
"Speak," the king said.
The Jarl of Svalbard stood first, slamming his fist against his chest.
"The second pier is finished. The portcullis is fitted. Roman brick and Norse timber, it stands against wind and wave alike. Come spring, we'll have a smithy working full bellows. Already our boys are drilling with bows on the ridgelines."
"And your walls?" Vetrúlfr asked.
"Stone, as you taught. Four meters tall. Twin gates, east and west. No christian army nor storm can breach it now."
"Good." He nodded..."
