Ullrsfjörðr no longer whispered of empire; it roared.
Once a humble fjord nestled beneath the icy cliffs of the Westfjords, it had grown into the heart of a power whose pulse now beat across oceans.
Where once only fishing skiffs bobbed in the tide, now stood a harbor unmatched by any north of Miklagarðr.
The stone piers jutted into the fjord like the ribs of a leviathan, fortified and arched with Norse ingenuity and Eastern precision.
Each was wide enough for a dozen ox-carts, paved with basalt bricks and lined with oiled wooden beams polished by generations of boots and sea spray.
Along these mighty docks, one hundred warships were moored.
Not scattered. Not hidden. Aligned.
Each bore the mark of its king.
The hulls were stained a rich earthen brown, lacquered and sealed with oil to resist salt and ice alike.
Ochre-painted Vegvísir runes marked their sails and figureheads, binding wind and spirit to the cause of their voyage.
