The wind moaned against the high timbers of Ullrsfjǫrðr's great hall, but within, the hearthfire burned steady, throwing light across painted shields and carved pillars.
Roisín sat at the long table, a quill of swan feather in her hand, her youngest boy asleep against her breast.
At her side, Branúlfr, barely five winters, leaned over the table's edge, mimicking her motions with a scrap of charcoal.
His tongue stuck between his teeth in concentration as he scrawled crude runes, each one a reflection of his father's lessons etched into his eager heart.
Parchments and wax tablets covered the table: manifests of grain ships bound west, reports of timber-cutting in Greenland, lists of tribute from the Skraelingr villages in Vinland.
Runes carved by scribes marked each cargo's weight and worth. Roisín read them with sharp eyes, delegating with the ease of a woman long used to carrying burdens greater than herself.
