Valkyries Calling

Ísland and Vestmannaeyjar began to change rapidly under Vetrúlfr's rule.

At the close of the war, he commanded a host of one thousand. But in the reorganization of the realm, this force was not kept whole.

Instead, he scattered them to the winds; to the lands of every man who had been named Jarl or Thane.

They were not dismissed, but charged with a holy task: to raise new hosts of their own, build harbors of their own, forge fleets of their own, and till fields of their own to sustain them.

Each fief was to become a war camp in miniature. Every lord, a war-chief in training. It was not peacetime Vetrúlfr prepared for. It was a new age.

And Ullrsfjörðr stood at its heart.

Armies were not the only thing being raised. Roads, bridges, and stone walls were erected as well. New mills and granaries replaced fields cleared with fire and prayer.

All the wisdom Vetrúlfr had earned from a decade in the East, from Constantinople to the Caucasus was brought to bear upon this northern kingdom.

His vision had become law. His will, the pulse of a rising empire.

Yet even with all of this, his true pride would be the fleet.

Frostrtönn, his beloved longship, had carried him through fire and ruin. Yet it was a vessel for a captain — not a king.

And so, a new vessel was conceived. Not to replace Frostrtönn, but to herald a new age.

Inspired by the grace of his people's greatest longships — their forms preserved in saga and memory — and the seaworthiness of the Byzantine dromons he once watched slicing through the Bosphorus.

Vetrúlfr's vision took shape upon parchment: lean, sleek, and terrifying in its purpose.

Nearly thirty-five meters in length, with a narrow hull for speed and a shallow draft for coastal and river landings, the ship would marry Norse design with eastern cunning.

She would carry twenty-five oars to a side, each manned by one of his Úlfhéðnar — swift enough to outrun the tide and silent enough to haunt it.

Her sails — earth-brown and weather-hardened — bore a single symbol in ochre: the Vegvísir, Iceland's compass. No clan sigil. No name.

Only Vetrúlfr knew its meaning.

Only Brynhildr had dreamed it — not once, but from the hour of Vetrúlfr's birth, when she noticed strange marks scorched into the ice in which he lay still and silent.

Above the deck, a carved dragon's head of blackened bronze rose, fanged and hollow-eyed. Yet, unlike the carved beasts of old, this one did not merely frighten. It breathed — fangs gaping, bronze tongue hollow, a terrible vessel of flame and prophecy.

Concealed within its jaw lay a siphon chamber — pressurized and primed with a rare alchemical mixture. A northern cousin to the terrible fire he once saw spew from dromons. A dragon's breath, in truth and not just symbol.

One volley. One roar. That was all it would need.

And her name whispered through the shipyards long before her keel was complete:

Fáfnirsfangr. Fáfnir's Fang.

A crowned serpent of the sea. Not just a ship of war, but the war itself — waiting to be loosed.

When the shipwrights laid eyes upon the design, silence fell over the hall.

"This is no ship," one muttered at last. "It's a living dragon. If we build this as you ask… will it float?"

Vetrúlfr rolled the parchment, his gaze sharp beneath his brow as he thrust the scroll into the master shipwright's chest.

"It will float. Njörðr will see to that. You need only see that it sails."

And with that, he turned on his heel and began to walk.

But before he had gone ten paces, a voice called to him; soft, almost spectral, and yet close. As if it had followed him like his own shadow.

"You should be kinder to them," the voice said. "They labor for your dream, not their own. They do not know what you have seen.

They have not marched the burning shores of Miklagarðr or watched fire rain from the walls of cities. Can you not offer them even a sliver of grace… to help them understand?"

Vetrúlfr paused, but said nothing yet. For in his heart, even he wondered whether grace had a place in the world he was building.

Brynhildr could see that her son was faltering, and was quick to remind him of the world around him.

"Gaze upon the city you have built and tell me what you see?"

Vetrúlfr was quick to examine his surroundings, but could not quite understand exactly what his mother was hinting at. Even so, his voice was certain, and filled with fortitude just like his character.

"I see a hold fit to outlast Fimbulvetr and Ragnarǫk itself. Am I wrong?"

A long and heavy sigh escaped the ageless seiðkona's lips as she shook her head with disappointment.

"Oh, my son… You still think like a conqueror, but not yet the High King you now are… These men, a year ago they were farmers, fishermen, smiths, and shipwrights. Many of them still are those things…"

The woman's tone carried on, far beyond its natural reach, inspiring those around her as she paid them no heed.

"Many of them still are those very things… And yet, you expect them all to raise spear and shield, and march beneath your orders, suffer the wrath of your fist, and kneel before you? You grew up alongside warriors like yourself, hard men, built for war."

Her voice fell silent for the briefest of moments and brought forth the frost of winter when it resumed.

"But some simply want to live life, worship the gods, and provide for their families. Those men should not be treated like wolves who answer your howls in kind. Remember that, or you will not be king for long…"

Brynhildr did not wait for her son's response. She simply walked away, leaving the man to ponder her words in silent introspection.

---

South Connacht, near modern Kinvara, on the southern coast of Galway Bay, Róisín had found herself in one of the few moments of the day she was permitted to leave her room. And it was not for her three square meals.

No, she was to arrive in the library of the convent, and receive tutoring from one of the prioresses beneath the mother superior. The woman was older by at least a decade and a half, and had a face that only God could love.

Though only in her mid-thirties, her face was already a battlefield of crow's feet and envy.

She claimed to be a righteous and holy woman, free from sin, but the look she gave Róisín, who was her exact opposite, was one of sheer resentment. Róisín was graceful, young, and filled with vigor.

It was perhaps with this stark contrast that the Prioress's tone was far from cordial as she snapped at the young sister.

"Róisín ingen Éoganán mac Bríghde! You are late by precisely half a minute! Did you intend to keep me waiting until the sun had set? I will have to speak to the Mother Superior about your tardiness yet again!"

Róisín knew better than to argue. For whatever reason, the woman had it out for her; holding her accountable to the second. She could have fallen ill with boils and still be told her soul lacked discipline.

And it wasn't just the prioress. Róisín had lost her family young. The exact details were unknown to her, only that she had lived in the convent ever since.

Forced to take the vows when she came of age, even if nearly every sister seemed to despise her.

With a heavy sigh and a submissive bow of her head, Róisín spoke softly.

"Apologies… Sister… I will do my best to be on time tomorrow. If you don't mind me asking, where is Sister Eithne? I do not see her by your side today…"

The Prioress's eyes narrowed, suspicion and contempt flaring, as she closed her book sharply and laid it down with purpose.

"The Mother Superior has seen it fit to remove Sister Eithne from her duties as my personal scribe. It would appear her affections for you have grown… concerning."

Normally, Róisín would accept mistreatment in silence. But Eithne was the only friend she had known in all these years. More than a friend—family, in every way that mattered.

Their quiet talks over scripture, their stolen laughter when no one else was watching. Those were the only warmth left in her world.

Her cheeks flushed red; not just with shame, but fury. Her hands trembled, and her voice quivered with defiance.

"This is unfair! There is no impropriety in our relationship! We are friends, sisters! Nothing more! Must you find every excuse imaginable to treat me like I'm some kind of monster? Why must you go so far to torture me? What have I ever done to deserve this—"

The words were cut short by a stinging slap.

The Prioress had stood and struck her with full weight behind her palm. Róisín staggered, falling to the floor as tears welled in her eyes and streaked down her freckled cheeks.

She fled back to the only sanctuary she had, the lonely cell where she was confined outside moments like these.

And as the door slammed behind her, Róisín did not weep quietly.

She screamed.

"I hope somebody burns this place to the ground... and all of you with it!"

The words, like her sobs, were carried by the sea winds. Far beyond the grey tide.

Unseen, something heard her.