The hearth burned low now.
The great blaze that had warmed the birth chamber for nearly two days had calmed to flickering orange embers, painting the room in honeyed light and long, dancing shadows.
Vetrúlfr sat beside the high bed carved from ash and stone.
His boots were off, the wolf-pelt cloak draped across the chair behind him, his sword leaned unceremoniously against the wall.
For once, the warrior looked like a man at rest.
Roisín stirred under the heavy furs, her pale auburn hair damp with sweat and sticking lightly to her forehead.
Her hand, still trembling faintly with the exhaustion of labor, rested in his.
"You lived," he said softly, as though repeating it aloud might make it more real.
She gave him a tired smile. Her voice was hoarse, but steady. "I told you... the gods haven’t finished with me yet."
He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "You scared me."
"You always look so fearless," she whispered. "But here you are... shaking."
"I can face swords. Fire. Storms at sea. But not you in pain." His voice caught. "Not again."
From the adjoining room, the low cry of an infant echoed, muffled by distance and the gentle humming of the attendants tending to the newborn.
"A strong voice," Roisín said, closing her eyes. "Like his brother."
"Branúlfr will be pleased," Vetrúlfr muttered. "He said he wanted someone to fight dragons with."
She chuckled weakly. "And what will you name this one, dragon-father?"
Vetrúlfr leaned back slightly, exhaling. He hadn’t decided. Not fully.
There were names of kings, names of gods, names from dreams...
But none seemed right.
"He was born under the Moon," Roisín whispered. "The snow was still thick, but the ice was beginning to crack. That has to mean something."
He nodded. His mind turned to an old name... not of a warrior, but of a flame. A light in the cold.
"Eirík," he murmured. "Eternal ruler. Or perhaps... ’ever-powerful.’ A name for one who inherits a world yet to be built."
Roisín opened her eyes again, blinking slowly. Then she smiled.
"Eirík. Son of the Wolf-King. Brother to Branúlfr. He will be fierce."
"And free," Vetrúlfr added.
They sat in silence for a while.
The wind beyond the walls was softer now, gentler than it had been in weeks.
As if even the fjord itself had hushed to listen.
"Rest now," he said at last, brushing his lips against her brow. "You’ve done more than I ever could."
"And you’ve still done more than any man should," she replied faintly.
The child cried again.
This time, Vetrúlfr stood and went to fetch him himself.
The air outside was still and heavy with the scent of thawing earth. Inside the longhouse, the fire crackled low, casting a soft orange halo across the chamber.
Vetrúlfr sat cross-legged on the thick fur rugs near the hearth, cradling the newborn in the crook of one massive arm.
The child was quiet now, bundled in linen and wool, his tiny hands occasionally twitching against his swaddling as if dreaming already of spears and sagas.
A creak sounded at the doorway.
Branúlfr stood there, barefoot and wide-eyed in the oversized woolen tunic that reached nearly to his knees.
His fiery red hair, was tousled from sleep, but his ice-blue eyes, the color of winter, his father’s eyes, were awake and burning with curiosity.
"Come," Vetrúlfr said softly, beckoning him forward. "There’s someone I want you to meet."
Branúlfr padded across the floor, hesitating only once. He knelt beside his father, squinting down at the tiny bundle in his arms.
"He’s small," the boy murmured.
"He was smaller yesterday," Vetrúlfr said, smirking. "And louder."
Branúlfr frowned. "Will he always cry?"
"Only until he learns to fight," Vetrúlfr replied. "Then he’ll have better things to do with his voice."
Branúlfr looked up at his father. "Will he be like me?"
"No." Vetrúlfr’s answer came without hesitation. "He’ll be like himself. But you’ll teach him everything you know, so he can decide what kind of boy, and what kind of man, he wants to be."
The boy nodded slowly. Then, after a pause, "What’s his name?"
"Eirík," said Vetrúlfr. "Your brother."
Branúlfr looked thoughtful for a long moment. Then he reached out a hand, small, calloused already from wooden training swords, and gently touched the infant’s cheek.
Eirík stirred, blinked once, and let out a tiny sigh.
"I’ll protect him," he whispered. "Even if he’s annoying."
Vetrúlfr chuckled, low and quiet.
"Good. Because one day, when I’m gone, it’ll be the two of you. Shoulder to shoulder. Brothers against the world."
The fire popped in the hearth. For a moment, nothing was said.
Then Branúlfr leaned his head against his father’s arm.
"Is it always cold when babies are born?"
"Only the best ones," Vetrúlfr said.
And in the silence that followed, father and sons sat beneath the roof of stone and timber, a king, an heir, and a life just begun.
While outside, the fjord wind whispered through the pines, and the stars of the north looked on in silence.
On the ridge above the longhouse, cloaked in a mantle of sable wolf fur and twilight, stood Brynhildr.
Her hair, half-bound in silver clasps, stirred with the wind like a banner of night.
Her face, still as ice, betrayed neither joy nor fear, only thought, measured and deep, as she looked down upon the firelit homestead below.
She saw him, Vetrúlfr, the Wolf-King returned from conquest, kneeling by the hearth with Branúlfr and Eirík beside him.
A father among sons. A mortal man in frame alone.
But not in purpose. Not in destiny.
The fire cast long shadows behind him. And in those shadows, she saw flickers of war, of empire, of the old world broken and the new one forged in blood and frost and flame.
She did not smile. But her eyes softened.
"They built a dynasty," she murmured, to no one and nothing, and yet her voice carried on the wind as if the land itself had paused to listen.
"A house of wolves and kings. Of men... with the blood of gods."
She turned her gaze westward, past the sea, past the stars, past what could be seen.
"Perhaps," she whispered, "they have a fighting chance after all."
Then, without another word, she vanished into the dark, like the last breath of a dream too old to name.
And below, the fire burned. And the sons of the North slept.