Winter sealed Vetrulfr's kingdom off from the world.
The northern seas were treacherous this time of year; black, jagged things that swallowed fleets whole. Only the most seasoned sailors dared attempt the crossing.
Fewer still had reason to try. Ísland and Vestmannaeyjar offered little that could not be had elsewhere; at least, so outsiders believed.
And so, Vetrulfr ruled through the long dark; alone, but unchallenged.
He spent his days in worship and statecraft, reshaping his realm in the image of two worlds: the Eastern bureaucracies of Byzantium, and the ancient law of the Germanic tribes. A strange marriage of scroll and saga, but one which bore fruit.
Grain silos in the Westfjords overflowed for the first time in living memory. Techniques he brought back from the East. Crop rotation, irrigation, ordered distribution, had transformed the harvest. The granaries were full; none would starve this winter.
