Ambient Music

A gust of saltwater sprayed through the air, the ship’s bow cutting a frothing weather through the sea, and Srelly whooped, laughing in Joramun’s arms.

Home, at last.

Joramun had never thought to relish the sight of Skagos’ coasts as much as he did in that moment, yet she could not stop the joyous grin spreading across her face, one which her husband mirrored as they stood on the Einhyrningur’s prow, basking in the looming sight of Skagos growing ever closer.

This was where they belonged. Not on the mainland, not in King’s Landing, or the Dreadfort, or south of the Neck, not even beyond the Wall, l but here, amidst the winds of the Shivering Sea, in the waters her Jora’s ancestors had sailed for centuries, and the waters their children would rule one day, just as he did.

But, for now, that did not matter.

They had come home.

“All of this will be our child’s, one day,” Joramun murmured suddenly, eyes bright. “The land and sea and sky-- everything that is Skagos and Skane will be his.”

“Or her’s,” Srelly reminded, poking him in the stomach. “The Guðsrödd hasn’t confirmed it yet. She wants to consult the others, methinks, when we get home.” Not that Srelly particularly cared about what was between her babe’s legs-- she and Jora had already spoken of if she bore only girls, and her husband had merely brushed the matter aside.

“Boy or girl, they will be of the blood of kings-- heirs to the Skago Hásæti. Our child will be Magnar of Magnar, and let none tell you otherwise,” he had said, and Srelly already-vast love for him grew even more.

Gods, she loved him so much.

And, as soon as they got the chance, she would do her best to show him how much she did.

---

His home looked fuller than he’d ever seen it before.

Overlooked by the Kinghouse proper, Kinghouse-By-The-Bay was the closest thing to a city Skagos had, though it acted more like a very, very large village. Even then, Joramun had never seen it quite like this, not since the last time he had summoned his thegns and thanes, or the Vetrarsólstöður feast severa years prior. And Gods, what a feast it was, Joramun grinned. It had been the last time he had seen Sigorn in person. Gods, he had a good many stories to share, and news as well.

Especially about the Bite.

The warships of Skagos, newly built and ready to be baptized with salt and blood, lay in the docks of the Kinghouse, their sailors and captains doing the maintenance they required. And, as they passed the ships in their moors, one of the old captains saw him, and raised up a cry. “MAGNAR!” the man shouted. "THE MAGNAR RETURNS!”

All at once, there was a flurry of activity near the shore where the Einhyrningur’s was set to make landfall, and Joramun let out a groan-- he had hoped to arrive relatively unnoticed to acclimate his guests to Skagos-- though it did nothing to hide the smile he had. He was home, for better or worse, and his people were happy to see him.

There were few things in the world more important than the happiness of his people.

With one last heave from the rowers, wood touched wood, and Joramun leapt off the prow and onto the moor, moving to help his sailors secure his ship. Then he turned back, leaned into the ship, and helped his wife out as well, before stopping and bringing his forehead to her’s and just...

basking in the scent of her hair and the crisp air around him, the solidness of the stone and earth beneath his feet.

Home again, where you belong, the wind seemed whispered. Only Kings Dwell Here, and the Stone Throne has been left empty long enough.

And, though he would not be staying for as long as he wished, Joramun, at that moment, took heart in the fact that, at least for now, he was home again.