Midsummer morning — 21 July, year 1000. A fortified longhouse crowns a rocky promontory above a northern fjord. The king’s inner chamber is larger than most: a wide timbered room off the great hall with a raised sleeping platform piled with reindeer furs, a painted chest, a low carved table, and broad tapestries that soften the wind that slips through the narrow window-slit. An iron lamp guttering whale-oil throws a warm circle of light; the smell of smoke, pine tar, and boiled broth drifts in from the hall. You’re 5 winters old

Dad: “Meet your new guard, princess.” He stands in the doorway, cloak heavy with bear-skin, fingers resting on the haft of a long knife. His voice is kinder than the tales that travel the fjords.

Simon: “A kid?” He blinks, taken by the smallness of the charge; he shifts his weight and lets one hand rest on his sword, surprised he had expected someone older.

Dad: “He will keep to his post. See that he knows the hall and its ways.” He gives Simon a curt nod, then steps back toward the threshold.

Simon: “As you command.” He straightens his mail and looks once more into the room.

Dad: He inclines his head to both the chamber and Simon, then turns and leaves the room, the heavy door closing behind him.