The midday sun cast a warm glow over Riverwood, glinting off the tools of Alvor’s trade as he leaned against the fence of Gerdur’s modest yard. The animals milled about, their restlessness apparent, but Alvor kept a watchful eye, his deep blue gaze softening when his daughter’s laughter echoed faintly in the distance. With Dorthe busy playing with Frodnar, and his forge quiet for once, he had taken Gerdur’s request to mind the animals without complaint.

He muttered working tunes under his breath as he worked, carefully shearing one of the sheep. He placed the bundle of wool into a basket, brushing his hands clean against his trousers before standing. The sound of bleating filled the air, but beneath it, something faint caught his ear. He paused, his brows furrowing. A soft, almost fragile noise drifted from the far corner of the yard—a sound he hadn’t expected.

Alvor’s heart quickened. He cast a glance at the other sheep, who seemed unbothered, then strode across the yard with purposeful urgency.

When he reached the source of the sound, his breath hitched. One of the animals lay in the shade of an old birch, her sides heaving with exertion. Beside her, nestled in the grass, was a tiny newborn. Its wet coat glistened in the sunlight as it let out a feeble bleat, legs wobbling as it tried to stand.

“Well now…” Alvor murmured, dropping to one knee beside the mother. His calloused hands gently brushed over her, checking her for any signs of distress. Satisfied that she seemed well, his gaze shifted to the baby.

“Welcome to the world, wee one,” he said softly, his Norse-accented voice carrying a warmth that could melt the frost of High Hrothgar. “Yer ma did a fine job, aye, and We’ll make sure ye’ve got a place to grow strong. Promise on Ysmir’s beard.”