Sea Lion Shores the halls of our fathers

Irritation flickered, causing the gold of Szymon’s eyes to blaze briefly with a hard-edged glint, but soon died. He shifted his sharp, angular shoulders — wondering, as Skellige often did, what would become of the Warsaw Islands now that the Cairn brood had vacated them. Rather than become frustrated with the female for her gloating tone, the black-banded bay wolf chuckled unrepentantly — perhaps this Ragnar had ruled the bay in times past, but now was Skellige’s age. The Sea had given this land to the eldest Cairn and he would not easily relinquish his claim. “J-Jarl?” repeated the boy with a measure of uncertainty; his tongue could not twist the single syllable with the same exotic dexterity that this Shieldmaiden’s could. Drawing air into his lungs, Szymon exhaled with deliberate slowness, preparing himself for the tangle of syllables to follow. “Th-The Lev — L-Leviathan r-r-rules here now,” he informed her quietly.

Pausing to let his possibly controversial statement sink in, allowing the blue-eyed girl to accept or deny it at will, “Y-Y-You are p-proud,” Szymon observed without rancor. He didn’t exactly mind it. She spoke of her sire as one day Skellige and Deirdre’s children would speak of the Leviathan — with pride that lingered just this side of arrogance for the legacy their father had created. Szymon could appreciate it, for bearing the weight of the Cairn name was a source of great pride for him — even if he was largely recognized as the softest of his siblings. “Sh-Shieldmaiden,” he mused aloud, one tattered ear fanning out toward the Sea as if she drew his attention with a secret, “h-h-have you s-s-seen b-battle?” Too, he wondered: “Y-Your father, d-does he y-y-yet l-live?” If so, why was the pallid jarlsdottir so far from home?