At the moment, the surviving villagers of Kattegat and the battered remnants of the Iron Guard were huddled closely around massive bonfires.
Passing around cracked wooden bowls of tasteless flatbread and tough, roasted venison, the men ate in silence.
There were no boastful songs of Valhalla tonight, nor were there drunken claims of glory; there was only the quiet, profound relief of men who had stared directly into the jaws of the abyss and miraculously lived to see the moon rise.
Away from the warmth of the fires, Ragnar and Gyda sat alone on a log near the freezing surf.
Pulling her heavy fox-fur cloak tightly around her shoulders to ward off the biting cold, Gyda stared out at the dark waters. She watched her husband, who was leaning upon his silver-tipped cane.
