“Good morning. I hope you are feeling better this morning, Hakon. Please, come in.” Ivar sat in his seat in the long hall where they had feasted the night before. His sons, Thorgil and Brand, sat on either side of him; Udd stood in the shadows behind him. Though the thralls had cleaned the hall, the smell of stale ale and spilled mead, of smoke and human bodies, hung thickly in the air.
Hakon and Sigurd moved across the room and stopped before Ivar, who motioned to the table before him. “Please, sit.”
They took seats beside each other. “I apologize again for my sudden exit last night,” Hakon said.
Ivar grunted. “I hope our food did not distress you.”
“He has always been weak of stomach, my lord. Puked the whole way from Jorvik.” Udd"s comment drew a few muffled laughs from the other hi
