262 AC
Varg
A good year had passed since the sack of Deepdown.
Varg stood on the cliffs above his Port Driftwood, the salt wind biting his face as he surveyed the hustle and bustle below.
He reminisced, what had been a miserable cluster of hovels not even two years ago now thrummed with life, a real town clawing its way out of millennia of barbarism.
The port had swelled to nearly two thousand souls, a far cry from the scattered hovels of his father's day.
Then again, it only needed forcefully putting people in one place…
The port, with his lone Essosi cog as a star, bustled with activity. Various fishermen hauled nets heavy with fish, carpenters hammered at new piers, and the faint clanging of a smithy echoed up the cliff. In a sense, his lands finally didn't feel barren anymore.
The smallfolk looted from Crowl lands, the fisherfolk, trappers, and, to Varg's delight, skilled craftsmen like blacksmiths and leather tanners had settled in, their labour transforming the place.
The surprise was those adepts with obsidian blades. Varg hadn't known why House Stane lacked such artisans, but now, having inherited these skilled hands from House Crowl, he planned to wield their craft.
The obsidian weapons proved to be quiet, brittle yet strong enough and razor-sharp, which would arm his men with an edge he intended to hone.
Sure, Port Driftwood, it wasn't King's Landing, not by a long shot, but it was his, and it was growing.
Varg's lips curled into a rare, genuine smile as he watched a cart go past, full of furs bound for the warehouse.
Varg's warriors barked his orders, cracked whips, and occasionally swung their axes to keep the smallfolk in line, but the results spoke for themselves.
Wooden walls, crude but sturdy, now ringed the town's core, and the expansion of the dock was half-built.
The Crowl captives, now thralls, had proven their worth, much more skilled than the wildling thralls.
His gaze drifted to the horizon, where the Sea churned under a Gray sky.
He has sent his cog on two vikingr raids beyond the Wall before winter's teeth sank in, plundering wildling camps for furs, ivory, and even more thralls.
The raids were bloody for the wildlings, but clean, his men carving through stone-wielding savages with ease.
The spoils have further filled the Driftwood Hall's cellars and warehouses with loot for the upcoming summer trading expedition, and the thralls? They mostly toiled in the port, hauling timber. The slave system he implemented made the OG thralls as good enforcers with their snitching. Especially when they were offered good food and females as a reward.
The moral of his men was excellent! They loved him!
Varg had kept his promise to his men, that those who fought well got first pick of the women.
A sharp giggle broke his trance. Varg turned to see Frelga striding up the cliff path, her golden hair wild in the wind, her arms cradling a bundle wrapped in furs.
Little Aela, his daughter, squirmed in her mother's grip, her tiny fists flailing. Varg's heart, that cold, iron thing, softened at the sight.
Daughters, he'd discovered, had a way of doing that. Aela's eyes, a fierce green like her mother's, held a spark that made him want to shield her from this wretched world.
He reached out, brushing his finger across her cheek, and she cooed, grabbing at his hand.
"Careful, m'lord," Frelga teased, her voice a rough purr.
"She'll have your finger off before she's weaned. Got my fight in her, this one."
She thrust her chest out, her curves fuller since the birth, though her swagger had dimmed slightly.
Giving birth to a girl, not the son she'd boasted of, had cost her some of her edge in the harem's pecking order.
She still played the bold wildling, but Varg caught the flicker of unease in her eyes when Sana or the twins were near.
He chuckled, scooping Aela from her arms.
"A fighter, eh? Good. She'll need it to survive this rock."
He held his daughter up, her tiny face scrunching against the wind.
"My little princess. Let the world try to touch you. I'll gut it first."
"My lord, I'll give you a son too, we can try now if you want." She leaned closer, her breath warm on his neck, almost purring.
Varg's eyes glinted with amusement.
"Don't get greedy, Frelga. You've got my daughter; we will have time later."
He handed Aela back, his tone sharpening.
"Keep her safe. I've got plans to make."
As Frelga retreated, her hips swaying defiantly, Varg's thoughts turned to the harem.
Sana with her cunning tongue and possessive touches took the lead in the packing order as far as she thought.
She'd taken to whispering plans in his ear at night, ideas for trade, her fox-like mind always scheming. Frelga's daughter, while precious to Varg, had left her vulnerable, and Sana hadn't hesitated to press the advantage, her sly smiles cutting deeper than words.
Erin, his sister, lingered on the edges, no longer the venomous wretch who'd mocked him.
Her rescue from the Crowls had broken her pride, and now she served quietly, her dark blue eyes watching Varg with a mix of loyalty. She'd taken to helping with the children, especially Aela, as if seeking a purpose.
Inside Driftwood Hall, Varg strode into the main hall, the air thick with the scent of roasting fish and burning logs.
The weirwood throne creaked as he sank into it. At his side, a table held his newest prize.
Ralf Crowl's skull, boiled clean and gilded in gold, gleaming in the firelight.
He'd kept his vow, turning his head into a drinking cup. Varg lifted it, the gold cold against his lips, and sipped the sour ale within.
The weight of it felt right, a trophy of his vengeance, a reminder of being a retard.
"Here's to you," he muttered, toasting the skull.
Torv, his captain, Captain of the Housecarls, lounged nearby, sharpening his axe with slow, deliberate scrapes.
"Still talking to that thing, m'lord?" he said, his jagged grin flashing.
"Reckon it's got any wisdom left to share?"
Varg snorted, setting the skull down.
"Only that betrayal's a quick way to lose your head. Speaking of heads, where's Jory?"
Torv jerked his thumb toward the courtyard.
"Out there, strutting like a lordling. You made his year, m'lord. Finest armor, sharpest bow, and he's been fucking the thrall girls like his life depended on it."
Varg laughed, a deep rumble. Jory, the scrawny lad who'd felled Ralf with a blind arrow, had earned his reward.
After the battle, Varg had kept his promise, sending the boy to the castellan with orders for a mail hauberk, and a yew bow with a quiver of arrows.
Jory had taken to training daily, his aim now deadly enough to pin a gull at fifty paces.
Varg had also let him pick a wildling girl from the last raid, a freckled thing who blushed at Jory's clumsy advances.
The boy was extremely loyal, his eyes shining with awe whenever Varg passed.
A cheap price to inspirate loyalty from others, Varg thought. After all, loyalty like that was worth more than gold.
"Bring him in," Varg said, leaning back. "I want to see my sharpshooter and future huscarl."
Torv bellowed, and moments later, Jory shuffled in, his new armour clinking proudly.
He was still young, still lanky, but the mail gave him a warrior's bulk, and the bow slung across his back looked like an extension of his arm.
His face, streaked with sweat from drilling, lit up when he saw Varg.
"M'lord," Jory said, bowing awkwardly.
"You called?"
Varg rose, towering over the boy, and clapped his shoulder, nearly knocking him over.
"You're a proper killer now, Jory. That arrow saved my hide, and I don't forget debts. You like the armor?"
Jory's eyes widened, his voice cracking with pride.
"It's heavy, m'lord, but I'm learning. And the bow… it sings when I loose. Hit a barrel's knot at sixty paces yesterday."
"Sixty paces?"
Varg's brow rose, impressed.
"Keep at it, and you'll be picking off Magnars from a hundred. You're to be my Housecarls, boy. But don't forget, don't let it go to your head, or I'll knock it off."
Jory's grin was all teeth, his chest puffing out.
"Won't let you down, m'lord. Swear it."
"Good. Now get back to the yard. I want you drilling the new levies. They're greener than even you, and I need them sharp for spring."
Varg waved him off, and Jory scampered out, his bow bouncing.
Torv chuckled.
"Kid's half in love with you, m'lord. Reckon he'd take an arrow for you."
"Let's hope he doesn't have to," Varg said, his tone darkening.
The Magnars, weakened but not broken, still squatted south of his lands, their numbers unknown since the pass slaughter.
Winter had kept them quiet, but spring would bring trouble. He'd need every man, especially ones like Jory.
The hall doors swung open, and Sana glided in, her hazel eyes sharp as she approached.
Sana moved with purpose, her wool shift clinging to her slender frame.
"My lord," Sana said, her voice smooth as polished stone.
"The port's thriving, but the smallfolk whisper of hunger as there are too many thralls to feed. I've spoken to the fishermen; they say the cod runs are thinning."
Varg's eyes narrowed.
"Hunger? We've got cellars stuffed with salted fish and the looted grain from Deepdown. They're whining for nothing."
"Those dirty peasants, nothing else to do!"
Sana's lips curved, sly and knowing.
"Whining, yes, but restless smallfolk make trouble. Let me organise a market day event, let them trade furs for trinkets. Keeps them busy, keep their thoughts away."
Varg grunted, impressed despite himself. "Clever. Do it."
Huh, what do you know, she understands the concept of bread and circus. Varg thought to himself. Impressive from a Skaggosi.
Varg leaned back, sipping from Ralf's skull again, the gold glinting.
"Torv," he called, setting the skull down. "What's the count on the new levies?"
"Five hundred, m'lord," Torv said, standing.
"Green, like you said, but eager. Got 'em drilling with the loot from Deepdown, mail, spears, the works. Jory's out there now, barking like he's me."
"Good. Double the drills. Winter will kept the Magnars quiet, but they may come sniffing. And send word to the shipwrights. I want that second dock done before the ice breaks."
Torv nodded, his grin fierce.
"Aye, m'lord."
As the hall buzzed with servants and retainers, Varg's mind thought.
The weirwood from Deepdown was hidden in his cog's hold. With the summer incoming, he will finally be able to make some big bucks.
One tree could fetch a fortune in Braavos, enough to buy a fleet. Perhaps some skilled Essosi slaves?
He'd kept it secret, even from Torv for now, knowing his men's superstition could spark trouble. For now, his loyal men, Vilk, will be enough.
The old gods meant nothing to him, but to Skagos, they were everything. He'd need to move very carefully. It's not that Varg doesn't trust Torv, but the fewer people who know, the better.
A servant approached, head bowed, offering a platter of smoked fish. Varg waved it away, his thoughts on the future.
Driftport was growing, his sons and daughter thriving, his enemies almost broken. But the Magnars loomed, and the sea stayed empty.
He'd need even more raids, more thralls, and more iron. Raid, Build, Expand.
I am back bitches. However, those who keep begging for chapters continuously sound like thralls to me...