264 AC
Varg
Varg sat in the chair of his study room in his solar. At one and twenty, he towered near two metres, almost a full-blown Astartes! Winter truly filled him up and gave him that final boost to his final maturity.
His golden brown hair, still in an army style, that he so loved to keep. One less choice to make, he decreed to himself.
He was not that boy who had stepped over his brother's corpses; he was a man now, his Stane genes or perhaps the rich meat and ale of lordship stretching him to a height.
In this world, peasants have no chance at all against the aristocracy! The gene lineage differences were just too wide. Then again, nobles have practiced eugenics for how many millennia now?
Oh, how he wished it were like that in the past..
In his past life, he had been tall, but not like this. Back in Normandy, before the world went to shit he joined them.
He had been a simple teenager back then. Now, in Westeros, those memories felt like a good fever dream. The brotherhood's purity, the blood-soaked camaraderie lingered in his bones, oh, and the taste of victory!
But Skagos was his reality now, and spring had come. Time to make some gold.
The winter had been a slog, no question about that. At one point, Port Driftwood's population had swelled to nearly three thousand.
Feeding them all had been a nightmare. The cellars, stuffed with salted fish and Deepdown's looted grain, had held, but barely.
By midwinter, wheat thinned, and the smallfolks started getting uppity. Unfortunately, he had to order his huscarls to crack whips and skulls when needed.
A few thralls, caught hoarding bread, were strung up in the square as a lesson, harsh but effective.
Fortunately, Sana's market day idea had worked wonders, though, keeping the rabble distracted with bartering furs for bone trinkets and cheap ale. Now it has become a permanent trade hub.
By winter's end, the port had not starved, and the smallfolks were content, further reinforced by fear and the promise of spring's bounty. It was not pretty, but it was fine. Varg's lips curled into a grim smile.
Fine was enough.
He turned from his solar, striding down the path to the main hall. Driftwood Hall loomed ahead, its weathered wooden walls sturdier now, reinforced with iron and stone from Crowl's sack.
It was still mainly wooden but had some moderate improvements. Progress is progress.
While the port below thrummed with life, fishermen hauling nets, carpenters hammering new docks.
His Essosi cog, weathered but seaworthy, bobbed at anchor, its hold being loaded for the voyage east.
Various goods from high-quality furs, ivory, and barrels of obsidian were stacked alongside masses of weirwood, carefully hidden under sailcloth.
Varg had handpicked his crew with his ten loyal huscarls, led by Torv, and thirty of his most elite men-at-arms.
This was not a raid but a trade mission to Braavos, where he would wring every coin from those sleek merchants and maybe buy a few educated slaves, scribes, shipwrights, men who could read and think.
Oh, he had dreams, all right. More ships, sleek Essosi galleys, or even Ironborn longships if he could get his hands on them. Skagoss' isolation was his strength, and he would milk it dry.
Skagos, for all its oaths to the Starks, was a world apart. The North's lords barely acknowledged the island, their noses looking at disgust at its dark reputation. No Stark men patrolled here, no ravens flew from Winterfell demanding homage, most importantly, no taxes were paid.
The Starks basically left Skagos to rot, and Varg loved it. Autonomy meant freedom to trade with Essos, to build his port into a hub without northern meddling. No one in Westeros cared what happened on this rock, and Varg would use that blindness. Braavos was just the start. With enough coin, he would buy a fleet, maybe even poach some Ironborn ships.
The thought filled Varg with excitement, wanting to share it with his friend.
Inside Driftwood Hall, the main hall was warm, the hearth roaring with logs. Varg sank into his weirwood throne. At his side, Ralf Crowls' gilded skull glinted, filled with sour ale. He lifted it, sipping deeply, the cold metal kissing his lips.
His court, such as it was, bustled around him: retainers, servants, and a few grizzled men-at-arms nursing cups of ale. Their eyes flicked to the skull, then away. Varg did not care. Fear kept them loyal.
"Ralf, you bastard," he muttered, staring into the skull's hollow sockets.
"Soon I'll be leaving for a trip, I can feel it in my bones, I will capture something great!" His voice was low, Ralf's grin flashing his smile, and he spoke back.
"What did you say!" Varg reacted.
A servant nearby froze, her tray of bread trembling, her eyes wide. Varg ignored her, setting the skull down with a clink. The court's whispers grew sharper, but he let them slide.
What can't he have some quirks? He was their lord, and they should accept it.
A giggle broke the tension. Aela, his two-year-old daughter, toddled into the hall, her golden hair a wild halo, her green eyes sparkling like Frelgas. She clutched a wooden sword, waving it with fierce determination, her tiny boots scuffing the floor.
Varg's heart softened. He scooped her up, her squeal echoing as she swung her toy at his chest.
"Easy, little warrior," he chuckled, holding her aloft. "You will gut me before you are five."
Frelga sauntered in behind, her curves fuller than ever, her dress tight over her newly swelling belly, another child on the way, she swore a son this time.
"She has got that freefolk blood, my lord," Frelga said, smirking.
"She will be cracking skulls before she is weaned."
Varg grinned, setting Aela down to chase a servant. "Funnily enough, I believe you somehow."
Frelga smirked, but her eyes flicked to the hall's entrance, where Sana glided in, her hazel gaze sharp as a blade.
Sana carried Varg's son, Torren, a sturdy boy of one, his dark hair and blue eyes a mirror of Varg's own. She held him with a possessive grace, her slender frame moving with purpose. Trailing her strode Sigmar, his firstborn, a sturdy boy of three, his fierce gaze mirroring his father's.
"My lord," she said, her voice smooth, "the ports are ready for your voyage. I have checked the ledgers; the furs alone should fetch a fortune." She paused, her lips curving slyly.
"Though I would wager you will charm those Braavosi out of their gold before they know it."
Varg grunted, impressed. "Clever as ever, Sana. Keep the ledgers tight while I am gone." He took Torren, the boy's small fist grabbing his beard.
"This one has got my look. Better not inherit your scheming, though." Sana's smile tightened, but she dipped her head, her fingers brushing his arm, a claim staked in front of Frelga.
Then he turned to his eldest.
"Boy, I expect you to keep my lands secure while I am not here". The boy shook his head vigorously. Varg smiled and gave him a good shake on the head.
The twins, Eina and Ema, entered next, each cradling a daughter: Lira and Mira, both a year old, with chestnut curls and hazel eyes. Following her, his other two sons.
Eina's rosy cheeks flushed as she approached, her voice soft.
"They have been asking for you, my lord," she said, holding Lira out. Varg took the girl, her tiny hand gripping his finger. Ema, dimple deepening, pressed close with Mira, her warmth familiar.
"They sleep better when you are near," Ema murmured, her eyes soft but eager.
Varg juggled the girls, their giggles filling the hall.
"My little pack," he said, his voice low but warm as he looked at all of his sons and daughters.
"Keep them safe. I will be back with enough gold to make this place a proper city." The twins nodded, their submission sweeter than ever.
Erin lingered at the hall's edge.
"I will watch them, Varg," she said with a smile. "Safe travels."
He nodded, with a flicker of trust.
"Good. Do not let these vipers tear each other apart." He shot a grin at Frelga and Sana, who glared at each other but said nothing.
The harem's pecking order was a constant dance, and Varg relished stoking it.
As he walked to the port, he took his favourite drinking cup.
"You are still here, Ralf," he muttered, his voice low.
"Thought you would have fucked off by now. What is it like, watching me win, haha?"
The skull's sockets stared back, and in his mind, Ralf's laugh echoed, sharp and mocking.
"Keep laughing, you prick. I bet you will drown." A servant passing the door flinched, scurrying off, and Varg smirked.
He strode to the port, the cog ready, its hold brimming with trade goods. Torv waited, with his axe, the huscarls and thirty elite men-at-arms assembled, their mail clinking.
"Ready, my lord," Torv said, his grin fierce."
Varg boarded, with his sword, Ralf's sword at his hip, the sea calling. He would return with gold, slaves, and maybe a ship or two.