260 AC
Varg
A tall young man stormed through the hall of Driftwood Hall, his heavy boots pounding the planks of the floor.
Varg moved with purpose. Behind him marched ten warriors, a rough crew clad in patched gambesons and old chainmail, their axes rattling against their thighs. The keep was a mess. Servants scrambled like rats, darting into corners, while women's screams echoed off the damp, moss-crusted walls.
Not even half an hour ago, Lord Grul Stane had breathed his last breath.
His true born sons were cold in the dirt, leaving Varg standing and a few squalling brats from the eldest's seed. Today, the hall knew blood was coming.
An old servant, a sort of castellan, hunched and gray, shuffled after Varg, his voice cracking with desperation.
"Lord Varg, I beg you, reconsider! Don't kill the babes. They're your brothers' children! Don't make yourself a kinslayer, my lord!"
His hands wrung together, trembling as he stumbled to keep pace.
"Move!" one of the warriors barked, shoving the old man hard.
The servant crashed into a rickety table. Splintered wood groaned as he toppled over it and hit the floor with a thud, sprawling on his back amid scattered bowls and stale bread.
Varg didn't break stride, his ocean-blue eyes fixed ahead, mind churning. Shitty day for it, but it's got to be done, he thought. He'd hoped his brother's females would spit out daughters, girls he could spare, maybe even use later.
But sons? No, he couldn't risk it. His last life had taught him that ambitious men sniffed out weakness like wolves scenting prey. Bah.
No rivals, no threats. If it was a girl, mercy might stick. If not, the axe would.
He reached his eldest brother's quarters and stopped. Five women stood there, pressed against the wall, faces pale but pretty. Two were his brother's concubines, brunettes with warm brown eyes, in their mid-20s, plump and soft from motherhood, their curves full under patched wool shifts. The other three were younger, 16 or 17, fresh-faced and cute. One was his middle brother's recent betrothed, the other two her twin sisters, all trembling but holding their ground.
Varg jerked his chin at his men.
"Guard the doors. No one moves."
The warriors spread out, axes ready, sealing the room. Just him and the women now.
As he entered, the concubines gripped their babes. The first, Eika, her dark hair tied back, stepped up, voice shaky but firm.
"Lord Varg, please spare her! She's your niece, just a babe. She'll never challenge you!"
She held the bundle out, brown eyes wide and pleading.
The second, Lia, rounder, with a soft jaw and flushed cheeks, pushed forward.
"Mercy, my lord! We'll obey you, swear it!" Her babe squirmed, letting out a small, sharp cry.
Varg towered over them, silent, and peeled back the furs on the first babe. A girl, tiny and pink, dark hair fuzzing her head.
He checked the second. He exhaled hard, a rough grunt of relief, his shoulders easing. No boys.
"Quiet," he said, voice low and steady.
The women stilled, breaths catching. He turned to the younger three. His youngest brother's betrothed, Sana, stood tallest, slim and graceful, with long dark brown hair and hazel eyes, her face smooth and delicate.
Then the twins, Eina and Ema. The first had chestnut hair in a loose braid, her frame petite with a small, upturned nose, cheeks rosy from fear. The second, identical but for a faint dimple on her chin, clutched her sister's arm, her hazel eyes darting to Varg and away.
"You're mine now," he told them.
"All of you. You live, your girls live. Serve me, and that holds."
Varg smiled, his mind ticking. Those smug bitches used to look down on me, he thought, a hard smirk tugging his lip. Thrall-born or not, he was lord now. Now they'd bend to him.
The room hung heavy with tension. Varg's ocean-blue eyes swept with lust over the five women, but his focus sharpened on the three: Sana and the twin sisters. He craved to devour them right here and now. But he had to be wise. He had to settle his reign first. So, unfortunately, he had to leave them.
Varg turned on his heel, his heavy cloak swirling as he strode out of the room.
Once again, he repeated to his personal retinue, "With me."
Their boots thudded in unison as they fell into step behind him. The women's shaky breaths faded as he left them behind, his mind already shifting to the next move.
The hall awaited Driftwood Hall's center, where he would claim the castle officially.
The corridors stretched long and dim, the damp air clinging to his skin as he marched toward the main hall.
His ten men fanned out slightly, axes still in hand, their presence a silent threat. Servants scurried out of his path, heads bowed, eyes averted. No one dared meet his gaze.
Good. Fear was a tool. Don't let fools tell you otherwise.
The great double doors of the main hall loomed ahead, weathered oak banded with iron.
Two house guards stood posted, their spears lax, faces uncertain. Varg didn't slow. He shoved the doors wide. The hinges groaned as they swung inward, revealing the cavernous chamber beyond.
The long trestle tables were half-empty, a scattering of men and retainers hunched over their cups. At the far end, the lord's chair sat vacant. It was made of weirwood with symbols of waves and serpents, his father's throne.
Varg crossed the hall in long strides, his warriors spreading out behind him around the hall as if to secure it.
The house guards didn't move. They just watched, gripping their spears a little tighter, eyes flickering between Varg and the floor.
He'd expected as much. At 6'3", broad-shouldered, and battle-hardened, he cut an imposing figure.
Sixteen years he'd spent in this new life, and he was not idle.
He'd fought in skirmishes, spilled blood beside these men, and shared ale and crude jests with the castle guards. They knew him. They'd seen him cleave a raider's skull. And over those years, he'd woven himself into their ranks as a comrade. Son of a thrall or not, he was no stranger here.
He reached the lord's chair and turned, planting his boots wide as he faced the room. The murmurs died. Every eye fixed on him.
His warriors stood at his back, a wall of muscle and iron. Varg raised his voice, deep and steady, cutting through the stillness.
"Grul Stane is dead. My brothers died before him. I am Varg, last of his blood, and I claim Driftwood Hall as Lord Stane."
A ripple passed through the hall, but no one spoke. The house guards shifted, then bent their knees in deference.
Varg's lips curved into a smirk. Smooth as he'd hoped. After all, they'd seen him grow from a lanky boy to the towering warrior before them now. They knew he'd earned this, thrall-born or not. Besides, he was the only son.
He lowered himself into the chair. The wood creaked under his weight. His ocean-blue eyes swept the room, daring any to challenge him. None did. The retainers straightened, the guards stood firm, and the servants lingered at the edges, waiting for orders. It was done.
In his mind, Varg let a rare flicker of satisfaction burn. Those smug bastards who'd sneered at him.
He'd outlasted those savages. The keep was his, the women were his, and the future would bend to him.
But he kept his face stone-cold. A lord didn't gloat. A lord ruled.
"Now bring me some ale, feast!" he said, voice carrying a jolly mood. The servants scrambled to obey, and Varg leaned back, letting the weight of the moment settle.
Varg had plans. Yes, he did. Obviously, he was no Wikipedia database. He wouldn't invent things for these primitives. Besides, nothing here in Skagos had any innate worth. But what he did have was his brain, his knowledge of the future, his will to not be some savage and live without any self-improvement. No, he wouldn't be a savage northerner worshiping some disgusting trees. In fact, to hell with them. He would cut them all down and finish what the Andals had started. Ohhh… yes, he had plans.
Our boy Varg has some plans. Don't expect him to be some robot who knows all the shit about everything, how to invent all kinds of inventions etc. No normal person would know that. He is no genius, merely a man. But what he does have is the ambition and perspective of a modern man who is not stuck in traditions. Also being a ruthless son of a bitch.