260 AC
Varg
As Varg rode back toward Driftwood, he reminisced. The battle had been a brutal, bloody success. Now, with his men-at-arms trailing behind, the chained thralls stumbling in their wake, and Erin perched silently on a unicorn beside Torv, his mind turned to the keep that awaited him.
His keep.
Driftwood Hall loomed ahead as they traveled, its silhouette jagged against the cloudy, dark sky.
It wasn't some grand castle of the south with gleaming towers or polished stone; it was a utilitarian stronghold, simple and bleak.
The keep stood sturdily on a cliff overlooking the port, its wooden walls rising thick and dark, bound with iron bands that occasionally gleamed in the weak light.
The wood was weathered, stained by years of salt spray and relentless storms, giving it a mottled, almost blackened look, like driftwood washed ashore and left to rot.
A palisade crowned the top, its sharpened stakes jutting upward.
The castle wasn't elegant, but hell, it was defensible.
The walls could take a battering, and the palisade offered a perch for archers to rain death on anyone foolish enough to approach. Below, the port stretched out, a rugged shore where his Essosi cog bobbed at anchor, its sails furled against the wind.
Varg's lip twitched into a half-smirk as he studied it. Driftwood Hall was a basic bitch, no question.
The drafty halls, the moss-crusted walls, the stench of fish and sweat that clung to everything. It was a far cry from the marble keeps of richer lords.
But it was his. A foothold. A starting point. And who knew? With the fortune he'd amass, he might one day trade this heap for a seat as grand as Casterly Rock.
"Home sweet home," he muttered under his breath, the words laced with grim amusement. He spurred his unicorn forward, the keep growing larger with every step.
The gates of Driftwood Hall groaned open as Varg and his retinue approached. He dismounted his unicorn with a grunt, boots thudding onto the packed earth, and handed the reins to a stableboy who scurried forward, head bowed. The keep's courtyard buzzed with muted activity: servants hauling water, a smith's hammer clanging faintly from the forge, and the low murmur of his men-at-arms as they dispersed, dragging the chained thralls toward the holding pens. He caught sight of a few men peeling off, sprinting toward their women and whores with eager grins. No mystery what they were after.
Varg strode through the courtyard, his bear cloak snapping behind him, and pushed into the main hall. The air inside was thick with the scent of warmth and heat, the hearth crackling weakly at the far end. Returning from the freezing weather felt damn good.
A few retainers lingered near the trestle tables, nursing cups of ale, their eyes flicking to him before darting away. He ignored them, making for the lord's throne, his favorite chair now.
The weirwood creaked as he sank into it. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and let the weight of the day settle. Victory tasted good, but it was only the first bite. As he tapped the arms of his weirwood throne, his mind turned to something darker.
This frozen shithole of a North was good for little beyond wild beast fur and timber. But it had one prize worth more than gold: weirwood trees. They outshone everything else the North could offer.
A fresh weirwood could fetch him a small fortune down south or in Essos. Now imagine harvesting a grove of them!
A shuffle of footsteps broke his reverie. He glanced up to see Erin hovering near the doorway, her dark hair still tangled, her torn dress clinging to her slight frame. She looked smaller here, swallowed by the hall's dim vastness, her pug-like face pale and streaked with drying tears. Torv had dumped her off the unicorn outside, and now she stood there, hands twisting together, eyes darting between him and the floor.
"Varg," she said, her voice a cracked whisper, barely carrying over the hearth's sputter. "I… I didn't think I'd see this place again."
He tilted his head, studying her. The haughty bitch who'd once spat at him was gone, replaced by this trembling wretch. Good. Fear suited her better than venom.
"You're alive," he said flatly, leaning back in the chair.
"That's more than your favorite brother could say."
She took a hesitant step closer, her dark blue eyes flickering with something, perhaps gratitude, maybe, or just exhaustion.
"You saved me. I thought they'd…" She swallowed, shuddering. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," he said, voice low and edged.
"You're here because I allow it. You're Stane blood, but don't think that makes you special. Not anymore."
Erin flinched, her shoulders hunching, but she nodded quickly.
"I won't. I swear it. I'll… I'll do whatever you need. Just don't send me away."
Varg's lips curled into a faint, cold smirk.
"Stay out of my way, and you'll keep breathing. Go clean yourself up. You stink of Crowl shit."
She bobbed her head and scurried off, disappearing into the shadows of a side corridor. He watched her go, a flicker of grim satisfaction settling in his chest. The sister who'd mocked him now groveled at his feet. He had plans for her yet.
He clapped his hands once, the sharp sound echoing through the hall. A servant poked his head in, gray and nervous.
"Fetch the women," Varg ordered.
"Sana and the twins. I've kept them waiting too long. Now."
The man nodded and bolted.
Minutes later, they appeared, ushered in by the servant. Sana, his late brother's betrothed, led the trio, her long dark brown hair swaying as she walked, hazel eyes wary but steady. Behind her came the twins, Eina and Ema, their chestnut braids glinting in the firelight, petite frames wrapped in patched wool shifts.
Eina's cheeks were still rosy, her small nose upturned, while Ema's dimple showed as she bit her lip, clutching her sister's arm. They stopped a few paces from the chair, heads slightly bowed, the air between them thick with tension.
Varg rose, towering over them, his ocean-blue eyes raking across their forms with a hunger he didn't bother to hide.
"You three will be joining me in bed today," he said, voice low and deliberate, stepping closer.
Sana lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with a flicker of defiance that only stoked his interest.
"We'll serve you, my lord," she said, her tone even but tight. The twins nodded, Eina's breath catching, Ema's fingers tightening on her sister's arm.
He smirked, closing the distance.
"Good." He reached out, brushing a calloused hand along Sana's jaw, then turned to the twins, tilting Eina's chin up with a finger. Her hazel eyes widened, but she didn't pull away. Ema shifted closer, her dimple deepening as she pressed against her sister, their warmth radiating toward him.
"Follow me," he said, turning on his heel and striding toward the lord's quarters, a cramped chamber off the hall with a fur-strewn bed and a single flickering brazier. They trailed behind, footsteps soft but hesitant. Inside, he shut the door with a thud, the sound sealing them in.
What followed was a blur of heat and pleasure, a tangle of limbs and breaths.
Sana's grace bent under his command, her hazel eyes flashing as she yielded, while the twins pressed close, their soft curves and trembling hands fueling the fire in his loins.
Eina's braid unraveled under his grip, Ema's dimple vanishing as her lips parted in a gasp. It was no gentle affair, but nor was it forced. They submitted willingly, and Varg took what was his. He thought he even heard some cries of pleasure hah.
When it was done, he left them naked and sprawled across the furs, breathless and flushed, and pulled his cloak back on.
"Get used to it, girls," he said, voice rough with satisfaction.
"You'll need to." He flashed a wolfish grin before stepping out, the door creaking shut behind him.
Doing some research, I found out that, supposedly, Weirdwood tree products were super expensive down south. Like crazy expensive. Now, imagine having a whole tree cut down! Unlike the Northmen, whose tradition worships them, our protagonist may have some other ideas.