260 AC
Varg
Varg stood at the front of his Essosi cog, the salt wind clawing at his face as the ship sliced through the icy waters of the Shivering Sea.
The Wall loomed in the distance, a colossal white rectangle shit across the horizon, its sheer scale dwarfing all else.
The sea stretched endlessly around them, a gray-blue expanse that roared with every crash of the waves, filling his nose with the sharp tang of salt and freedom. A man could feel alive out here, the world raw, far from some stinking hovel on a rock.
This was a vikingr, his first real test for making a change for these people.
The cog groaned under the weight of eighty men: fifty men-at-arms, his ten Housecarls, and twenty amateur sailors, their axes and spears lashed tight in barrels beside salt fish and bundled furs.
He'd ordered his sailors to teach the ropes to his men, their hands fumbling with knots and sails. If he was to forge true Vikings out of them, they needed to master the sea.
Torv, his scarred captain, leaned against a crate nearby, barking at a man to secure a loose rope. The sailor scrambled, boots slipping on the wet deck, fear flickering in his eyes as Torv's grin flashed like a blade.
Varg's lips twitched. Good. The ship rocked hard as a wave slammed its side, and he braced his legs, feeling the sea's power ripple through him. This was no tame beast; it demanded respect, and he relished its challenge.
Half a day out from Driftwood Hall, the cog nosed into a jagged cove east of the Wall, where the wildlings squatted.
The shore was a rugged sprawl of pebbles and wildlife. Varg leapt down first, boots crunching into the gravel, and drew his spear. His men followed, splashing into the shallows, their gambesons and chainmail soaked as they hauled chains ashore.
Torv landed beside him, spear already in hand, eyes scanning the treeline.
"Wildlings will smell us soon, m'lord," he muttered, voice low. Varg nodded, his eyes narrowing. Let them come; it'd make an easier job for him.
Varg led his warband forward, boots sinking into the pebbled shore as they moved inland into the Haunted Forest. The land unfolded before him, thick with trees and teeming with nature. Varg's breath puffed white in the air, his gaze darting from spot to spot like a conquistador hunting glints of wealth. Anything worth dragging back to Skagos would do. The ground crunched underfoot, and he kicked at a lump half-buried in the dirt. It was an old bone, yellowed and weathered, maybe a deer's. No gold here, though. Pff, as if. But something stirred in his gut, an itch for more than scraps.
His mind flicked to weirwood trees, those pale giants worth more than a lord's ransom down south. If they grew here, he'd find them. Varg and his warband trekked deeper into the forest, the shoreline fading behind them.
The land grew wilder still. He paused, catching a whiff of something sharp woodsmoke, faint but close. His nerves quickened with joy. Where there's smoke, there's life, and life means loot. He jerked his chin at Torv, who nodded, gripping his spear tighter as the warband fanned out, steps cautious now.
The trees thickened, their trunks gnarled and black, but then a flash of white caught his eye. Varg froze, breath hitching. Speak of the devil. There, in a shallow dip of land, stood a grove of weirwoods, their bark bone-pale, their leaves a deep, bloody red that seemed to glow against the gloom. Faces stared from the trunks, carved deep and weeping sap, their eyes wide and accusing. He stepped closer and ran a hand over the smooth bark. It was cool, almost alive, thrumming under his touch. His lips curled into a slow grin. Jackpot.
"Torv," he called, voice low but sharp. "Mark these for later." His captain grunted, pulling a strip of green cloth from his belt and tying it to a low branch. Varg glanced at his men-at-arms trudging behind, their faces tight, eyes darting to the weirwoods with unease.
He saw it in their hunched shoulders, the way their hands twitched toward their axes, and for the fear of foes, but of gods. These primitives clung to their tree-worship like babes to a teat. He'd have to keep this quiet, let the Housecarls handle the cutting when the time came. Superstition wouldn't stop his fortune.
"Move on," he barked, turning away from the grove. The men shuffled forward, relieved to leave the staring faces behind, but Varg's mind buzzed. Those trees were his ticket out of poverty, and he'd bleed every drop of sap from them, false gods be damned.
The warband pressed on, the forest swallowing them whole. Varg's spear tapped a rhythm against his thigh as he walked, eyes scanning the shadows. Ahead, a faint glow flickered through the trees, a firelight, maybe a village. His pulse quickened, imagining huts stuffed with furs, women, thralls to chain. He waved the men silent, creeping closer. But it was too late.
Wildlings burst from the trees. An ambush! A howling mob of a hundreds, both men and women, their furs ragged. Bone clubs swung, stone-tipped spears gleamed, and their war cries shredded the stillness. Varg and his captain roared:
"Shield wall!" His men-at-arms snapped into formation, shields locked together, spears bristling outward. The wildlings hit like their shield wall, clubs smashing against wooden shiels, a spear darting through to gouge a man's thigh. Blood sprayed the dirt, and the man grunted, staggering but holding. Varg ducked a wild swing, the air hissing past his ear, and drove his spear up through a wildling's gut. The man gurgled, hot blood spilling over Varg's hands as he yanked the weapon free, the body crumpling like a sack. Torv's spear flashed beside him, piercing a throat, red fountaining across the snow.
One of his men-at-arms grunted as a stone point tore through his chainmail straight into his arm. Bloody and bruised but without a hole, he held.
Then one went down, skull cracked open by a club, brains spilling pink. Varg's pulse pounded in his ears, the chaos singing to him. He ducked another wild swing, drove his spear up through a wildling's gut, and yanked it free in a gout of red, the man's scream choking off as he fell. The thrill of battle surged through him, raw and intoxicating.
Nonetheless, the shield wall held, then pushed, boots grinding into the pebbles as the disorganized wildlings faltered. Varg's spear stabbed another throat, blood arcing hot.
Then the wildlings broke, scattering like rats, but his men were faster, killing the resisting stragglers and chaining the survivors as they begged or spat. He stood over the carnage, chest panting, the stink of blood and piss thick in the air. Dozens of wildlings lay dead, their bodies sprawled like broken dolls, and he'd lost five of his own, gutted or smashed. Too many, he thought, wiping his blade. They weren't ready for this.
The fit men were dragged forward, their wrists bound in iron. Young, muscled, good for labour. Varg paced before them, his shadow falling heavy. The women and children came next, wailing or silent, their furs tattered.
He waved a hand.
"I'll get the first pick, then pick your concubines," he told his men, voice hard. "Spoils of war, lads! Better than the Driftwood Hall whores, and these ones don't charge by the grunt!
He needed to motivate them and boost their loyalty after all. And what motivates more than women? You see, simps exist in every age; what matters is the dynamic of the relationship.
After today's raid, youngsters would flock to their lord, eager for their own share of booty and concubines. And for him? A cheap, determined army.
His men grinned before hauling women aside, some kicking, some limp with defeat. He scanned the captives, then froze.
A girl caught his eye, her face and body nearly mirror of that blonde knight 'Darkness' from Konosuba.
She was tall, muscly but voluptuous, her hair a wild cascade of gold, eyes a fierce green blazing with defiance.
She'd fought, a broken spear still clutched in her hand. He stepped closer, towering over her, and she spat at his feet, her lip curling. He grabbed her jaw, forcing her gaze up, petting her hair, and smirked as she glared. Mine, he thought.
"Chain them all," he barked. Torv's men moved, iron clanking as over a hundred captives, half women and children, the rest the men.
The cog creaked as they packed them in, bodies pressed tight below deck. Varg frowned, rubbing his jaw.
"Too crowded," he muttered. "Ship's bursting." He kicked a barrel aside, the wood splintering, and cursed under his breath. Next time, he'd need two cogs, no, three!
Among the captives, another woman stood out. Brunette, blue-eyed, in her thirties, her frame corded with muscle, a scar slashing her cheek. Varg pointed.
"That one, bring her to me." His men nodded, dragging her to his side.
Concubines for him to personally reward. He turned to his lucky man.
"This one, give her to Edd. he kept his cool during the shield wall," he said, and the Housecarl took the girl, sending her to the lucky warrior. This personal reward system would bind his men to him, no matter how blasphemous his orders.
The sail back was grim. Varg stood at the stern, the Wall shrinking behind them, his mind churning. Five died, and a dozen were wounded. His men had guts but no discipline, stumbling over each other like drunks. He clenched his fist. Roman-style training that's what they'd need. Iron discipline, drills until they bled, no more sloppy charges.
Back at Driftwood Hall, the cog docked with a groan, and Varg stormed the keep. The thralls were herded into temporary pens, a new system taking shape in his head.
He turned to his concubines. The Darkness lookalike Frelga, she'd growled her name while chained, her green eyes still fiery. It aroused Varg.
"You'll learn your place," he said, voice low. And they would. This was just the beginning of his rise.