260 - 261 AC
Varg
The door creaked open, and Sana, Eina, and Ema waddled in, their swollen bellies straining their clothes, their faces pinched with irritation.
The unofficial bitch queen of the group, Sana, led the charge, her hazel eyes flashing with anger as she planted her hands on her hips.
"So, my lord," she said sarcastically, voice tight, "we hear you've brought in some wildling bitch. What's this, then? Throwing us already?"
Eina spoke in an assertive tone, the most daring of the twins. He did find her personality quite cute.
Her rosy cheeks flushed as she crossed her arms over her rounded middle, trying to follow Sana's lead.
"Aye, we've been carrying your babes, breaking our backs to please you, and now you're bringing some savage?" As she said that, she made a fake sad crying face. Or at least he thought she was acting. Cute.
Ema, the most innocent, frowned, clutched her belly protectively, and looked genuinely sad.
Varg leaned back, a slow smirk tugging at his lips as he eyed them.
"Calm yourselves, women! Frelga's a prize from the raid, nothing more. You're still mine, carrying my blood, warming my bed. She's just… extra. I am a man of this house!"
He appeared right next to them, his over-six-foot height towering over them. He brushed a hand along Sana's jaw, then Eina's cheek, before resting it on Ema's shoulder.
"Don't fuss. You're not replaced, and you'll get used to it."
Sana huffed. Eina kept nodding submissively out of intimidation, and Ema sighed, leaning into him slightly.
He chuckled, then waved them off.
"You're still my favourites. Go rest those bellies. I've got work to do."
The three shuffled out, their grumbles fading as the door thudded shut behind them.
Varg, having finally dealt with the most 'urgent' matters, sat in his solar deep in thought.
The raid had been a bloody success, but now the real work would begin: turning those wildling slaves…he paused, thralls into productive members of society.
He needed more farmers and labourers. Most of his own people scratched a living from the rocky soil, farming cabbages, turnips, leeks, peas, and other vegetables from the unfertile Skagosi soil. Most of his men-at-arms were farmer sons-turned-warriors; now, with thralls, he could free them to fight full-time if these thralls took up the Plow.
But wildlings? Varg's lips curled. Could these savages even tell a hoe from a spear? He'd find out soon enough. For now, he would have the sharper ones instructed, then they could whip the rest into shape later. No point wasting his own men's time on the slow learners.
The rest? Laborers. He pictured it now: a proper town rising from the docks, not just a half-abandoned port. But houses, warehouses, a market! The thralls would build it, brick by bloody brick.
His thoughts drifted to the women among the captives. For a moment, he considered pulling a few as maids, having their soft hands to pour his ale, warm his bed, perhaps? Then he snorted, shaking his head.
These were wildlings, not southern pups. One wrong move, and he'd wake with a sliced throat. No, they'd serve better elsewhere.
The leftover women would go to his men, and the kids who clung to their mothers could be moulded, taught loyalty, and raised to swell his ranks.
Now, how to pitch it to his men…?
His thoughts were broken by boots thudding in his direction. His castellan, Gorm, brought in his new 'girl. '
"Leave us now," Varg told Gorm, who obediently left straight away.
'Ah, yes, I did mention to bring her to me after she was cleaned,' Varg thought as he looked at her.
That wild cascade of golden hair framed a face fierce with defiance, green eyes blazing like those of a wild beast.
She was tall, muscled but thick in all the right places, a body built for sin and breeding. Varg stepped closer, towering over her as she straightened, chin jutting despite the chains.
"Frelga, is it?" he drawled, voice low and teasing, circling her like a wolf with prey.
"How does courtship work amongst you savages? Ah… being 'stolen'… well, I stole you fair and square."
He smirked, reaching out to grip her full backside. She didn't flinch, just stared back, her gaze a blade of its own.
She stood before him in his quarters, clean and washed in her birthday suit.
Her skin glowed, a breeder's frame with curves that begged to be touched. Her breasts were full, heavy with a natural sway, nipples hardening in the chill air.
Her hips were wide, thighs thick and strong, barefoot on the fur-covered floor. Her toes curled slightly as she stood defiant. That golden hair spilled over her shoulders, brushing the tops of her breasts, a wild mane framing her sharp, voluptuous beauty.
Varg stepped closer, his hand sliding up her thigh, fingers digging into the firm flesh. She tensed but didn't pull away, her green eyes locked on his, daring him.
"Aye, you stole me," she said, voice low, rough-edged.
"So I'm yours. That's the way of it."
A flicker of something like resignation, or was he seeing things? Heat crossed her face.
He grinned, wolfish, and pulled her to the furs. Her nails raked his back, his hands gripping her hips, the bed creaking under their weight.
--
Outside, the thralls were sorted with brutal efficiency. Disobedience earned a lash or an empty belly; obedience got bread and fish.
Snitching was promoted and rewarded with heavily increased rations, sometimes whores. The wildling tongue was banned, and each slip-up was met with whipping, forcing them to speak the common tongue.
The system would take root and shape them into something useful.
Six months later, Driftwood Hall buzzed with change. Varg's men-at-arms had clearly improved through his personal training programme, a Roman-esque training.
A creation of a budding brotherhood.
Varg stood atop the palisade, arms crossed. Watching the fruits of his labour. Below, in the muddy courtyard, a couple hundred men-at-arms' boots slammed down at a steady pace. Torv paced the front line, his voice shouting.
"Shields up!" he roared, and wood clattered as shields snapped into place, edges overlapping with a dull thunk, forming a shield wall.
The men's arms strained, muscles bulging under gambesons and chainmail, but not a single gap showed. Sweat beaded on their brows, dripping into eyes that stared straight ahead, unblinking, fierce with focus.
"Thrust!" The captain's bellow rang out again, and spears flashed forward, tips punching the air in a single, sharp motion.
The spear shafts hissed as they cut through the air, no wobbling of the spear, no hesitation, just a field of metal gleaming briefly before snapping back.
A young recruit, his face flushed red, gritted his teeth, his spear steady despite the tremble in his shoulders. His eyes flickered with his seniors' tales of concubines won in the last raid, and his grip tightened, resolve hardening his stance.
A lieutenant stalked the ranks, eyes narrow as he scanned for flaws.
He paused by a grizzled man whose beard twitched with an itch. The switch in the lieutenant's hand flicked out, striking the man's knuckles with a sharp crack. The soldier flinched, a hiss escaping his lips, but his shield didn't dip, his posture rigid as blood welled on his hand.
"No scratching," the lieutenant growled, moving on, his shadow long.
"Advance!" the captain shouted, and the line surged forward, boots pounding in unison. Their armour clinked faintly, straps tight, every man clad as if battle loomed, even here in the yard.
Varg's gaze swept the scene, his chest swelling with pride as the men pivoted on command, shields locking again without a stutter.
Out of three hundred men, not one had quit. Varg guessed the promise of women persuaded them to stay.
Strict hygiene standards were enforced. Armor was always worn, without exception when on duty. A strict hierarchy of command, memorizing of regulations.
The keep itself gleamed with a new edge. Servants scrubbed the floors until the wood shone, their hands raw from brushes, the air scent of soap.
Thralls hauled water from the wells, their buckets sloshing as they hurried under the watchful eyes of overseers.
Varg had decreed it; hygiene was law, not only for his warriors but for his land, from the hall to the hovels near the port.
A week had passed, and he'd made an example of it. Two of his servants' clothes reeked of filth. And so, they stood before him in the hall, heads bowed. A crowd gathered, silent, as Varg paced, his eyes cold.
"You stink like wildlings," he'd snarled, snatching a whip. The first lash cracked across one man's back, splitting the fabric, blood welling as he grunted.
The second man flinched, but the whip found him too, a red stripe blooming on his shoulder.
"Next time, it's your tongues," Varg had commanded, tossing the whip aside. The men stumbled off, the lesson carved into their flesh, the keep's air cleaner for it.
Then there were the thralls. They had settled into their roles nicely.
Varg smirked as if remembering a personal joke.
The port hadn't bloomed into a town yet, but it was a village now, rough and growing. He called it Port Driftwood to denote its importance for the future.
Ambitious men flocked from his lands, drawn by tales of the raid, the young men settling near the docks in newly built homes. The air hummed with shouts, the promise of more to come.
Varg experienced it all, his eyes glinting at the thought of the weirwood trees, a prize for the next raid. He'd pick the cruellest bastards for the job, with the new discipline drilled into them and the taste of wild women and gold on their tongues.
That same week, cries echoed from the lord's quarters. Sana emerged first, her face flushed with exhaustion, cradling a squalling bundle, the eldest of Varg's sons, his tiny fists punching the air.
Eina followed, her rosy cheeks pale but smiling, clutching the second-born, his wails softer but insistent.
Ema trailed last, her dimple deepening as she held the youngest, his dark eyes wide and quiet. Varg stood over them, his chest swelling as he took each boy in turn, their weight solid in his arms.
"Three sons," he muttered, a grin breaking his face.
He snatched the oldest, thrusting him skyward, voice booming. "Sigmar, my firstborn! He'll crush mountains!"
He grabbed the second-born next, lifting him high. "Roboute, my second. He'll carve my law!"
Then, the last, raised with a slow, dark grin. "Horus, my shadow. He'll break kingdoms with a whisper!"
"My blood runs thick. You sons will be my greatest supporters, my lieutenants, and conquerors!"
The women beamed, their jealousy forgotten in the glow of motherhood.