261 AC
Varg
A month had passed since the births of his sons, and Varg lounged across the weirwood throne in Driftwood Hall's main chamber, one leg slung over the armrest.
Today was quite a busy day, so most of the servants were busy with their jobs and other chores, only passing through the hall occasionally. Otherwise, the hall was quite empty other than his two huscarls far down protecting the entrance.
It was half a year ago when he reorganized his castle. Now only the huscarls are tolerated for his protection, their size now of twenty elite warriors.
It was a homey atmosphere. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows across walls, and the air carried the smell of smoke.
Varg's fingers drummed against the carved wood, a restless rhythm that matched the odd contentment he had these past few months.
Remembering the last year, when his father's commands still echoed through these halls, felt like a distant memory now. So much happened in such a short time.
Now, as lord, he ruled this land, his nights filled with passionate sex with his concubines, while merely just a year ago he lived bitter days of being the thrall-born half-noble bastard.
Ambition still burned in his gut of course, but for once, he could savour the taste of power without choking on it. He could taste his winnings and enjoy them. He never understood those who reached power for power's sake. Where is the enjoyment of it? Go fuck a pretty maid, go smell some flowers at least, for fuck's sake!
Though it's not like he was without some troubles…
The rivalry among his women bothered him. Sana, Eina, and Ema still nagged whenever Frelga strutted by, their hazel eyes narrowing as the wildling woman flaunted her golden hair and curves.
He caught it yesterday: Sana's sharp hiss and cursing as Frelga swept past with a swaying ass.
He wouldn't admit it aloud, but Frelga had clawed her way to the top of his favourites. But then, how can anyone blame him?! How could she not?
That body! Tall, thick, and sinful pushed all his buttons.
In the lord's quarters last night, she'd straddled him with a wild grin, her thighs clamping his hips as the bed groaned under her relentless passion.
She'd begged him to bind her wrists with rope, her voice a husky laugh as she whispered,
"Harder, my lord, make it hurt, but not too much!" She was one degenerate woman!
Frelga adapted fast to this life, too. She'd shed her wildling rags within days, her green eyes gleaming as she draped herself in clinking silver chains and polished bronze Norse-looking bracelets he had tossed her from the treasury.
Yesterday, she'd circled before him in the courtyard, the metal glinting against her sun-kissed hair and skin, and showed off,
"Look at me, lord! Shinier than your axe!" She'd even tried to snatch a weapon from the armoury once, her fingers curling around an axe haft before he'd barked her down.
"No blades for you," he'd snapped, looming over her as she sulked, her lip jutting out like a scolded child.
"Women don't fight in my house." She'd huffed, but the fire in her gaze hadn't dimmed, and that night, she'd wrestled him into the furs with renewed vigor, as if to prove her strength another way. In truth, he liked the 'fight. '
And he won…
Her belly swelled now, a visible curve beneath her tight wool shift, proof of how often he'd claimed her. At eighteen winters, he already had three sons. Sigmar, Roboute, and Horus suckling at their mothers' breasts, and another babe on the way with Frelga. He was quite a stud. He will make Walder Frey look barren when he is done!
He smirked, leaning back on his throne. Odd, wasn't it? A man so young, yet three kids and one more on the way.
Then there were Eika and Lia, his brothers' concubines, untouched by him still. He'd glimpsed them this morning in the hall, cooing over his nieces as they braided the girls' dark hair, their soft brown eyes flicking to him with wary respect. Ever since that day, he didn't really interact with them.
He'd let them be, for now…
His nieces tied them to the keep, and he had enough women to sate him. Decadence suited him here in this frozen north, a far cry from southern rules and schemes.
Autumn gripped Skagos now, the wind howling outside. Not snowing yet, but it's getting colder, and he'd watched from the palisade as thralls trudged through it, their breath puffing white as they hauled firewood.
He still itched for half a dozen more raids, at least, to swell his coffers and his ranks, but not yet.
The Essosi merchants were overdue, their ships still absent from the horizon. When they finally came, they'd see Port Driftwood quite a different sight from his father's rule.
The door banged open, jolting him from his thoughts, and Frelga stormed in, her golden hair a wild cascade over her bear-fur cloak. She carried a wooden tray, sloshing with mead and a hunk of dark bread with some elk meat, her green eyes blazing with that manic gleam he'd come to crave.
Her swollen belly didn't slow her; she marched right up to the throne, slamming the tray onto the armrest with a clatter that sent mead splashing over his hand.
"Oi, my lord!" she bellowed, her voice ringing off the walls.
"I brought you something to warm your miserable bones! You've been brooding in here like some sulky old goat, and I won't have it!"
Varg raised an eyebrow with interest, licking the mead from his fingers as he studied her.
"You're loud today, woman. What's got you so… happy?"
She grinned, wide and unhinged, planting a foot on the throne's edge beside his knee, her muscled thigh flexing.
"Oh, I'm just itching for a fight, lord! I tried wrestling that bitch Sana in the yard, but she ran off whining. Pathetic! So I figured I'd cheer you up instead. You're my great and glorious conqueror, after all!"
She leaned in close, her breath hot with mead, and her voice dropped to a conspiratorial purr.
"I'd let you chain me to this ugly chair if it'd make you smile. Or whip me! I'd enjoy it!"
He chuckled, low and rough, grabbing her wrist and pulling her onto his lap. She landed with a delighted yelp, her curves pressing against him as the throne groaned.
"You're a slutty one, Frelga. Don't bother my other girls, and maybe I'll tie you up later. For now, sit still and pour me that mead proper."
She squirmed, giggling as she snatched the cup and sloshed more mead into it, half spilling it onto his cloak.
"Oops! I'm no good at this dainty stuff, lord! Back home, we drank from skulls, none of this fancy cup business. But for you, I'll try!"
She thrust the cup at him, her eyes glinting with exaggerated pride, then looped an arm around his neck, her jewellery clinking.
"Tell me, am I your favourite, hmm?"
Varg took the cup, sipping the sour brew as he smirked.
"You're a handful, that's what you are. Favourite or not, I would not tell you either way. Now quit yapping and let me think."
He knocked her hip, and she laughed, nestling closer, her defiance melting into a clumsy, eager warmth that stoked his blood. He hugged her and went back into his thoughts. Or maybe not…
Hours later, a Grom entering the hall got his attention, Frelga still sitting across his lap. She perked up, her green eyes flashing with curiosity as Grom reached him near the throne and spoke.
"M'lord," he rasped, his voice cutting through the hall's quiet.
"Ships on the horizon. Three of 'em, Essosi, flying their sails. They'll be making for Port Driftwood any time now."
Varg's smirk widened into a wolfish grin, his pulse quickening. He shoved Frelga off his lap as she stumbled to her feet with a mock pout.
"About fucking time. Let's see what these bastards bring." He clapped the greybeard Grom's shoulder and marched out, his favourite bear cloak snapping behind him, Frelga trailing with an excited bounce in her step.
As he climbed down the castle nearing the port, awaiting his guests, he experienced Port Driftwood.
Sprawled in its early expansion, timber homes clustered tight, smoke curling from chimneys, thralls and fishermen scurrying along the docks. And there! Near the port, three Pentoshi ships were sailing in, their sails taut, hulls low.
Varg, arms crossed with huscarls surrounding him, watched the ships, which were about to drop their anchor. A small boat splashed into the water, rowed by two Mediterranean-looking men in fancy caps, and a third figure stood at its centre, a rogue type/ main hero energy, so Varg presumed he was the captain of the ship, with a braided beard, his crimson cloak flowing.
The small boat parked in the dock, and the merchants leapt ashore, their boots clicking on the planks as they surveyed the village; one even raised his brow. The rogue type then gazed then locking onto Varg, and he flashed a gold-toothed grin.
"New Lord Stane, I presume?" the merchant called up, his accent thick.
"I am Zaro of Pentos, trader of fine goods! Your port's grown since last I saw it, quite the sight! We bring lemons, spiced wine, silks, and more!"
Varg walked closer to him, his huscarls circling out behind him. He towered over Zaro, his blue eyes glinting with interest.
"I greet you, merchant. Let's talk proper business, inside." He jerked his chin toward Driftwood Hall, then turned, leading the way back up the path, his boots crunching frost.
Zaro followed, his crimson cloak swirling, his men trailing with a crate of goods as the huscarls closed ranks around them.
Back in the main hall, Varg sank into the weirwood throne, gesturing for Zaro to sit at a table nearby. The merchant complied, easing onto a bench as his men set the crate down with a thud, the sharp scent of lemons cutting through the smoky air.
Frelga lingered near the door, eyeing the Pentoshi with a mix of curiosity and mischief, while Grom hovered at the edge. Varg leaned forward, his tone deliberate but warm.
"First time I've had Pentoshi ships in my port since I took the chair," he said, nodding at the crate.
"My father dealt with your kind, but I'm not him. Let's start simple: What do you offer, and what do you hope to take back across the sea? I've got furs and timber aplenty, maybe more if you've got something worth trading for."
Zaro's gold tooth flashed as he grinned, leaning back with a casual air.
"A lord with a trader's heart? Pleasant to meet you, Lord Stane. That crate's a taste of our potential agreement, some lemons, fresh as the sun, and a whiff of spiced wine to warm your bones. We've got more in the holds, silks, oils, and whatever catches your eye. I'm after furs, aye, and good wood, I've also seen that ship. Let's drink to it and talk proper, eh?"
He snapped his fingers, and one of his men cracked the crate, pulling out a lemon and tossing it to Varg with a flourish.
Varg caught it, rolling the fruit in his hand, its scent sharp, reminding him of the past.
He chuckled, low and rough.
"A start, Zaro. Servants, fetch the mead. let's wet our throats before we dig into the meat of it."
He tossed the lemon back, his smirk widening as he settled into the throne, ready to hear the merchant out.
Guys, check out the character page I made. I added some pictures. Also, don't forget to give a review!