261 AC
Varg
The next day.
Varg sat in the solar of his room, annoyed. How in the seven hells had this happened? His own women, killing each other like animals in his own fucking hall!
He loved every inch of their bodies, every curve that had borne or would bear his children, and he'd be damned if he let any of them go. But this drama? This petty nonsense? He had no time for it. Why can't they just get along!? Unite against his patriarchy or something? Try to combat him in the bed to prove their 'dominance'. Ah, he is too idealistic for this world.
Only his Frelga understands.
His mind churned. 'He needs to be tactical about this,' he thought. Maybe it was Frelga's fault, her swagger riling them up.
Or maybe he'd been too focused on her lately, leaving the others to get envious. One-on-one time might chill them, remind them they weren't forgotten.
He pictured Sana's hazel eyes softening, Eina's rosy cheeks flushing with something other than anger, and Ema's timid hands reaching for him again. Yes, that could work. But first, he had to stamp this fire out before it burned his house down.
His gaze drifted to the east. Trading with Essos buzzed in his chest, a spark of excitement cutting through the mess.
Zaro had given him names and he prayed the Pentoshi hadn't screwed him. Skagos was his, a self-sufficient rock where he owned every blade of grass, every splinter of timber. Full North Korea mode, and he loved it.
With wildling raids now a regular thrill, he'd pay his men in women and loot, no coin wasted. Every fur, every plank he shipped to the Free Cities would be pure profit, minus whatever taxes those bastards levied. Shit. He hadn't asked about taxes. Too late now.
The hall door creaked open, and Erin slipped in, her lean frame wrapped in that green dress, her short black hair framing a face that had lost its old venom. She carried two cups of mead as she crossed the room with a faint smile. Varg straightened, waving her over.
"Sit," he said, voice gruff but warm. "You said you'd drink with me yesterday. Took you long enough."
Erin slid near a seat beside him in his solar, handing him a cup. Her grey eyes met his, steady now, none of that old mockery lingering.
"Yesterday, I had to lock up those two idiots, Eina and Ema. They're still sniffling like scolded pups."
She took a sip, then leaned back, studying him.
"You look like a man with a big problem, my dear brother."
Varg grunted, gulping down half his mead in one go, the sour bite grounding him.
"About right. My women are trying to kill each other, Erin over Frelga, of all things. I've got sons with them, another on the way, and they're acting like I'm about to abandon them. What the hell do I do?"
Erin's lips twitched, then she burst into laughter, not the cruel laughter like in the past, but bright, like she couldn't hold it in. She slapped her knee, mead nearly spilling as she shook her head.
"Oh, Varg, you've got a harem now and not a clue how to handle it! Lord Stane, raider of Skagos, brought low by a pack of jealous skirts. It's almost poetic."
He glared at her, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, curling up.
"Laugh all you want, sister. You're not the one dodging knives in your own bed."
She wiped her eyes, still chuckling, then leaned forward, her tone shifting to something practical.
"You've got to manage them, Varg. They're not soldiers you can bark into line; they're women, your women. Set rules. Make it clear what's off-limits, for starters. Punish them, sure, Sana's lucky you didn't flay her, but see it from their side. They want your attention, your affection. They've got your kids, or they will, and that ties them to you. Give them something to hold onto, or they'll keep clawing."
Varg swirled his mead, her words sinking in. Rules made sense, he thought, clear lines, like he'd drilled into his men. Punishment, too, but tempered. He couldn't afford to lose them.
"Fuck, now not only do I have to manage my lands but also my women!" he muttered, tipping his cup to her.
"I'll think on it. Maybe later than one-on-one time. Keep 'em from each other's throats."
She smirked, sipping her drink.
The hall settled into a comfortable quiet as they drank. But peace never lasted long in Skagos.
Early evening rolled in, and Varg stood at the docks of Port Driftwood. he saw Zaro off. The Pentoshi merchant swaggered up, his crimson cloak billowing, his men loading the last crates of furs and timber onto their ships.
Zaro clasped Varg's forearm, his gold tooth flashing.
"Pleasure trading with you, Lord Stane. Don't you worry. Tormo and Jorquo'll see you right in Essos and don't let 'em fleece you."
Varg gripped back, his smirk sharp.
"They won't. Safe sails, Zaro. Bring more velvet next time."
The merchant laughed, stepping onto his boat as his men rowed him out to the ships. Varg watched the sails unfurl, the three Pentoshi vessels cutting through the waves until they were specks on the horizon.
Back at Driftwood Hall, the day surprised again. A rider galloped into the courtyard, his unicorn's hooves kicking up mud as he dismounted, breathless.
The man wore Crowl colours of black and red. Varg met him in the hall, arms crossed, his huscarls flanking him as the messenger bowed low.
"Lord Stane," the man rasped, wiping sweat from his brow.
"My lord sends me. The Magnars are stirring once again, word is they're massing for a big raid, aiming to hit both our houses. My lord proposes a short truce, an alliance to smash 'em back. Wants to talk terms."
Varg's jaw tightened, his mind flicking to the island's usual shenanigans.
House Magnar, the strongest of Skagos's three, down south loomed under the Stanes and Crowls. They did control nearly half of the island after all.
Whenever the Magnars got bold, his house and the Crowls had to band together, a grudging pact to keep the bastards in check. He'd gutted Crowl raiders not long ago, but necessity trumped grudges here.
"Tell your lord I'll hear him out," he said, voice cold.
"Send a time and place. No tricks."
The messenger nodded, scrambling back to his unicorn and riding off. Varg turned to Torv, his captain's scarred face already hardening with anticipation.
"Get the men ready," he ordered.
"Three hundred, full gear. Shields, spears, axes, give the softer ones a last drill. Magnars won't wait, and I won't be caught without my balls."
Torv grinned, saluting with a fist to his chest. "Aye, m'lord. They'll be primed to gut 'em."
Varg strode to the palisade, his boots thumping against the weathered wood as he took his perch overlooking the courtyard.
Below, his men-at-arms spilled out into their drills.
In the yard, Torv stalked the ranks, his voice a rough bellow cutting through the clamour.
"Shields up, you sorry lot! Tighten that line!" Wood clacked as shields locked together, spears bristling like a porcupine's quills.
Torv paused beside a wiry youngster, a boy no older than sixteen, his face slick with sweat and his spear trembling slightly. The kid's shield dipped, just a fraction, and Torv zeroed in, planting himself in front of him.
"What's this, Jory? You quaking again!?" Torv's tone was gruff but carried a strange lilt, almost playful.
He rapped the boy's shield with his axe haft, a sharp tap.
"Magnars'll carve you up and feed you to their goats if you don't steady that grip."
Jory gulped, his voice thin.
"It's heavy, captain. Never held one this long."
Torv barked a laugh, squatting down to eye level, his scarred face creasing with a grin that showed too many teeth.
"Heavy? Lad, I've hauled five wives and fifteen brats on my back, sometimes all at once, when the mead's flowing and the fights start. Lost count of the times I've patched a roof with one hand and wrestled a babe off my leg with the other. You think a shield's heavy? Try keeping that brood fed!"
He chuckled, a deep, rolling sound, and clapped Jory's shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.
"Point is, you don't buckle, you adapt! Got my oldest lass, Mira, swinging an axe better than half these louts by her tenth winter. You'll toughen up, or I'll send my third wife after you, I'll let you on a secret…she's meaner than me."
Jory's eyes widened, a mix of awe and disbelief flickering across his flushed face.
"Fifteen kids, captain? How d'you even… sleep?"
Torv straightened, his grin turning sly.
"Sleep's for the weak, boy. I've got a system you see, two wives cook, two mend, the mean one keeps the rest in line. Now, quit gawking and thrust that spear like you mean it. Magnars won't care how many mouths I feed."
He turned, barking at the line.
"Advance, you sluggards! Move like you've got a spine!"
Varg, leaning against the palisade rail, caught every word, his brows shooting up. Five wives? Fifteen kids? Fuck, he should ask him some advice.
He'd pegged Torv for a cruel yes-man killer, not a man juggling a small village of his own brood.
No fucking wonder he refused wildling concubines, as a captain he had second pick.
Varg's smile widened, and he started laughing.
Torv glanced up, meeting Varg's gaze with a quick, knowing nod before turning back to the drill.