261 AC
Varg
The main hall of Driftwood Hall hummed with life, a burst of warmth and noise cutting through today's gloom.
Servants bustled in with trays of roasted elk, bread, and jugs of mead, their footsteps quick against the wood floor. Varg sat in the weirwood throne, a cup of mead dangling from his fingers.
Across from him, Zaro of Pentos lounged on a bench, his crimson cloak flung back to reveal a silk tunic that shimmered in the firelight. The Pentoshi merchant's gold tooth glinted as he laughed, his braided beard swaying with every exaggerated gesture.
Varg tilted his cup toward Zaro, the mead sloshing slightly.
"So you've sailed from Pentos to this frozen rock. Must be a hell of a tale. What's the wildest thing you've seen out there?"
Zaro's eyes sparkled with mischief as he leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table.
"Oh Lord Stane, where do I start? Once off the coast of Lorath, my ship wrestled a sea serpent. The thing had jaws like a bear trap, but I captained the ship like a grandmaster, and it slithered back to the deep. Saved my whole crew!" He thumped his chest, grinning wide.
Varg snorted, taking a swig of mead. "Sounds like you're the hero. What's next, you bedded a mermaid too?"
"Two mermaids!" Zaro shot back, holding up fingers as the hall echoed with his laughter.
His gaze flicked sideways, landing on Frelga, who sat beside Varg. She leaned into Varg's side, her arms brushing his, her green eyes glinting as she smirked at the merchant.
Zaro's brow lifted, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone.
"That one's a prize, eh? Where'd you find a woman built like that?"
Varg's chest puffed slightly, a smug edge curling his lips as he slung an arm around Frelga's shoulders.
"Raided her from some neighbours. She's mine now." He squeezed her closer and gave her a deep French kiss. Her warmth seeped into him, and she let out a low, playful moan that made Zaro jealous. 'What a woman,' he thought.
Before the night drowned in boasts and mead, Varg straightened, his tone shifting to something sharper.
"Enough stories. Let's talk business." He set his cup down with a thud, the sound cutting through the hall's din.
Zaro leaned back, swirling his own drink, his eyes narrowing as he studied the hall.
"Fair enough, lord. I've noticed something, though. You've got a lot of workers here. Some of them have chains on their wrists, heads down. How's that work? I thought slavery was illegal in Westeros."
Varg's lips twitched into a smirk. "They're not slaves, Zaro. They're thralls. Big difference. Slaves are cattle, bought and sold. Thralls? They're captives, earned in battle. I took 'em from my enemies, the Crowls. Gutted their men, chained the rest. Stunning, isn't it?"
He leaned forward, voice dropping to a dark, proud rumble.
"This is a cultured practice."
Zaro barked a laugh, slapping the table so hard the crate of lemons rattled.
"Haha! It's slavery with extra steps, that's what it is! Westeros prances around, nose high, claiming they're above it, yet here you are chaining folk like it's nothing. Hypocrites, the lot of 'em!"
Varg grinned, a wolfish flash of teeth.
"Aye, we are arrogant shits. But this is Skagos. The other kingdoms don't give a damn what we do here, nor do they practice thraldom anyway."
He raised his cup, and Zaro clinked his against it, both men laughing at the absurdity of it all.
The laughter faded, and Varg's gaze sharpened, steering the conversation toward trade.
"Now, about those goods. You've got lemons, wine, silks. I've got furs, timber some ivory maybe more if you've got the coin or the barter."
Zaro rubbed his hands together, his gold tooth flashing again. "Straight to it, eh? I like that. The crate's a taste: lemons bright as the sun, spiced wine to burn the chill away, silks soft enough for a king's arse. My holds are stuffed with more. I'll take your furs and timber, as usual. But I've got my eye on something else."
He paused, leaning in, his voice dropping.
"That Essosi cog at your docks. Fine ship. I'd buy it off you."
Varg's face hardened, his fingers tightening around his cup.
"Not for sale. That ship's my lifeline, Zaro. My father might've been fool enough to haggle it away, but I'm not him." His voice cut like iron, the air between them thickening with tension.
Zaro held his gaze for a long moment, then shrugged, easing back with a chuckle. "Fair enough, lord. You're a different breed, I'll give you that. No deal on the ship, then." The mood loosened, the hall's warmth creeping back in as he sipped his mead.
Varg relaxed slightly, his smirk returning. "Good. Now, back to Essos. I'm here for more than a one-off deal, Zaro. I want to start trading east in Essos myself. How does a man like me break into that?"
"Pentos to Braavos, Lorath, further east. I need the pulse of it. How do I start moving goods myself? What's the key?"
Zaro's grin faded to a wary squint, his fingers tapping the table, before laughing.
"Ah, now I know why you don't want to sell the ship, ambitious of you lord."
"To answer your question. that's a tall order, lord. I've bled for that knowledge, years dodging knives and storms. You think I'd spill my trade for a smile? Essos eats greenhorns alive. Give me a reason to talk."
Varg leaned forward, his voice low and steady.
"I'm no greenhorn, Zaro. I've got men, goods to move. I'll cut you in on my first haul east, twenty percent straight to Pentos. Tell me how to start."
Zaro cocked his head, his eyes narrowing further. "twenty percent's a start, but it's thin. I'd be handing you my game for a promise. Pentos is my ground, sure. Wine and cheese flow steady, decent coin if you time it right. But I'm not tossing you my contacts or routes for that alone. Up the stakes, lord."
Varg's jaw tightened, but his smirk held. "Fine. Twenty five percent of my first haul and fifteen prime bear pelts for your next run. I need a name in Pentos, someone to sell my furs to. Give me that and a nudge toward Braavos. Enough?"
Zaro rubbed his beard, his grin creeping back.
"Twenty five and pelts? You're getting warmer. Alright, Pentos first, since it's mine. Tormo's your man there, fat bastard but fair if you grease his palm. Furs'll fetch good coin after harvest, when the magisters want cloaks. Braavos? Trickier, deep pockets, but I'm not giving you my best there yet. Hit 'em late autumn, they'll buy rare stuff then. That's a shove, not a map. Want more, sweeten it again."
Varg's eyes glinted, his mind already plotting.
"Add a name in Braavos, and I'll throw in a cask of our mead, better than this swill. Final offer."
Zaro chuckled, leaning back with a nod.
"You're a stubborn lord. Deal. Tormo in Pentos, Jorquo in Braavos. He's tight but honest if you pay upfront. I'll scribble their marks in a letter. Load your cog lord and try Pentos first, see if you sink."
Varg nodded, his mind churning as he weighed the words.
"Thank you for the explanation. I'll send furs and timber your way, but I want fair prices, not the gouging my father swallowed. Double the wine this time and throw in some of that velvet. We've got a deal?"
Zaro grinned, clapping his hands.
"Done! You're no fool, Lord Stane. Sharp as a blade and twice as hard. Your lands won't be scammed under you, that's for damn sure."
He snapped his fingers, and one of his men hauled another crate forward, the scent of spiced wine wafting out as they cracked it open.
The merchant leaned back, sipping his mead, but his eyes slid sideways, lingering on Frelga.
She relaxed against the throne's armrest now, her bear fur cloak parted just enough to reveal the curve of her thigh.
Zaro's gold tooth flashed as his lustful grin widened, a hungry edge creeping into his voice.
"Say, Lord Stane, while we're on the topic of trade, you selling any other 'merchandise'? That lass of yours, gods, she's a sight. I've sailed half of Essos, and I've not seen a woman with a build like that. My desires are piqued, I'll admit it!"
Varg's brow lifted, a flicker of amusement crossing his face as he glanced at Frelga. She perked up, her green eyes narrowing at Zaro with a mix of curiosity and defiance, her lips curling into a smirk.
Varg leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his tone light but deliberate.
"You've got an eye, Zaro, I'll give you that. She's a beauty for sure. I've caught her myself spear in hand. What's your offer?"
Zaro's grin stretched wider, his fingers drumming the table as he leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush.
"Oh, I'd pay handsome for a woman like her. Fifty gold dragons straight from my purse! Enough to buy a dozen of slaves in Pentos. Or I'll trade you a chest of saffron and a bolt of Myrish lace, fine enough to drape a queen. Imagine your concubines warming your bed with pretty dresses. So, come on, lord, you've got plenty to spare."
Varg chuckled, low and rough, letting the merchant's words hang in the air. He scratched his jaw, his eyes glinting as he studied Zaro, playing along for a moment.
"Fifty dragons, you say? Tempting. And saffron's rare enough to make my cooks weep with joy. You drive a hard bargain, Pentoshi."
He paused, glancing at Frelga, who tilted her head, watching him with a flicker of mock indignation. He could almost hear her daring him to try it.
But then his smirk faded, his voice hardening as he sat back in the throne.
"No deal though. She's not for sale. Not her, not any of 'em. I don't peddle flesh trade."
In his mind, there was no way he would sell such a beauty to some dirty swarthy Essosi merchant.
Besides, if word spread south, no matter how unlikely, some sanctimonious Stark lackey might catch wind. Skagos stays forgotten because we don't flaunt our ways. A minor sale like this? Not worth the risk of Northerners' eyes prying into my lands.
Zaro's grin faltered, but he recovered quickly, shrugging with a theatrical sigh.
"A shame that my lord. You'd make a fortune in Essos with stock like that. But I'll not press a man who knows his mind."
He raised his cup, the tension easing as he shifted back to safer ground.
"To our trade then, furs and timber for wine and velvet. No hard feelings, eh?"
Varg lifted his own cup, clinking it against Zaro's, his smirk returning.
"None taken. If I were in your position, I would do the same. Now, stick to the goods we agreed on, and we'll both sleep richer."
His gaze flicked to Frelga, who flashed him a wicked grin, clearly pleased to stay out of the merchant's hands. The hall's warmth lingered as Zaro and his men gathered their crates and swaggered out rest.
But the day was far from over.
As evening shadows stretched across Driftwood Hall, Varg lingered in the throne, sipping the last of his mead.
Frelga stayed beside him when suddenly a hiss cut through the quiet. Three of his concubines, Sana and the twins Eina and Ema, clustered near the hearth, their voices sharp with venom. Sana's dark eyes flashed as she spat under her breath.
"Look at that bitch Frelga, sprawled on him like she's his wife. Strutting for that Pentoshi pig like a whore. Who does she think she is?"
Eina nodded, her thin lips curling.
"Presenting herself to a foreign dignitary, all thighs and smirks. That slut's got no shame."
Ema, the quieter twin, nodded meekly in agreement, her pale hands twisting in her lap, staring at the floor.
Varg's sister Erin slipped into the hall then, her lean body wrapped in a pretty green dress, her black hair short.
She paused near the concubines, her sharp grey eyes flicking between them and Frelga with a mix of curiosity and disdain.
"What's this now?" Erin asked, her voice cool and edged, folding her arms as she leaned against a pillar.
"You lot squawking like gulls over scraps again?" Sana glared at her, but Erin just smirked, stepping closer.
"Let me guess, Frelga's the thorn in your arse today. She's got Varg's ear, and you're all stuck."
Sana's face twisted, but she kept her voice low.
"She's a problem, Erin. Some wildling bitch thinks she's the next lady. I say no more."
Unknown to the others, Sana had slipped into the kitchens earlier, grinding a pinch of poison into a cup of mead meant for Frelga.
She waited now, watching as a servant carried it toward the throne. Erin caught the glint in Sana's eye and frowned, her instincts prickling, but said nothing yet.
Frelga took the cup with a lazy grin, raising it to her lips, when Erin's hand shot out, knocking it to the floor. The mead splashed across the wood, a faint, bitter scent rising from the spill. Varg blinked.
"What the fuck, Erin?"
Erin crouched, sniffing the puddle, then stood with a scowl.
"Poison. Someone's got a death wish." Her gaze snapped to Sana, who paled and took a step back.
Varg rose from the throne, his eyes narrowing as he towered over the group.
"Who did this?" His voice was a low growl, the hall falling silent.
Sana stammered when everyone's eyes were on her, her hands trembling.
"I, I didn't mean, she's just too much, Varg! Sitting on you like that, flaunting herself!"
Erin snorted, cutting her off.
"You're a fool, Sana. Poison's a coward's trick. If you want her gone, fight her like a Skagosi, not some sneaking southron."
Varg grabbed Sana by the arm, his grip iron. "You're lucky I don't chain you with the thralls. You will sleep inside the servant quarters tonight. We'll talk tomorrow."
He shoved her toward the door, and she stumbled out, head bowed.
The tension hung heavy, but before Varg could sit again, a scream tore through the hall.
Ema, the youngest twin, with wide, innocent eyes, lunged from the shadows, a small knife flashing in her hand.
She slashed at Frelga's arm, the blade biting shallow but drawing blood. Frelga roared, staggering back, clutching the wound as red trickled through her fingers.
"By the gods, Ema!"
Varg seized the girl's wrist, wrenching the knife away as she crumpled, sobbing.
"I hate her! She takes everything!" Then Ema rushed to her older twin, pulling her close, while Erin stared, mouth agape.
"Ema? You? All doe-eyed and sweet. Where'd that come from?"
Frelga, panting, glared but waved off the injury. "It's a scratch. The girl's got no strength."
Varg shook his head, disbelief warring with amusement.
"Seven fucking hells, you lot'll be the death of me before Essos is. Erin, get Eina and Ema to their room, lock the door. I've had enough of this shit today."
He paused, his gaze settling on his sister as she hesitated, her braid tight against her neck.
"Wait. Step over here."
Erin moved forward, her lean frame tense, eyes dropping briefly before lifting to his.
"Yes, Varg?" Her tone was quiet, almost meek, a shadow of how she treated him in the past. Back when he was a bastard brother, she'd mocked him, called him weak, a dog licking boots.
He loomed over her, his voice low and edged.
"You caught that poison. Kept this mess from getting worse. I'm giving you a chance now." His eyes bored into hers, hard but not cruel.
"You're my sister. I saved you once. Now I'm giving you a chance. Prove you're worth it."
Erin's breath caught, her grey eyes widening slightly, guilt etching lines into her face.
"I was wrong, Varg. Back then, I treated you poorly, and I was cruel. You rose, saved me, and I've had no words to fix it. I've kept away because I didn't think you'd want me near."
She straightened, her voice steady but submissive. "You're lord now. I'll follow your lead, do what you say. Give me that chance. I won't waste it."
Varg studied her, then nodded, a flicker of something softer breaking through his growl.
"Good. We're done with the past. Take those two to their room, lock 'em in, then come back. You're drinking with me tonight."
He gripped her shoulder, firm and brief, a sign the slate was clean.
Erin's lips pressed into a thin line, a faint nod her only reply before she turned.
"Aye, brother. Mead sounds great."
Then she grabbed Eina and Ema by their arms, her grip steady, voice low.
"Move, you little rats." As she hauled them out, she glanced back at him, her eyes meeting his with a mix of resolve and relief, the first step toward something new between them.