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Chapter 63: The Drowned Wolf
"What does treason taste like?"
– Jorg Seastark
"I'm scared," he'd said, eyes downcast at the bay. It had been the wrong thing to say in hindsight but then he'd been a child. What four-year-old knew well enough to lie when put to the edge of a mountain and told to jump? It was a pier and not a mountain in truth, but in the moment the two were as good as the same – he'd looked down at those still waters and the blood rushed to his head, his legs were unsteady, and his father's voice rang from ear to ear like tower bells against his skull.
"Scared!?" Lord Brandel Seastark's dark blue eyes raged like a storm.
His cloaked moved in the wild like something alive, as his brothers chuckled at his side.
"No son of mine is scared of the water!" Father had bellowed for every passer-by to hear, the dockworkers and the guards and his own brothers in their laughter. His hands were sweaty and his legs weak, the distance between that pier and the water seemed a hundred thousand miles away; the leap from a cliff into rocky water – in his memory the gap grew tenfold and never ceased, his father's voice drowned out the world. "No Seastark has ever feared the tide! NEVER!"
"I want mother," Jorg whimpered, eyes up and pleading.
His father looked down judgingly. His brother's laughter only grew.
"Father," he'd begged. "Maric," and "Cailan," of his brothers. They only laughed.
"I can't," the waters had turned stormy and between the waves he could see it – the great serpent – hunting the depths.
"You will," his father loomed over him as a mountain shadowed a valley. Lord Brandel reached out and pushed his son away.
Jorg fell from the mountain then, flailing arms and screaming for his mother, only to finally meet the dark waters with a roaring splash where the serpent appeared in its greatness to swallow him whole. He opened his mouth to scream, icy waters filled his lungs, and the sea serpent closed its jaws.
"Jorg," his eyes opened, no longer in the water – he looked up at a familiar face.
"Sister," his voice cracked, older than before; though still only a boy.
Moria Seastark placed her hand on his shoulder and the cold departed a little.
Until hie looked on to see his father, looking forlorn and older, saying his farewells to his wife.
"Mother," Jorg mumbled. She'd died so suddenly that it had hardly seemed real.
"Little brother," his sister called him, but she too was gone when he went to answer.
Walking away from him to marry Prince Rodrik Stark up in the high halls of Winterhold.
It was a great honor and one their father was so very proud of his daughter to have achieved. His brothers had given their blessings and so had he, as it was expected, but in his heart, he'd felt betrayed by it. Mother was gone, now his sister had abandoned him as well. He'd never felt so alone as he'd felt then.
"Fight me without my back turned, you bastard!"
Maric was holding him, and Jorg held a hand against the red gash on his cheek.
"Gladly," Loken Snow pointed his steel. "This time I'll cut out an eye you little shit!"
"What did you say to Lord Snow?"
Prince Rodrik looked every inch his role then.
"I don't-"
"Tell me," the Prince said firmly.
"Jorg," his father glared, because of course he'd side with his son-in-law.
"I'm sorry Prince Rodrik," he muttered the words, wishing to hide from the world.
"Speak louder little brother," the Prince glared.
"You're no brother of mine," Jorg had wanted to say.
He had no brothers, and no sister, and no father. Jorg held his tongue.
"We're family," the Prince's word faded like mist. Family was overrated…
Gone were the streets of Wrightport, faded like a vision as the world turned warmer.
"Paxon," she was smiling so sweetly. "Paxon Seastark, after father. Do you like it my love?"
"Aye," Jorg beamed at the little cub. His son. It was best to name the boy after her father rather than his own.
Desmera handed him their son, such a small thing with a dark orange tuft of hair and darker ocean blue eyes. That too faded like a morning mist. Desmera's curly orange hair turned silver and her face prettier as Jorg felt guilt grip him suddenly. "I'm sorry," he tried to speak, but water came in place of words, pouring out his lungs.
Falling to his knees, the water poured forth and filled the world – the serpent lingered in the depths, promising death, and all around him he saw them.
Lord Brandel was floating drowned and pale beside Cailan and their mother, their eyes opened a pale glowing blue and the sea floor gripped at Jorg's ankles with grasping hands, the wreckage of so many thousand ships sinking down from the sky gracefully as the serpent circled. "Wake up," a voice echoed through the depths.
The hands dragged him to the seabed and the sky seemed to erupt in every shade of green he'd ever known, boiling the water around him.
"Jorg," came his father's voice, then his mothers, brothers, from the mouths of the dead grasping at his legs.
He awoke to a scream and something soft in his hand.
The woman had wide-eyes and seemed to be struggling to breathe. Jorg released his hand from her neck.
"I-" he tried to speak but for the fire in his throat.
The woman ran from the room, dropping a plate to the ground.
"Shit," he groaned, finding his fingers stiff; he could feel the bones ache.
They were blistered and a discoloured blue and-
Missing? "Shit," he growled once more as the panic rose.
Two on his left hand were gone, one cut while another at the joint.
And shaking, he realized, holding his hand out – he was shaking like a leaf…
"You're awake," Jorg heard the voice of a man he knew somewhat well, eyes up to the door he saw him standing there; always a little short of a maiden's dream – dark curling locks, tall, dark eyes. Makin Bortha's thick lips and the sharpness of his nose hindered him with his expressive mouth and hawkish appearance.
"Captain," Jorg groaned the title, clasping his arm as it twitched and ached like torture.
"Easy there," Makin was quick to his bedside, picking up the fallen plate and putting it aside.
"That girl," Jorg managed, accepting the bread and finding he'd no stomach for it. "I-"
"You've a way with the ladies my lord," came the jest too easily.
He'd not meant to scare her so… and yet the question remained…
"Who was she?" and "Where the hell are we Bortha?"
The man's smirk faded in an instant, sighing briefly.
"Skagos my lord," he revealed finally.
"Skagos," Jorg winced. A treacherous island…
"There was a storm after the… well…"
The Captain paused, as if the memory couldn't quite be trusted.
"After your lord father fell, and your brother, and the others and-"
"Get to the point Makin…"
"Right," he hesitated. "Sorry my Lord, things have been on edge…"
"Tell me everything then," Jorg asked, shifting himself up against some feathered pillows.
"Well, my lord," the Captain began his tale of a great storm and ungodly currents that dragged retreating ships into the rocky merciless clutches of Skagos – he avoided mention of the dead, the blue eyes and the monsters in favour of the more real terrors of the sea – it seemed that the gods had wholly forsaken them in this place.
If any of the fleet had escaped the storm, none had yet returned to look for the lost.
Likely, Jorg wagered, they'd fled.
"Whose hall is this then Captain?"
"Magnar," came the answer with a blink.
"Lord?" Jorg replied. "Yes, but what Lord?"
"Magnar," as unhelpful as before. "Sorry, that's what he calls himself; the Magnar of Skagos."
"And his name is what Captain?" Jorg pressed with a glare. "Not just the man's bloody title!"
Makin had the gall to smirk. "It's just Magnar, I'm afraid, his people are a strange folk."
Wasn't that just charming. "And this place; his hall, yes?"
The walls were wooden, with a hearth warming the room.
"Kingshouse, they call it, we're in the hall of Skagosi royalty."
Until the Starks threw them down and took the Island in name.
"Lucky us then," Jorg squeezed his hand. He didn't feel lucky at all.
"You were half dead when we found you," Makin began solemnly, those eyes of his looking so very tired. "Half drowned, near enough dead; or so most thought – half the men wanted to throw you back to the sea or burn you – can't blame them that my lord… after what happened to your father and the others…"
They'd feared he'd awaken and rip out their throats then? Jorg couldn't blame them that fear, no…
"The cold had you," the Captain's eyes lingered. "Lost a couple fingers, some toes, but you're lucky Seastark."
Lucky. Yeah. That was him. "Not dead yet at least," he supposed with a pained grunt. "Who else is with us still?"
"The Mantle fished you up," Makin said with a hum of respect. "Good sort, Lord Vetur, you've him to thank for not tossing you back to the fishes my lord; him and Morrow and Myself if I may be so bold… the likes of Renar named you dead the moment they laid eyes on you…"
Lord Kalt Rener, or had it been one of his cuntly sons perhaps? A disagreeable lot.
"Kalt," Makin seemed to sense the question. "His sons, well, they didn't make it out..."
Dead. Shit. "Shit," Jorg voiced the thought after a moment. It was almost cause enough to forgive the attempted murder.
"Shit indeed," Makin agreed with a sigh. "That's about all we've had lately, shit and worse shit... gods… glad you're with us though."
"And why is that?" Jorg asked, curious, given he was hardly the most popular man of late.
If not for the Saeastark name and his fathers supposed 'mercy' then he'd have likely been tired as a traitor by now.
"Vetur and Renar have been at each other's throats arguing over who has the right to take command of us since we landed."
They were both merely minor nobility, the descendants of Greycloaks that rose up through the ranks and were rewarded for generations of service.
"And our dear Morrow," Makin's smile beamed at mention of that name. "Well, they're squarely in Vetur's camp; sucking up I'd say…"
Brave and Proud and Eager. Morrow was even less of a noble house than the others were and was no doubt busy being ordered around by Vetur.
It wasn't uncommon for sailors to rise up and earn themselves the position of Captain regardless of birth. Morrow's grandfather had won himself some glory during the Frost Rebellions and taken his ships name for his own and so House Morrow was born – with no lands to their name beside the very ship they sailed upon.
It was from such humble beginnings that Makin's family had risen, though unlike Morrow they held a modest estate within the walls of Wrightport.
"Forgive me my lord," Makin said. "You've lost your father, brother, I know; but-"
"Someone has to stop Vetur and Renar from killing each other…"
The Captain grinned deviously. "I could never speak ill of such noble houses..."
Jorg would've laughed if not for the ice in his lungs. "Of course not," he said instead.
Truth was that Makin's kin weren't nearly respected enough to challenge Vetur or Renar.
The minor nobility, in their pride, were squabbling over who was the highest amongst the low.
"A hand Captain?" Jorg brought himself to ask, his legs shaky and the ache in his bones numbing.
The Captain had the decency to say nothing as he held out an arm and lifted the Seastark to his feet; still dressed in the basic attire the Magnar's servants had seen fit to place him in, a brown shit and dark leggings that made him look the part of a commoner. "Your sword," Makin offered, taking the scabbard from the bedside.
The Magnar of Skagos seemed very unconcerned about his guest posing a threat, leaving that sword, but then Jorg's legs greeted him wobbly and threatless.
"An insult to leave a guest defenceless," Makin explained the Magnar's custom. "To remove your sword would be seen as an act of distrust, seems to the Skagosi, if you were to try breaking guest rights here my lord; we'd find our hosts equally armed – trust goes both ways after all… and the gods are not forgiving…"
You may keep your sword, for we trust you would not use it, but we'll keep ours as well; should you prove godless.
"A practical approach," Jorg couldn't argue with it honestly.
"They're a simple people," Makin said as Jorg found his feet uneasily.
Kingshouse was hardly fit to purpose. The old Kings of Skagos must've, in Jorg's humble view, relied solely on their once formidable fleet to cause the Starks of Winterfell such trouble; for the hold of their supposed Kings was little more than a pile of timber. Makin would explain, hushed as they passed by servants, that while the Magnar claimed domination over Skagos so too did particularly every other clan on the island – constantly fighting amongst themselves – it was no wonder the Starks had stripped these men of their ships and all but abandoned them afterwards. The keep of Magnar was little more than a motte-and-bailey with wooden palisades and huts littered about muddy streets. It was a short walk to what passed for a courtyard, out through oaken doors reinforced by bronze and runes of the first men.
The runes read "Stone", "Strength", "Sacrifice" and Jorg knew them as words of power. It was a custom his own kin held as well, though few believed in its spiritual effect, such runes of power were little but a way to respect the old ways. The very first of the first men held firm to the belief that words given faith held magic.
Put enough runes of "Strength" and "Unyielding" or even "Power" and "King" into the stone you raised a castle with and said castle would embody those words...
Such was the old ways superstitions. Then again, Jorg realised, dead men had tried to kill him.
Father, Brother. Perhaps there was some truth behind superstition?
"My lord?" Makin nudged. Jorg pushed the thoughts away.
The ache in my hands returned, a tightness in his bones; he could feel every string in his wrist tingle.
"I'm fine," he lied easily enough and ignored the feeling a best he could. "Lead on Captain..."
Through the runed doors of Kingshouse and out into what passed for a yard, a great heartstree greeted them, tall and ancient; its roots were twisted and ripping up the earth beneath it without care. This was the trees home, Jorg realised, the Magnar's had not dared to question its growth nor made any attempts to constrain it.
The roots went as they pleased... and the face... the eyes...
It was an angry face, snarling red sap and darker leaves; it looked at Jorg and found him wanting.
"You've no damn right!"
Voices were raging in the Old Tongue.
"I've every right!" and "I don't answer to you!"
Jorg wondered if perhaps the tree was angrier at all the noise, rather than worth at his own sins.
The Captain cleared his throat at their arrival, to no avail...
"My house is the eldest here!"
"The descendants of bastards!"
"Better than the kin of fishermen!"
"House Fisher would have your head for that insult!"
"Ain't no Fishers here!"
"Traitor!"
"Bootlicker!"
"Milkdrinker!"
"Why you little shi-"
"ENOUGH!" Jorg yelled, his voice cracking; the ice in his lungs cutting with its sharp edges.
Alaric Vetur was the first to bend his head, the snow-white hair falling before his dark green eyes.
"Lord Seastark," he named him, as if he'd lost every brother. "Thank the gods you've recovered!"
"Not a Lord yet Vetur," Jorg groaned at the ache in his bones.
"See?" Kalt Renar scoffed. "Idiot, his brother Lord Maric still breathes! He'd see the wisdom in my words!"
Unlikely. Maric was the more even tempered of his brothers, true enough, but he'd likely have floored Renar by now.
"My brother is an ocean away," Jorg scolded instead, hand resting uncomfortably on his swords pommel.
"And you're a traitor, boy; a turncloak!"
Jorg frowned, he wasn't technically wrong...
The Captain disagreed. "He's the best we've got!"
"And still a Seastark," Lord Vetur added sternly. "Best you remember it Kalt..."
"Seastark got us into this mess! He sailed us straight into an ambush, lost half the fucking fleet and got us on this forsaken rock!"
"Mind your damn tongue," Captain Morrow snarled, a young man of age with Jorg and eager to please.
Blonde of hair with sharp grey eyes.
He was too quick to action, this one.
"Mind your own, pup!"
"King Rodrik would never allow-"
"His Grace would see the folly of Seastarks failure!"
"His Grace," Jorg growled at that despite the sting in his chest. "Is my brother-in-law, least you forget yourself my lord – perhaps we'll ask my sister the Queen what she thinks about our late fathers... what did you call it again my lord?"
"Failure," Makin said helpfully. "My lord..."
"Thank you for reminding me, Captain Bortha..."
"I-" Renar snarled, taking a step back. "This is your fault, you hear?! You betrayed the Gods! This is YOUR doing, boy!"
His words were met with a hushed quiet. Snow drifted gently through crimson leaves.
Jorg had forsaken them... he'd married an andal, his son would be andal... the man wasn't wrong…
"You dare!" Vetur drew steel, as did his foe, and more men than Jorg liked stood with Lord Renar.
Lord Vetur's men stood ready, and Makin's knuckles were white around his blades leather handle.
"Stand down," Jorg ordered calmly.
His hand ached something fierce...
"You- You pup, you can't-"
Renar hesitated but a moment before snarling.
"You died with your father, boy... the gods punished your family! We escaped! We were spared! Not you!"
The men behind him seemed nervous at that.
Words were one thing.
Action? That was treason.
"Stand. Down. My Lord…"
"No," Renar raised his sword in defiance.
"Traitor!" Captain Morrow darted forward, only to earn a knife shoved through his eye.
The men behind the deed hadn't moved a muscle.
"This is your fault Sea-"
Lord Kalt Renar choked on his words.
A red gash at his throat, thin and leaking down his neck.
Jorg stood deadly quiet with a bloodied sword – his face a mask of apathy.
"I-" the Lord gurgled on a watery stream of blood, stumbling backwards, he tripped over the roots of the hearttree and fell back with a resounding thud, blood pouring onto the roots as the gods looked on unreadable. Lord Renar died, and his men threw down their steel. Vetur ordered them all arrested to the sound of hands clapping.
The Magnar was a burly man, grey of hair yet muscled like an ox as he chuckled and proclaimed aloud of a "fit offering from our guests!"
Kingshouse men were quick to approach Renar's corpse as it bled, with rope to tie his feet onto one branch of the hearttree – like a pig in a butcher's stall – he bled as Jorg was led away. "The gods are glad," Magnar explained, clasping his guest on the shoulder. "Tonight, we feast! There is much to discuss!"
They were it seemed not the only guests to Lord Magnar's hall. The feast began in earnest once the other clans arrived; of Crowl, Stane, Snjor, Dreki and Drottinn from each motte and village worth mentioning – all had come for reasons that escaped Jorg's explanation, when one considered these clans were meant to be at each other's throats. They'd not gathered as this since the days of Barthogan 'the Blacksword' Stark died putting down the last Skagos rebellion.
Most had arrived some time before, while others had been delayed by the storms, one by one the clans arrived with their sons no doubt in hope of brokering agreements between the various families. Listening to them speak as they drank at the Magnar's great table, Jorg heard their talks range from the trading of sheep, unicorns, obsidian and daughters. Winter had come to Skagos and its people seemed almost cooperative as the snows fell upon the Kingshouse.
"A toast!" Lord Magnar had declared. "To the gods, to the land, to our people and kin!"
They yelled "Skal!" and raised horns of mead.
"And to our snowborn guests!"
There was mumbling at those words.
"Snows," and "Andals," among their grumblings.
"SILENCE!" The Magnar barked, slamming his fist down on the table.
The clansmen looked half eager to argue or take up their bronze in arms.
"You don't rule us," one spoke, flashing yellow teeth; his shield of red-and-black resting against his seat.
"Oh aye," Magnar scoffed. "We are free men, and what will our pride earn us Crowl when the cold winds blow?"
The Crowl huffed, taking a bite from his chicken wing.
"We all received the call," the Magnar looked to the others. "Who here denies it!? WHO WOULD SPEAK!?"
Jorg eyed the clansmen warily, hand resting on the pommel of his sword; every guest kept their reluctant peace.
"The cold, and the dark," the Magnar of Kingshouse stood from his great chair and addressed them all as his sons stood guard on either side, swords of bronze and black glass in their hands. "We stoneborn remember! We have not forgotten the night! If any man here has forgotten, speak now, or I name you craven!"
"My lord," Makin was whispered from aside him.
"Not now," Jorg hushed the man sharply, eyes locked ahead.
The clansmen were looked around to see who might stand against the Magnar.
"It has been too long," the Magnar continued when none dared stand against him. "Too long! We have fought, tirelessly, ourselves and our fathers – we have waited – our faith has never dwindled; unlike the snowborn! We are Stoneborn! We Remember!"
"Stoneborn!" It was Stane to yell out, raising a horn to his host.
"Get to the bloody point!" Crowl barked and the hall howled with him.
"Fucking Crowls," the Magnar said aloud and even Crowl himself scoffed some laughter.
"Lord Jorg," Makin nudged him suddenly. "The boy there, see, behind the Magnar's throne?"
He squinted. It was difficult to make out in trust, the hall was thick with smoke and the stench of ale and sweaty clansmen, the noise was practically deafening as so many slammed their drinks on the table in support of their host – as if the screaming and insults weren't enough to be heard…
There was a figure lingering behind the throne though, hiding in the shadows; revealed only by the flicking of torches.
"What of it," Jorg turned to face the captain, one brow raised. "One of the Magnar's get? And?"
"Their eyes my lord," Makin leaned over to whisper. "I could've sworn it-"
Jorg's hand gripped his steel on instinct as the Magnar yelled, a great thunderclap that sent a shiver down his spine.
He'd bellowed "DROWNED WOLF!" and pointed a great meaty finger towards his seat.
And Jorg looked left, then right, hoping the man meant anyone else.
"Me?" he finally asked.
"Aye!" The Magnar bellowed. "Up lad, come here now!"
"My Lord?" Makin to his credit, however foolish, looked ready to fight.
It would've meant certain death. He, Jorg and Vetur would've been a poor match against the hall full of clansmen.
"Our honoured guest," the Magnar spoke once Jorg pushed back his chair and began to walk cautiously around the table. "Snowborn he might be, but the Gods have use for even soft men!" That caught a wave of laughter and jeers sent his way, and Jorg dared not take offense.
"Arrow fodders always useful," the Crowl muttered as he passed the man by, and his men laughed the loudest.
"It was spoken," the Magnar continued. "And it has come to pass! The Drowned Wolf!"
"Great Magnar," Jorg asked, deciding to honor the clansman as best he could.
The title seemed to amuse him as he chuckled heartily.
"Aye little wolf? You have questions for me?"
"I-" Jorg wondered how to not look the fool. "What-"
"What was written," Lord Vetur saved him. "Great Magnar?"
Jorg thanked the gods for the man in that moment. He'd earned a reward.
The Magnar only laughed, holding his bellow as if it were the funniest thing he'd ever heard.
"A black wolf is drowned by the night, and the cold follows him."
"We hoped you dead," one of the Magnar's sons scoffed.
"Stark," the other son cursed the name.
"Seastark," Jorg corrected politely.
"Drowned Wolf," the Magnar named him.
"Sjoulfur," another voice came from behind the throne.
It was a woman's voice, high and sweet, with a strange music in it like none he'd ever heard.
And there was a sadness to it as well. A sadness that Jorg thought might just break his heart, yet he pushed the sadness aside and squinted at the shadows so that he might see them better. It was a girl, small, with a hood that shadowed her face and a dark green robe of woven leaves that reminded him of-
"Princess?" He blurred out at the memory, however briefly.
"The raven taunts the crow," the child spoke the Old Tongue, pushing back their hood. "They were not known to us."
A girl. A child. A child with dappled skin like a doe's beneath her cloak of leaves so alike to the Princess Lyarra's own. And the child's eyes were so large, a deep liquid red with hair a tangle of green and brown, with vines and twigs woven throughout. She looked up at him as if expecting something.
"Who-" Jorg had taken one step back, the hall behind him silent.
"The First Men named us children," the child said. "The giants called us woh dak nag gran, the squirrel people, because we were small and quick and fond of trees, but we are no squirrels, no children. Our name in the True Tongue means those who sing the song of earth. Before your Old Tongue, we sung our songs for ten thousand years."
"Ten thousand years," Jorg humbled the words and dared not take his eyes off the creature.
"We men are the children," the Magnar added helpfully, seeming amused by how taken aback the outsiders looked.
"What," Jorg stumbled over the words, unable to take his eyes away.
"You have seen," the child said. "Yes?"
"The dead," Jorg guessed, nodding in answer.
"Then it's true," the Magnar grumbled off to the side.
The child's red eyes darted up. "You doubted, Magnar?"
"Well," he looked suddenly nervous. "Perhaps a little, Forn, but-"
"Its name is Forn…"
The child looked back at him.
Its great wide red eyes bore into his soul.
"My name in the True Tongue is-"
The child's voice was as winter air through fallen leaves.
"You are too young," it almost seemed saddened by that fact.
"We know them as Forn," the Magnar said with a great proud grin.
It meant 'Ancient' in the Old Tongue and Jorg supposed that spoke to age.
"I-" he shook away the mountain of questions. "What is it you want, exactly…"
Forn blinked its great red eyes, strange and unreal to him.
"The crow has failed," it said sadly. "The words are broken…"
"We must fight and die well," the Magnar declared aloud with a fist over his heart.
"Grandfather always said the nights were getting cold," Crowl spoke up, drowning his ale.
"Someone has to save you Snowborn cunts," came Stane's voice and wave of laughter at it.
"They-" Jorg eyed them all. Savages. That was the truth of things, these clansmen of the stone and rock, armed with bronze and black glass – barely better than wildlings – if these were their saviours then by the gods what hope was there? The child, this Forn, surely had to understand this?
What good would bronze and glass serve?
It was staring at him still, blinking, waiting…
"Together," it finally said. "And even then, the hour is late..."
"What say you Stoneborn!?" The Magnar pounded his chest. "Do we hide, or do we FIGHT!"
Silence. The gathered clansmen looked to each other, some doubting, some afraid; others willing.
"Certainty of death," Crowl broke the uneasy quiet. "Small chance of success. What are we waiting for?"
"We fight!" Stane slammed his horn of ale onto the tale and sent the drink spilling. "FIGHT! TO LIVE OR DIE WELL!"
"Fight!" another yelled. "The Gods will it!" and "Fight!" and "Magnar!" and "Forn!" as they banged their drinks on the tables.
"YES!" the Magnar of Kingshouse roared and trusted his great bronze axe up in the air.
The smell of cooked meat and fresh ale came rolling in from the great doors of Kinghouse's Hall.
"But first my brothers!" He roared, pointing his axe past Jorg and down the hall. "FIRST WE FEAST!"
Jorg had turned to see what the Magnar was waving his great axe at, its runes ornate, his guests cheering loudly and banging their refilled horns and tankards on the tables with a THUD, THUD, THUD echoed by shouts of "FEAST, FEAST, FEAST" as a handful of servants rolled in the main course.
The Magnar's hand was fast and heavy on Jorg's shoulder, leading him down the tables towards the servants.
"To the Drowned Wolf!" He declared, slamming his axe into the spit-roasting meat with a grin. "FIRST WE FEAST!"
As the Magnar carved off a slice of red meat with a knife of black glass, placing it onto his wooden plate, Jorg could only chuckle nervously.
He walked in silence back to his seat besides Makin and Vetur with plate in hand as the Magnar carved more meat for Crowl and Stane and the others in order of their strength and respect. Jorg looked down at his plate and stabbed at the meat carefully with his knife, finding it red and bloody.
In the moment he turned to Makin and smirked despite himself to ask simply, "Captain?"
Makin Bortha stared blankly, looking pale as his own plate was served by a pretty lass.
Jorg stabbed at his meal once more and asked, "What does treason taste like?"
My Note(s): An unplanned extra chapter that I'll try to get finished for New Years :) I've a list of chapters and the basic gist of how each will play out from Start to Finish but every now and again an idea pops into my head and I say, "yeah this adds something to the story" or even "this'll be cool" and here we are with an extra chapter! Originally, I was just going to have Jorg limb back into White Harbor and report things from there, but I now feel like this Skagos chapter. I don't know how long it'll be exactly (the extras tend to be shorter) but my usual 'aim' of 8-10k words minimum is already way more than a lot of fics out there… so out of curiosity, how do you feel about chapters being below 5k words? I personally think it's too short but maybe that's just Me? I do tend to be my own worst critic haha
Jorg got some character building this chapter though, ended up writing itself, so that's good :) he's actually one of my favourite OCs even if it may seem like I drag him through a lot of shit haha it's out of loooove I swear :P he needs extra suffering before we can answer the question: what DOES treason taste like?
At annnnny rate Happy New Year to everyone :D The last couple years have been a clusterfuck, but I'm feeling confident-ish about 2023!
246vili: The North isn't in great shape to beat back the Others no although there's some hints in this chapter :P they'll be hard pressed to survive alone, if they can at all, that is entirely possible they cannot. At least Half of their strength is in the Stormlands right now alongside Aegon and the others, then you've token forces left behind to hold Ibben and the Isles while the Empire has its own problems. The Iron Bank is funding them with ships for the majority, and only to blockage ports/offer support etc to see their debts settled with the Iron Throne... whoever may sit on it... although Rodrik nowhas accounts with them as well, and a lot of gold from Ibben.
Hulkbuster97: The loss of the Wildlings (most of them at least) is a blow indeed tho at least they burnt the dead, there are Some survivors mostly taken by Robb's men rather than Darion's and we'll get a clearer picture of the situation later on :) the North is about due for an accounting of their remaining strength and etc.
Finkarhu & Dave: Glad you're enjoying it. Thanks for commenting as always :)