264 AC
Varg
The Journey down from Port Driftwood succeeded without any issues. After half a dozen raids, his sailors were now somewhat experienced and managed around the ship without any trouble.
In less than a week, the Essosi cog carved through the waves, and finally, Braavos loomed on the horizon.
Varg stood at the prow, his cloak flapping in the salt wind. The Titan of Braavos, that monstrous statue straddling the harbour, grew larger with every swell, its bronze sword gleaming in the morning sun.
He'd heard tales of it from Zaro, that Pentoshi trader whom'd he dealt with, but seeing it now, towering like a god over the sea, made his gut twist.
Driftwood Hall, his keep, was a pigsty by comparison. Then again, he already knew that.
Port Driftwood housed two thousand souls, a speck of progress scraped from Skagos's barren rock.
But Braavos?
This was a city-state, a sprawling behemoth that made his port look like a child's sandcastle. Canals snaked through the city, lined with buildings of pale marble and red tile, their arches and spires catching the light.
Ships crowded the docks, sleek galleys and fat merchants' cogs, their holds stuffed with wealth Varg could barely fathom. His own cog, a weathered thing, looked like a beggar's raft amid the flotilla.
His men, a rough lot of men-at-arms and Housecarls, gawked from the deck, their mouths half-open like village bumpkins seeing a castle for the first time. Torv, his scarred captain, leaned over the rail, spitting into the sea.
"Bloody hell, m'lord," he muttered, his axe dangling forgotten at his hip.
"This place makes Skagos look like a pile of goat shite."
Jory, his latest recruit, clutched his yew bow, eyes wide as he stared at the Titan.
"How'd they build that? It's taller than a mountain!" His voice cracked, betraying his youth. The others muttered similar nonsense, pointing at the canals, the bridges, the women in bright silks gliding past.
Varg didn't hush them. Let them gape. Let them dream, let them want…
He'd dealt with Zaro of Pentos before, but Braavos was another beast entirely.
Here, Varg was the outsider, a lord from a backwater rock with nothing but furs, obsidian trinkets, and a single weirwood tree hidden in the hold.
As the cog eased into its berth, he started hearing shouting in a tongue Varg barely caught, he guessed it's some Valyrian vernacular dialect.
A pair of two dozen Braavosi guards in sleek Renaissance-style attire, their breastplates decorated with the Titan's sigil, approached the gangplank.
Their eyes, sharp under plumed helms, scanned Varg and his crew with a mix of boredom and suspicion. One, a lean man with a hooked nose, held up a gloved hand, his other resting on a curved sword.
"Name and purpose," he demanded in accented Common, his voice clipped.
"Varg of Skagos, the Lord of Driftwood Hall," Varg replied, his tone steady, though he felt the weight of their gaze.
"Here to trade furs and obsidian and some other goods."
The guard's brow arched, his lips twitching as if Skagos were a jest he'd heard before. He scribbled something, then jerked his head toward the dock.
"Keep your men in line. No brawling, no thieving. Braavos has no patience for savages."
Varg's jaw tightened, but he nodded, swallowing the urge to snap back. Savages, eh? Even if he disliked being called that, they were right…
The second guard, shorter and broader, inspected the cog's deck, his eyes lingering on the crates before waving them through.
He stepped onto the dock, his boots thudding on polished planks, and his men followed, their patched gambesons and dented mail clanking.
The Braavosi dockworkers, now casting wary glances under the guards' watch, hurried to secure the ship's ropes, their movements precise. Varg's crew, shuffled behind him, their eyes still wide, gawking like village bumpkins.
"Bloody hell, m'lord, these guards act like we're here to raid their fancy arses."
"Keep your gob shut," Varg growled low, though he shared the sentiment. The guards lingered nearby, watching as his men hauled crates of furs and obsidian trinkets onto the dock.
Varg's gaze swept the market sprawling along the waterfront, a riot of colour and noise. Stalls brimmed with silks, spices, and strange fruits, their scents mingling with fish and tar. Merchants in velvet cloaks haggled with sailors, their voices rising over the squawk of gulls. The guards' presence didn't stifle the chaos; if anything, it sharpened it, as traders and buyers moved with a wary efficiency under their scrutiny.
"Stay close," Varg barked, his hand resting on Ralf's sword, now his own. "And stop staring like you've never seen a city."
"But, m'lord.. we haven't!" Jory replied.
Varg gave them a good look and replied. "I don't give the shit, don't embarrass me."
His men shuffled tighter, though Jory still craned his neck at a passing barge laden with crates.
A Braavosi merchant approached, his robe a deep indigo, his beard trimmed to a point. "You trade?" he asked, his Westerosi with an accent. His eyes flicked over Varg's furs and the obsidian necklaces glinting in the sun, crafted by his Crowl artisans.
"Aye," Varg said, his voice gruff. "Furs. Obsidian. The very best you'll see from Skagos."
He gestured to the crates his men hauled, their contents a mix of various pelts, seal hides, and polished black jewellery carved with Skagosi runes.
The merchant's lips curled, assessing.
"Skagos, eh? Let's see your wares."
Varg nodded to Torv, who cracked open a crate, revealing furs thick and glossy, the kind that kept Skagosi alive through bitter winters.
The merchant ran a hand over them, then picked up an obsidian pendant, its edges sharp enough to draw blood.
"Not bad," he said, though his tone suggested he'd seen better.
"I'll give you ten gold for the lot."
Varg's jaw tightened. Ten gold dragons? For furs that'd warm a lord's bed and jewellery that'd grace a lady's neck?
He didn't need to remember Zaro's advice to know a lowball when he heard it.
"Hundred and fifty Gold dragons," he said, voice flat.
The merchant's brow rose. They haggled, voices sharp, gestures sharper. Varg leaned on his size, his over six-foot frame looming. Perhaps even benefiting the trade.
The merchant conceded but not fully, in the end offering fifty gold dragons for all the furs and another fifty for the obsidian jewellery. hundred dragons total, more wealth than Driftwood Hall's treasury had seen probably forever.
Varg's heart thudded as the coins clinked into his palm, their weight real, heavy. Gold, not silver.
He'd come with furs and trinkets, expecting a modest haul, but this? This was a fortune. Trade, he realised, was more profitable than anything he could have made in Skagos through taxation.
Skagos's scraps, worthless to his people, were treasure here. Varg's mind raced with ambition.
"Load the rest," he told Torv, who grinned, sensing the shift in their fortunes. The men hauled crates, their earlier awe replaced by eager chatter.
Varg wandered the market with some gold heavy in his pouch. Stalls gleamed with steel swords, daggers, and breastplates polished to a mirror shine.
A suit of plate caught his eye, its curves etched with waves, light as a feather compared to his clunky mail. He lifted an arming sword, its balance perfect, the steel singing as it cut the air.
"How much?" he asked the smith, a wiry man with ink-stained fingers.
"Eight dragons," the smith said, not looking up from his work.
Varg's jaw clenched. Eight? He had a hundred, and that was for purchasing slaves…eh, thralls, he admitted to himself with a dark chuckle.
Fancy new equipment could wait. He needed bodies to work his port, to build his city. He set the sword down, the smith's indifference stinging more than he cared to admit.
His gaze drifted to the women of Braavos, and his breath caught. They were nothing like the Skagosi.
These women moved like dancers, their skin olive and smooth, Mediterranean in its warmth, their hair dark and flowing or braided with beads. Some had the look of old Valyria with pale silver hair, violet eyes, faces carved from marble. 'Magnifique, absolument exquise'. He thought, his blood stirring.
A Valyrian concubine would be a prize, no doubt. He imagined one in his furs, her delicate frame yielding to him, her eyes gleaming with secrets.
"Eyes off, m'lord," Torv muttered, nudging him jokingly.
"You've got enough women making your bed creak, haha."
Varg snorted, shoving the thought aside. "Fuck you Torv," he said, though his smirk betrayed him.
The day wore on, the market's bustle never fading. Varg traded the remaining furs, bartering with a second merchant for another forty dragons.
His men, still gawking at the city's wonders, loaded the cog with salt, wine, and a crate of lemons, their sharp scent a luxury Skagos would never know.
As the sun dipped, Varg stood on the dock, his warband ready to sail. Braavos had shown him wealth, power, and a world beyond his rock.
But he wasn't done yet. Pentos awaited Zaro's city. There, too, he'd sell his final 'good'.
"Cast off," he barked, climbing aboard. The cog's sails snapped taut, the Titan shrinking behind them.
Updates slowed down cause I got school work. But I am quite motivated to finish this story.