264 AC
Varg
Braavos had been an exposure to a better life no doubt, a city-state that dwarfed all that Varg's people knew. Pentos was no different.
The entrance towards the Pentos harbour was no issue as in Braavos. After paying all the taxes and all the dues of course.
Unlike Braavos's canals and looming Titan, Pentos was earthier, its walls baked by the sun. The air carried the scent of spices, roasting meat, and something sweet like some perfume.
As they moved through the harbour Varg's mind was on the slaves.
He wasn't looking for mere labourers. But for Skilled ones. Craftspeople, smiths, scribes, he needed them all!
Skagos had its fair share of warriors and whores, but few craftsmen. The slavers of Pentos would have what he sought.
As they entered the slave district Varg noticed that the slave markets were clean in Pentos, unnervingly so. White marble, silk tents, perfumed auctioneers. But beneath the sheen, it was still men in chains. Oh, pardon, 'Indentured servants'.
Varg perused them like cattle. Lean scribes, accountants, artisans with nimble fingers, But the prices!
"Twenty gold dragons," the merchant sniffed, gesturing to a girl who carved a miniature lion from wood.
"She can recreate any sigil you name."
"I'd get ten of her in Skagos for half that," Varg muttered.
Torv chuckled. "If she survives the winter."
They moved on. Deal after deal slipped through his fingers. Pentos was too expensive. He wasn't broke, but he wasn't rich either. Not yet.
After some time and few talks with the locals Varg found out about the Cheaper markets outside the city.
The day bled into evening as Varg led his men through Pentos's winding streets. The city was a maze of contradictions. From one end the opulent palaces with marble columns to squalid alleys where beggars scrabbled in the dirt. Varg's boots thudded on cobblestones polished by centuries of trade, his eyes drinking in the sights.
Women in silks glided past, their perfumes heady, their glances bold or coy. Varg noticed here in Pentos there were many more Valyrian looking people than he or his people have ever seen.
Taverns spilled laughter and the clink of cups, while merchants hawked wares from Lys to Volantis. His men gawked, Jory nearly tripping over a crate of oranges as he stared at a Valyrian looking dancer twirling in a square, her skirts a blur of crimson.
"Eyes forward, lad," Torv snapped, though his own gaze lingered on the dancer's curves. Pentos was a feast, and he was starving.
They wandered deeper, the streets narrowing, the air growing thick with the stench of refuse and sweat.
The poorer districts were a different beast, their buildings crumbling, their residents gaunt and wary. Varg's at all times had his hand rested on his sword, his senses sharp.
A low chant stopped Varg in his tracks. It came from an alley, a guttural murmur in a tongue he didn't know, punctuated by a scream that cut off abruptly. His blood ran cold, a primal instinct prickling his spine.
"Torv, with me," he whispered, drawing his sword. His retinue following.
The alley was a black maw, its walls streaked with grime. The chant grew louder, rhythmic, laced with a wet, tearing sound.
Varg's grip tightened on his sword as he rounded a corner, his breath catching. Before him, in a crumbling courtyard lit by flickering torches, stood a dozen figures in tattered black robes, their faces hidden under hoods.
At their centre, a stone altar glistened with fresh blood, a man's body splayed across it, his chest and lower body carved open, his heart and ripped out penis still steaming in the cool air.
A robed figure held the heart and the penis aloft, chanting louder, the words twisting in Varg's gut like a knife.
The air grew heavy, unnatural, as if the shadows themselves pressed against him. A red glow pulsed from the altar, faint but growing, and the ground seemed to hum under his feet.
Varg's skin crawled, a coldness seeping into his bones, not from the wind but from something wrong. His men froze, their faces pale, Jory's bow trembling in his hands.
"Old gods, protect us," Jory whispered, his voice cracking, eyes wide with terror.
"Jésus," Varg muttered, his voice a nervous rasp, the French slipping out unbidden. "What the fuck is this?"
The robed figures turned, their hoods revealing eyes that glinted like polished obsidian. One stepped forward, a woman, her voice hissing like a snake.
Varg's lip curled, his fear curdling into rage. Magic. Fucking magic. A woman's weapon, a coward's tool.
"You're about to meet my god," he snarled, lunging forward. His sword flashed, cleaving through the woman's neck, her head rolling as blood sprayed. The others screamed, a mix of fury and terror, and charged, their daggers gleaming with a sickly red light.
The fight was brutal, but quick. Varg and his accompanied retinue made a short work of the cultists.
Torv's axe split a cultist's skull, brains splattering the stones, while Jory loosed an arrow that pinned a man's hand to the altar, his scream piercing the night.
While Varg hacked through another, his sword shearing through ribs, blood hot on his hands. The cultists fought poorly, as to be expected of witches.
One by one, they fell, their blood mingling with the altar's, the red glow fading as the last choked on his own tongue.
Varg stood panting, his chest heaving, the coldness still clinging to him like damp rot.
His eyes fell on a leather-bound book beside the altar, its cover etched with symbols. He reached for it, his fingers brushing the leather, and a jolt shot through him, sharp and icy.
The air thickened, whispers curling in his ears.
"Fuck, this shit!" he spat, wrenching his hand back. The book fell, and the whispers stopped, but the cold lingered, gnawing at his bones.
He hated it, hated the way it made his skin crawl, hated the way it mocked his strength. Magic was for weaklings, for those too craven to face a man blade to blade.
He turned to Torv, his voice low, shaken. "Ever hear of this shit on Skagos? Witches cutting dicks and hearts in alleys? Haha…"
Torv's grin was gone, his scarred face pale. "Not in alleys, m'lord, but… old tales. Fisherfolk whisper of blood rites, offerings to the trees. Thought it was just stories to scare kids."
He spat, glancing at the altar. "Guess not."
He kicked the book into the altar's blood, then grabbed a torch and set it ablaze. The flames roared, consuming the leather, the runes curling into ash. The coldness eased, but his heart still pounded, his nerves raw.
"Burn it all," he growled, gesturing to the altar. His men obeyed, tossing torches onto the stone, the blood sizzling as it burned. The courtyard filled with smoke, the stench of charred flesh and something fouler choking the air. Varg turned away, his stomach twisting.
"Let's move."
As they left the alley, Jory lagged behind, his eyes still on the flames. Varg grabbed his shoulder, pulling him along. "Don't let this shit scare you, boy. It's just tricks. And they are dead now."
Jory nodded, his lips moving in a silent prayer. Varg let it go. The boy would toughen up, or he'd break. Either way, no time for weakness.
They left the alley behind, the fire crackling in their wake. Varg's mind churned, the memory of the book's touch like a splinter under his skin. He'd face steel, fire, even death, but magic? That was a line he wouldn't cross. It was a woman's trick, a coward's crutch, and he'd sooner die than wield it.
Back in the market, Varg shook off the unease, his focus returning to his goal. The cities prices had gutted his hopes of buying skilled thralls in the city, but the local words about cheaper markets in the countryside lingered.
"Torv, we're heading out," he said, his voice steady again. "Find us a guide. Someone who knows the backroads."
Torv nodded, disappearing into the crowd. By dusk, he returned with a skinny man named Klyro, a Pentoshi with a pockmarked face and shifty eyes.
"He knows the markets," Torv said, his grin sly. "Says there's a slaver outside the city, deals in 'indentured servants' for half the price."
Varg's lips curled. Indentured servants. A fancy name for slaves here.
"Lead on," he told Klyro, his men falling in behind him. They left Pentos at dawn, the city's walls fading as they trekked into the countryside, a rolling expanse of olive groves and dusty hills.
The air was warmer here, thick with the scent of earth and herbs, a far cry from Skagos's cool air. Varg's men marched in loose formation.
Couple hours later, they spotted a dust cloud on the road ahead. Varg halted his men, crouching behind a ridge, his hand on his sword. A small party approached: a party of eight thralls, flanked by a dozen Unsullied guards in spiked helms, their spears gleaming.
There was a woman too, at her side rode a man in silks, his beard oiled, his posture screaming wealth, some sort of local aristocracy perhaps?
Beside him, the woman had an elegant gown, her silver/gold hair catching the sun, her violet eyes sharp even from a distance. A Valyrian beauty, like something out of a bard's tale. A not some half breed like they saw in the cities, she looked like a full on Targaryen! Purples eyes and all.
Varg's grin widened. Easy pickings.
"Torv, Jory, spread the men. We hit fast and quiet. No survivors but the woman and the magister. This needs to be done hush-hush Pentos can't know for trade's sake."
Torv's scarred face split into a grin, and Jory nodded, his bow already nocked. The warband fanned out, using the hills for cover, their movements silent.
The Unsullied were disciplined, their spears snapping up as the first Skagosi roared from the brush, but they were outnumbered. Varg's men-at-arms crashed into their line, axes hacking through their armour, blood spraying the dust.
One by one, they fell, their blood soaking the earth. The magister screamed, his silk robe tearing as he tried to flee, but Torv tackled him, pinning him in the dust. And the woman stumbled out, her silver hair tangled, her violet eyes wide with terror.
Varg loomed over her, his sword dripping. She was breathtaking, her features sharp and ethereal, her gown clinging to a lithe frame. A Valyrian, no doubt.
"You're mine," he said, his voice low, his eyes raking over her. She flinched but didn't scream, her jaw tight, her eyes blazing with defiance.
The ambush was over in minutes, the road silent save for the magister's whimpers and the woman's ragged breaths.
Varg's men looted the bodies, stripping the Unsullied of their armour and spears. The captain's plate, etched with dragons, caught Varg's eye.
He claimed it, slinging it over his shoulder.
"Bind them," he ordered, nodding to the magister and the woman. His men clapped irons on their wrists, the woman's gaze never leaving Varg, her eyes a storm of fear and hate.
As they marched, the woman, whose name he learned was Jaenara, walked with her head high, her silver hair glinting in the sun. Inside her mind, a whirlwind raged.
She was Jaenara of House Vhassyl, one of Pentos's forty, raised in luxury, her life a tapestry of silks and servants.
Now, she was captured by some sunset kingdoms savage. She hated him, this towering brute with his cold blue eyes, but fear gnawed at her. She'd heard tales of the North men, savages even amongst themselves, and now she was his.
The thought of his hands on her, of yielding to his will, made her stomach churn, but survival demanded compliance. She'd wait for her chance.
Varg caught her staring, her violet eyes sharp as daggers.
"You'll learn to love Driftwood Hall," he said, his tone mocking.
She said nothing, her lips a thin line, but her eyes promised trouble. He smirked. A Valyrian concubine, a true Targaryen lookalike. His harem would be the envy of any Skagosi.
The countryside markets were a grim affair, tucked in a dusty valley far from Pentos's walls. The slaver, a gaunt man named Qarro, dealt in "indentured servants," his stalls filled with men and women in rags, their skills etched on wooden plaques. Varg's gold, though stretched thin, bought him a dozen: couple skilled blacksmiths, a shipwright, three masons, and a handful of carpenters, all skilled but half-starved, their prices a fraction of the cities.
Qarro's deals were hush-hush, his guards ensuring no word reached the city. Varg's men loaded his new 'thralls' onto carts, their eyes dull with resignation.
On the return to Pentos, Varg's warband moved cautiously, avoiding any trouble. Near a crumbling bridge, a boy darted from the shadows, his fingers snatching at a pouch on Torv's belt. Varg grabbed the lad's wrist, twisting it until he yelped. He was young, no a young man or a teenager perhaps? With a silver hair and clever eyes.
"Name, thief!" Varg growled.
"Varys," the boy said, his voice steady despite the pain. "Just looking for a coin, m'lord."
Varg's brow rose. A thief, bold as brass. He released the boy, tossing him a copper.
"Get lost, Varys. Next time, I'll take your hand." The boy grinned, vanishing into the brush. Varg shook his head. A name to remember, maybe.
Back in Pentos, Varg's cog was loaded with thralls, loot, and Jaenara, her beauty a stark contrast to the weathered ship. As they putting in the new 'cargo', Torv approached, his voice low. "M'lord, this ambush… if Pentos hears, we're fucked for trade. That magister's got friends. You sure about keeping the girl?"
Varg's eyes flicked to Jaenara, chained but unbowed, her violet gaze cutting through him.
"She's worth the risk," he said, though doubt gnawed at him.
"Keep the men quiet. No loose tongues." Torv nodded, but his scarred face was grim, a rare crack in his usual bravado.