Chapter 2: The Forging of Stonefang's Foundation

Chapter 2: The Forging of Stonefang's Foundation

Darth Vorhax, inhabiting the guise of Lord Ellys Vorant, pushed open the heavy, ill-fitting wooden door of his chamber. The hinges groaned in protest, a sound that seemed to echo the general decay of Stonefang Hold. He stepped into the dim, narrow corridor, his bare feet surprisingly steady on the cold, uneven stone flags. The borrowed servant's robe, though coarse, at least covered the boy-lord's thin frame, preventing immediate scrutiny of his still-recovering physique.

A serving girl, no older than fourteen, with stringy hair and a perpetually startled expression, was listlessly sweeping dust from one patch of floor to another. She looked up, saw him, and her eyes widened comically. The broom clattered from her nerveless fingers. She stammered, "M-my lord! You… you're about!"

Vorhax merely inclined his head, a gesture that felt alien on these young features but was delivered with an ancient gravity. "Indeed," he said, his voice still holding a touch of the reedy quality he despised, but laced with an undercurrent of resonant power he was consciously cultivating. He let a sliver of the Force brush against her mind – not to control, merely to impress a sense of profound significance, a feeling that this was no longer the feckless boy she knew. She visibly shivered, her fear now tinged with an unsettling awe.

"Fetch Maester Vymar," Vorhax commanded, his gaze sweeping the grimy corridor. "Inform him I await him in the Great Hall. And see to it that the hall is… presentable."

The girl bobbed a hasty curtsy, nearly tripping over her own feet as she scurried away, a newfound urgency in her movements. Vorhax watched her go, a flicker of contempt in his eyes. Primitives. Easily swayed. But even the most pliable clay needs a firm hand to shape it.

He made his way towards the so-called Great Hall. It was a generous term for a long, narrow chamber with a soot-stained ceiling, a few rickety trestle tables, and rushes on the floor that smelled as though they hadn't been changed in a moon's turn. Two gaunt wolfhounds, ribs showing, lifted their heads from a corner, offering apathetic thumps of their tails before subsiding back into slumber. Even the animals here were dispirited.

Maester Vymar arrived shortly, puffing slightly, carrying a roll of parchments and a slim, leather-bound book. "My lord! You are looking… more vital this morn." His gaze was searching, a mixture of professional concern and a dawning apprehension. The boy lord who had clung to life by a thread now moved with a deliberate, unsettling poise.

"The maps and histories I requested?" Vorhax asked, ignoring the pleasantries. He gestured to the largest table. "Lay them out."

Vymar complied, unrolling a faded map of the immediate region – Cape Wrath, the southern Stormlands coastline, dotted with minor holdfasts and villages. The other scroll was a broader, less detailed map of Westeros itself. The book, Vymar explained, was a brief history of the Storm Kings and the establishment of Baratheon rule, along with some local lineage records for House Vorant.

"This is all?" Vorhax raised an eyebrow. The sum total of Stonefang's accumulated knowledge felt pitifully inadequate.

"We are not a scholarly house, my lord," Vymar said apologetically. "The late Lord Kael had little patience for books."

Evidently. Vorhax's gaze fell upon the map of his new… estate. Stonefang Hold was perched precariously on a rocky outcrop overlooking a turbulent stretch of the Narrow Sea, a few miles inland. Its lands appeared to be a thin strip of stony soil, bordered by scrubby woodland to the west and the sea to the east. A single, poorly maintained track led north towards the Kingswood and south towards other minor lordlings. Strategically insignificant. Economically barren.

"Where is Ser Gareth?" Vorhax demanded, his mind already working, processing the bleak reality and formulating contingencies.

"In the courtyard, my lord," Vymar replied. "Drilling the men. Or… attempting to."

"Let us observe this attempt."

The courtyard was a muddy, windswept patch of ground, barely large enough to swing a dead cat, let alone train a company of soldiers. About fifteen men, clad in a motley collection of boiled leather, rusted mail fragments, and homespun cloth, were listlessly going through the motions of spear practice. Their weapons were a collection of chipped blades, dented spearheads, and crude wooden shields bearing a faded depiction of Stonefang's sigil – a grey bird of prey, a hawk perhaps, clutching a jagged stone. Vorhax made a mental note: a more inspiring sigil would be required. Something that spoke of dread and dominion.

Overseeing this shambles was a young man, barely out of his teens, with a shock of straw-colored hair and an earnest, frustrated expression. Ser Gareth. He was equipped with a surprisingly decent sword and a shield, though his armor was as mismatched as his men's. He barked commands that lacked conviction, and his men responded with commensurate apathy.

As Vorhax and Vymar emerged onto the covered walkway overlooking the yard, Gareth noticed them. His eyes widened, and he quickly called his men to a ragged halt. "My lord! You are… on your feet!"

Vorhax descended the worn stone steps, Vymar trailing nervously behind him. The men-at-arms shuffled uneasily, their eyes darting between their young, sickly lord and their increasingly flustered captain. They could sense a change, an unfamiliar tension in the air.

"Ser Gareth," Vorhax said, his voice carrying clearly across the yard despite its lack of volume. He stopped a few paces from the assembled men, his gaze sweeping over them. It was a predatory assessment, cold and analytical, missing nothing – the ill-nourished bodies, the poorly maintained gear, the flicker of fear and resentment in their eyes. "Report on the state of Stonefang's defenses and ahm, fighting strength."

Gareth visibly swallowed. "My lord, as you know… things have been difficult. We number twenty men in total, though five are currently on foraging duty. Our arms are… functional, for the most part. The walls… the eastern wall needs urgent repair, and the gatehouse winch is unreliable." He gestured vaguely. "But their spirit is… willing, my lord."

A few of the men exchanged dubious glances. Vorhax let a small, chilling smile touch his lips. "Willing for what, Ser? To cower behind crumbling stone? To die of starvation before an enemy even arrives?"

Gareth flushed. "My lord, we do our best with what we have!"

"Your best is insufficient." Vorhax's tone was flat, devoid of emotion, which made the pronouncement all the more damning. He stepped closer, his gaze locking onto one of the larger, more sullen-looking men, who clutched a rusty axe. "You. What is your name?"

The man shifted. "Hobb, m'lord."

"Hobb." Vorhax tilted his head. "Tell me, Hobb, what is your purpose here? To draw meager rations and wait for the sea to claim these stones?"

Hobb bristled. "I serve House Vorant! Same as my father before me!"

"And what has that service yielded him? A forgotten grave? And you, a rusty axe and an empty belly?" Vorhax's eyes narrowed. He subtly focused the Force, projecting an aura of immense, ancient power, a silent pressure that made the air around him seem to thicken. Hobb, along with the other men, took an involuntary step back. Even Ser Gareth looked unnerved.

"Things are about to change at Stonefang Hold," Vorhax announced, his voice gaining that resonant quality he was perfecting. "This castle will be rebuilt. This land will become productive. You will become soldiers. Not the pathetic rabble I see before me, but a force that will make our neighbors tremble."

A scoff, quickly stifled, came from the ranks. Vorhax's head snapped towards the sound. A wiry man with shifty eyes.

"You find amusement in my words, soldier?"

The man paled. "N-no, my lord."

"Good." Vorhax paced slowly before them. "From this day forward, the old ways of Stonefang are dead. There will be discipline. There will be rigor. There will be obedience. Those who work, who fight, who dedicate themselves to the rise of House Vorant, will be rewarded. Those who shirk, who complain, who disobey…" He paused, letting his gaze linger on each man. "…will be removed. Permanently."

The threat hung heavy in the damp air. This was not the weak, timid Ellys they remembered. This was something… else. Something dangerous.

"Ser Gareth," Vorhax turned to the young knight. "You will continue to command these men. But you will do so under my direct supervision. Your drills will intensify. We will repair the walls, starting with the eastern section. Maester Vymar, you will conduct a full inventory of our stores – food, weapons, tools, everything. I want a precise accounting by nightfall."

Vymar, who had been observing with growing alarm, nodded quickly. "Yes, my lord. At once."

"The rest of you," Vorhax addressed the men again. "Your duties will be threefold. Training, labor, and vigilance. Every man will learn to fight. Every man will contribute to the fortification and sustenance of this hold. And every man will keep watch, for threats from without and within." He paused. "Dismissed to your duties. Ser Gareth, a word."

The men dispersed, not with their earlier lethargy, but with a new, uneasy haste, muttering amongst themselves. Gareth approached, his expression a mixture of apprehension and a grudging respect.

"My lord," Gareth began, "I will do as you command, but our resources… we have little coin, fewer tools, and the men are not accustomed to such…"

"They will accustom themselves," Vorhax cut him off. "As for resources, we will find them. Or create them." He looked towards the crumbling eastern wall. "For now, focus on salvageable stone from the collapsed outbuildings. We will begin repairs with what we have. I expect to see progress by day's end."

"Yes, my lord." Gareth hesitated. "My lord… your illness… you seem much changed."

Vorhax allowed a faint, unreadable smile. "Let us say I have had a… revelation, Ser. Stonefang has slumbered for too long. It is time it awoke."

With that, he turned and strode back towards the main keep, leaving Gareth to galvanize his bewildered troops. Vorhax's mind was already racing. The men were poor material, but not entirely without potential. Fear and discipline, properly applied, could forge them into something useful. The key was to break their old habits, instill new loyalties – loyalty to him, not to the memory of some dead lord or a failing house.

He spent the next several hours conducting his own inspection of Stonefang Hold. Maester Vymar, clutching a quill and parchment, trotted anxiously behind him, dutifully noting his lord's observations and commands.

The "Great Hall" was drafty, its tapestries (what remained of them) moth-eaten and faded. The kitchens were a greasy horror, the well in the courtyard suspect. The barracks were cramped, damp, and vermin-infested. The armory was a small, dusty room containing a handful of rusting swords, more pikes of dubious quality, and a few dented helmets. The granary was nearly empty, the stores pitiful.

Vorhax moved through it all with an unnerving detachment. He used the Force subtly, extending his senses into the very stone and wood. He felt the stress fractures in the load-bearing walls, the rot in the ancient timbers, the damp seeping up from the foundations. He noted a section of the cellar that seemed to have been walled off – a quick mental probe suggested a forgotten storage area, perhaps even a collapsed tunnel. Interesting.

His internal monologue was a scathing critique. This hovel wouldn't last a standard planetary bombardment for a micro-cycle. Even the Tusken Raiders on Tatooine had more formidable defenses. Yet, he also saw the potential. The bedrock was solid. The location, while isolated, offered good visibility of the sea approaches. With proper engineering – knowledge he possessed in abundance – it could be made defensible. More than defensible.

He issued a stream of orders to Vymar: "This section of the wall is prioritized for immediate reinforcement." "The well is to be cleaned and deepened; until then, all drinking water will be boiled." "Organize sanitation details – the filth in the barracks is a breeding ground for disease, a greater threat than any bandit." "Clear the debris from that collapsed section of the western tower; I sense usable stone there."

Vymar scribbled furiously, his initial fear giving way to a kind of bewildered efficiency. The young lord was not merely issuing vague pronouncements; he was giving specific, practical, and surprisingly knowledgeable instructions.

Later, alone in his chamber, Vorhax spread the maps Vymar had provided. The local map was crude, but combined with his Force-augmented senses, he began to build a more accurate picture of his surroundings. The so-called Vorant lands were indeed poor for conventional agriculture. But as he closed his eyes, reaching out with the Force, extending his perception beyond the castle walls, feeling the subtle vibrations and energies within the earth itself, he detected… something. An anomaly. Several miles inland, deep beneath a rocky tor on the edge of their territory, he sensed a significant deposit of iron ore. Not just any ore – a surprisingly rich vein. Untouched. Unknown.

A slow, predatory smile spread across Ellys Vorant's face. Iron. The backbone of any war machine. The foundation of wealth.

He also sensed pockets of more fertile land in sheltered valleys, currently overgrown and unused. He felt the paths of underground springs that could be tapped for irrigation. This land was not barren; it was merely neglected, misunderstood by its primitive inhabitants.

His strategic planning began to solidify.

Phase One: Consolidation (First Year).

 * Absolute Loyalty: Break the will of the current garrison and household. Re-forge them through fear, discipline, and the subtle promise of power. Eliminate dissenters ruthlessly.

 * Fortification: Repair Stonefang Hold's basic defenses. Make it a secure, if modest, base of operations. Utilize his advanced engineering knowledge for efficiency and strength.

 * Resource Acquisition: Secretly begin extraction of the iron ore. Improve agricultural output using advanced techniques (crop rotation, irrigation). Establish a hidden treasury.

 * Intelligence: Train a few loyal individuals in reconnaissance and information gathering. Understand the local political landscape – the ambitions and weaknesses of neighboring minor lords.

Phase Two: Expansion & Preparation (Years 2-9).

 * Military Growth: Expand his fighting force. Use the iron for superior weapons and armor. Implement advanced Sith-inspired training regimens. Create an elite cadre personally loyal to him.

 * Economic Power: Develop trade based on surplus iron and food. Use this wealth to hire mercenaries or bribe officials.

 * Subtle Influence: Begin to manipulate local politics. Form alliances of convenience. Undermine potential rivals. Use his prescience to make "fortuitous" decisions that benefit him and those he wishes to cultivate.

 * Robert's Rebellion: When it occurs, he will assess the situation. His lands are Stormlands territory. He will likely pay lip service to his liege lord, Steffon Baratheon's heir (Robert, Stannis, or Renly, depending on timing and Steffon's fate, which he recalled was a shipwreck). He would offer minimal, token support unless a clear opportunity arose to gain significant reward for a decisive, yet low-risk, action. Perhaps "saving" a key figure or "predicting" an enemy movement. The goal is to emerge stronger, with more land or favor.

Phase Three: The Great Game (Year 10 & Beyond – The War of the Five Kings).

 * Unleash True Strength: With a powerful, disciplined army, a fortified domain, and a strong economy, he will be ready to make his move when the realm descends into chaos.

 * Conquest: Systematically conquer the Stormlands, then expand. Use terror, manipulation, and overwhelming force.

 * The Iron Throne: A stepping stone. This continent is but one small piece of a much larger world.

The sheer audacity of it, the galactic scale of his ambition transplanted to this backward planet, was invigorating.

As dusk settled, casting long shadows across his chamber, Maester Vymar and a visibly exhausted Ser Gareth presented themselves.

"My lord," Vymar began, holding up several sheets of parchment, "the inventory is complete. Our stores are… meager, as you suspected. Enough grain for perhaps two weeks, salted fish for a month if rationed. Tools are few and in poor repair."

Gareth added, "The men cleared some rubble from the eastern wall, my lord. And we've begun shoring up the weakest section. But their mood is… sullen."

"They will learn that their moods are irrelevant," Vorhax stated. "Only their obedience matters." He took the inventory sheets. "Tomorrow, Gareth, you will take a dozen men, the fittest ones, and a cart. You will travel to these coordinates." He quickly sketched a rough map on a spare piece of parchment, marking the location of the iron deposit he had sensed. "You will find a wealth of surface-level iron ore. Begin excavation. It will be hard work. Those who complain will be made examples of."

Gareth stared at the map, then at Vorhax, bewildered. "Iron ore, my lord? There? How do you…?"

"I have my methods, Ser," Vorhax said dismissively. "The ore is there. Bring back as much as you can. Vymar, organize the remaining men and servants. Tomorrow, we begin construction of a proper forge and smithy within the castle walls. We will need charcoal; assign men to timber cutting and charcoal burning in the western woods. And I want the collapsed cellar cleared by week's end. I suspect we may find it… useful."

Both men looked stunned by the decisiveness, the sheer scope of the commands. It was as if a sleeping giant had awakened.

"But my lord," Vymar stammered, "a forge? We have no skilled smiths beyond Old Man Hemmet, and his eyes are failing…"

"Then we will find new smiths. Or train them," Vorhax said, his eyes gleaming with a dark light. "For now, focus on following my orders. This hold will no longer be a forgotten ruin. It will become a fortress. And you," he looked from Vymar to Gareth, "will be instrumental in its rise. Prove your worth, and you will be rewarded beyond your imagining. Fail me…" He let the unspoken threat hang.

They departed, a new kind of fear – one mixed with a strange, reluctant excitement – in their eyes. Vorhax watched them go. The first seeds were sown.

He returned to his meditation, sinking deep into the Force. The Dark Side felt… different here. Wilder, more primal, as he'd first sensed. Less constrained by the eons of Sith and Jedi conflict that had scarred the Force in his home galaxy. Here, it was raw, potent, almost intoxicating. He drew it in, feeling his connection to this new body solidify, feeling the boy Ellys's lingering weaknesses being burned away, replaced by Sith resilience.

A small, cracked cup sat on a nearby table. Vorhax extended his hand. Without a sound, the cup levitated, sailed across the room, and settled gently into his grasp. He focused, and the cracks in the cheap pottery began to mend, the clay flowing and reforming under his silent command until the cup was whole again, stronger than before.

A faint smile. Yes. The Force was strong here. And he, Darth Vorhax, would be its undisputed master. Stonefang Hold was but the first stone. Westeros would be the edifice. And from there… who knew what galaxies awaited?

The night was quiet, save for the distant crash of waves and the wind whistling through the arrow slits. But within the heart of Stonefang Hold, a dark power was stirring, patiently laying the foundations for an empire of shadows.

(Word Count: Approx. 3850 words)