Chapter 5: Shadows Lengthen, Steel Sharpens

Chapter 5: Shadows Lengthen, Steel Sharpens

The bite of winter had sunk its teeth deep into the Stormlands. Grey, turbulent seas smashed against the cliffs below Stonefang Hold, and the wind howled like a banshee through every crack and crevice of the partially repaired battlements. Yet, within the fortress, a grim, determined order prevailed. Where previous winters had seen huddling masses, dwindling fires, and the pervasive specter of starvation, this year was different. The larders, while not overflowing, were adequately stocked thanks to the surprisingly bountiful autumn hunts and fishing expeditions – successes attributed by the cowed populace to their lord's uncanny wisdom. The reinforced walls and newly glazed arrow slits (a crude but effective glass made from sand and ash, following another of Vorhax's 'suggestions') offered better shelter from the biting gales.

Darth Vorhax, now more comfortably inhabiting the maturing frame of Ellys Vorant – the youth's lingering softness burned away by Sith discipline and the subtle reaving of the Dark Side – found the harsh climate invigorating. It mirrored the cold focus within his own ancient mind. He moved with a dark grace that was entirely his own, his physical strength and resilience growing daily.

The forge, now a central, fiercely glowing heart within Stonefang, never cooled. Old Man Hemmet, his frame stooped but his eyes alight with a craftsman's fervor, worked with two young apprentices Vorhax had handpicked for their resilience and sharp wits. They were no longer just producing spearheads and tools. Rudimentary breastplates, shaped to deflect glancing blows, and conical helmets of the dark Stonefang iron were beginning to emerge, piece by painstaking piece. An elite cadre, about ten men chosen for their strength, loyalty (however fear-induced), and capacity for brutal violence, were being equipped first. Ser Gareth drilled them relentlessly, often under Vorhax's chillingly silent observation. The training was brutal, incorporating endurance marches in the bitter cold and sparring sessions that bordered on outright brawls, designed to weed out the weak and foster a savage cohesion.

The hidden tunnel, whose discovery had so unnerved the castle's denizens, had been fully explored. It wound its way through the bedrock for nearly half a mile, emerging in a secluded, wave-carved cove accessible only by a treacherous climb or a small boat. Vorhax had personally overseen its clearing and the installation of several deadfalls and a concealed, iron-banded door at the inner entrance. It was a secret dagger pointed at the back of the world, known only to him, Gareth, Vymar, and the two exhausted laborers who had done most of the clearing, and whose continued silence Vorhax ensured through a mixture of reward and deeply implanted Force-suggestion.

His intelligence network, though fledgling, was proving its worth. Will and Anya, driven by a potent combination of fear and the tangible rewards of silver and status, had become adept at their shadowy work. Will had even managed to cultivate a contact, a disgruntled scullery maid in the kitchens of Lord Penrose, who occasionally passed on snippets of household gossip for a few hoarded copper pennies.

It was Anya, however, who brought the news that sent a cold ripple of satisfaction through Vorhax. She had returned from a fishing hamlet near Tarth, her face chapped by the wind, her eyes wide. "My lord," she'd reported, her voice low and urgent, "the worst is true. A ship from Storm's End, battered and half-sunk, limped into port further down the coast. They brought word… Lord Steffon… his lady… their ship, the Windproud… it went down. Foundered in Shipbreaker Bay, almost within sight of home. They say there were no survivors of the ruling family aboard."

Maester Vymar, present for the report, had gone pale. "The gods are cruel! Young Robert… Stannis… Renly… now orphaned. Robert will be Lord of Storm's End."

Ser Gareth, standing guard by the door, muttered a prayer, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his new Stonefang-steel sword. The implications were clear: the most powerful seat in the Stormlands had a new, young, and famously tempestuous master.

Vorhax listened with an impassive expression, but inwardly, a grim satisfaction settled. The visions, the currents of the Force, they did not lie. The future was unfolding as he had foreseen. The death of Lord Steffon was a pivotal domino. Robert Baratheon, the jovial warrior, the future usurper king, was now a major player. The timeline was accelerating.

The news spurred Vorhax into a new phase of activity. He needed firsthand intelligence, a direct sense of the region's pulse. Relying solely on the whispers gathered by his nascent spies was insufficient.

"Ser Gareth," Vorhax announced one frigid evening, "prepare yourself and select two of your best men from the elite guard. We ride out tonight. In secret."

Gareth's eyes widened. "My lord? In this weather? And… where?"

"We will use the sea cove tunnel," Vorhax stated, cutting off further questions. "Our destination is a small trading post known as Greyfin's Eddy, some twenty miles down the coast. It is frequented by… less reputable sorts. Sailors, smugglers, merchants of dubious allegiance. Information flows freely there, if one knows how to listen." He would go disguised, not as a lord, but perhaps as a down-on-his-luck sellsword or a grim-faced mercenary looking for passage.

The preparations were made in utmost secrecy. Vorhax donned a patched leather jerkin over a dark woolen tunic, a heavy cloak with a concealing hood, and armed himself with one of the new Stonefang short swords and several throwing knives of his own design – perfectly balanced, razor-sharp slivers of dark iron. Gareth and the two chosen men, Hobb (now a grimly loyal member of the elite, his earlier sullenness replaced by a fierce devotion born of respect for Vorhax's unyielding strength) and a wiry, silent man named Joron, were similarly attired.

They left through the hidden tunnel, the wind howling at its seaward mouth, and made their way along the treacherous, icy coastline under the dim light of a clouded moon. The journey was arduous, a test of endurance that Vorhax met with ease, his Force-enhanced stamina far outstripping that of his companions, though they bore it with stoic resolve.

Greyfin's Eddy was a collection of salt-weathered shacks and a single, sprawling tavern built from driftwood and hope, huddled around a muddy inlet. Smoke curled from its chimney, carrying the scent of cheap ale, stale fish, and unwashed bodies. It was perfect.

Leaving Gareth and the others to secure their hidden position in a copse of windswept pines overlooking the hamlet, Vorhax entered the tavern alone. The air inside was thick, noisy. Rough-looking men of various origins – local fishermen, grim-faced traders who looked more like pirates, a few hard-bitten sellswords – were crowded around rough-hewn tables.

Vorhax took a seat in a dark corner, ordering an ale he had no intention of drinking much of. He listened, his senses augmented by the Force, filtering the cacophony of conversations, sifting for useful nuggets. He heard more confirmation of Steffon Baratheon's demise, the speculation about young Robert's ability to rule, the usual grumblings about royal taxes and the King's increasingly erratic behavior. He also picked up more detailed whispers about the "White Wolf," the sellsword captain in Lord Morriggen's employ.

"…a hundred Northmen, they say, hard as ironwood," one grizzled sailor was telling his companion. "Took service with Morriggen after some Frey lordling short-changed 'em in the Riverlands. The Wolf himself, he's a quiet one, but they say he fights like a demon possessed. Morriggen's borders have never been safer."

"Northmen, eh?" the other spat. "Cold bastards. But disciplined. Not like those Summer Islands fancy-dans some lords hire."

Vorhax absorbed this. A hundred disciplined Northmen, led by a capable commander. A significant force in the local balance of power. Lord Morriggen was projecting strength. Vorhax filed away the name of the Frey lord; grudges could be useful levers.

As the night wore on, a brief altercation erupted near the bar – two drunken fishermen arguing over a debt. One drew a knife. Before anyone could intervene, Vorhax, moving with a speed that seemed almost preternatural, flicked his wrist. A throwing knife, a black blur in the dim light, pinned the aggressor's knife-wielding hand to the wooden bar. The man screamed, dropping his weapon.

A stunned silence fell over the tavern. All eyes turned to the hooded figure in the corner. Vorhax slowly rose, his face still shadowed. "Disputes are best settled with words," he said, his voice a low rasp, subtly enhanced by the Force to carry a chilling authority. "Or by a swifter, more decisive hand."

He retrieved his knife, ignoring the terrified stare of the injured fisherman, and tossed a few copper coins onto the table. He then walked out, the crowd parting before him as if he were a leper or a god.

Rejoining his men, Vorhax merely said, "We have what we came for." The display in the tavern had been a calculated risk, designed to sow a specific kind_of fear, a rumor of a deadly, unknown enforcer operating along the coast. Such whispers had their uses.

Back in the relative sanctuary of Stonefang, Vorhax continued his work. He had brought back local herbs and fungi from his excursion, some of which he recognized – or rather, their Terran equivalents from his past life's vast databanks – as having potent neuroactive properties. In the privacy of a locked chamber, using a small, precise set of tools he had Hemmet fashion, he began experiments. He wasn't trying to replicate complex Sith alchemy overnight, but he could create simpler, effective compounds. A mild fear toxin, perhaps, or a stimulant to enhance alertness. He even began attempting to subtly influence one of the half-wild hawks that nested in the crumbling western tower, trying to bind its will to his through the Force, envisioning it as a future sigil and a messenger.

His inner circle was solidifying. Ser Gareth, though still awed and terrified by his lord, was becoming a capable and unquestioningly loyal lieutenant. His military prowess had grown under Vorhax's tutelage, and he now commanded the small Stonefang garrison with a confidence he hadn't possessed before. Maester Vymar continued his diligent, if fearful, service, his "Codex of Stonefang" growing thicker with Vorhax's cryptic pronouncements on everything from crop rotation to siege warfare. Young Will and Anya were proving to be invaluable eyes and ears, their loyalty cemented by reward and the subtle fear of their lord's omniscience. Old Hemmet, the smith, saw Vorhax as a near-mythical figure, a bringer of impossible knowledge who had revitalized his ancient craft. These individuals were the first true foundation stones of Vorhax's new order.

One blustery morning, a rider arrived at Stonefang's gates. He was not a peasant or a fisherman, but a liveried man-at-arms, his surcoat bearing the green sea turtle on a field of pale green – the sigil of House Estermont of Greenstone. Lord Estermont was one of their more powerful, if still minor, neighbors, his lands lying across the bay to the south-east.

The rider bore a message, a rolled parchment sealed with green wax. Maester Vymar received it, his hand trembling slightly as he brought it to Vorhax.

"My lord," Vymar announced, his voice hushed, "a summons. Or rather… an invitation. From Lord Estermont. He has heard tell of Stonefang's… revival. And of the quality of our iron. He wishes to discuss matters of mutual interest. He invites you to Greenstone at your earliest convenience."

Vorhax took the parchment. His lips curved into a chilling smile. The whispers had born fruit. Stonefang Hold was no longer entirely forgotten. The wider world was beginning to take notice. This was the first tentative step onto the blood-soaked stage of Westerosi politics.

"Inform Lord Estermont's man that Lord Vorant will consider his generous invitation," Vorhax said, his eyes gleaming with dark anticipation. He looked at the map on his wall, his gaze sweeping from Stonefang, to Greenstone, and then further north, towards Storm's End, where a young, grieving Robert Baratheon was now lord.

The shadows were indeed lengthening. His steel was sharp. And the game was truly beginning.

(Word Count: Approx. 4050 words)