Chapter 6: The Turtle and the Hawk

Chapter 6: The Turtle and the Hawk

Lord Estermont's summons sent a ripple through the grim order of Stonefang Hold. It was an acknowledgment, a signal that their isolated efforts were beginning to penetrate the consciousness of the wider Stormlands. Darth Vorhax received the news with the same outward impassivity he had cultivated, but inwardly, he recognized the invitation for what it was: an opportunity to project strength, gather intelligence, and formally insert House Vorant, however minor, into the intricate, treacherous game of Westerosi politics.

He did not rush. Greenstone could wait. For three days, Stonefang buzzed with methodical preparation. Vorhax, with the cold precision of a battlefield commander planning an infiltration, oversaw every detail.

His retinue was handpicked: Ser Gareth, his youthful uncertainty now tempered by a core of hard-won confidence and absolute obedience to Vorhax; Hobb and Joron, their faces grim, their loyalty absolute, forged in fear and respect; and three more of the elite guard, all clad in the dark, functional armor – breastplates, conical helms, greaves – painstakingly crafted from Stonefang iron. Their cloaks were of dark grey wool, clasped with simple iron pins. They carried the new short swords, shields bearing no sigil as yet (Vorhax had not yet settled on a new device for House Vorant, though the image of a predatory hawk was beginning to coalesce in his mind), and a disciplined air that spoke volumes more than any bright heraldry.

For Lord Eldon Estermont, Vorhax selected gifts with care. Not lavish offerings, for Stonefang was not yet wealthy, but items of unique value. A crate of meticulously chosen iron ingots, each stamped with a crude temporary mark – a jagged peak. Three axe heads, perfectly balanced, their edges honed to a razor sharpness. And a single short sword, its dark blade polished to a muted sheen, its hilt wrapped in cured sharkskin sourced from the Myrish trader. It was a weapon of brutal elegance, hinting at the deadly potential of Stonefang's burgeoning industry.

Maester Vymar, his scholarly instincts overriding his fear, compiled a surprisingly detailed report on House Estermont. Lord Eldon was old, nearly sixty, a veteran of the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He was known for his caution, his staunch adherence to tradition, and his deep loyalty to House Baratheon. His eldest son and heir, Ser Aemon Estermont, was said to be more hot-headed. Greenstone itself was an ancient fortress, built on an island commanding the approaches to Cape Wrath, formidable and well-garrisoned, though its men were likely armed with inferior steel.

Vorhax absorbed every detail, his mind already running through potential scenarios, conversational gambits, and subtle Force manipulations. He left Stonefang under the temporary command of Maester Vymar for civil matters, and one of his more stolid elite guardsmen, a man named Brynn, for military discipline, with strict instructions relayed through Ser Gareth before departure. The hidden tunnel would remain sealed, its secret kept.

They traveled not by land, but by sea. Vorhax had 'persuaded' the owner of a sturdy fishing trawler from a nearby hamlet – the same man whose nets had become so inexplicably successful – to ferry them. The journey across the choppy, grey waters of the Narrow Sea took the better part of a day. His men, unaccustomed to sea travel, were grim-faced and green-gilled, but none complained. Vorhax himself stood at the prow, impervious to the cold spray and the rolling of the deck, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He found the primitive nature of this travel tedious, yet there was a raw connection to the elements here that was absent in the sterile corridors of a starship.

Greenstone rose from the sea like a great, moss-covered turtle, its ancient grey-green walls streaked with guano, its towers squat and sturdy. It was undeniably larger and more imposing than Stonefang, a fortress that had weathered centuries of storms and sieges. Flags bearing the green sea turtle flapped in the wind. As their small vessel approached the harbor, Vorhax could see men-at-arms on the battlements, their helms glinting. He subtly extended his senses, feeling the thrum of life within the castle, the ancient stones, the discipline of its garrison – competent, but lacking the edge of desperate resolve he was instilling in his own men.

A curt hail from the harbor master, a suspicious inspection of their modest vessel, and then they were permitted to land. A stern-faced captain of the guard, his own armor well-maintained but clearly of lesser quality than that worn by Vorhax's escort, led them up a winding cobbled path towards the main gates. The eyes of Greenstone were upon them – curious, appraising, some openly disdainful of the small, grim retinue from a famously impoverished hold.

Lord Eldon Estermont received them in his Great Hall, a cavernous space far grander than Stonefang's, hung with faded tapestries depicting ancient sea battles and hunting scenes. Lord Estermont was a portly man with a florid face, shrewd, calculating eyes, and a magnificent white beard that cascaded down his chest. He sat on a heavy oaken throne, flanked by his heir, Ser Aemon – a younger, harder version of his father – and several household knights.

"Lord Ellys Vorant," Estermont boomed, his voice echoing in the rafters. His gaze swept over Vorhax, lingered on his youth, then moved to the dark-clad, silent figures of his escort. "Welcome to Greenstone. It has been many years since a Lord of Stonefang graced these halls." There was a hint of condescension in his tone.

Vorhax inclined his head, a gesture of perfect, cold courtesy. "Lord Estermont. Your invitation honors my house." His voice, though not loud, was clear and resonant, carrying an unnatural weight that made several of Estermont's retainers shift uneasily. Ellys Vorant was young, yes, but there was an ancient stillness about him, an unnerving intensity in his gaze that was far from boyish.

The formalities were observed. Vorhax presented his gifts. When the crate of iron was opened, a murmur ran through the Greenstone men. Lord Estermont himself leaned forward, his eyes widening as he examined the ingots, then the axe heads. Ser Aemon picked up the short sword, testing its balance, its edge. His expression was one of grudging admiration.

"This is… remarkable craftsmanship, Lord Vorant," Estermont said, his earlier condescension fading. "And the metal itself… I have not seen its like. Where does Stonefang find such ore?"

"The earth yields its secrets to those who know how to listen, my lord," Vorhax replied, his expression unreadable. "Ancient family records, long neglected, spoke of veins our forefathers had overlooked. We have merely… rediscovered our heritage."

A feast was laid out – plentiful, if uninspired. Roasted fowl, salted fish, hard bread, and strong, sour ale. Vorhax ate little, drank less, his senses alert. He observed Estermont, his son, their chief retainers. He subtly used the Force, brushing against their surface thoughts, gauging their intentions, their fears, their ambitions. Lord Eldon was primarily driven by a desire for security and the preservation of his house's status. He was wary of the new Lord Baratheon, concerned about the King's instability. Ser Aemon was more aggressive, eager to prove himself, perhaps a little resentful of his father's caution.

"Young Lord Robert Baratheon is now master of Storm's End," Estermont said during the meal, his eyes on Vorhax. "A heavy burden for such young shoulders, with the realm as unsettled as it is. What are your thoughts on our new liege lord, Lord Vorant?" It was a test.

"Lord Robert is known for his strength and martial prowess," Vorhax replied smoothly. "Qualities the Stormlands have always valued. House Vorant, like all loyal bannermen, will offer its fealty and service when called upon." A perfectly diplomatic, non-committal answer. He could sense Estermont's mild frustration at his evasiveness.

Later, Lord Estermont proposed a trade agreement. He offered timber, wool, and dried fish in exchange for Stonefang's iron – either raw ingots or finished tools and weapon heads. Vorhax negotiated with a shrewdness that belied his apparent youth, securing terms that were surprisingly favorable to Stonefang. He agreed to supply a set quota of iron goods monthly, in exchange for a larger quantity of timber and grain than Estermont had initially offered. The old lord, though a canny negotiator himself, found himself subtly outmaneuvered, agreeing to terms he hadn't intended, yet feeling it was his own sound decision. Vorhax's quiet suggestions, laced with the Force, were proving effective.

As a gesture of goodwill, Ser Aemon Estermont proposed a friendly sparring match in the training yard the next morning. "Let us see if Stonefang's men are as formidable as their iron, young lord," he said, a challenging glint in his eye. He clearly intended to put the upstart visitors in their place.

Vorhax agreed. He chose Hobb, his largest, most intimidating guardsman, to face Ser Aemon's champion, a burly, scarred knight named Ser Patrek. The Greenstone knights chuckled, expecting an easy victory. Hobb, clad in his dark Stonefang breastplate and helm, armed with a new iron-tipped spear and shield, looked like a grim statue. Ser Patrek was larger, more heavily armored in traditional steel, wielding a blunted longsword.

The spar was brutal. Ser Patrek was strong and skilled, but Hobb, driven by Vorhax's intense training and armed with superior, if less ornate, equipment, fought with a desperate ferocity. He parried Patrek's heavy blows, his Stonefang shield holding where lesser wood and iron might have splintered. His movements, guided by the principles Vorhax had drilled into them, were economical and powerful. The fight was long and grueling, but eventually, through sheer tenacity and a well-aimed shield bash that staggered Patrek, Hobb managed to disarm the Greenstone knight.

A stunned silence fell over the courtyard, broken only by Hobb's harsh breathing. Ser Aemon's face was thunderous. Lord Eldon, however, looked thoughtful. Vorhax allowed himself a faint, almost imperceptible smile. His men had proven their mettle. The quality of Stonefang's training and its iron was undeniable.

The agreement was finalized shortly thereafter. Vorhax and his retinue departed Greenstone the following day, leaving behind a deeply unsettled Lord Estermont and a court buzzing with speculation about the changed fortunes and the formidable young lord of Stonefang Hold. They had arrived as representatives of a forgotten house; they left as envoys of a nascent, mysterious power.

On the return journey, Ser Gareth was almost effusive. "My lord, they were… impressed. I saw it in their eyes. Hobb fought well. And the trade agreement… it is greatly in our favor!"

"Impressions are fleeting, Ser Gareth," Vorhax cautioned, though he was satisfied with the outcome. "Actions and results are what matter. Lord Estermont is now a trading partner. He is also a source of information, and potentially, a future pawn. We have gained resources and a sliver of influence. But we have also drawn attention. We must be prepared."

Back within the grim security of Stonefang's walls, Vorhax analyzed the visit. The trade for timber and grain was vital. Estermont's fortress, while strong, had predictable defenses. His garrison was competent but complacent. The old lord was cautious, his son ambitious and potentially reckless. Useful information. He also noted the lack of any significant naval power at Greenstone beyond a few patrol vessels – a weakness in the region.

The successful mission noticeably bolstered the morale of his men. Their lord had ventured into the wider world and returned with tangible benefits and enhanced prestige. Their harsh training, their new equipment – it was all part of a larger, successful design. Loyalty, once solely enforced by fear, was now taking on a more complex, resilient character.

Vorhax spent the evening in his chamber, a fresh piece of parchment before him. He took a charcoal stick and began to sketch. The image that emerged was stark, predatory: a hawk, rendered in sharp, angular lines, its wings partially unfurled as if about to strike or take flight. Its talons clutched not a stone, as in the old Vorant sigil, but a jagged shard of what looked like black glass or obsidian. Its eyes were piercing, intelligent.

"Maester Vymar," Vorhax called, when the sketch was complete.

The old maester entered, bowing low.

"House Vorant requires a new sigil," Vorhax announced, pushing the parchment across the table. "One that reflects our… renewed purpose. This shall be it. A black hawk, its eyes the color of storm clouds, clutching a shard of dragonglass, on a field of dark grey." (He knew the term 'dragonglass'; it was appropriate for the obsidian-like material he envisioned, and carried potent symbolism in this world).

Vymar stared at the drawing, a shiver running down his spine. The hawk was a creature of terrifying beauty and menace. It was nothing like the benign birds depicted on other house banners. This was a raptor, a killer.

"It is… striking, my lord," Vymar managed.

"Have banners made," Vorhax commanded. "Let the new sigil of House Vorant fly above our walls. Let the world know that the Hawk has taken wing."

As Vymar departed, clutching the drawing, Vorhax looked out at the turbulent sea. The visit to Greenstone was merely a prelude. The game of thrones was a complex, brutal affair, and he was still a minor piece. But he was a piece with an unparalleled advantage: the Force, centuries of experience in galactic conquest, and the chilling certainty of future sight. The Hawk was indeed rising, on wings of iron and shadow, preparing to carve its own dominion from the coming storm.

(Word Count: Approx. 4150 words)