Chapter 8: The Wolf at the Door, The Hawk in the Sky

Chapter 8: The Wolf at the Door, The Hawk in the Sky

The arrival of Lord Morriggen's rider sent a fresh wave of tension through Stonefang Hold. Morriggen of Crow's Nest was a more significant power than Lord Estermont; his lands were broader, his lineage more storied, and his recent acquisition of a hundred disciplined sellswords under the command of the enigmatic "White Wolf" had made him a subject of considerable discussion in the Stormlands. This was not a cautious inquiry from a nervous neighbor, but a summons, or at least a pointed invitation, from a lord who clearly felt himself higher in the feudal pecking order.

The emissary was a man named Ser Kennos, a household knight of Crow's Nest, not one of the White Wolf's company as Vorhax had half-expected. He was a man of middling years, with a weathered face and an air of weary arrogance. He was ushered into Stonefang's Great Hall, which, while still austere, now possessed a stark, intimidating functionality. The new banners of the Black Hawk hung from the rafters, their predatory imagery casting a somber pall. Vorhax's elite guards, clad in their dark iron, stood like grim sentinels, their silence more unnerving than any overt threat.

Ser Kennos, who had likely anticipated a ruin lorded over by a sickly boy, found himself visibly discomfited. His gaze lingered on the polished, dark sheen of the guards' breastplates and the disciplined way they held their superior spears. He looked at Lord Ellys Vorant, seated not on a grand throne but a simple, high-backed oaken chair at the head of a long table, and saw not a youth, but a figure of unnerving stillness, whose eyes seemed to penetrate his very thoughts.

"Lord Ellys Vorant," Ser Kennos began, his voice a little louder than necessary, as if to assert his own importance in the oppressive atmosphere. "I bring greetings and a message from my lord, Petyr Morriggen, Lord of Crow's Nest and Shield of the White Wood."

"Ser Kennos," Vorhax replied, his voice calm and resonant, cutting through the knight's bluster. "House Vorant welcomes an emissary from our esteemed neighbor. What word does Lord Morriggen send?"

Kennos unrolled a parchment sealed with the sigil of House Morriggen – a crow in flight, black on a stormy sky. "Lord Morriggen has heard tell of your… recent activities, Lord Vorant. The eradication of Korg's bandits, who were a thorn in his own western borders, has not gone unnoticed. He commends your initiative." There was a subtle emphasis on 'initiative' that suggested Morriggen might view it as overreach. "He also hears tell of the remarkable iron your smiths are producing. Lord Morriggen believes it is time for the lords of the Cape Wrath and the White Wood to reaffirm their bonds of fellowship. He invites you to Crow's Nest to discuss matters of mutual interest, including regional security and potential trade."

It was, as Vorhax had suspected, a summons wrapped in the guise of an invitation. Morriggen wanted to assess this new, unexpectedly vigorous Hawk of Stonefang, and undoubtedly, to secure access to his iron. Vorhax subtly extended his senses, brushing against Kennos's mind. The knight was indeed conveying his lord's message accurately, but beneath his surface arrogance lay a genuine curiosity about Stonefang and a degree of apprehension regarding its young, intense master. He also carried a healthy respect, bordering on fear, for the White Wolf who served his own lord.

"Lord Morriggen is most gracious," Vorhax said smoothly. "The security of our lands is indeed a matter of shared concern. And House Vorant is always open to equitable trade that benefits both parties." He paused, his gaze unwavering. "However, Stonefang is currently undergoing significant… revitalization. My presence here is crucial for the overseeing of vital works essential to our survival and the prosperity of my people. I cannot, alas, abandon these duties at present."

Ser Kennos bristled slightly. A refusal, however polite, was not what he, or Lord Morriggen, had expected. "My lord, an invitation from a lord of Morriggen's stature is not lightly refused."

"Nor is it lightly accepted when a lord's duties bind him to his own keep," Vorhax countered, his voice hardening almost imperceptibly. "Convey my regrets to Lord Morriggen. Assure him of House Vorant's continued respect and our willingness to discuss matters of trade through emissaries, or at a future, more opportune time. Perhaps when the spring thaws make travel less arduous and my current projects are further advanced." He was asserting his independence, refusing to be summoned like a mere vassal. He would meet Morriggen, but on his own terms, or at least, not on Morriggen's immediate demand.

To soften the refusal, and to further whet Morriggen's appetite for Stonefang's wares, Vorhax added, "As a token of our goodwill and shared interest in well-crafted steel, please accept this for Lord Morriggen." He gestured, and Ser Gareth respectfully presented a beautifully crafted Stonefang iron dagger, its blade dark and keen, its hilt wrapped in black leather, its pommel a simple, unadorned sphere of polished iron. It was a practical, deadly, and unmistakably superior weapon.

Kennos accepted the dagger, his eyes widening slightly at its balance and the almost supernatural sharpness of its edge. This was indeed a prize. "I will convey your message and your gift to my lord," he said, his tone somewhat mollified. He had a feeling Lord Morriggen would be displeased by the refusal, but intrigued by the continued mystery of Stonefang and the undeniable quality of its iron.

During the brief, carefully managed hospitalities offered to Ser Kennos before his departure (good ale, bread, and some smoked fish – simple fare, but plentiful), Vorhax steered the conversation. "Lord Morriggen is fortunate to have secured the services of the sellsword captain known as the White Wolf," he remarked casually. "A hundred disciplined men are a significant asset in these unsettled times. Is he Northman, as they say?"

Ser Kennos, perhaps loosened by the ale or by Vorhax's disarmingly direct question, nodded. "Aye, Northman he is, or so his accent suggests. Grim fellow. Speaks little, but his men… they follow him into Seven Hells if he asks. The Wolf, they call him. Brandon Snow, though none dare use his given name to his face. Keeps his company in iron discipline. Lord Morriggen pays them well, and they've certainly pacified the deeper woods."

Brandon Snow. A bastard's name from the North. Vorhax filed this information away. A disciplined commander with a loyal company. This "White Wolf" was indeed a factor to be reckoned with.

After Ser Kennos departed, his expression a mixture of pique and impressed curiosity, Vorhax convened his inner circle – Ser Gareth and Maester Vymar.

"Lord Morriggen will not be pleased," Vymar fretted, wringing his hands. "He is a proud man."

"Pride can be a weakness, Maester," Vorhax said. "He sought to assert dominance. We have asserted our independence. He desires our iron. That gives us leverage. He will make another overture, or he will seek to acquire it through other means. We must be prepared for either."

"The White Wolf… Brandon Snow," Ser Gareth mused, his hand resting on the hilt of his own Stonefang blade. "A hundred Northmen. That is a force greater than ours, my lord, even with our superior steel."

"For now, Ser Gareth," Vorhax corrected. "Their numbers are greater, yes. But their loyalty is to coin. Ours," his gaze swept over Gareth, "is being forged in something stronger. Fear. Purpose. And shared advancement." He looked towards the map of the Stormlands. "Morriggen is now aware we are not a broken house to be trifled with. Estermont is a trading partner. We are slowly becoming a node of power, not merely a forgotten speck."

His strategy shifted subtly. While military strength remained paramount, the need for self-sufficiency became even more pressing. He could not afford to be reliant on potentially fickle neighbors for essential goods.

The preparations for spring planting, overseen by Maester Vymar, intensified. Vorhax, drawing on his vast, albeit alien, knowledge of agronomy, dictated specific crop rotation schedules, methods for enriching the stony soil using pulverized shells from the coast mixed with specific types of compost, and designs for simple but effective irrigation channels from the springs he had located with the Force. He even identified certain local plants, previously considered weeds, as having properties that could deter pests or improve soil nitrogen. Vymar, bewildered but obedient, recorded it all in the "Codex of Stonefang," which was rapidly becoming a most unorthodox and revolutionary agricultural treatise.

Improvements to Stonefang's infrastructure also continued. The hidden cove at the end of the secret tunnel saw the beginnings of a small, defensible dock, constructed with timber from the Estermont trade. It was slow, arduous work, but it would give Stonefang a secure, clandestine means of launching its own small vessels in the future – for trade, for raiding, or for covert deployment of troops. The iron mine's output increased as Vorhax introduced more efficient (though still primitive by his standards) techniques for timbering shafts and moving ore.

The hawk he had been training, a fierce goshawk with eyes like chips of yellow ice, now answered his silent, Force-projected commands with uncanny reliability. He named it "Nyx," after an ancient Sith goddess of darkness and shadow. Nyx would often circle high above Stonefang, a dark speck against the grey sky, its piercing gaze seemingly mirroring Vorhax's own watchful presence. It had successfully carried small, weighted messages between the castle and the mining camp, a primitive but secure form of communication.

An opportunity for Vorhax to further solidify his local standing, and perhaps send a subtle message to Lord Morriggen, soon presented itself. A delegation of elders from a small village called Streamside, nestled on the edge of the White Wood but technically falling within a disputed border area between Morriggen, Estermont, and Vorant lands (though historically neglected by all three), arrived at Stonefang. They were desperate. Their village had been plagued by a unusually large and aggressive pack of shadowcats that had recently descended from the deeper woods, killing livestock and even injuring a child. Their pleas to Crow's Nest had gone unanswered, Lord Morriggen's attention seemingly focused on larger matters.

Vorhax received them. He listened to their tale of woe, his expression unreadable. This was a perfect chance.

"The safety of those who live within the shadow of Stonefang is my concern," he announced, his voice resonating with cold authority. "Lord Morriggen is doubtless occupied with weightier matters. House Vorant will deal with these beasts."

He didn't dispatch a large force. Instead, he took only Ser Gareth, Hobb, Joron, and Nyx, who now often perched on a specially made leather vambrace on his arm. He tracked the shadowcats with a speed and accuracy that astonished his companions, his Force senses guiding him through the dense, snow-dusted woods. He located their lair in a rocky defile.

What followed was not a battle, but a precise, lethal extermination. Vorhax used Nyx to flush the beasts from their dens, then he and his men, armed with spears and short swords, dispatched them with brutal efficiency. Vorhax himself, moving with chilling speed, killed the pack leader, a massive black shadowcat, with a single, perfectly aimed spear thrust to its throat.

He ordered the pelts taken – they were valuable – and the carcasses left for the villagers, a grim but welcome bounty of meat. Word of the Hawk's swift justice, his willingness to protect even those not directly sworn to him when a greater lord failed to do so, spread rapidly. The villagers of Streamside, out of gratitude and fear, offered him a portion of their spring harvest as tribute, an offer Vorhax coolly accepted. It was a minor gain in resources, but a significant step in extending his influence, a subtle encroachment on lands Morriggen had neglected.

Back in his chamber, Vorhax allowed himself a moment of grim satisfaction. His power in this primitive world was growing, not just militarily, but in the subtle currents of fear, respect, and obligation. He could feel the Dark Side flowing through him, a raw, invigorating torrent, fueling his ambition, sharpening his senses, making the cells of Ellys Vorant's body sing with a dark vitality. He was becoming less a transplanted Sith Lord and more an indigenous avatar of the Dark Side of this world, a unique fusion of ancient knowledge and primal power. His human interactions remained a means to an end, his contempt for their petty squabbles and superstitions undiminished. Yet, he was shaping them, forging them into tools for his grand design.

As winter began its slow retreat, yielding to the first tentative signs of spring, Vorhax reviewed his position. Stonefang was secure, its larders fuller than ever, its garrison better armed and more disciplined than any comparable minor hold. Trade agreements were in place. His intelligence network was expanding. His personal power grew daily.

Lord Morriggen had not yet responded to the polite rebuff and the gift of the dagger. Vorhax knew the proud lord would be considering his options. An attack on Stonefang was unlikely, given its growing reputation and the quality of its iron, which Morriggen clearly coveted. More likely would be another attempt at diplomacy, perhaps a more respectful invitation, or an effort to isolate Stonefang from other potential allies.

Vorhax stood by his arrow-slit window, Nyx perched on his outstretched arm. The hawk's yellow eyes stared out at the world with the same predatory intensity as its master's. The wolf at the door, Lord Morriggen and his sellsword captain, was a concern, but not an immediate threat. For now, the Hawk was content to circle its own growing territory, its shadow lengthening, its talons sharpening, patiently awaiting the greater storms it knew were gathering on the horizon. The game was far from over; it was merely entering a new, more complex phase.

(Word Count: Approx. 4050 words)