Crackclaw Point – Pierce's Command Tent
Morning light seeped through the tent seams, chasing away the last of the night.
Pierce woke slowly. The warm, soft weight on his arm and the faint scent curling around his nose—woman's skin mixed with something strange like deep-sea kelp—told him last night had been very real.
Melanye was still asleep in his arms, silver-white hair spilling across his chest like moonlight on a stream.
Her delicate face looked peaceful in the dawn glow, long lashes fluttering. She was nothing like the woman from last night—the one who'd been all seductive whispers one moment and icy divine command the next.
He could feel it: the wild, chaotic will of the "Lady of the Waves" had sunk back into silence. Right now the woman in his arms was just Melanye—the mysterious witch, no longer aggressive.
Her mouth was sealed tight. Pierce knew she was still hiding things, but after learning those fragments about the gods, he felt even more confident in his long-term plans.
She sensed him waking. Her lashes trembled, and those golden eyes opened.
The first flash of confusion quickly turned to shy embarrassment and something more complicated. She shifted like she wanted space, but Pierce's arm tightened around her.
"My lord…" Her voice was husky from sleep, even softer than usual.
Pierce didn't speak. He simply pressed a light kiss to her smooth forehead, then let her go.
Melanye had only married Garwyn Crabbe to take control of the tribe. The fool had treated her like a goddess on a pedestal.
He never knew goddesses could cry, throw tantrums, piss, or shake and twitch just like any other woman.
If he hadn't been such an idiot, Pierce wouldn't have gotten the chance. She was a little on the slender side, but that gave her a completely different feel—something he liked.
He rang the silver bell by the bed. Two Lysene bed slaves waiting outside slipped in with warm water, towels, and fresh clothes. They didn't bat an eye at the naked woman still in the bed—clearly used to it.
Pierce stood and let the two gorgeous, graceful girls wash and dress him.
While they worked he reached back with a playful smirk and gave one of them a light smack on her firm ass. She let out a cute little yelp; the other shot him a sultry look.
Back on Earth as an ordinary guy he'd never had this kind of service.
In this world of power and desire he wasn't going to pretend to be above it. He enjoyed every second. It reminded him how far he'd come from his old life and how deep his roots were sinking into this new one.
Once dressed and after a quick breakfast, Pierce stepped into the big tent that served as his field command center.
Rosco Blount was already waiting, along with a young man in a deep-gray maester's robe who didn't wear a Citadel chain—Maester Ferren.
Pierce had recruited him in Braavos. The man specialized in esoteric lore and ancient history, sharp-minded and completely free of the Citadel's rigid dogma.
"My lord!" Ferren stepped forward with a roll of parchment. "Preliminary census and assessment of the Crabbe population that's joined us."
He gave a detailed breakdown—numbers, age groups, able-bodied workers, everything.
Pierce listened patiently until the end, then asked the question he cared about most. "How many of them show any potential for… special talents? Blood magic, for example?"
Ferren pushed his crystal spectacles up his nose and shook his head, a touch regretful. "My lord, from my initial observations and a few simple resonance tests, the results aren't promising. While Crabbe blood carries old legends tied to forests and lakes, true active magical talent is extremely rare. I do have one observation that isn't fully confirmed yet…"
He paused to choose his words. "It seems… magical aptitude has regional patterns. More aggressive, ancient systems like blood magic appear far more concentrated in Essos—especially around the Valyrian peninsula and farther east. In Westeros such gifts are vanishingly rare, and when they do appear they tend toward greenseers, skinchangers, or other nature-linked forms. Andal blood seems to dilute the power."
As he spoke, Ferren glanced at Pierce—the one complete anomaly who defied every rule.
"Magic is a sword without a hilt," Pierce said quietly. "Not everyone can wield it."
He frowned. The world's magic really was as chaotic and insane as Ferren described—almost impossible to train or control systematically.
He'd been hunting for a stable, controllable path to power.
Valyrian blood sorcery was his top target, but the surviving rituals were either broken fragments or tied to dangerous prophecies. The Others' ice magic was powerful but carried the chill of death and didn't quite match his own nature—and getting research material was a nightmare.
The "black stone construction" project he'd been pouring resources into, though, had huge potential. If he could master the art of shaping that malleable Valyrian black stone, his future castles would be truly impregnable.
"How's the black stone research coming?" Pierce asked.
Ferren's face lit up with excitement. "Excellent progress, my lord! Using the eastern notebook fragments you provided and our analysis of Dragonstone samples, we've achieved a breakthrough. Through a special high-temperature smelting process combined with a blood offering, we can now 'blacken' ordinary stone on the surface and give it limited malleability."
Valyrian magic had always been Pierce's ultimate prize because it was linked to the dragons. Reviving actual dragons was still a long shot, but reviving black stone craftsmanship? That was worth every gold dragon.
"It's still a long way from true Valyrian black stone, but this is a vital first step! Given time, we may recover parts of the original process!"
Satisfaction flashed in Pierce's eyes. This was the kind of news he needed.
"Excellent work, Maester Ferren. You and your team have earned it. Pass the order—every researcher on this project gets double pay this month. Tonight they also receive Arbor gold and whole roast lamb."
"Thank you for your generosity, my lord!" Ferren bowed deeply, thrilled, then wisely excused himself.
Only Pierce and Rosco remained.
Rosco stepped forward, soldier-straight. "My lord, reinforcements have arrived, supplies are full, and the men are rested. Should we march on Warsong Keep? We've been here too long. I'm worried about instability if we wait any longer…"
Rosco felt the Crabbe incident had been a warning. Their planned route shouldn't have crossed paths with that clan, yet the Crabbes had come straight at them like wolves smelling blood.
"Also, I've heard Eustace Blount of Fear Hollow is already gathering men to reinforce Warsong Keep!"
Pierce tapped the table, completely calm. "Eustace Blount? Perfect. Saves us the trip to Fear Hollow later. We'll handle them both at once."
Rosco relaxed a little at his lord's confidence, but then hesitated, clearly uncomfortable.
"Something else?" Pierce glanced at him.
Rosco rubbed his hands, a little embarrassed. "My lord… it's a personal matter. I have a distant cousin, Benard Blount. He's a… well, sort of a free rider from Brown Hollow. He's heard about your reputation and… generosity, and wants to join you. I was wondering if…"
"Oh? Your cousin?" Pierce perked up. "Bring him in. Let me see him."
Moments later a tall, lean young man with the signature gray Blount hair was escorted inside.
He looked about twenty-five, face hard, eyes clear and hopeful. His leather armor was old and well-worn, but the longsword at his hip was meticulously cared for.
"Benard Blount, at your service, my lord!" He dropped to one knee—decent form.
Pierce asked a few quick questions about Brown Hollow terrain and internal Blount clan politics. Benard answered clearly and confidently, obviously familiar with the area, and his words carried real frustration with tribal life and hunger for something bigger.
Pierce nodded.
He needed capable men right now—especially locals who knew the ground. Rosco's personal recommendation added trust.
"Rise, Benard Blount. I accept your oath. From now on you'll serve under Ser Rosco. Take your orders from him."
Benard's face lit up with pure joy. He bowed again, voice thick with emotion. "Yes, my lord! By the Seven, I will be your strongest shield!"
Once the two men left, Pierce told the guards outside, "No one enters without my direct order."
The tent fell silent.
Pierce walked to the table. Today was the day he'd arranged to reconnect with Qyburn beyond the Wall. He took out the twisted glass candle, set it firmly in place, and stared into its swirling eerie glow.
As he focused, a cold blue flame—completely without heat—ignited at the tip, then shifted to an ominous dark red.
Pierce took a deep breath. His consciousness tore free once more and raced along the invisible link…
…
…
This time the "descent" felt completely wrong.
No warehouse. No Qyburn's eager face.
The moment his mind locked into the Tyrant body, the first thing he felt was bone-crushing cold and driving wind.
He "opened" his eyes and found himself standing in a vast snowfield. Twisted, frost-covered dead trees surrounded him. His first thought was the Haunted Forest—but the towering peaks in the distance killed that idea.
They couldn't possibly have reached the Haunted Forest in a week, even with fast ships and hard marching. That meant they had to be somewhere near Hardhome.
Pierce looked up. The sky was lead-gray. Wind whipped snow into his face; visibility was terrible.
(What the hell? Where's Qyburn? Where's the fleet? Where's Hardhome?)
A sharp warning screamed in his mind. The Tyrant should never be out here alone. Qyburn was the only controller—unless…
That was when a strange, ice-cold, aggressively invasive psychic tendril slithered toward the Tyrant's core, trying to wrestle control away.
The power carried pure, murderous hatred for all life and warmth—completely different from the Lady of the Waves' oceanic pressure. This was more primal. More lethal.
(White Walker?! The Night King?! Or whatever's behind them?!)
Pierce's soul surged. He slammed his will down, locking the Tyrant under his command.
At the same time he forced the stiff armored arm to rip the dragon-glass dagger from its sheath.
The instant the black blade cleared leather, the same strange resonance flared.
The dagger vibrated faintly, radiating an invisible force of rejection and threat aimed straight at that freezing will.
The invading psychic tendril recoiled like it had been burned, carrying a flash of clear rage and shock before vanishing into the blizzard.
(They really do fear the power inside dragon-glass!)
Pierce steadied himself, but the danger was far from over. He had no idea where he was, what had happened to Qyburn or the fleet.
All he could do was follow the faint, flickering link back to the glass candle, pick a rough direction, and start trudging through knee-deep snow in the Tyrant's heavy, clumsy body.
The storm grew worse. Visibility dropped to ten paces. The dead trees moaned like ghosts in the wind.
Pierce stayed razor-focused—maintaining the long-distance connection while watching for any attack.
After about half an hour of grueling progress, the snow directly ahead suddenly exploded.
Several pale, bloated corpses with burning blue eyes burst upward like demons crawling out of hell. They snarled with ruined voices, swinging rusted weapons, lunging straight for the Tyrant's vitals.
Wights. And they'd been deliberately buried here in ambush!
Pierce's eyes narrowed. The dragon-glass dagger flashed up in front of him. The heavy body dropped into a low stance, ready for the sudden death charge…