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Game of Thrones: The Giant Crab of the Narrow Sea
Game of Thrones: The Sword King
Game of Thrones: From Bastard to Emperor
Beyond the Wall – Hardhome
Heavy footsteps mixed with the crunch of pony hooves echoed outside the newly raised wooden palisade of Hardhome.
On the watchtower, the sentry blew a low horn. The sound rolled through the blizzard—half warning, half announcement that the master had returned.
Pierce guided the Tyrant forward, dragging his bizarre "trophies" behind him, the ten-man escort riding tight on either side. They had finally reached the hard-won outpost he'd ordered carved out of the frozen north.
The first thing that hit his "eyes" was the layout nestled against the eastern cliffs of the endless mountains. Those black peaks acted like a silent giant, blocking the worst of the killing wind.
A sturdy wall of thick logs already stood around the perimeter—roughly two men high, tops sharpened into a deadly barrier. Dragon-glass shards were meticulously set into every key joint and support post, glinting like cold black eyes that stared out at the hostile white wasteland. They radiated a faint energy field that made the dead uneasy.
The only gate was two massive wooden doors, also studded with dragon-glass. Right now those doors were creaking open.
On both sides of the entrance stood ten Tyrant wights like metal-spiked statues. They didn't move in the storm. Only the dragon-glass collars around their necks caught the dim light. Any uninvited guest would be torn apart in seconds by these cold killing machines.
Inside the gate the camp opened up.
Tents were pitched everywhere—housing mercenaries, craftsmen, and captured wildling slaves. Snow had been shoveled into neat piles at the edges. Between the tents, rows of dragon-glass-studded wooden chevaux-de-frise created internal kill-zones and choke points, their spikes aimed skyward like a warning to unseen watchers.
At the very center stood the biggest structure—a huge, yurt-style wooden hall covered in thick hides. It was solid, warm, and clearly built to survive the north.
The moment Pierce stepped through the gate, the heavy hide flap of that central hall flew open and Qyburn came sprinting out like a madman.
The old maester's wrinkled face was flushed with excitement. His eyes—usually cool and clinical—were practically glowing.
His gaze locked instantly on the "trophies" the Tyrant was dragging: the two twitching, crippled wights and the pale Other trapped between them, leaking visible freezing mist.
"It's real… you actually caught one!" Qyburn's voice shook with pure glee. He almost lunged forward but caught himself, stopping a respectful distance away to study the Other. "Perfect specimen! Still active! And these secondary undead… my lord, your haul is beyond anything I imagined!"
He rattled off orders at top speed and pointed to the corner of the camp. "Cages! I prepared them to the highest standard!"
Three specially built cages stood ready—thick hardwood frames packed with dense dragon-glass shards. The gaps were even sealed with a glue-like mixture containing powdered dragon-glass. The whole thing hummed with a strange energy field.
This was Qyburn's latest invention after joining Pierce: the dragon-glass force field. He'd discovered that properly arranged dragon-glass could disrupt and weaken undead activity. While it was still theoretical for wights, the proven lethal effect on Others and basic wights made it worth testing.
Under Qyburn's careful direction and the mercenaries' wary hands, the two crippled wights and the wounded Other were locked inside separate cages.
The second the doors slammed shut, the freezing aura leaking from the Other noticeably weakened. Its blue eyes flickered with clear agitation and discomfort. The two wights went limp like puppets with cut strings, their blue glow fading to almost nothing.
"It works!" Qyburn whispered, awed.
With the prizes secured, Pierce guided the Tyrant after Qyburn into the large central hall.
The inside was far roomier than it looked from outside. A big fire pit in the center burned long-lasting charcoal, pushing back the arctic cold. Crates of supplies, scrolls, experimental gear, and rough wooden shelves lined the walls.
The most eye-catching things sat on a massive table beside the fire pit: the glass candle with its steady greenish flame… and a strange pattern made of dragon-glass shards arranged on the tabletop.
At the center of the pattern was a simple yet powerful symbol—almost like a stylized character "中," but clearly something far older and more arcane.
"My lord, look at this!" Qyburn couldn't wait. He pointed at the central rune with pride and a touch of fear. "We found it while clearing natural caves in the eastern mountains. The surrounding wall paintings show Children of the Forest, giants, humans, wights, and Others."
Pierce's gaze locked on the symbol. Deep in his soul he felt a faint ripple, like something half-remembered from a forgotten dream.
This symbol… it felt strangely familiar.
"Only one?" the Tyrant's raspy voice asked.
Qyburn shook his head quickly. "No—there's another! In different caves we found a spiral one—like a coiled serpent. I only sketched the outline…" His face paled at the memory. "The second I tried to arrange it, I almost lost control of my body. My soul felt like it was being sucked into an endless vortex! So I didn't dare touch the second rune again!"
(A spiral rune?)
Pierce's mind flashed back to ancient memories.
(The Night King's mark… or part of a magic array!)
Without hesitation he picked up more dragon-glass shards and began arranging them according to half-remembered patterns from his knowledge.
One… two… three… He placed seven key nodes where energy would converge and flow.
The instant the seventh piece clicked into place, the entire dragon-glass pattern on the table flared with faint light. Even without external power, the structure itself started pulling at the surrounding energy.
In that same heartbeat, through the fragile link between the Tyrant and the glass candle, Pierce felt an enormous, ice-cold, ancient malice sweep across the crude laboratory—like a gaze from a distant star.
"Shit!"
This wasn't some simple power-amplifier rune. It was part of a summoning—or at least a ritual anchor for positioning and descent.
That spiral rune, especially the final node he'd placed, screamed "gateway" and "coordinate."
He didn't think twice. The Tyrant's fist smashed straight down into the center of the newly formed pattern. Dragon-glass shards exploded everywhere. The array was instantly destroyed.
The vast consciousness that had just locked on lost its fix and withdrew like a retreating tide, carrying a flash of irritated anger. But that brief contact had already sent bone-deep cold through Pierce's soul.
"Stop researching the spiral rune for now," Pierce ordered through the Tyrant, voice harsh. "Wait until we have enough test subjects. This thing is dangerous—something just noticed us."
Qyburn's face went white. He nodded frantically, staring at the ancient symbol with fresh dread.
Once he calmed down, Qyburn turned back to the safer "中" rune.
He pressed his hand to its edge, focused, and channeled energy from the glass candle into the pattern.
A low hum filled the room. The candle's greenish flame suddenly leaped higher.
Qyburn's body trembled. His eyes went blank for a second.
Then Pierce clearly "saw" a faint psychic field spread from the maester and connect to a small rat trapped in a dragon-glass test cage in the corner. The rat's frantic movements stopped instantly, turning it into a perfect little puppet.
The connection lasted only a few seconds before Qyburn released the rune, gasping and pale. But Pierce already understood what the symbol did.
It wasn't raw power amplification. It was an enhancer and converter that drastically lowered the threshold for soul projection—making it far easier to enter the Shifter state.
"So that's it…" Pierce thought, everything clicking.
No wonder skinchangers were far more common beyond the Wall than anywhere else in Westeros.
These ancient runes scattered through the caves were the key. They acted like natural "training devices" or resonance nodes. The First Men or wildling descendants living nearby for generations would, under the right conditions, have their soul frequencies sync with the runes and awaken the gift.
Qyburn had accidentally recreated the effect using dragon-glass and candle energy.
Just then a respectful but nervous voice came from outside the thick hide door. The mercenary knew better than to barge in.
"My lord! Maester Qyburn! A group of women—wildlings—have arrived outside the gate! They say they're begging for shelter!"
Pierce and Qyburn exchanged a glance through the Tyrant's eyes. Qyburn nodded—research could wait.
Pierce turned the Tyrant and stepped back out into the blizzard.
Near the main gate the atmosphere was tense. Mercenaries gripped weapons, staring warily beyond the wall.
Captain Lamo spotted the Tyrant and jogged over. He'd grown used to speaking with the terrifying body controlled by his master.
"My lord," Lamo reported crisply, "about twenty wildling women outside. Their leader says her name's Osha. They're starving, weapons are junk. Claims their tribe got wiped out by stronger raiders. They're asking for food and shelter." He added, "I checked—no ambush behind them."
Through the Tyrant's senses Pierce could hear faint, suppressed coughing and nervous shuffling in the wind outside.
He thought for a second, then gave the order through the Tyrant: "Keep the Tyrants guarding both sides of the gate! Open it. Let them in five at a time. Search them for weapons."
"Yes, my lord!"
Lamo saluted and moved fast.
The heavy doors creaked open a crack.
Five gaunt, ragged wildling women stepped inside under the hard stares and naked steel of the guards. The second they saw the two lines of spike-covered Tyrant wights they almost collapsed in terror. Shaking, they followed orders and moved to the inspection area.
The process repeated four times. When the last five women were inside and the gates boomed shut behind them, the twenty survivors huddled together like frightened deer, staring wide-eyed at the camp.
Armed mercenaries, vicious dragon-glass barriers, and those death-scented undead monsters—this was the strangest thing they'd ever seen.
Then the one called Osha took a deep breath, forced down her fear, and stepped forward.
She was younger than Pierce remembered—maybe early twenties. Weather-beaten but still striking in a raw, wild way. Hunger had thinned her, but it hadn't stolen her vitality.
(Figures she could trick the Hound—she's got something.)
"I'm Osha, my lord!" Her voice was hoarse but steady, thick with the wildling accent. "Our tribe's gone. The men are dead, the children too… We'll work. Any work! Just give us food and a place out of the wind and snow!"
Her pleading eyes finally settled on the most terrifying—and clearly the leader—figure in the camp: the Tyrant.
"Granted," Pierce answered through the Tyrant. Two simple words, but they made Osha and every woman's eyes light up with desperate relief.
"But remember," he continued, voice cold and merciless, "here you work for food and safety. Obey the rules. Break them…" He pointed toward the distant stakes where frozen wildling corpses hung. "…and you become one of those."
The women shuddered and nodded frantically, swearing total obedience.