One month later – Outside Crow's Rest
The first bite of winter wind already carried the sharp salt-and-ice tang that was pure Crackclaw Point. It whipped across the marching column, rattling armor and snapping banners.
Pierce Celtigar stood on the reinforced running board of his luxurious carriage, eyes narrowed against the gusts as he scanned the rugged hills ahead—layer after layer of gray-green scrub and jagged rock.
Behind them, the towers of Crow's Rest were shrinking into the distance. From this moment on, they were officially in territory where "law" and "order" were more suggestions than rules.
And that same wild stretch of land was now his—Crackclaw Point.
The column was no small affair: over a thousand souls total. Five hundred of them were actual fighting men. The rest were craftsmen, farmers, servants, a few slaves, and a long train of wagons groaning under grain, tools, lumber, and "special cargo."
The maester riding with them wasn't from the Citadel—he'd been hired in Braavos, and a couple of the assistants quietly belonged to the Rising Tide. None of them knew Pierce's real identity.
Up front, a hundred horsemen drew every eye. They wore matching half-plate engraved with Pierce's new sigil: a monstrous golden crab with oversized pincers, set on a silver field to honor his Velaryon blood. Pierce had designed it himself from old Earth memories.
These riders sat their horses like they'd been born in the saddle, eyes hard and professional. They were elite hires straight out of Essos—double the usual pay meant nobody turned the job down.
A lean knight in battered mail trotted up beside the carriage—Rosco Blount, a free-rider with the black hair and sharp features of a true Crackclaw man. His eyes held the local mix of wariness and sly cunning.
"My lord, up ahead is the Broken Spear River. Once we cross, we're deep in their territory."
Rosco pointed at the rushing, not-too-wide river and kept talking like a tour guide who actually knew the back alleys of hell.
"Keep going, Ser Rosco," Pierce said, gaze still locked forward, tone calm.
"Yes, my lord." Rosco cleared his throat and rattled off the roster like he'd memorized it. "Dozens of clans on the Point, but only a handful that matter.
"Right now the strongest is House Boggs up at Warsong Keep. They call themselves children of the Fish God, hold a couple of freshwater streams and a decent harbor. Mean as sea-snakes—great divers and fishermen.
"The Blounts of Brown Hollow and Fear Hollow are distant kin of mine, but… well, they'll kill each other over a single goat. Mountain folk. Love setting traps in the woods. We Blounts are the most widespread name out here.
"The Cayfords live by Tearmark Lake—creepy bunch. Worship something ancient in the water, supposedly. The Crabbes are forest people; they claim they can talk to trees and they're damn good with a bow. The Hardys hug the east coast and play pirate whenever they feel like raiding the Stepstones or the Mooton coast.
"And the ones you really watch out for? House Peake on Screaming Peak. Meanest, toughest, biggest clan on the Point. Their chief is Dagos Peake—big bastard, tall as a tree, supposedly rips wild boars apart with his bare hands."
Rosco's voice dropped; he clearly still carried scars from that family.
"Nominally… hell, even 'nominally' is generous—they barely pretend the Iron Throne exists. Each clan does its own thing. Whoever's got the biggest fist gets listened to."
"Sounds fun," Pierce said, expression unreadable.
He knew exactly what he was doing. A column this big, this well-equipped, and loaded with obvious wealth? It was a giant flashing sign that read "FAT SHEEP—COME ROB ME."
And that was precisely the plan.
You don't tame wild beasts by keeping them in a cage—you let them smell blood and come out to play.
…
…
A mile ahead, in a thick stand of woods, a handful of men in furs and ragged leather crouched together, faces sour.
They were the very clan reps Rosco had just named.
"Damn, that new lordling sure travels rich," spat the Blount from Brown Hollow. "A hundred armored riders? Those boys don't look soft."
"Who cares? We know the ground," growled the man from Fear Hollow. "Once they're in the trees, they're dead meat."
"Look at all those wagons…" A Hardy licked his lips, eyes shining with greed.
A massive figure in a bear pelt snorted. A jagged scar split his face. Dagos Peake. His voice rolled like thunder.
"Staring won't fill your belly. Their cavalry owns open ground. In the forest, on foot? They're nothing. They'll camp by the river tonight—east side backed by woods. Perfect. We hit them after dark: fire, kill, grab everything, then melt back into the hills before they know what hit 'em."
A few hotheads growled agreement. One or two hesitated.
Dagos waved a meaty hand. "Any coward can leave now. Peakes take the biggest share of whatever we get."
At his feet lay a scruffy-looking hound, ears twitching, eyes far too alert for any normal dog. It was listening to every word.
Back inside Pierce's carriage, he quietly dropped out of his Shifter white-eye state. His consciousness had been riding that hound's senses the whole time. Every crude, bloodthirsty syllable had come through crystal clear.
A cold little smile touched his violet eyes.
"Ser Rosco!"
The knight appeared instantly at the window. "Orders, my lord?"
"Tell the column we're camping tonight right by the river—on that open flat with the woods to the east. Pass the word: everyone stay sharp after dark. Company's coming."
Rosco blinked, then caught the absolute confidence in Pierce's stare. His own face tightened with understanding. "At once, my lord."
The column halted exactly where Pierce wanted.
Open riverside ground, west protected by the rushing Broken Spear, east a dense tangle of blackthorn, pine, and willow. North and south were the dirt tracks deeper into the Point or back toward Crow's Rest.
Wagons were pulled into a rough defensive ring. Mercenaries chopped wood and set up simple cheval-de-frise barriers. Everyone moved like they'd done this a hundred times.
Only after the cooks had supper ready did Pierce step down from the carriage, rolling his shoulders to shake off the stiffness.
A huge white beast padded silently up and rubbed its massive head against his hand.
Hrakkar. The white lion of the Dothraki sea—big enough to dwarf a calf when full grown. Pierce had taken this one as both trophy and partner in the east. He'd named her White Shadow.
He scratched the thick, soft fur at the back of her neck and allowed himself a private grin. Back on Earth he'd never even owned a house cat. Now he had an apex predator that weighed as much as a small horse.
Night fell fast. Campfires crackled. Most men turned in, but every soldier slept in armor with weapons within easy reach. The camp looked peaceful. It wasn't.
Pierce sat inside his command tent studying a rough map of Crackclaw Point. White Shadow lay at his feet, ears swiveling at every forest sound.
He didn't need Shifter powers to know the "guests" were already out there in the eastern trees, circling like wolves.
He'd just finished setting the trap.
Midnight. The river roared and wind hissed through the treetops.
A sharp birdcall cut the darkness—the signal from Dagos Peake.
Hundreds of shadows exploded from the woods, howling, axes and spears raised, charging straight at what looked like a sleeping camp.
Dagos himself led the pack, swinging a two-handed greataxe, face split in a savage grin. He could already taste the flames and screams.
They poured across the open ground toward the wagons—
"Shields up! Spears forward!"
Rosco's calm voice rang out, ice-cold.
The gaps between the wagons suddenly filled with a solid wall of heavy shields. Razor-tipped spears thrust out like a hedgehog's spines.
Tents on the center and flanks ripped open. Crossbowmen and archers stepped into the firelight, strings already drawn.
"Loose!"
The arrow storm hissed down. Front-rank raiders dropped like wheat under a scythe. Screams replaced battle cries.
Their ambush had walked straight into a killing field.
"Trap! Fall back!" someone shrieked.
Too late.
Hooves thundered from north and south. Half of Pierce's hundred elite riders—already mounted and waiting in the dark—slammed into the flanks like a steel avalanche.
Armored warhorses smashed the disorganized mob. Riders laid about with longswords and morningstars, reaping lives without mercy.
Dagos roared in fury, smashing a shieldman aside. "Hold! Follow me out!"
A deep, regal growl rolled behind him.
Dagos spun.
A ghostly white lion the size of a pony stood at the edge of the fight, pale eyes glowing in the moonlight, locked on him like death itself.
Behind the lion loomed a tall silhouette holding a strange axe that caught the moonlight with a dull red gleam—Valyrian steel. Bloodstorm.
Pierce hadn't even drawn the weapon. Just his presence was enough to shatter morale.
"Monster!"
Some raiders broke completely, flinging down weapons and bolting for the trees.
Dagos froze for half a heartbeat—long enough for three crossbow bolts to punch into his thigh and shoulder. He bellowed, crashed to the ground, and was swarmed by soldiers who hog-tied him with rope before he could rise.
The fight started fast and ended faster.
Less than half an hour later the raiders were dead, fled, or captured. The camp smelled of blood, but order had already returned.
Pierce walked over with White Shadow at his side and looked down at the bleeding, bound Dagos Peake.
"Dagos Peake?" His voice was quiet, carrying absolute command. "I am Pierce Celtigar, Lord of Crackclaw Point by decree of the Iron Throne. Is this how you welcome your new liege?"
Dagos spat blood and snarled up at him. "Pah! The Point only bows to strength! Tricks and ambushes don't count for shit!"
Pierce smiled. The expression was cold in the moonlight.
"Strength? A few hundred of you tried a night raid and got wrecked by two hundred of mine. Who's the strong one now? And as for tricks… ever hear 'all's fair in war'? That's basic survival out here. Seems you've been hiding in these hills so long you forgot how the real world works."
He raised his voice so every prisoner and every man in camp could hear.
"Listen up! I'm here now. The rules on Crackclaw Point change tonight. They're mine.
Follow me—you get wealth, new skills, and protection.
Cross me… this is what happens."
He pointed at Dagos and the captives. "Separate cells. Tomorrow I want the whole peninsula to know their 'hardest bastard' Dagos Peake is now my prisoner."
He turned White Shadow's head and spoke to Rosco.
"Clear the field. Count the wounded. Double the watch. Tomorrow we ride on—time to meet the rest of the neighbors."