Crackclaw Point – Pierce's Camp
Unlike last night's bloody slaughter, the camp tonight felt warm and just a little bit dirty in the best way. A huge bonfire crackled right in the middle, filling the air with the smell of roasting meat and the heavy sweetness of strong Dornish wine.
A bard from King's Landing plucked his harp and sang soft love songs, but nobody gave a damn. Every eye in the place was locked on the center of the show.
Ten Lysene bed slaves—barely dressed, bodies moving like they were made for sin—danced to the music. Their pale skin glowed in the firelight, eyes sliding over the crowd like they already knew what every man wanted.
But right in the middle of the party, something ugly stuck out. Pierce's men were laughing and drinking like kings, while a few poor bastards wore nothing but pain and pure hate on their faces.
At the edge of camp, locked in a row of sturdy wooden cages, sat the raiders they'd taken last night.
Ragged clothes, fresh wounds on most of them, each guy stuck with nothing but a fist-sized chunk of rock-hard black bread and a bowl of dirty cold water.
They sniffed the meaty air like starving dogs, watching the crowd drink and laugh around the fire, eyes burning with hunger, rage, and bitter shame.
The real star of the show by the bonfire was Dagos Peake.
He wasn't in a cage. He got a fur-covered chair, a plate of glistening roast chicken, a fat slab of smoked meat, and a jug of good barley ale right in front of him.
Yet the big bastard who was famous for ripping boars apart with his bare hands looked anything but strong. His face was ghost-white, sweat beading on his forehead, the cup in his hand shaking. He wanted to tear into the food but couldn't even chew.
Pierce's "maester" had slipped him mandrake tea—not poison, just something that turned a man's muscles to water and stole every ounce of fight.
You could see how well it worked just by looking at him.
Dagos sat far enough from the cages that the night and firelight kept him from seeing the jealousy and hate slowly lighting up in his own men's eyes.
All he saw was himself getting pampered while his boys suffered. The shame of it, the feeling he was being bought, and the drug running through his veins had him boiling inside.
"Celtigar!" he forced out, voice weak but dripping venom. "You think this soft woman's trick—wine, meat, and these whores shaking their asses—is gonna make Dagos Peake bend the knee? Dream the fuck on! Crackclaw men have iron in their spines!"
Pierce sat at the head of the feast, calmly slicing a tender piece of fish. He just lifted an eye, voice flat and bored. "Save your breath, Dagos. I didn't drag you out here to listen to you bitch. Eat something. Get your strength back. Because…"
He paused and gave the big man a slow, knowing look. "In two days I'm letting every one of you go."
"Letting us go?" Dagos blinked, sure he'd misheard.
"Yeah…" Pierce took a lazy sip from his golden cup. "Crackclaw Point belongs to me now, and I'm about to own every inch of it. I'm just giving you—and every other hard-headed bastard on this rock—an early chance to pick a side."
The pure confidence in Pierce's voice left Dagos speechless.
"Come over with your clan, swear to me, get my protection, and live ten times better than you ever have. Or keep fighting and get ground into the dirt exactly like last night."
"I'll take the third road—rip your fucking head off and use it for a cup!" Dagos snarled, neck bulging.
Pierce just smiled like he'd heard it all before. "Your choice. I gave you the offer." He waved a hand and went back to his fish, ignoring the curses.
The feast dragged on. Dagos kept yelling, but everyone acted deaf. The whole party ended in a strange, heavy silence.
Afterward Pierce nodded to the two Lysene slaves beside him. "Take our guest back to his tent to rest. Keep it short—you don't have to stay long."
The girls giggled and stepped forward, one on each side, helping the limp Dagos up. To anyone watching it looked like a hero being led off by two beautiful women.
Dagos tried to fight but had no strength left. They half-carried, half-dragged him to the nice little tent set up just for him.
The sight stabbed the caged men right in the gut.
Not long after Dagos disappeared, Rosco Blount strolled over with a few mercenaries. He spoke loud enough for every prisoner to hear but kept it casual.
"Lord says the Peake boys are Dagos's own men, so treat them better. Pull the Peakes out separate. Give 'em meat stew and decent bread."
Thirty or so Peake clansmen were quickly moved to their own spot and handed real food—soup with meat chunks and softer bread.
Everyone else got less bread and watery slop that looked like it had rat fur floating in it.
The mercenaries also "accidentally" let rumors spread:
"See that? Dagos is drinking and fucking with our lord, and his boys get meat!"
"Hear the chief's almost sold. Who wouldn't want a better life?"
"Once the Peakes join up…"
The words sank in like poison. The prisoners watched the Peake men eat better, remembered their own slop, pictured Dagos with the beauties. Something inside them snapped.
Part of their hate for Pierce quietly turned into suspicion of Dagos.
(Why's he living like a king while we eat garbage? Did the bastard really sell us out?)
For the next two days the Peake prisoners stayed completely isolated. No talking to the others, no sight of their chief.
Suspicion grew wild in the silence and the constant comparisons. The weak alliance that had only been held together by hating Pierce fell apart.
…
…
On the third morning the prisoners finally got released—but they had no idea the other clans' men had already been cut loose the day before.
Pierce walked up to the edge of camp himself, two soldiers supporting a still-shaky Dagos Peake.
The thirty Peake men waited together. Their old crude axes, short spears, and leather were handed back.
Pierce also "generously" gave them extra—good longswords, studded leather armor, food, and wine.
Dagos frowned hard seeing his men holding clearly better gear than before. Alarm bells screamed in his head.
He opened his mouth to demand answers, but Pierce leaned in close, voice soft enough for only the two of them, a little smirk on his lips.
"Do you think they'll believe you?"
Dagos froze, completely lost. The words made no sense.
Full of questions and still weak, he rejoined his men.
The second they were out of sight of Pierce's camp, his guys crowded around.
"Chief, you all right? You look wiped… heh, those two Lysene girls wear you out?"
One man winked. The rest chuckled knowingly. They all figured two nights of "fun" had drained him.
Dagos's face went purple. "Bullshit! I was drugged! That Celtigar crab had no good intentions!"
The Celtigars had tried to tax Crackclaw Point a hundred times before. The locals mostly followed the Targaryens and told them to fuck off.
No matter how he explained, his men just looked at his weak state, remembered the beauties helping him, and thought about the good food they'd gotten "thanks to the chief." Their faces all said the same thing: We get it, no need to lie.
That was the exact second Dagos finally understood the poison in Pierce's whisper—"Do you think they'll believe you?"
Ice shot up his spine. This wasn't letting the tiger back to the mountain. This was tying him to a stake and lighting the fire.
He shoved the fear down and noticed the shiny new weapons in his men's hands. "Where the hell did these come from?"
His men traded looks. One answered, "The Celtigar guys gave 'em… said it was out of respect for you."
"Idiots! Who told you to take them!" Dagos almost spat blood.
"But chief… these are good gear…" The men muttered, gripping the weapons tighter, clearly not letting go.
Rage burned in his chest. He spun around to march back and throw everything away to prove he was clean.
A few steps later he stopped dead. Go back for what? Surrender to Pierce? Humiliate himself? Hand the gear back? What would his own men think? Would the other clans ever believe him again?
Trapped, he gritted his teeth and led his suddenly well-armed crew toward Screaming Peak.
Near Brown Hollow, in a narrow valley, a big crowd suddenly poured out and blocked the road.
Leading them was Castor "Stonebreaker" Blount, chief of the Brown Hollow Blounts—a short, thick, mean-eyed bastard waving a half-sword.
"Dagos Peake! You two-faced snake! Traitor!" Castor roared. "You really sold out to that outsider! And now you're strutting back with his weapons! Drop the gear or you're not crossing our land!"
Dagos's stomach dropped. The nightmare had arrived.
He stepped forward fast. "Castor, listen! This is Pierce Celtigar's trick! He's trying to split us! I didn't join him!"
"Bullshit!" Castor pointed at the new swords. "Then where'd those come from—heaven? And look at you—fucked dry by whores! You think we're stupid? Get 'em!"
Rocks started flying. A fist-sized stone cracked Dagos square in the forehead. Blood poured down his face.
Castor didn't want a real bloodbath—he just wanted to shame them and steal the gear.
Dagos pressed a hand to his bleeding head and stared at the furious, disgusted faces across from him. In his ears he heard Pierce's voice again, cold and laughing—"Do you think they'll believe you?"
Explanation was pointless. On Crackclaw Point, weakness got you eaten.
He looked at his men gripping the new weapons. Fear in their eyes, but mostly excitement.
"Fuck it!" Dagos roared, wiping blood from his face. The last scrap of doubt burned away. "Peake men—charge! Show these rock-throwing cowards who we are!"
The trapped beast finally snapped. His clan yelled and rushed forward like wolves, brandishing their shiny new steel.
Steel clashed. Roars and screams filled the valley.
It didn't last long. Both sides bled, left a few bodies, then Castor cursed and pulled back into the trees.
But after that fight, Dagos Peake's name as a traitor was carved in stone. The thin thread of trust between the Peakes and the other clans had been sliced clean by Pierce's dirtiest blade.
Dagos stared at the bloody ground and his tired, half-thrilled men. No victory in his heart—just freezing dread.
From the moment he walked free, he'd stepped into the invisible web the Golden Crab had spun. On land he knew better than anyone, he was becoming more alone every step.
And the lord from across the sea hadn't even reached Screaming Peak yet.
But he'd already cut deeper than any sword ever could—the sharp edge of men's hearts.
"They don't believe me anymore," Dagos whispered to the empty wind. "You satisfied now, you bastard Golden Crab?"