Crackclaw Point – Pierce's Camp
"They don't believe me anymore! You satisfied now, you bastard 'Golden Crab' lord?!"
Dagos Peake's desperate, furious roar still seemed to echo through the valley, but the sound had already faded into the distance.
Inside Pierce's camp, though, everything had shifted to a completely different vibe—cold, ironclad order.
Everyone was busy with their jobs. Pierce might be a generous lord, but he ran things his way: you got paid for results, and the rule of equivalent exchange was never bent. Not even once.
These past few days Pierce hadn't wasted a second. He'd been locked in on conquering Crackclaw Point. This was going to be his future fortress—no room for screw-ups.
Right now, in the middle of the command tent, sat a massive sand table that looked like pure sorcery to any Westerosi who saw it.
Only a handful of places on the whole continent had anything close—the most famous being the weirwood map table on Dragonstone.
But Pierce's version made that one look like a kid's toy. The detail was unreal: every rise and fall of the mountains, every twist of the rivers, the exact thickness of the forests, even the secret trails and hidden caves only locals knew about. All perfectly recreated.
This wasn't done with surveyors and guesswork. Pierce had used his Shifter power—riding the eyes of soaring hawks and tiny ground creatures—to build this living miniature world piece by piece.
Colored markers and shaped tokens plotted every faction and force. He'd even strung colored threads to mark patrol routes and territories down to the inch.
Rosco Blount stood in front of the sand table, jaw still on the floor. He literally had no words.
"Seven gods above…" he whispered, voice thick with awe. "My lord… this… this is the kind of thing only a god looking down from the sky would make. Did the Crone guide your hand? Or is this the Father's own sight?"
He pointed to key spots one by one. "Warsong Keep—House Boggs. Dead accurate. They really do sit there like sea snakes guarding that harbor mouth."
His finger traced the hills. "Brown Hollow, Fear Hollow… all the Blount trap zones and hideouts—marked better than our own rough sketches…"
He moved to the lake and coast. "Tearmark Lake and the Cayfords, the Hardys along the east shore… and here," his finger landed heavy on the roughest ground, "Screaming Peak—House Peake. That nightmare terrain that's almost impossible to assault—everything's right here!"
"Meeting you is the greatest blessing the Seven have ever given me in this life!"
Rosco looked at Pierce like he was staring at a living god.
Pierce stayed calm, twirling his thin command rod and gently nudging one marker. "These spots here… and these notes—do they line up with what you know?"
Rosco studied it hard, then shook his head firmly. "Almost nothing off, my lord. Some details—like this hidden spring behind the thorns—even we mountain runners forget about… and you marked it."
The shock in his chest was off the charts. This lord's "eyes" seemed to be everywhere at once.
He'd heard the old Bloodraven legends and the terror of his rule. Right now Pierce felt exactly like that duke.
Pierce's gaze finally locked onto Warsong Keep.
"Then we start right here."
Rosco startled. "My lord, hit the Boggs first? They've got the most men on land and sea—they're the strongest crew out here…"
"We hit the strongest!" Pierce's tone left zero room for debate. "Crack the hardest nut and every soft crab left will know exactly who to kneel to. House Boggs controls the best harbor and fishing grounds on the whole Point. Once we take it, we're truly planted—with a clean sea route to the outside world. Plus…"
The rod drew a circle around the seaward side of Warsong Keep. "A messy mix of pirates and nomads—looks tough, but they're loose as hell. Their so-called 'castle' has defenses weaker than a village market."
Rosco couldn't argue. He was sold—hook, line, and sinker—by the cold precision and rock-solid confidence.
"Send the orders," Pierce told a squire. "Prep Scheme Three. Scouts watch every land and sea move around Warsong Keep. Engineering crews double-time the siege gear—especially the coastal stuff."
"Yes, my lord!"
Rosco Blount saluted and left fast. Moments later a handful of ravens carrying encrypted messages flapped off into the sky.
For a minute the tent was quiet. Pierce stared at Warsong Keep on the sand table, running every possible outcome in his head.
After all these years in this world he'd adapted completely. Sure, sometimes he still missed modern life back on Earth.
But he'd found his path: live for himself, seize real power, and enjoy the best damn life this world could offer.
Right then a gray-robed maester slipped silently into the tent and handed over a small scroll sealed with black wax.
"My lord, it's from the North."
Pierce took the raven scroll, waved the maester out, then casually cracked the black wax seal.
The message was a jumble of Earth Arabic numbers separated by commas—Rising Tide Organization cipher.
After a quick check of the codebook version, Pierce pulled out the book he'd written himself: The Fire of the Freehold. He flipped pages and decoded it smoothly.
Plain text appeared:
"We have reached Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Requesting permission to proceed!"
Pierce's eyes lifted from the Crackclaw sand table as if his gaze just shot a thousand miles north to the frozen wastes.
Eastwatch…
His people were in position. Time to move.
He stood, walked to the bed, unlocked a small wooden box, and took out the twisted glass candle with its eerie shifting glow.
He set it firmly on the table, took a deep breath, and sat cross-legged in front of it. Every ounce of focus locked onto that deep, swirling light.
"Hah…"
As his eyes rose, the pulling sensation slammed into him.
His consciousness ripped out of his body like a rocket. It blasted through the tent and straight into the sky at impossible speed!
The camp below, the winding trails, the layered hills of Crackclaw Point shrank away like the sand table model itself.
Pierce felt himself become an invisible gaze riding some higher-level beacon, racing north.
Soul-wind howled. Land blurred beneath him—forests, hills, rivers, castles… the entire shape of Westeros flashing past in a single thought.
Too fast. Target locked: the North, Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.
After what felt like an instant or an eternity, the rush slowed.
Below: gray ice plains and crashing waves. A familiar wooden castle appeared in his "sight."
Eastwatch-by-the-Sea—the northernmost outpost of civilization, the westernmost castle of the Night's Watch. Harbor and wooden fortress rolled into one.
His soul dove like a hunting hawk toward a heavily guarded warehouse at the edge of the castle, thick with faint magic and the stench of death.
Then his vision went dark for a split second—and suddenly he was seeing through new senses. He'd entered a fresh body.
Cold. Stiff. Heavy… and a deep instinctive hatred of anything alive.
Pierce "opened" his eyes. This wasn't his first rodeo.
The first face he saw was excited and a little aged: Maester Qyburn. Those eyes that always burned with mad curiosity were now full of eager hope.
As Pierce's soul settled in, he quickly felt the basics of this "body."
It was massively tall and built—way bigger than his own. Strange evil power hummed inside. Instead of blood, thick black ichor flowed through its veins.
The whole thing was wrapped in masterfully crafted armor covering every vital spot. Razor-sharp Valyrian steel blades were inset at the joints and edges, gleaming sinister black in the dim warehouse light. From a distance it looked like a monster made of spikes.
This was one of Qyburn's greatest successes—an ancient necromancy-forbidden-alchemy hybrid: a wight.
Pierce had helped design parts of it. Once it worked, he'd named it "Tyrant."
Painless. Inhumanly strong. Perfectly loyal. The ideal vessel for exploring beyond the Wall.
With Pierce's funding, Qyburn had secretly built a full hundred of these Tyrants.
But this particular one had unique gear—because Pierce was sending it straight into the Haunted Forest.
He had to plan for the chance the Others might try to seize control, so he'd held back the best equipment. No point handing the Night King a top-tier toy.
Once Pierce's consciousness fully locked in, faint unnatural blue light flickered to life in the Tyrant's empty eye sockets.
"Pierce" flexed a metal-plated finger. Soft scrape of steel. He was adapting fast.
"My lord… is that you?"
Qyburn's voice shook with excitement, like a kid showing off his masterpiece.
They'd tested it countless times—Pierce could control the Tyrants—but the distance this time was huge. Qyburn hadn't been sure.
Pierce sorted his scattered thoughts and forced the Tyrant's vocal cords to work. The voice came out low and raspy—like two stones grinding together. Took serious focus.
"It's me!"
Those two words made Qyburn's face explode with joy. He almost danced.
"Success! Perfect connection!! Your plan worked!"
Pierce's Essos adventures weren't rumors—they were real. The "Sea Serpent" success had shown him the path to real power.
He'd never stopped chasing supernatural strength. Good thing he carried Valyrian blood—that gave him extra guarantees. Everything he was doing now proved it.
"Report," Pierce ordered through the Tyrant—short and sharp—while getting used to the heavy, powerful frame.
Qyburn instantly calmed and bowed. "My lord, Eastwatch commander Cotter Pyke and Maester Harmune here have been bought with our 'business deal'!"
"We offered tons of supplies and gold dragons under the cover of 'funding the Night's Watch and hiring free folk to explore resources beyond the Wall.' They've quietly approved. As long as we keep it quiet, they won't interfere."
Right then the warehouse door swung open. About a hundred mercenaries filed in.
Every one of them was built like a bear—rugged faces, thick fur-and-chainmail gear, top-tier weapons, eyes sharp with that tough northern grit.
These were elite hires Pierce had pulled from northern Essos—heavy coin for men who knew how to fight in freezing hell. They were Qyburn's partners for the Beyond-the-Wall mission.
When they saw the motionless Tyrant suddenly light up with ghostly eyes and speak, their faces mixed awe, fear, and rock-solid resolve.
No hesitation. Led by Captain Lamo, all hundred dropped to one knee, right hands over hearts, bowing low to the Tyrant body now controlled by Pierce.
"Master!" Their deep, unified voices echoed through the warehouse.
Pierce's glowing eyes swept the "loyal" warriors—bound by gold and contracts. The undead face showed nothing, but the invisible pressure made every mercenary bow even lower.
The blizzard outside howled harder against the warehouse walls. Crackclaw Point's conquest had only just begun.
But the game beyond the Wall—where the Others waited—had officially started the second Pierce's consciousness arrived.
The power of the White Walkers was one of the things Pierce wanted most. If he could seize control of those strange creatures, he could take the next huge step toward owning this entire world.