Beyond the Wall – Eastwatch-by-the-Sea
Pierce swept the Tyrant's burning blue eyes across the kneeling mercenaries. His icy will rolled over every soul in the warehouse like a freezing wind.
No wasted words. He forced the heavy body into motion and marched straight out toward the dock where the ships waited.
Qyburn gave a quick signal. The mercenaries rose silently and fell in behind him. Logistics crews were already loading the last crates onto the flat-bottomed boats.
The fleet was built around one big caravel—the flagship, tough enough to handle the Narrow Sea's worst. Pierce had paid top dollar for her. She led two shallow-draft flatboats perfect for hugging unknown coasts. Together they made up his "Beyond-the-Wall Fleet."
This little squadron carried every ounce of his northern ambition. They slipped away from the very edge of civilization and headed north into the savage ice.
Their target was Hardhome—an abandoned wildling village. Pierce planned to turn it into his forward outpost and intel hub for exploring the Lands of Always Winter.
He wasn't just locking down the south. He was hammering nails into the frozen north—watching the Night King and the Others, and grabbing every scrap of supernatural power he could find.
Especially the natural Shifters. Their abilities would be priceless in the wars to come.
The voyage didn't last long.
Once Eastwatch disappeared behind them, sea ice started showing up and the air turned viciously cold.
While the fleet crept north along the coast, a handful of crude skiffs and log rafts suddenly appeared ahead. They were packed with ragged wildlings carrying bone-and-stone weapons.
Clearly a small raiding party heading south to hit the Night's Watch or coastal villages. In the brutal north, raiding was just how you stayed alive.
Their leader was a nasty piece of work with a nasty reputation along the Wall—"Crackjaw" Dolf. A huge scar split his jaw where something had once torn it open and it healed wrong.
The second he spotted Pierce's ships, greed lit up his eyes like a starving wolf.
(Three ships! And decent gear!)
"Close in! Take their boats and their clothes!" Crackjaw Dolf bellowed, swinging a rusty axe.
The wildlings howled and paddled hard, sharks smelling blood.
These men had fought for survival on the ice their whole lives. They'd charge a giant without blinking.
"Prepare to fight!" Captain Lamo roared. Mercenaries lined the rails, crossbows cocked, swords drawn.
The wildling rafts tried to hook on and climb, but arrows hissed down from the big caravel. Screams rang out instantly.
Some threw grapples, but the tall sides made it impossible. The gap in power was ridiculous. No amount of wildling courage could close it.
That was when the Tyrant on the bow moved.
Pierce grabbed a heavy iron-headed spear custom-forged for this body from the weapon rack at his feet.
No breath needed. No wind-up. The wight's raw strength exploded under his precise control.
The Tyrant's armored arm snapped back like a war bow, then whipped forward in a perfect line.
The spear screamed through the freezing air.
It wasn't aimed at any single man—it was aimed at the lead raft carrying the most raiders.
THUNK—CRACK!
The iron head punched straight through the wooden raft and kept going, skewering one wildling clean through the chest.
The impact shook the whole raft apart. Men screamed and splashed into the deadly water.
One throw. One raft destroyed. And the rest of the wildlings broke.
They stared in pure terror at the massive figure on the bow—eyes glowing like the legends of the ice demons. Morale shattered.
Faced with that kind of overwhelming power and gear, the battle-hardened raiders turned into scared rabbits. Some couldn't even lift their weapons.
The fight ended fast.
Most were shot or drowned. Twenty-seven were taken alive, shivering on the deck of the flatboat.
Not every wildling dreamed of building a kingdom like Mance Rayder. Plenty were just like Crackjaw Dolf—kill or be killed, raid or starve.
In the face of real power and the promise of death, they folded quick. They became Pierce's first batch of northern slave labor.
Pierce was about to ask for intel through the Tyrant when Qyburn rushed close, voice urgent.
"My lord! The link is destabilizing! Your soul has been out too long—the strain on your real body is massive! You have to return!"
Pierce felt it too—the control starting to stutter and blur, like a bad phone signal.
He knew Qyburn was right. The Shifter ability wasn't infinite, and puppeteering a corpse this far away for this long burned through his mind like nothing else.
Only the fused soul from his transmigration had let him last this long.
No hesitation. He forced one last command through the Tyrant's ruined voice—raspy and breaking.
"Qyburn… keep going… to Hardhome… gather more slaves… you have field command… if it's impossible… withdraw… I'll return… in seven days…"
The blue light in the Tyrant's eyes flickered like a dying candle and went dark.
The huge body swayed once, then slumped back into a cold, empty thing.
At the exact same instant, thousands of miles south in the main tent on Crackclaw Point, Pierce's real body gasped like a drowning man breaking the surface. Consciousness slammed home.
Bone-deep, soul-deep exhaustion crashed over him like a wave.
His face was chalk-white, forehead slick with sweat. He felt hollowed out.
"Someone…" he rasped.
The two Lysene bed slaves waiting outside slipped in at once. Pierce just pointed at his shoulders and back.
They understood. They eased his outer robe off and went to work with warm, skilled hands—slow, deep pressure and the faint scent of exotic oils.
Under the soothing rhythm and soft perfume, Pierce's heavy eyelids finally closed. He dropped into deep sleep.
…
…
Crackclaw Point – Pierce's Camp
When Pierce opened his eyes again it was the next morning.
Sunlight cut through the tent flaps. The worst of the physical exhaustion had faded, but the mental drain still needed time.
The pillow still carried a faint sweet scent, but the two gorgeous women who'd shared his bed were already gone.
He glanced over and saw them fully dressed, standing quietly at attention.
"Help me dress, then send Ser Rosco in," Pierce said, voice steady again.
The slaves bowed and left. Moments later Rosco Blount strode in, face bright with excitement. He'd clearly been waiting outside a while.
"My lord, you're awake! Everything's on schedule! Per your orders, the naval detachment sailed at dusk yesterday, swinging around the Point. They'll reach the preset position off Warsong Keep in three days. The two hundred reinforcements from Crow's Rest left on time too."
Pierce nodded, satisfied with the speed.
"Pass the word—break camp. We march on the outskirts of Warsong Keep."
"Yes, my lord!"
Orders given, Pierce headed to the other side of camp. He didn't have to do anything himself, so he used the time to check on everyone else's work.
First stop: the engineers' area. Hammers and saws rang nonstop.
The man in charge was Salvo, a former Myr armorer-slave, about forty, dark-skinned, rough hands but insanely skilled. Pierce had bought him free because of his siege-craft and building expertise. Now he ran the entire engineering corps.
"Salvo!" Pierce called.
Salvo dropped his tools and jogged over, bowing low. "My lord!"
Pierce eyed the finished siege ladders—simple but solid. "These for Warsong Keep?"
"Yes, my lord!" Salvo explained. "Scouts and your sand table both say the wooden palisade isn't tall or strong. These ladders are enough. Building full siege towers or rams would just slow us down."
He sounded relaxed—professional pride. They were used to cracking stone castles, after all.
Pierce nodded. The ladders weren't why he'd come.
"What about the castle blueprints I asked for?"
Salvo's eyes lit up. He pulled a thick roll of parchment from his tube, spread it on a nearby table.
"My lord, here's the preliminary plan for the core fortress of the future port city."
Clean lines, tight structure. The new castle would sit on a higher sea-cliff near the original Warsong site, using the terrain perfectly.
"Main keep on the high point—full view of the harbor and sea. Double walls: outer layer for land attacks, inner layer beefed up for coastal defense. Plenty of scorpion and trebuchet positions pre-marked."
"Salt air is brutal, so key spots get stone. Non-load-bearing parts use treated hardwood to speed construction. And per your instructions, underground levels are reserved for warehouses, workshops… or other special uses."
Salvo added that last part carefully. He knew his lord had "special" needs.
Pierce studied the drawings, pointing out changes. "Adjust this wall angle—better deflection against missiles. Strengthen the dock defenses. Add a standalone watchtower and signal beacon. Drainage first—I'm not letting my own shit flood the place."
"Yes, my lord—excellent points!" Salvo nodded fast and marked the parchment.
Next stop: logistics. The man running it was Hassa, a former agricultural overseer-slave from Slaver's Bay.
Skinny, worried-looking face, but eyes sharp from years working the dirt.
"Hassa, how's the soil survey on Crackclaw Point coming?"
Hassa tensed when he saw Pierce and bowed deep. "My lord… the land is even poorer than I expected. Mostly sand and rock, terrible water retention. Long summer sun is good, but the seeds are the real problem."
He hesitated, then pushed on. "The wheat strains you brought from Essos will need test plots. As for those 'rice' seeds you brought back from Yi Ti…"
His face twisted with fear. "I've only heard rumors. They say it needs tons of water… we're by the sea but fresh water is scarce… and I don't know the first thing about growing it. If… if it fails…"
He was terrified of punishment, maybe even being thrown back into chains.
Pierce watched the man's panic and softened his tone. "Head up, Hassa. I didn't buy you out of Slaver's Bay so you could tell me what can't be done."
Hassa lifted his eyes, shaking.
"Poor soil? Fertilize it. Improve it. Seeds don't fit? Breed them. Cross them. Don't know rice farming?"
Pierce tapped his own temple. "I already gave you the basic principles. The rest is on you—experiment, figure it out. Failure isn't the problem. Not trying is. I want land that can feed itself and then some. Not a place that lives on outside handouts forever!"
"Go big. Need anything—tools, labor, whatever—just ask Salvo or Ser Rosco. Your worth is measured by how much grain this ground grows, not how many mistakes you make."
The words hit like a tonic. The fear in Hassa's eyes melted into fierce determination and trust.
He took a deep breath and nodded hard. "Yes, my lord! Hassa understands. I'll give everything I have!"
Inspection done, Pierce swung into the saddle. White Shadow padded silently at his side.
The camp was already coming down. Pre-built fence sections were being dismantled piece by piece. They'd be dragged along and set up again at the next scout-chosen spot.