Crackclaw Point – Pierce's Camp
Five days slipped by under a surface of calm while dark currents churned underneath.
When Malbert finally rode back leading more than ten thousand surviving Crabbe tribesmen he'd scraped together, the curtain rose on a play that had been written the moment Garwyn died.
The crowd packed the open ground outside the camp, restless and uneasy.
Melanye—the former chief's wife—stepped forward with a handful of warriors still loyal to her. She wore the same simple dress as before, but those golden eyes now burned with grief, rage, and iron resolve.
She pointed straight at the smug Malbert. Her clear, icy voice carried across the entire gathering.
"Malbert! You kin-slaying coward! You filthy traitor! You didn't just betray the chief who trusted you—you stained the ancient honor of House Crabbe with your own family's blood! The gods will never forgive you. Our ancestors' spirits will curse your name every single night!"
Her accusation hit like a spark in a barrel of oil. Every buried resentment in the Crabbe hearts exploded at once.
They'd been forced to bow to an outsider, lost their old leader and their old way of life. That huge sense of defeat and shame finally had somewhere to go.
"Kin-slayer!"
"Disgusting traitor!"
"You don't deserve to be our chief!"
"Get the hell out!"
The roar built higher and higher. People started scooping up dirt clods and rocks, hurling them at Malbert and the few men who'd sided with him.
Malbert's face went from pale to purple. He waved his arms, trying to shout them down, but his voice was swallowed by the fury.
"Shut up, you idiots!" he screamed, losing control. "It was me! I'm the one who saved the tribe! I'm the one Lord Celtigar recognized! I still carry Crabbe blood! Garwyn's dead, you morons! I'm the chief now—you have to obey me!"
But the label "kin-slayer" stuck like the worst curse in Westeros. Whether in the civilized Seven Kingdoms or the savage wilds, murdering your own blood was one of the most hated crimes there was.
His claims of "Crabbe blood" and "the lord's approval" sounded pathetic against raw moral outrage.
Up on the watch platform behind the palisade, Pierce and Rosco Blount watched the chaos in silence.
Rosco frowned at the mess below—especially Malbert getting pelted and cursed. "My lord… shouldn't we help him? He's technically sworn to you now…"
Pierce's eyes were deep, like he'd seen the whole script years ago. "Help him? Why would I? Look at them, Rosco. These Crabbes lost their leader. They were forced to kneel to an outsider. They're carrying a massive fire of shame and rage. If we don't let that fire burn out somewhere safe, it'll explode later and cause real trouble."
He pointed at the besieged Malbert. "And he's the perfect fuel. They hate me, but they're terrified of me. They won't dare turn that anger my way. So Malbert—the man who personally murdered their old chief and rushed to cozy up to me, the 'outsider'—becomes the only safe target for their hate."
"He has to die, and it has to be his own people who kill him. Only then will they feel like they got revenge. Only then will that knot in their chests loosen enough for them to accept the new reality."
Rosco felt ice crawl up his spine. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He'd thought Pierce was just a military genius with ruthless tactics. He never realized the man was this terrifying when it came to reading and using human hearts.
Pierce had used Malbert to remove the old chief. Now he was using the tribe's own rage to remove the pawn once it outlived its usefulness—neatly smoothing the transition of power.
"My lord… this…" Rosco's voice was dry. "This seems… against knightly honor…"
Pierce turned and looked at him. The gaze was calm, but it carried invisible weight. "Rosco, I never claimed to be a knight. I studied in Oldtown, but I never took the final vows. I'm a lord. My job is to conquer, rule, and protect my lands and my people. In my book, loyalty is the most valuable thing a subordinate can give, and I reward it in full."
"But when it's necessary—for bigger goals and a stronger rule—some methods that knights would call 'dishonorable' are perfectly acceptable. As for honor…" He paused, voice turning cold with reality. "Sometimes, when survival and power are on the line, honor is the first thing that breaks. I need people who can carry out my will, not puppets chained by pretty words."
Rosco fell silent. His mind churned with awe, unease, and a dozen conflicting feelings.
While they talked, the chaos below boiled over.
Someone shoved first. One of Malbert's few loyal men pushed an old man who'd been cursing him. The elder fell. That was all it took.
Weapons came out. Malbert and his tiny group clashed with the furious crowd in a short, ugly brawl.
It ended fast and bloody.
Outnumbered and morally condemned, Malbert and his handful of supporters were swallowed by the mob. Screams and curses mixed with the wet sound of steel in flesh.
When it was over, Malbert lay in a spreading pool of blood, body covered in wounds, eyes wide open in death.
In the middle of the violence Melanye had stayed completely still. Now she stepped forward. She didn't fight—she simply stood in the center of the crowd until the fury died down. Then her golden eyes swept over her still-seething tribesmen, voice carrying a soothing power.
"Enough! We've spilled enough blood! The ancient House Crabbe cannot destroy itself in civil war!"
Her prestige worked. The warriors who'd always fought for her quieted first. Slowly the rest followed, turning their eyes to her.
"Garwyn is dead. The kin-slayer Malbert has paid the price!" Her voice rang clear and strong. "For the survival and future of our people, I, Melanye, will take up the leadership of House Crabbe right here and now!"
She turned toward the camp palisade and called out, "Mighty Lord Celtigar! House Crabbe offers you our loyalty and begs for your protection!"
Under the complicated stares of her people, Melanye led the core members of the Crabbe clan forward. They dropped to one knee in Pierce's direction and completed the oath of fealty.
Pierce walked out of the camp gates with Rosco and the others behind him.
He accepted Melanye and House Crabbe's loyalty, then generously ordered tents and food so they could settle just outside the camp.
…
…
Evening – Command Tent
Pierce sat alone on the bear-skin throne, slowly sipping a cup of deep-red Dornish wine.
Only a few oil lamps burned, casting soft, mysterious light. He was waiting. He knew someone would come.
The tent flap lifted silently. A graceful figure slipped inside—Melanye.
She'd changed out of her plain daytime dress. Now she wore a sheer, almost transparent deep-blue Lysene gauze gown that clung to her like night mist.
Her silver-white hair spilled loose. Those golden eyes gleamed with something unreadable in the low light.
She walked straight to Pierce without a word, untied the single ribbon that held the gown, and let the beautiful, revealing fabric slide to the floor like water. Beneath it she wore almost nothing—her perfect body on full display.
Then, like a boneless, seductive serpent, she slid onto his lap, arms wrapping around his neck.
"My lord…" Her voice had lost its daytime clarity. It was now husky, bone-melting, dripping with raw temptation. Her warm breath brushed his ear.
But Pierce felt it instantly—inside that alluring body, a completely different consciousness had awakened.
Ancient. Cold. Carrying the crushing pressure of the deep ocean and a hidden, bottomless hunger for slaughter and chaos.
It clashed violently with her soft, obedient surface.
"No need for the act," Pierce said. He didn't push her away, but his eyes stayed sharp and calm. He swirled the wine in his cup. "You—or rather, the thing inside you—went to a lot of trouble to get close to me. You used me to clear out Garwyn, then pushed Melanye into the chief's seat. You didn't do all that just to warm my bed, did you?"
Melanye's body stiffened for a split second. Then a low, seductive laugh rolled out—completely at odds with her delicate appearance.
"You're sharp, mortal lord… and blunt. Good. Vulgar fleshly pleasure is not what I seek. I need faith. I need anchors. I need… offerings."
Her voice turned ethereal and commanding, echoing slightly. "Swear loyalty to me and bring sacrifices. In return I will grant you mastery over the waves—your fleets will never fail. I will give you eyes that pierce any fog—your enemies will have nowhere to hide. That is far more interesting and far more powerful than the petty land conquests you're playing at."
Pierce's lips curled with mockery. "Mastery over the waves? Eyes that see through fog? Let me guess—you're the Lady of the Waves, right? If your power is really that great, why isn't your center of worship on the Three Sisters? Why are you stuck out here in the inland wilds of Crackclaw Point? Let me take another guess… your true body—or at least the place where you can actually exert real influence—is at Tearmark Lake, isn't it?"
"Insolence!"
The icy rebuke exploded directly inside his mind. A massive psychic pressure slammed into him like a tidal wave, trying to force fear and submission.
The oil lamps in the tent flickered wildly, almost going out.
But Pierce just stared at her, expression blank, eyes carrying a hint of pity.
"Save your strength, 'Lady.' If you still had your full power, you wouldn't need to hide inside a half-blood witch or desperately hunt for 'partners' like me. Would you?"
The crushing pressure ebbed away like a retreating tide. The entity inside Melanye seemed stung by the truth and stayed silent for a moment.
When she spoke again, the commanding tone had softened into careful negotiation and even a trace of real vulnerability. She pressed her body tighter against him, trying to use raw physical instinct. "You are special, Pierce Celtigar… you know far more than any mortal should. Long sleep has made me forget much and lose much, but I still hold knowledge and power beyond anything your kind can imagine… We can cooperate. Each of us gets what we need…"
Pierce felt the warm, soft weight on his lap and the deliberate heat she was trying to stir, but his iron will kept his core ice-cold.
He gently pushed her back just enough to look straight into those swirling golden eyes. "Cooperation is possible. But I want the truth. You so-called 'gods'—the Children of the Forest tie themselves to weirwoods. What about you? What exactly are you? Why have all of you become so… hidden?"
"Gods?" She gave a soft, mocking laugh. "That is merely what ignorant mortals call what they cannot understand. We are… aggregates of ancient wills, illusions shaped by faith and legend. The Children poured their fading spiritual power into the heart-tree network and created their 'gods.' As for me… I come from an even older civilization—an epoch of the abyss and the tides…"
"Deep Ones," Pierce said calmly.
The will inside Melanye jolted visibly. "You… you truly know! Who are you?"
"A man looking for answers and power," Pierce answered without giving her more. "Since you once existed—and were probably incredibly strong—why did you choose to sleep? Or were you forced into hiding?"
"Many memories… have grown hazy…" Her voice turned distant and evasive. "It was a… catastrophe. Or perhaps… a great change…"
Pierce caught the dodge instantly and gave a cold laugh. "Not hazy—costly. Maintaining your existence requires faith and offerings. And right now, getting those has become harder and harder. You didn't choose to sleep. You had no choice. And now you've smelled some kind of… shift in the wind. Or maybe you saw a possibility in me. That's why you couldn't wait to show yourself, correct?"
He leaned in until their faces were almost touching, voice low and heavy with pressure. "Stop trying to dazzle me with vague riddles. If you want to cooperate, show real sincerity. Tell me exactly what you can give me—and exactly what you need from me. As for those ancient stories and the true nature of 'gods'… we can 'remember' those slowly, together."