Crackclaw Point – Eastern District, Warsong Keep
The biggest longhouse that used to belong to "Old Fishspear" Hollan Boggs now had a new owner.
The air still smelled faintly of blood and salty sea wind, but the real weight in the room came from the tension and raw anticipation of power changing hands.
Pierce sat on the rough wooden chair that had once been Hollan's, now draped with a full bear pelt to give it some real authority. He wasn't in his flashy golden plate—just dark everyday clothes. The chilling Valyrian steel axe Bloodstorm stood upright beside the seat like a damn battle flag.
In front of him, on the stone floor at the foot of the steps, a black sea of men knelt shoulder to shoulder.
These were the surviving captains and minor chiefs of House Boggs, plus the leaders of the smaller clans who'd come to Warsong Keep looking for protection or a living in the waters around Crab Bay.
"Raider" Quentin Hardy knelt front and center. He fought to keep the excitement out of his voice, making it sound steady and respectful.
"Mighty Lord Celtigar! I, Quentin Hardy, speak for House Hardy and every ship and warrior under my command. We pledge our eternal loyalty. Wherever your sword points, our blades will follow!"
The smaller chiefs behind him quickly echoed the oath, voices thick with the relief of still being alive and the hope of carving out a better spot in the new order.
They'd bet right—switching sides at the last second had saved their necks and might actually get them ahead.
A little farther back, Dagos Peake knelt on one knee, head slightly bowed. His feelings were a hell of a lot more complicated. He hadn't chosen this; Pierce had smashed him flat and forced the knee.
The whole Crackclaw Point knew he'd "betrayed" the old ways and bent to an outsider lord. It sat in his chest like a boulder—fear, a bitter grudge he couldn't quite name, and above all, helpless surrender to pure strength.
Pierce's violet eyes swept slowly across the kneeling crowd, reading every face. He accepted their oaths of fealty—short, clean, no bullshit.
Then he cleared his throat. His voice wasn't loud, but it reached every ear.
"The old rules die today. Warsong Keep is no longer a pirate nest or raider hideout. This place is going to rise as a real city—a port built on order, trade, and straight-up prosperity!"
He let that sink in for a beat.
"I'm ordering every one of you: within the next month, bring your entire clan—every man, woman, and child—and settle them around Warsong Keep. I need bodies. A lot of them. We're building a city and turning the land into farms."
A ripple of uneasy muttering ran through the crowd.
An older chief dared lift his head, face tight with worry. "My lord… it's not that we don't want to, but most of our people only know fishing, hunting, or scratching out a few potatoes in the hollows. Real wheat? That's just tossing seeds on the riverbank and hoping. We don't have proper tools, and we sure as hell don't have oxen!"
"Yeah, my lord, this… this is gonna be tough," the others muttered.
Pierce's face gave away nothing—he'd seen this coming.
"Tools, oxen, seed grain, even the first few months of food—I'll supply all of it."
He snapped his fingers. Logistics officer Hassa stepped in from the side door, thick ledger in hand.
"Hassa," Pierce ordered, "use the population numbers these chiefs give you and stock enough grain to carry them until the first harvest."
Hassa bowed. "Yes, my lord!"
Pierce turned back to the doubtful faces, his voice dropping into something heavier and colder.
"I can hand you that food right now. You can take it, round up your people, and run—disappear deeper into the hills or out to some forgotten island and keep living like wildlings and pirates, one bad day away from starving."
His tone turned ice-cold. "But that choice means you're voluntarily giving up any chance of becoming sworn vassals under me—Pierce Celtigar, the future and only lord of Crackclaw Point!"
The words hit like a blade at the throat. Several men who'd been secretly planning to slip away felt their guts twist.
"Giving up the right to live behind strong walls, protected by law, with real trade and real safety. Because the next time my army tracks you down, you won't get grain and second chances. You'll get the gallows and fire."
Naked threat wrapped around glittering promises shook every man there.
They looked at Pierce's unyielding stare, then at Hassa already writing down numbers, and one by one most of them lowered their heads in submission.
Once the new vassals were handled, Pierce waved the guards forward. They dragged in the next group.
Vargo Hoat, leader of the Brave Companions, and a handful of his lieutenants—the ones who'd tried to crash the battle from the northwest. They were tied tight, faces still wearing that cocky mercenary smirk, but fear flickered deep in their eyes.
"Who hired you?" Pierce asked flat-out.
Vargo spat a bloody gob and grinned. "We work for coin, lord. Who the payer is usually doesn't matter. Messages and the down payment came through middlemen."
The others nodded, claiming ignorance.
But under Pierce's freezing stare, Vargo hesitated, then added, "Though… one middleman let slip it was some 'big shot' in King's Landing who wanted it done. Who exactly? How the hell would small-timers like us know?"
Pierce's mind clicked. Almost certainly Littlefinger's handiwork.
He didn't press. "Serve me, or die."
Mercenaries sold swords for gold—loyalty cheap, but that also made them easy to buy.
Vargo and his men traded quick glances. Almost no hesitation. They started struggling against their ropes, swearing they'd serve.
Pierce had them cut loose and ordered them to go tally up and absorb whatever was left of their company.
Now only Pierce's inner circle remained in the longhouse: Dagos Peake, Quentin Hardy, Rosco Blount, and his cousin Benard Blount.
Rosco hesitated, then stepped forward and spoke low. "My lord, handing out that much grain straight up… isn't it risky? What if some of them just take it and bolt, or—"
Pierce cut him off, calm but absolute. "Your worry is unnecessary, Rosco. Soon the only banner flying over the entire Crackclaw Point will be my golden crab."
"Anyone stupid enough to hoard supplies, betray me, or challenge that will end up like House Boggs—completely crushed and turned to dust. Whatever they take now, they'll repay double with labor and loyalty later."
His gaze flicked across Dagos and Quentin. "As for loyalty… I'll be watching."
Dagos's heart jolted. He bowed his head deeper. Quentin hurried to reaffirm his devotion.
With the longhouse business finished, Pierce stood and headed toward the dock district, Rosco and the others flanking him.
The layout of Warsong Keep was simple: the settlement split east and west by the river flowing into Crab Bay.
West City was bigger, flatter, and tied to the mainland—main trade and civilian zone, cluttered with crude wooden huts, tents, and stalls, all ringed by a low wooden palisade.
East City sat on a small river delta, slightly higher ground—the real heart of the place.
The Boggs leaders and major chiefs had lived here, including that big longhouse. The palisade was thicker, but that was about it. No money for bridges, so everything depended on the northern docks for outside trade.
Pierce's three big ships were now moored solid at the expanded northern dock of East City. More longships patrolled the western docks and the open sea.
Both docks buzzed. Sailors and soldiers shouted as they offloaded crate after crate, sack after sack—grain, weapons, building materials, tools. The foundation of everything Pierce was building.
Logistics officer Hassa was already knee-deep in it, directing a couple of literate assistants while they tallied everything.
Pierce called over his chief engineer, Salvo. The former Myr armorer-slave looked wiped but still sharp.
"You called for me, my lord?"
"The docks need expanding—big enough for more ships, especially deep-draft ones. Fortifications get beefed up too. I want permanent ballista emplacements right here," Pierce said, pointing out the spots.
Salvo eyed the mountain of supplies and the zones waiting to be built, face tightening. "My lord, we're already stretched clearing East City, reinforcing defenses, fixing riot damage in the west, and prepping your temporary quarters… Expanding the docks is going to need more shipwrights and extra hands."
Pierce nodded—he got it. "I'll fix the manpower problem. Prisoners and the newly sworn clans go to you first. I need a detailed expansion plan fast."
"Yes, my lord! I'll get it done!" Salvo exhaled and hurried off.
That was when a soldier came sprinting up the dock, breathless.
"My lord! Alarm in the western district! Unknown force spotted northwest!"
Almost at the same instant, urgent bells started ringing from the west side!
Pierce didn't even blink. He took a long brass spyglass from one of his guards and raised it toward the northwest.
Through the lens, a bold banner appeared on the horizon—yellow-brown field with a savage black bear claw.
"It's Eustace Blount of Fear Hollow!" Rosco said beside him, voice tight.
Pierce adjusted the focus. The force looked about a thousand strong. Gear a notch better than the Boggs, but formation still sloppy as hell.
They'd clearly spotted the golden crab banner flying over Warsong Keep and the huge fleet at the docks. The front of their column erupted in obvious confusion and hesitation.
At the head of the Fear Hollow army, Eustace Blount sat on his warhorse staring at the city that had already flipped sides, completely stunned.
When Hollan had begged for help, the old pirate had sworn he'd gathered two thousand men—more than enough to crush any invader and split the loot.
A few days later… and the place had changed hands?
"Father! What are we waiting for? Charge in and take it back!" his hot-headed eldest son Garl shouted.
"Shut your mouth, you idiot!" Eustace's beard shook with rage. He jabbed a finger at the disciplined—though smaller—force below the walls and the fleet in the bay. "Look at them! Hollan's two thousand are gone! You want our thousand to go die?"
While he wavered between advance and retreat, Pierce's side had already reacted.
On the western outskirts, Pierce's vanguard snapped into formation under barked orders. They weren't his elite core, but they showed real discipline.
At the same time, horns blared from Pierce's main position as more units started moving.
Seeing the swift, professional response, Eustace's last shred of hope died. He sighed heavily.
"Raise the parley banner! Send a rider. Tell Lord Celtigar that Eustace Blount of Fear Hollow requests talks!"
Soon afterward, in the open ground between the two forces, the negotiation that would decide Fear Hollow's fate began.
Pierce rode forward flanked by Rosco Blount, Quentin Hardy, Dagos Peake, and a squad of elite guards. His expression stayed cool and detached.
Opposite him, Eustace Blount arrived with his sons—the hot-headed Garl, second son Morse, third son Albert—and several senior family members. They all looked tense as hell.
"Lord Celtigar," Eustace tried to sound neither too humble nor too arrogant, "I am Eustace Blount of Fear Hollow. We have no quarrel with you. We only came at Hollan's request… Clearly a misunderstanding! We'll withdraw at once and swear loyalty to you, while keeping our traditional autonomy at Fear Hollow. What say you?"
He was still clinging to the dream of keeping some independence.
Pierce shattered that illusion with brutal directness.
"Unconditional surrender. The entire Blount family of Fear Hollow will relocate and settle around Warsong Keep. Your lands come under my direct administration."
"What?!" Eustace's face twisted with shock and fury. "That's impossible! Lord Celtigar, the Blounts have lived in Fear Hollow for more than a dozen generations! We will swear to you and fight for you, but moving the whole clan…"
Pierce cut him off, voice flat and impatient. "Accept, or we fight. I don't have time to waste here."