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Crackclaw Point – Golden Crab River
Pierce's party rode downstream along the Golden Crab River. Hooves thudded on the freshly packed roadbed that wasn't fully hardened yet. The deeper they traveled into the peninsula's heart, the more the landscape had changed since he left.
What used to be muddy, beast-infested trails were now wide, leveled earthworks. They weren't paved with final gravel yet, but the skeleton of a true highway was already taking shape.
Halfway through a narrow river gorge, a deafening roar rolled toward them, mixed with the grinding, bone-chilling creak of something massive in motion.
Ser Lothor Brune instantly signaled a halt and sent scouts ahead.
A few minutes later the rider returned. "My lord, it's one of our own work crews clearing the way up ahead."
Pierce nudged his horse up a small rise. Even for the man who had ordered all of this, the sight still hit hard.
A colossal "road-roller" the size of a moving fortress crawled forward, followed by dozens of living workers. Its rough but sturdy wooden shell looked like a long rectangular hut mounted on enormous solid-wood wheels.
The real power didn't come from oxen. Inside the shell, twisted shadows writhed—dozens of specially modified wights, far stronger than any living man. Iron chains and gear systems locked them in place like damned souls in a hellish engine. They pushed the massive central axle with tireless, mechanical precision, driving the huge stone drum that crushed everything in its path.
Each revolution slammed loose earth and pre-laid boulders deep into the foundation with a low, thunderous boom.
The air smelled of wood friction, dust, and the faint, sickly-sweet tang of preservative chemicals mixed with the earthy rot that sunlight couldn't quite hide.
Farther down the line, several driverless "transport wagons" rolled along. Simpler in design—reinforced wooden platforms on multiple wheels—their propulsion came from hundreds of pale arms and reinforced tendons working in eerie unison beneath the chassis, like a centipede's legs. They pushed the heavily loaded carts of stone and timber forward at a slow but steady pace.
Pierce's elite "Tyrant" wight guards, clad in heavy plate, stood watch a hundred yards out, cold and silent, making sure no outsiders got close.
There weren't many living people on site—just foremen, surveyors, and skilled craftsmen who handled the delicate work. They had grown used to laboring beside these horrific "machines," though every now and then a flicker of fear still crossed their faces.
If outsiders asked, the official story was always the same: "New mechanical devices developed by Lord Celtigar's maesters—ingenious eastern clockwork, you understand."
After all, the Citadel had once built mechanical dragons that spat wildfire. A few oversized, unnaturally strong construction engines didn't seem that far-fetched.
On the river itself, the transport barges had been upgraded too. Paddle-wheel mechanisms on both sides—powered by something hidden below the waterline—let them fight the current at surprising speed.
Suddenly, rapid hoofbeats thundered from up ahead. Pierce looked up just in time to see Melara charging toward them on horseback, silver-white hair streaming behind her like liquid moonlight.
Joy and excitement lit her face. She didn't slow down—she simply leaped from her galloping mount and landed lightly in front of Pierce, swinging herself onto his saddle and straight into his arms.
"You're finally back!" She wrapped both arms around his neck, molten-gold eyes blazing. Without another word she kissed him—hot, wild, pouring every day of missing him into it.
Pierce blinked once, then met her with equal heat, one arm locking around her strong, slender waist. His guards politely looked anywhere else; they'd seen this before.
When they finally broke apart, Melara's cheeks were flushed and her breathing ragged, but she refused to move back to her own horse. She stayed curled against his chest, excitedly pointing out every change.
"Look at this road!" She gestured at the freshly hardened cement surface, smooth as glass. "The main artery from the port all the way to the upstream mines is basically finished! The riverbanks are reinforced with cement and blackstone too—no more flood worries during the rainy season!"
As the column moved on, the outlines of Golden Port grew clearer. First came the neatly planned farmland outside the western district.
The Yi Ti rice seedlings Pierce had brought were thriving—vast emerald waves rippling in the breeze. Sunlight sparkled across flooded paddies, while nearby dry fields showed heavy-headed wheat ready for harvest.
"Harra says if the weather holds for one more month, this year's grain will feed everyone for a full year and still leave plenty for brewing and storage!" Melara's voice rang with pride. "Those seeds and… techniques you brought really work!"
Pierce gazed across the living, breathing fields and felt a deep satisfaction. This was nothing like the cold horror of his underground labs. This was creation—real hope taking root.
When they finally reached the western district gate, the welcome hit him harder than expected. Word of the lord's return had spread. Hundreds of smallfolk had gathered along the road. Their clothes were still simple, but their faces were healthier, their eyes brighter than when he'd left.
"Long live Lord Celtigar!"
"Thank you for giving us work and food!"
"Long live the Golden Crab!"
The cheers rose in waves—fishermen who had always lived here, mountain tribesmen who had migrated down, craftsmen and farmers drawn by Golden Port's reputation. Stable jobs, full bellies, and fair laws felt like miracles in a land that had known nothing but chaos.
Melara leaned close, voice soft in his ear. "See? Here, you really are like a god to them."
Pierce gave a faint smile and murmured back, calm and utterly realistic, "A god? No. Give your people safety, full stomachs, warm clothes, and a real path upward, and you become the only god they need. Gold dragons and grain—that's the best faith there is."
They passed through the cheering crowd into the eastern district, where everything shifted to crisp order. Warehouses, workshops, and barracks stood in neat rows. A simple but imposing castle—built on the old Boggs longhouse foundation and expanded with blackstone and timber—now dominated the skyline. It wasn't lavish, but it radiated strength.
In the square outside, Maester Ferren and Qyburn were already waiting. Qyburn's gloomy face held a rare spark of excitement as he looked at Pierce.
The urgent message that had pulled Pierce home early had come from Qyburn: "Important progress."
"Welcome back, my lord," both men said, bowing deeply.
Pierce swung down from his horse and helped Melara dismount.
"Inside. Now."
…
…
Golden Port – The Castle
Despite the long ride, Pierce still hosted a small open-air feast in the castle square that night—part celebration, part reward for his men, and part reminder to the newly sworn local chieftains exactly who held the power now.
A huge bonfire roared in the center. Whole roasted sheep, smoked fish, fresh vegetables, imported King's Landing wine, and locally brewed ale flowed freely. The mood was loud, rough, and honest—nothing like the stiff southern noble dinners.
Daggo Pyne, Quentin Hardy, and the other sworn chiefs were all there. They wore decent clothes now and carried fine weapons Pierce had gifted them. Their old savagery had been tempered by the very real benefits of stability, safety, and visible wealth.
They toasted him one by one, voices thick with genuine gratitude. Under Pierce's rule they had lost some of their old "freedom," but they had gained something far better than the knife-edge life of raiding and tribal warfare.
The entertainment carried Pierce's personal touch. His rigorously trained bed-slaves danced around the fire in sheer eastern-style gauze that left little to the imagination. Their bold, sensual movements drew roaring approval from the rough crowd.
In more civilized parts of Westeros this would have been scandalous. Here on Crackclaw Point—still raw and only half-tamed—everyone saw it as the perfect finishing touch to a proper feast.
Pierce sat at the high table, accepting toasts, watching the dancers, talking quietly with Melara, and occasionally raising his cup to the chiefs below. He played the role perfectly: generous, powerful, and a man who knew how to enjoy life. The message was clear—loyalty would be rewarded.
…
…
After the feast ended, Pierce—slightly buzzed—retired to the temporary study inside the castle. Maester Ferren and Qyburn were already waiting. Candlelight filled the room, a sharp contrast to the rowdy square outside.
"Speak, Qyburn," Pierce said, cutting straight to business as he took the lord's seat. "What was so important you needed me back immediately?"
Qyburn's normally dour face lit with near-mad enthusiasm. He stepped forward.
"Two things, my lord. First: the initial batch of wildlings—over five hundred—have been successfully transported from the Hardhome forward base to Golden Port. They're being held on the isolated delta outside the harbor under heavy guard."
Pierce nodded, eyes sharpening. "Good. These free folk are tough and unruly, but they're used to chaos. Tell the guards to keep them tight—make them feel our rules and our strength, but also show them what obedience buys. I need workers and fighters, not a powder keg ready to explode."
He knew wildling nature too well. He'd inspect the delta himself first thing tomorrow and leave them with an impression they'd never forget.
"Second," Qyburn continued, voice rising with excitement, "our labor source. Thanks to your strategy we've captured many White Walkers, but their activity in the Haunted Forest has dropped sharply. The bastards have grown cautious!"
He leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Our bases at Hardhome and Skagos are running smoothly and can keep supplying steady 'raw materials' and candidates with potential for the Shifter ability. My lord… I request permission to move the core of our research here to Golden Port. The facilities are superior, and more importantly—you are here. Your insight into necromancy and combining it with White Walker power far exceeds mine. Under your direct guidance, I believe we can push further—perhaps even grant our creations more complex commands… or the beginnings of true intelligence?"
Pierce studied Qyburn. The man's ambition and hunger for knowledge had never dimmed. He thought for a moment, then nodded.
"Keep the Hardhome and Skagos bases running—they're vital supply lines and forward labs. If you want to stay here, stay. You'll get every resource you need."
He stood and walked to the window, looking out at the harbor lights. "I want you to move beyond simple 'thousand-handed laborers' and 'ice beasts.' Start experimenting with combining different undead creations into true production lines. And that information-transmission network you proposed using wight biology—begin the preliminary work on that as well."
Qyburn's eyes blazed with fanatical joy. He bowed deeply. "As you command, my lord! I will not disappoint you!"
Maester Ferren added quietly, "My lord, regarding Shifter operators: Qyburn's new training methods and our own program have raised the number of qualified operators to thirty. It's still tight, but enough for current testing and early deployment."
Pierce gave a satisfied nod. Everything was moving exactly as planned. Necromancy and White Walker power—the very forces the world saw as death and destruction—were being reshaped in his hands into the foundation of a new order and greater power.
Golden Port wasn't just a trading hub anymore. It was the place where his dark, industrial dream of magic-powered empire was finally stepping out of shadow and into the light.