The Vale – Moon Mountains
The Moon Mountains of the Vale rose like the jagged spine of some ancient beast, silently cutting the fertile Vale of Arryn off from the rest of the world.
An old path—worn smooth by centuries of wagon wheels and boots—wound its way through steep passes and deep forests. This was the Mountain Road. The air here was thin and cold, scented with pine needles and bare rock, far from the warm, rich farmlands below.
After the First Men lost their war against the Andals, most of the survivors fled into these mountains. They still called themselves the true lords of the Vale, but without good iron or farmland they had barely survived, clinging to the high peaks.
Unlike the mountain clans of the North, these highlanders refused any peace with the Andals or their own ancestors' descendants. They would never worship the new god with seven faces.
Yet even so, these mountain clans had brought endless grief to the Arryn rulers of the Vale. They raided the lowlands constantly, burning villages and slaughtering smallfolk. The worst incident saw an Arryn lord smashed to death by boulders rolled down from the heights.
They were like the wildlings beyond the Wall—every time they came down, it was like a plague of locusts.
Right now, in a hidden side valley beside a relatively open clearing in the woods, a large campfire crackled steadily, pushing back the mountain chill and giving its owners a rare moment of warmth.
Ser Quincy Cox of Saltpans and his son Martin, along with a dozen tough guards, stood facing a group of very different men.
On the other side were the Stone Crows of the Moon Mountains, led by Shagga. Shagga was built like a bear, his wild beard covering most of his face. He wore rough furs and hardened leather, and his eyes were as hard and watchful as the mountain rocks he called home.
His warriors looked just as untamed—crude axes and spears in their hands, eyes greedily scanning the fine clothes and swords of Quincy's party.
Several sacks of coarse sea salt sat in the middle of the clearing—the official trade goods. The real prize, however, waited under oilcloth on the nearby cart.
"We brought the salt—at the usual price!" Quincy kept his voice steady. He pointed at the sacks, then looked at Shagga. "Chief Shagga, besides the salt, I also brought some… 'hard goods.' I think you'll be interested."
He nodded to his men. They pulled back the oilcloth. In the sunlight, a dozen gleaming longswords, the same number of spearheads, and several bundles of fresh arrows lay exposed.
The cold flash of steel instantly drew every Stone Crow's gaze. A ripple of sharp breaths cut through the air.
Quincy dared to bring the weapons out so openly only because he trusted his own strength. The twenty sets of top-quality armor and gear Pierce had gifted him were far finer than the heirloom plate he used to treasure. If he could have worn a full set himself, he would have.
Shagga's people might outnumber them, but they were all unarmored. With the short crossbows hidden among his guards, Martin alone could drop more than ten of them in seconds.
Shagga's thick brows drew together. He stepped forward, picked up a longsword, flicked the blade, and tested its weight. The weapon's quality was miles above the crude iron scraps their own smiths hammered out.
"Good iron!" Shagga admitted in his deep, rumbling voice. But he set the sword down and fixed Quincy with a sharp stare. "Lowlander, why? Why sell weapons to us? You want us to take these fine blades and cut off more 'lowlander' heads? Or is this some trap?"
His suspicion was naked. The hatred between the mountain clans and the Vale lords ran centuries deep—raiding and being raided was the eternal rhythm of these peaks.
Quincy had his answer ready. He put on a merchant's smile. "Chief Shagga, hatred doesn't fill bellies or buy what your tribe needs. My master believes trade is better than blood. We offer weapons, cloth, medicine… and you pay with whatever the mountains can give."
"Whatever the mountains can give?" Shagga snorted. "Besides rocks and wood, what else is there?"
"Ores—good iron ore and shiny stones. Rare herbs from the deep valleys. Fine timber. And…" Quincy lowered his voice. "People. If your tribe has extra strong hands, my master would happily give them… work. In the mines, or as guards. The pay is generous."
He watched Shagga's face and sweetened the deal. "If you want, Chief Shagga, I can even send experienced trainers to teach your warriors how to use these weapons better, how to fight in formation, how to protect your homes more effectively… or take what you need."
Shagga stayed silent, stroking the fine sword. His mind was clearly torn.
The weapons were tempting. With them, his tribe would dominate other clans and stand up to Vale patrol riders. But he also knew how treacherous lowlanders could be.
"Your master… what does he want?" Shagga finally growled. It was the first crack in his resistance.
Quincy relaxed inside—he knew he had won half the battle. "My master wants to open wider trade routes with the mountain clans. Weapons are only the beginning. He wants this road to stay open, wants the riches of the Moon Mountains to flow out smoothly while goods from below flow safely in. It benefits both sides."
Shagga looked at the gleaming weapons, then at the hungry eyes of his warriors. Finally he slammed a meaty hand on the cart frame with a heavy thud.
"Fine! I'll take the deal! But remember your words, Ser Quincy. If I find out this is a trap…" His eyes flashed with savage light. "The wrath of the Stone Crows will burn every corner of Saltpans!"
"Of course, Chief Shagga. Trust is the foundation of trade." Quincy smiled, breathing easier. The task the organization had given him had taken its first critical step. The secret line into the deep Moon Mountains was finally being laid.
He was extremely satisfied. Once trade with the mountain clans opened, the price difference alone would make him filthy rich. Saltpans had long been eyed by the Freys, and their power had let them control most of the Kingsroad.
Without House Tully holding them back, Quincy's wife would already be a Frey. But now—with Golden Port's support—he would have more gold and real strength. He no longer feared the Freys.
…
…
Golden Port – Crackclaw Point
Meanwhile, in his new study on the second floor of the castle (now partially usable and free of any nasty smells), Pierce sat comfortably. Without formaldehyde worries, he had moved in right away.
The room was still modest compared to a true lord's solar, but it beat living in a tent.
Today the study welcomed a very special guest—Lysene pirate Salladhor Saan.
Saan still wore his flashy but slightly shabby pirate-captain clothes, though the usual swagger was tempered by weariness and caution.
"Lord Pierce! It has been too long. Your Golden Port is… truly astonishing!" Salladhor spoke in heavily accented Common, voice dramatic, but his eyes carefully watched Pierce's reaction.
Pierce invited him to sit, ordered wine, and added plates of unfamiliar treats—dried fruits, candied preserves, biscuits, and cakes. The pirate captain, used to hardtack and salt beef, looked like he had died and gone to the gods' feast.
"Salladhor, old friend, the winds around the Stepstones seem to have worn you down a bit," Pierce said mildly, giving nothing away.
Salladhor sighed and dropped the act. "My lord, to be honest, the Stepstones right now are a boiling pot of fish stew—pure chaos!" He took a long pull of wine and started venting.
"You remember 'Mad Hat' Jones? That old bastard! When you chopped his head off in the Stepstones years ago, it was glorious!"
Salladhor's eyes flickered with memory and lingering fear. He had been there and watched Pierce smash Jones's fleet and send the arrogant pirate king to the bottom of the sea.
"But his death left a power vacuum that became a curse."
He explained in detail. "After Jones died, his three top lieutenants—'Blood Scorpion' Summers, 'One-Eye' Moro, and 'Sea Witch' Lys—started fighting over his territory. The Stepstones turned into a battlefield. Those three bastards raid merchant ships even harder than before. Even we 'neighbors' are struggling."
Salladhor's voice grew heated, a touch of bitterness creeping in. "My lord, I won't lie—I've sailed the Stepstones for years and I have ambitions. I could have united some of the crews and become the new pirate king!"
He shot Pierce a careful glance and lowered his voice. "…If I hadn't run into your fleet near the Smoking Sea a few years back and… well… been taught a very hard lesson."
That battle had nearly wiped out Salladhor's squadron. He himself had almost become shark food. Pierce had spared his life. It remained a thorn in his pride—and the turning point that taught him caution.
"Now those three are tearing each other apart. With my small fleet stuck in the middle, I'm lucky just to survive, never mind take a slice of the pie!" Salladhor finally showed his hand. He stood and bowed deeply. "Lord Pierce, Salladhor Saan wishes to swear loyalty to you! Please help me!"
Pierce swirled his wine, face unreadable. "Loyalty? Salladhor, we've known each other too long. How much is a pirate's oath worth in gold dragons?"
Salladhor spoke quickly. "My lord, this time I mean it! If you give me a fleet—not a big one, just enough to let me join the fight—I swear that once I gain a foothold in the Stepstones, every pirate there will answer to you! The taxes, the intelligence, everything will be yours to command!"
"Why should I believe you?" Pierce asked, still calm.
"I… I will send my wife and daughter to Golden Port as hostages!" Salladhor offered desperately.
Pierce laughed softly and set his cup down. "Women? Salladhor, do you really think I care? Whether your wife and daughter are in Lys or Golden Port makes no difference to me. Can they actually control you?"
Salladhor froze, sweat beading on his forehead. He knew Pierce wasn't easily fooled. He gritted his teeth, face twisting with pain as if making the hardest decision of his life.
"My lord… I will move my entire treasure hoard to Golden Port! Every gold coin, every jewel, every rare treasure I've collected over the years! I only ask for a small plot of land here so I can build a proper house and plant my family's roots. I will give you my wealth and my future. Surely that proves my sincerity?"
Only then did a satisfied smile appear on Pierce's face. He stood, walked over, and clapped Salladhor on the shoulder.
"Now that's more like it, Salladhor! Put down roots here. Put your treasure where I can see it. That is real loyalty. Hostages are meaningless."
He paused. "Very well, I accept. I will give you five refitted warships and the necessary supplies. Move your hoard here as quickly as possible. Maester Ferren will arrange the land for your house. Remember, Salladhor—this is your last chance. Serve me well, and the future of the Stepstones may truly have a place for you. Try any tricks…"
Pierce didn't finish the sentence, but the ice in his eyes made Salladhor shiver.
"I wouldn't dare! Never! My lord, from now on Salladhor Saan is your most loyal hound! Point me at the enemy and I will strike!"
Salladhor swore almost tearfully. He knew he had just bet his entire life and fortune on this unfathomable lord.
And Pierce, without spending a single soldier of his own, had just extended his reach into the chaotic Stepstones—planting a piece that could one day let him rule those vital waters.