Crackclaw Point – Golden Port
One month later, on a clear night, a perfect silver coin of a moon hung high in a deep-blue velvet sky, pouring cold light across the waters where Blackwater Bay met Crab Bay.
The tide was pulling back, and a salty, chilly sea breeze swept straight into Golden Port.
Pierce and Melara stood side by side on a quiet stretch of beach at the mouth of the Golden Crab River, waiting.
As the night mist rose like ghosts from the sea, a cluster of reefs that stayed underwater most of the time slowly emerged—jagged, black, slick with seaweed and barnacles. In the moonlight and fog they looked like the spine of some ancient sea beast breaking the surface.
"It's time," Melara whispered. Her eyes glowed with a faint golden sheen under the moon. She let out a long, eerie whistle that cut through the mist.
Soon two massive spotted whales broke the surface, their patterned skin gleaming as they swam gently toward shore.
These were spotted whales—wolves of the ocean, highly intelligent. Pierce had seen a tribe in Sothoryos that could tame them during his travels. Melara's method was even more impressive; she seemed to speak directly to them.
Without hesitation, Pierce and Melara climbed onto the whales' broad backs. Pierce ran a hand over the surprisingly soft, rubbery skin and felt a strange mix of nostalgia and wonder. Back on Earth he would never have experienced anything like this. No modern tech, no smartphones—but here he could do things laws and society had once forbidden.
The whales let out low calls and carried them smoothly and swiftly through the fog toward the reef.
Cold seawater hissed beneath them. The icy mist cut off all noise from the shore.
Neither of them was ordinary; their bodies were far tougher than any normal person's, or they would have frozen solid in minutes.
They stepped onto the slick reef. The air was thick with brine and a deeper, primal scent that belonged only to creatures from the ocean's darkest trenches.
The moment their feet touched stone, soft rustling sounds rose from the muddy shallows and cracks between the rocks.
Then countless shapes rose from the shadows and shallow water.
They were fish-people—skin covered in slick scales or bumpy hide, webbed fingers, large bulging eyes that reflected dull or eerie light in the moonlight.
They made low, rasping hisses like catfish scraping against rocks. Hundreds of them covered the newly exposed reef. These were the Lady of the Waves' most basic, most loyal followers.
Melara—or rather, the Lady of the Waves now in full control—stepped to the center of the reef. She raised her arms as if embracing the moonlight and sea wind.
She began to dance. Her movements were no longer graceful; they were ancient, primal, filled with ritual power. Her body moved in perfect rhythm with the waves. Every turn, every stretch seemed to pull invisible energy from the air around her.
The fish-people grew agitated. They lifted their heads toward the moon and joined in with a rising chorus of hisses that blended into a single, wave-like sound rolling outward across the water and into the deep.
Pierce stood quietly to the side, watching everything with calm calculation. He had supported the Lady of the Waves in summoning more fish-people not out of mystical curiosity, but cold practicality.
These creatures looked monstrous and had low intelligence, but they possessed an uncanny ability to herd and guide fish schools.
In the past month, with nearly a thousand fish-people working Crab Bay, Golden Port's daily catch had multiplied several times over. Salting sheds, fish-oil refineries, and even fertilizer plants using bones and guts were now running at full speed.
But Pierce's ambitions went much further. He needed vastly more seafood to feed his growing population, fuel trade, and supply future long voyages.
The current numbers still weren't enough. He planned to turn the entire Crab Bay—and the wider waters around it—into his own endless "ocean ranch."
Melara's dance grew fiercer. The fish-people's hissing reached a crescendo. The combined sound wave hammered the sea like an invisible hammer.
Then, far out in the deep water, something changed.
At first there were only scattered pinpricks of light—like stars fallen beneath the waves. Soon the lights multiplied, thousands upon thousands, like an inverted starry sky or countless cold eyes opening in the abyss. They rose from the black depths, carrying an unsettling sense of being watched.
The Lady of the Waves, still possessing Melara, stopped dancing.
She tilted her head back and sang in a voice no human throat could produce—an ethereal, haunting melody that seemed to come from the ocean's own heartbeat.
The song carried strange power, acting like a precise command that traveled through the water and touched the minds of the deep-dwellers.
The glowing "eyes" began to move, drawing closer to the reef. As they neared, their owners finally revealed themselves.
They were fish-people too, but far stranger than the ones on shore. Some had glowing lures like deep-sea anglerfish. Others had specialized limbs clearly adapted for darker, deeper waters.
They broke the surface and joined their shallower kin on the reef, hissing in reverence to their goddess.
Pierce watched the suddenly larger, even more bizarre school of fish-people and gave a satisfied nod.
With this new force, his "ocean ranch" plan would accelerate dramatically. Power was power—whatever form it took—as long as it served him.
…
…
Shortly after the summoning ritual ended, Pierce—accompanied by Melara and a group of the most grotesque, newly summoned deep-sea fish-people—arrived at the isolated delta outside Golden Port.
These particular fish-people could only operate in this environment for short periods before their skin began to crack.
They looked terrifying, but in truth they had no real combat value against the First Men. Only in the sea and on reefs could they survive at all.
Pierce kept them around mostly for show—to intimidate the wildlings.
The delta had been turned into a secure holding area. Wooden palisades and simple watchtowers ringed a flat central patch of land dotted with crude but sturdy shelters. This was where the first five hundred wildlings brought from beyond the Wall were kept.
Their living conditions weren't bad. Pierce provided enough food and basic medical care—far better than the hand-to-mouth existence they had known north of the Wall.
Yet the wildlings still believed they had lost the one thing they valued most: freedom.
They couldn't leave the delta at will. They couldn't hunt or migrate as they pleased. Grumbling and fights broke out constantly inside the camp.
But earlier that night, several wildlings with skinchanger abilities—using gulls and seabirds—had spied on the terrifying summoning ritual at the river mouth.
They had seen the countless fish-people under the moonlight. They had heard the inhuman hissing and song. They had felt the ancient, overwhelming presence.
Now, in a corner of the camp, three of the strongest skinchangers—"Sparrow" Wex, "Dog-Nose" Haggon, and "Swineherd" Dolf—huddled together, faces pale as they whispered.
"I saw… countless… monsters crawling out of the sea!" Wex's voice shook. The gull he had possessed had nearly had its soul shattered by the sheer terror.
"Terrifying… beyond words… that witch… she isn't human!" Haggon gasped, as if he could still smell the icy brine from the deep.
"And the lord… he just stood there watching… he wasn't afraid at all!" Dolf rumbled, awe and fear thick in his voice.
They had felt the presence far more clearly than ordinary wildlings. Skinchanger blood carried its own ancient fears. Some things were simply not to be challenged.
At that moment the heavy wooden gate of the delta swung open. The silent, heavily armored "Tyrant" wights guarding it obeyed an officer's command.
Pierce stepped into view. Melara walked quietly at his side, and behind her came several of the most grotesque deep-sea fish-people, reeking of brine.
The noisy camp fell deathly silent. Every wildling's eyes locked on the newcomers.
When they saw Melara's inhuman beauty and icy aura, a few confused men let out crude shouts.
But the moment their gazes moved past her to the twisted, slimy, empty-eyed or savage fish-people behind, every voice died in their throats. Fear crashed over the camp like an icy tide.
Pierce walked slowly into the center of the camp. His calm gaze swept across the now-silent wildlings, and a mocking smile curved his lips.
"Why so quiet?" His voice carried clearly in the stillness. "Weren't you all so loud earlier? Weren't you shouting about your precious 'freedom'? Go on—laugh for me. Show me what your so-called freedom can actually give you."
The wildlings shrank back. No one dared meet his eyes.
Then the three skinchanger leaders—Wex, Haggon, and Dolf—exchanged glances and stepped forward. They knew they had to speak now.
Pierce also spotted a familiar face in the crowd: Osha, the wildling woman who in another life had protected Bran Stark and later sworn to him. He sensed the distinct soul-flutter of a skinchanger on her. The brutal life beyond the Wall had awakened her gift.
His gaze settled on the leaders. "It seems some of you still have brains. So I'll ask one last time. Have you decided? Will you give up your ridiculous, useless 'free folk' ways, kneel, and swear loyalty to me? Will you become citizens of Golden Port, trading your labor and obedience for food, shelter, safety, and a future? Or…"
He let the silence stretch, then his voice turned cold as winter steel. "Or will you choose to become research material in my laboratory… or food for my deep-sea friends?"
As if on cue, the grotesque fish-people behind him shuffled forward with a wet, threatening hiss. Thick saliva dripped from their jagged teeth, gleaming in the moonlight.
Cold fear gripped every wildling heart.
One choice meant losing "freedom" but living—perhaps even living better. The other meant becoming monster food or a maester's dissected specimen.
For people who had spent their lives on the razor's edge of survival, the decision wasn't hard.
Osha stepped forward first. She dropped to one knee and bowed her once-proud head. "My lord… I, Osha, swear to serve you."
With her lead, the three skinchangers followed. "Wex (Haggon, Dolf) will serve you, my lord!"
Like the first domino falling, the entire camp of wildlings sank to their knees one by one. In rough or reluctant voices they swore loyalty to Pierce. Their so-called "free folk" pride shattered completely in the face of raw survival.
Pierce looked at the sea of kneeling figures and allowed himself a genuine smile of total control.
He had just gained another batch of laborers, warriors, and several valuable skinchangers. Crackclaw Point's strength was growing in every possible way.
These wildlings were only the beginning. Once they spread the word through example, everything else would become much simpler.