Once again, I remind my readers that FFN does not save my formatting (such as italics or bold letters) and I shall not go over the chapter once again to fix it. I suggest you read my chapters on other websites such as Questionable Questing, AO3, or Sufficient Velocity. I post there under the same penname and until FFN fix their shit, I will keep adding this line.

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

26th day of the 8th moon, 299

Moat Cailin

The Reaver Captain

"Fuck!"

Ralf Kenning swatted at yet another bug that had stung him. The damned thing had somehow managed to land on the back of his neck without him noticing before stinging him. He withdrew his hand to find a mosquito the size of a frog, and his hand dripped crimson. He wiped his palm nervously, hoping he didn't catch some sort of fever like Dagon Codd, who was still in bed, moving only to puke his guts out. Grimacing, Ralf continued walking the grounds of the once massive stronghold, checking on his men and ensuring there were no attacks from the bogs.

Worst of all was the low buzz ever present in the air. Fleas, flies, and nasty bugs that Ralf couldn't even put a name on oft hovered just out of reach, waiting until you let your guard down. It was almost inevitable; even the most vigilant man had to sleep. But sleep did not come easy with the constant buzzing and the itch that accompanied the bite of the vermin. It was not even supposed to be hot enough for the bloodthirsty bugs to be around; the Northern summer was named deceptively-Ralf had seen snow on a colder night half a moon prior.

Yet it seemed the cold did not halt the bloodthirsty vermin.

It was a foggy and misty day, typical of the climate of the Neck, but not exactly normal midday. In the end, fog and mist were yet another layer of defense to an Ironborn.

Several of his men saluted him when he passed by, but Ralf could tell they were disgruntled. None wanted to be stuck in this hellish marsh, far away from the sea. After Victarion Greyjoy led the Iron Fleet up the Fever River to its headways and captured the ancient stronghold from the paltry defenders, many of the captains were lost on how to proceed with their invasion.

Some fools suggested simply raiding the hinterlands, but Harren Botley, Lord Botley's eldest, had the temerity to suggest they go deeper in the damn bogs in search of the legendary Reed seat.

"It will be good to bring the damned crannogmen to heel," he boasted to Victarion. "They stopped countless Andal invasions for thousands of years, the riches they must be hiding in their swamps must be legendary! Give me a thousand men, and I will crush them within a moon!"

Thankfully, the Iron Captain waved it away.

Wiser heads proposed they invade Flint's Finger and use it as a springboard for further invasions. Yet, none desired to enter such a grinding slog against the Capemen that promised little loot and plenty of death as they tried to navigate the cliffs and mountains of Flint's Finger.

Ralf, however, knew where the true prizes were and how to convince the captains of his plan.

"We have 13,000 men and nearly 200 ships." He had told the Iron Captain, "We can keep a dozen ships nearby to man the Moat while the rest of us besiege Barrowton. Many of the Northerner's riches would be in that city, and we can even reach it by boat!"

Victarion Greyjoy had taken his suggestion and decided to go with it… only he was given the honor of staying behind to protect their rear. It was the damned cripple, his namesake Ralf, the Limper, who suggested to the Iron Captain that he be the Castellan of Moat Cailin. Some days, Ralf suspected that the Iron Captain simply confuses the two of them…

He shook his head and continued his patrol.

A hundred of his men raided for supplies with two of the longships while the other five hundred manned the towers. The real problem was that while they were about to rotate to another party, they reached the Fever River only to see their ships aflame.

Ralf and his men were now stuck here, with no way out until the Iron Captain broke Barrowton because of these thrice-cursed bog devils and frog-eaters.

The Crannogmen had been relentlessly harassing his men since they arrived in the Neck. Things had worsened in the last three days as if they knew precisely where and when to hit them at their weakest to inflict the most damage.

Ralf was starting to think he had traitors in their ranks, but that made no sense; his men had nothing to gain by assisting the damned bog devils. Even their women were short, ungainly, and ugly.

Their poisonous darts hit several of his men, and they were forced to mercy kill them after the first two suffered for days as they slowly expired in agony. A greenish rash covered their bullocks and quickly started spreading everywhere, and their skin began to slough off as if it was rotting on the spot. More of his men wishing to supplement their diet with meat dared to venture into the swamps without his command, only to become prey to the lizard lions and ambushes from the Crannogmen.

One such attack happened right before his eyes as he watched from the Drunkard's Tower. Ralf had to rub his eyes and pinch himself several times at the sight of that bog devil riding a lizard lion munching on one of his reavers. Then, the whispers started among the men about how pointless it was for them to be here.

"This place is cursed. The whispers in the night…they don't let me sleep!"

"I swear on the Drowned God I saw a shade floating over the Children's Tower as it danced to the full moon."

"I heard the Iron Fleet had beaten back a host from Barrowton and are now besieging it. Soon, they will be drowning in riches and women, while we are drowning in bugs and poisoned arrows."

The grumbling and complaints followed Ralf all the way to his destination, the Children's Tower. He would confess to being sorely tempted to abandon the dreary castle and march his men to Barrowton, but with their boats gone, that would simply open them to get buggered in the rear by the swamp dwellers.

As he entered the courtyard in front of its gate, one of his reavers shouted from on top of the tower.

"Captain, something queer is happening!"

The fear in his voice was evident, and Ralf cursed under his breath as he hurried up the tower, grabbing a few men with him. Soon, they were on the roof, and Ralf found the lookout staring out into the Neck with his jaw open. Ralf did not need to ask what was wrong, for his gaze unveiled the short-lived mystery well enough.

The ancient stronghold of Moat Cailin used to be a massive fortification that stretched for nearly a mile across, blocking any army marching from the south, with basalt walls standing proudly at a hundred feet tall. It had twenty towers that acted as separate keeps, so large were they that they might as well have been castles in their own right. Only three of the towers remain, and the basalt wall had sunk into the shallows, its foundations weathered by eons of ill-maintenance, even if some giant-sized chunks still littered the nearby marsh.

To the east, it bordered unscalable hills that stretched to the cliffs overlooking the Bite. To the west and south were swamps and bogs as far as the eye could see, where most of the Crannogmen lived and where any invading force would need to follow the raised causeway to reach the only entrance to the North from the south.

Yet, now, it was different. Ralf and a handful of his reavers stood over the slender tower, missing its crenelations, and watched the wide, turbid bog… disappearing.

Before their eyes, the swamps receded as if suddenly drained by a maelstrom like the ones that suddenly appear in the Smoking Sea, and the raised causeway that was barely a few inches above the water was now nearly ten feet above the drained mud and muck. Strangely, no fish, frogs, or lizard lions were left behind in the water, but before Ralf could wonder what witchcraft was happening, a shout from behind grabbed his attention.

"Captain! We are under attack from the North."

Cursing under his breath, Ralf grabbed his shield and rushed to the Gatehouse Tower–the most intact of the three, and where most of his men were garrisoned. He could see they were busy stringing their bows and putting on their armor, roused by the sudden warning of an attack. Ralf was still worried about whatever drained the swamps to the south, but having an enemy in front of him was far easier to deal with than whatever sorcery was behind him.

"Men, to arms! To arms!"

The call echoed out as he descended the tower and hurried to the north, gathering with him dozens, then over a hundred men as they reached the Gatehouse Tower. He had his men wait on the ground as he climbed to the roof of the tower and found the lookout pointing ahead.

"They came out of the fog." Gone was the usual composure of Torywn–one of his best men, if somehow balding and bow-legged. Despite the cold, Ralf could see small rivulets of sweat almost forming a river on Torwyn's glistening face, and his tunic was already damp with sweat. "I swear the valley fog just cleared in seconds, and they were suddenly there!"

He was not one for lies either. These strange lands caused mist and fog to form and stick to the ground yet it did not climb any higher than a dozen feet. Despite the clear skies, it left a white blanket on the north side of the stronghold.

They were about two hundred men, all on foot except for their apparent leader, a knight mounted on a large and armored stallion. The men were well-armed, their plate armor gleaming like a trove of diamonds in the afternoon sun. A quarter of the men bore the unmistakable direwolf of House Stark, while the rest were emblazoned with Mermen, Keys, and other coats of arms. While clearly an elite and dangerous force, Ralf could only snort in derision at such a small number daring to attack their castle.

Even fools knew that to storm a keep, even one as dilapidated as Moat Cailin, you needed to outnumber the defenders at least three to one, not the reverse!

Their apparent leader nudged his steed forth and stopped well within bow range; one of his men raised his bow, but Ralf stopped him - a white flag was fluttering in the air above, on the tip of his lance, and bow range was also shouting range. Might as well listen to what he had to say. The knight took off his helmet, revealing a very young man with dark hair, sea-green eyes, and a lopsided grin - he immediately gave the impression of either a fool, a daredevil, or both.

"Pretty boy," Ralf snorted before coughing to clear his throat. "Nice and clean white flag you got there. Are you perchance surrendering?"

The knight's face contorted for a heartbeat before the smile returned to his face but colder in a way that made Ralf's skin crawl.

"Not a believer in the Seven," came the mocking response. "I see no reason why I'd use their rainbow flag, so I decided to go with my own style."

The Ironborn jeered.

"Craven!"

"Go back to mommy, pretty boy!"

"Tsch," Ralf snorted once the clamor of his men died off. "And here I thought you wanted to surrender."

"You thought wrong," the young knight shrugged, though his free hand started fiddling with his dark shield. "Well, here it goes. In the name of Princess Sansa of House Stark, I offer you this one chance to surrender."

"Or what, you're going to storm the towers with your men?" Ralf nodded at the array of Northmen behind the envoy. "I can see you brought some good soldiers. But while I'd hate to fight them on an open field, this is a castle, and your men are paltry in number."

His men laughed again, and truth be told, Ralf was tempted to sally out and crush the Stark knight. It would be bloody, but each Ironman was tough, and they had the numbers. Yet that eerie visage from earlier, where the marshland receded in heartbeats, made him cautious. His senses were tingling, as if a shadowy axe was somehow hanging above his neck.

It didn't help that the young knight was undaunted, and Ralf could see his sun-kissed face filled with anticipation. Was he a fool or perhaps a madman?

"Your answer?" His voice was loud and clear, echoing almost like a warhorn.

At that moment, Ralf decided the Northman was surely a fool.

"Go bugger off," Ralf yelled. "Or, well, you're welcome to rush the Moat. I'll take my first turn at buggering you."

The knight's grin somehow grew even more sinister as it widened.

"So you refuse? Oh well, I suppose everyone did warn me y'all were dumb as fuck. Besides, all of this pompous acting is just not my style anyway. I suppose death by drowning is what you Ironborn are all about."

"I don't know what mummery you are playing at, but don't think we are afraid of death." Ralf was annoyed with the arrogant fuck and quickly barked at his men. "Archers, ready."

As his men nocked their arrows, the knight simply shrugged before raising his arms, holding the shiny lance with the parlay flag in both hands like a staff as he gazed at the heavens.

Before Ralf could give the order to draw and loose, a drop of water fell on him.

His neck cracked as he twisted himself to look up, and at first, he was unsure what he was seeing. A storm? It was midday, and the skies were clear earlier, yet now the sun was blocked by some sort of dark cloud. Another drop of water fell on him, but something heavier smacked one of his men in the face.

"What the fuck?" The Ironborn grabbed what fell on him, only for them to gawk. "Is that…a frog?"

"C-Captain? I don't think those are clouds."

Ralf looked up again, suddenly realizing what the dark cloud was. Frogs, fish, and bugs fell upon them as an utterly massive wave of brackish and filthy swamp water floated above their heads.

The whole tower was silent as if everyone had swallowed their tongue, and Ralf was no different. Those on the ground could only stare at the knight as he chuckled - the sinister sound ominously echoing all around them as the wind rose and battered the few pennants they placed on the tower.

"You should have surrendered."

Before Ralf could do more than yelp, the tidal wave crashed down.

A*H*M

Percy

Percy watched the mayhem in front of him, and he couldn't help but feel bad for some of the frogs and wildlife that were too slow to swim away from the swamps to the south. He had tried to warn the fish, but the damned things owed him no loyalty, even after claiming all the Weirwoods along the coast - most likely because they were freshwater fish. Rude little fuckers practically flipped him off when he warned them of his plan; after crawling in the muck all morning to sneak around the fortress so that he could assuage his guilt.

Stupid fishes got what they deserved.

At least the men won't have trouble finding food for the night. Didn't the Crannogmen eat frogs? They must be the French equivalent of this world, though when he tried speaking the little French he knew to Meera (which was just him slurring every other word), she grimaced and demanded he "Halted and never speak so again or find himself with a frog spear up his rear."

Charming girl.

"Alright, boys. It's everyone's favorite time after a battle." Percy waved his hand, causing the water to recede away from the stronghold and back to the swamps. At least most of his men no longer gawked at the open display of power, though some did, and he couldn't blame them. It probably looked like magic, and Percy had no desire to disabuse them of the notion, "Let's take prisoners and loot the place."

A hesitant cheer followed him as he led the way to the tower, finding what was left of the Ironborn moaning and groaning on the ground. It might have seemed like a completely indiscriminate attack, but Percy was careful to hold back lest he caused the remaining towers to collapse completely. As a consequence, only half of the Ironborn died or drowned from the sudden flood, though they were certainly too dazed to stand up, let alone fight. A good chunk of them were flung into the marshland along with the lizard lions, and Percy could feel that a lot of beasts would feast for days.

"Take prisoners, but don't be gentle with any who struggle."

His men hurried to follow his orders, the sounds of fighting and scuffles soon filling the stronghold as pockets of resistance were found and flushed. Percy did not worry about them; he had personally trained fifty of them for a month while the rest were the best of Lord Manderly's men. Donnis, Mark, and Kyle remained in White Harbor with the rest of the Stark contingent to serve at Sansa's side. He had purposely not taken them to give a chance for other men to prove their worth; he planned to have five captains in his small army, which left room for two more, and he had his eyes on his targets already.

He nudged Blackjack with a thought, and the horse trotted to the castle's southern side. Percy may act nonchalant and confident, but this stunt had greatly exhausted him. He could barely hold on to his lance as Blackjack did his best to keep him steady while he caught his breath.

"Die, you Northern scum!"

A trio of Ironborn dashed out behind a block of basalt, their axes poised to hack at his horse's legs. It was a smart ruse to take him down while seemingly unguarded, but unfortunately for them, Percy was not as alone as he appeared.

Before the Ironborn could so much as take more than two steps, they were riddled with arrows and dropped to the ground bonelessly. Percy stared at the corpses for a moment before grinning at his saviors.

"Nice shot! I take it things went well on your side?"

Five cloaked figures appeared from a nondescript bush, almost as if they materialized out of the ground. They were the squad that met with him a couple of days ago to coordinate the attack with the rest of the Crannogmen, as well as covered him while he instilled his will on the waters earlier.

"Aye, your distraction was well-timed." Their leader, Lonnel Fenn, was a small man in his forties, yet had the uncanny ability to seemingly melt into any shadow or bush with the help of his cloak - a target for him to recruit, though he had doubts he would agree if he were honest; he was too loyal to Meera's father. "The squids didn't even notice us among them as we prepared our contingency."

Percy grimaced at the mention of said contingency. He was not a fan of poisoning his enemies, especially when they were asleep or eating. Perhaps it had to do with him getting poisoned one time too many, and the feeling was not one he wished on others.

"Glad we could avoid that." The sound of a horn blast from the south had him turn to the makeshift gate covering the causeway. "Let's go meet your elusive liege then."

The Crannogman nodded and followed him; the rest of his men had melted away when Percy was distracted by the horn blast. They stopped by the gate, where a small army of cloaked individuals marched up the causeway. Several of them rode those giant alligators as if they were horses; Percy found that to be super cool, yet also wondered how they tamed them.

Three riders approached; all three were small, like every Crannogman that Percy had met so far. The tallest among them was barely over five feet and their leader. The man wore a shirt of bronze scales, wielded a three-pronged spear, and a leather shield was slung over his back. He had a short recurve bow sheathed on his hip along with a quiver of arrows as well.

"Hail, Perseus Jackson." The Crannoglord raised his right hand in greeting, and Percy returned it with a salute of his own. "I am glad to see you have attained victory so easily."

"Well, I wouldn't say easy," Percy exhaled slowly, feeling the exhaustion almost deep in his bones. Sea was his forte, and while he could use other bodies of water, swamps were… murky and hard to move. Unlike in America, there were no river deities or spirits that owed any loyalty or allegiance to his father, and any time he controlled fresh water it exhausted him far more than seawater.

He had been more tired before, but it was never pleasant. Even now, Percy had already recovered enough to fight if need be, but he would prefer a hearty dinner and a nice nap. "Still, it is good to finally meet you, Lord Reed. In person, at least."

The man pulled back his hood and gave a genial smile as a raven landed on his shoulder and spoke in his place. "The honor is all mine."

.

.

.

"What should we do with them?"

Three hours later, after a cold meal without a nap, what was left of the Ironmen was arrayed before Percy. Out of six hundred, barely a third had survived, and all of them were bound up and forced onto their knees.

Not a single one of Percy's Stark men was killed in the battle, if it even could be called one, for there was barely any fighting. Only a few were injured from slipping on the wet ground. The Locke and Manderly contingent were ambushed by reavers playing dead, however, and they lost a couple of their men due to letting down their guard. The Ironborn were restrained on the ground with ropes and shackles - most of them were from the Ironborn's supplies. They had planned to enslave as many Northmen as they could to ship back to their islands, at least until they were forced to guard this stronghold.

Now, their hands and feet were all bound in those very same shackles, for none of them would be able to escape unless he dragged all two hundred of the prisoners with them. Percy had already dealt with those guarding the ships before even attacking the Moat - the longships were of no value as they were nothing more than oversized dinghies and were thus torched by the Crannogmen a couple of days ago. Sadly, they could not wait for the two raiding ships that Lord Reed had warned about, and judging by the fact they never showed, they must have seen the flames and were most likely halfway to Barrowton by now.

Percy had been tempted to chase them in the Saltspear, but it would have taken too long and would have been too much of a distraction from their main goal: liberating Moat Cailin. Then, there was the uneasy feeling he got from the sea to the west, and Percy did not feel like tackling that issue at the moment.

"Normally, war captives would be ransomed if they are nobles, but the Ironborn rarely ransom back their own." Howland Reed stood beside him as he stroked his beard - his son Jojen was also nearby caring for the alligators. "If you are feeling merciful, you could always set them free, yet without their boats, they would have nowhere to go but join Victarion's host near Barrowton."

"Yeah, no. I don't mind them returning home after the war, but now they are combatants who understand the risks of what would happen to them when captured."

Percy gazed at the defeated reavers, who still retained a lot of defiance and anger at being so soundly defeated. Some glared at him while whispering "Greenlander sorcerer" and other similar rudeness, yet would quickly lower their heads when he glared back in return. He was usually a chill guy, yet the slaving scum was beginning to get on his nerves.

"You could always offer them the choice to take the Black. Yet, I am unsure if we have the logistics to send them to the Wall."

Percy rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "That shouldn't be a problem. I have a few ships docked in a nearby cove under the cliffs. It's a couple of day's march there, then there's a hidden stairway we can take before sailing to White Harbor. Once there, I'm sure we can send them by boat to the Wall."

The stairway was something that Percy had to clear after they were found to be blocked by several tons of rock and debris. Still, he had to thank Sansa for sending Beauty to scout those cliffs over the past month as they prepared for war. He had greatly enjoyed making love to his wife, and by Hades, it was weird to be married; A good sort of weird, of course. They were quite busy exploring each other's bodies and keeping the castle awake every night and he would have preferred to stay by her side for as long as possible. Sadly, the world kept moving, and Sansa's homeland was at war, so she couldn't close her eyes to the problems facing her people, nor go on a honeymoon.

Heck, honeymoons weren't even a thing here!

"Whatever your decision will be, we shall respect it, but beware. Most Ironmen are curs without honor and have been known to break their oaths at the earliest opportunity," Howland shrugged before his eyes hardened. "However, the Wall is in constant need of able-bodied men, especially now more than ever."

Reed's words were filled with conviction, and Percy couldn't help but wonder what was so scary in the local version of Canada. Then he shivered as he remembered his own meeting with Canadians. Damned giants and their flaming balls of bronze; might as well ask those in question what they wanted.

"What do you think, men?" Percy inspected the unwilling prisoners, but not even one of the pirates dared meet his gaze. "Black or the block?"

Even as he said it, he dreaded them desiring death over service. After quite a lot of contemplation, Percy realized he had no qualms about killing enemies in battle–those who decided to live by the sword should have been prepared to die by it all the same. He himself never expected to make it to sixteen, yet here he was.

But killing someone unarmed after they had surrendered was an entirely different matter. The mere concept of executing war captives left a bitter feeling on his tongue. Not to mention, the amount of international laws he would be breaking would have earned him a red notice from Interpol.

'There are no such laws here,' his father gently reminded. 'Even such laws were imposed back home only because the big countries used it as methods of control on the smaller ones. It did not stop them from breaking such meager things when it got convenient. In the end, whoever has a bigger fist has a bigger say.'

Percy realized the truthfulness of the statement, but it didn't mean he liked it. Sure, he could probably order the death of all the pirates before him. But he would like to avoid resorting to such distasteful slaughter unless all other options were exhausted.

'Some men ought to be killed, Percy.'

Percy grimaced. 'I don't like murdering people in cold blood, Dad.'

"It speaks well of your character that you can find mercy in your heart for even animals like these. But in their nature, humans are cruel beasts, and the only reason you enjoy society as you know it is because all of the generations preceding you cut away the rot and struck down any foes that rose. And they did not do it by being merciful.' His father's voice grew wistful. 'In the end, laws and peace are upheld because of the threat of consequences–violent consequences. You're a married man now, my son, and cannot afford to close your eyes to the reality. Anyway, I need time to slumber to reflect on my gains.'

It made sense in a morbid, harsh way, making Percy wish he was still a child. The world looked cold and cruel then, but he couldn't deny the truthfulness of his father's words. It instinctively made sense and any argument he used to refute felt weak.

In the end, the Ironborn had broken the peace. They had broken plenty of laws, too, but Percy suspected nobody cared about law and order in times of war. But now it was his problem, as a man married to the Northern princess. Sighing, Percy halted his stride before their leader, the same man who bravely claimed they did not fear death.

"What is dead may never die." Ralf Kenning stared at him defiantly. "But rises again!"

For some reason, the words pissed Percy off to no end. The arrogant dismissal of life aside, there was something foul about them, and even as they were spoken, the rest of the captives echoed along. Percy could feel the conviction in their words, accompanied by an unsaid challenge in their hardy gazes.

At this moment, he understood what his father meant a little better.

The lore around the Drowned God did not help matters one whit, nor did the Ironmen's fanatical devotion to it. The same entity that was using them from whatever hellhole it was hiding in, while its lieutenant ruled from those piles of rocks as their god.

In life, the supposed lieutenant was known as the Grey King, a mythical demigod that betrayed its overlord, the Merlin King, and slayed its charge, a giant sea serpent dear to the king, and was subsequently banished to the Iron Islands by the Old Gods following some gruesome war under the waters. In death, he had wholly surrendered its existence to the Drowned God, forsaking whatever name he had and practically making himself another avatar of its master.

It was so damn confusing that it only gave Percy a headache trying to rationalize it, only to realize that logic and rationale did not work with the divine. In the end, they were one and the same entity, The Drowned God, one that the Ironborn worshiped, and another, higher being with the same name that schemed and dwelled in the darkest places of the world.

Percy felt torn. Such a show of devotion was admirable - even his father was impressed - but its target was… lacking. It didn't help that their religious piety left plenty of corpses, enslaved the rest, and looted everything in its path.

Especially as it was the North that they decided to attack, the home of Sansa, his wife, and now his new home. Ever since they had been wed, and Percy had begun claiming more Weirwoods, his connection with this land had increased to a frightening degree. He did not gain any new powers or at least nothing tangible, but the faint feeling of rejection and coldness he had initially felt had melted away.

Now, he almost felt at home here. Poseidon theorized that it had to do with marrying into the Starks. While Percy still retained the name Jackson, he was now a Stark by marriage, and the authority that came with that name was now his to use… and endure.

The Son of Poseidon growled as his anger manifested in the world around them. The skies darkened as storms gathered, thunder rumbled in the heavens, and rain started pittering down on the Ironborn, who seemed to break out of whatever trance they were in.

The storm brewing in his belly roared, and the tug on his navel intensified. Usually, Percy would simply push the anger aside and swallow the rampant rage that reminded him of the stormiest nights at sea. Yet he had no desire to do so this time. This was not just a challenge to the North, he realized.

It was a challenge to him from the Drowned God.

In the end, the sea could not be restrained, so why try?

It was as if something suspiciously similar to a dam had broken inside him, but Percy never felt more free as he let go.

His hand grabbed the Ironborn captain by the collar and lifted him with one hand to force him to meet his gaze properly. "Do you really think your pathetic god is anything to me? That he can get away with provoking me and attacking my people! You are nothing! Your worthless god is nothing! I am the god of these lands now, and you are mine to do with as I please!"

The world turned white at his proclamation as a massive lightning bolt crashed into the nearby hills, and the earthshaking roar of the thunder nearly deafened them. The winds howled as Percy breathed harshly, only to scowl at the smell of piss and shit as the pathetic Ironborn captain's bowels surrendered from sheer terror. He threw the man on the ground and turned to the rest of his captives, all of them staring at him in something different from earlier.

If reckless hate and defiant gazes met him earlier, it was now far worse.

Awe.

There was also a lot of terror in those eyes, yet the occasional whisper of "Chosen" and "Sea God" were ignored, for he had no use for fanatics, especially the savage kind. Percy was unsure how to deal with them, and his father had started napping more often since they claimed the Bite and the Weirwoods. He could still call on him for advice, yet Percy felt like this was something he needed to do - something that showed his maturity and growth as a leader.

Raising his hand, Percy willed the winds to die and the clouds to disperse, intentionally showing the pirates that it was by his will he controlled the weather. Then, he allowed the sunlight to shine down on him from the broken clouds.

"All of you have come to these lands with ill intent. You were unprovoked and yet foolishly came here to raid, steal, and enslave my people. Such a despicable act called for retaliation, and now you sit before me, defeated and at my mercy. You spat at my offer earlier, but I am a merciful man. I will offer you this only once: a chance to redeem yourself and any semblance of pride and honor you had. You will rebuild what you destroyed, and then you shall take the Black. Or you shall all hang, like the pirate scum you are, and become a feast for vultures."

He was unsure if it was his speech or the earlier show of power, but they all scrambled to accept. Percy was still miffed at the worshipful eyes they threw him, though they whispered a new epithet that he could not help but approve of.

Stormbringer.

Later that same day

Percy stood before the Heart Tree of Moat Cailin, the face carved on its bark–a frowning one, with too large eyes as it stared to the south; an ever vigilant gaze searching for any invader. The tree was planted a distance away from the castle, near one of its sunken towers whose name had long since been lost to the ages.

He placed his palm on the bone-white bark, feeling the tree probing him curiously. Percy couldn't help but smile at the innocent gesture from a tree that historically had been used for human sacrifice. Yet nature did not care about the intent of humans; Weirwoods could grow naturally like any tree, requiring only good soil, sunlight, and water. They are unique in that they could also feed on blood, and while they would not grow to massive sizes above the ground, their roots would eternally dig and connect to other trees.

Sacrificing people to a tree was something that Percy could never understand, even if it was merely their physical bodies. True, the people sacrificed were usually criminals who would have been executed anyway, but something about it still bothered Percy.

"It's your modern sensibilities." His father explained, "You have never seen an execution before. It used to be a public affair until the second world war or so. Fathers would take their sons to watch an execution the same way they would go to the theater. Yet things have changed; People change their view on entertainment as they grow more used to peace."

"Doesn't make it easier to see someone helpless getting slaughtered like a pig." Percy shook his head yet narrowed his brows in determination. "At least this time, it won't be anyone's blood but my own."

He withdrew his palm and unsheathed his dagger; it wasn't the first time he had claimed a Weirwood, but Percy discovered that heart trees were a bit more sentient than regular trees. Cutting his palm and staring at the gathering blood, Percy focused intently, remembering his father's words when he dabbled with the Wildfire.

Instill your will!

His blood shone gold, almost like Ichor, yet still mortal red. Quickly, Percy brought his palm over the tree's face, dripping the shining blood over its forehead. Just like the heart tree of the Wolf's Den, the face came alive as the blood dripped down to its mouth. It licked it, almost appreciatively, before its eyes widened into two black holes akin to an abyss. Then, its mouth opened into a silent roar of glee, bleeding sap from its eyes, and mouth, before whispers erupted around the derelict godswood. The winds howled, and the leaves danced.

Suddenly, everything stilled as fast as it had started, and the face returned to its watchful vigil on the south. Percy breathed a sigh of relief before placing his palm on the tree again and nodding.

"It's done. I can already feel more in tune with the land around me." And he wagered if he had to control the waters around the castle again, it would be marginally easier. Not by a lot, and certainly not like seawater, but a similar stunt to what he did earlier would not nearly knock him out. Only wind him slightly.

Before Percy could remove his palm from the tree, something tickled Percy's mind. He focused more on the tree, and suddenly felt like he could look through it. Percy knew about the strange method of connecting with the Weirwoods, whether to spy on someone else, or simply to communicate with another user of the network. He had tried connecting once, only to get so lost he nearly lost his mind if not for his father. This time, he could feel a clear anchor, almost like someone was on the line and waiting for someone to pick up the call.

Chuckling at the comparison, Percy focused on that link and accepted the call…only to find himself staring at a little kid who looked surprisingly similar to Sansa. They stared at each other in silence for several moments, Percy looking around the godswood and finding it far more beautiful than any he had seen before. He could see a massive fortress casting a shadow on the godswood, and feel thousands of people walking and talking and training and doing a plethora of other things.

A squeak came from the child before him, and Percy couldn't help but grin. "Why hello, there."

The boy flinched and withdrew his hand from the tree, and Percy watched as a massive man leaned down to carry the boy away from the godswood. Shaking his head, he quickly withdrew from the network, as he could already feel his mind getting frayed by millions of dead voices trying to talk to him at the same time… or worse, drag him into one of their eternal get-togethers.

Percy had no wish to test his limits using the Weirwood, for, unlike whom he recognized as Sansa's little brother, he was not a greenseer. Hell, he wasn't even a skinchanger, and both abilities were requisites to any who wished to connect with the network. His method was simply too different for the spirits that dwell in the trees to understand, and dealing with them was not something he planned to do anytime soon.

Talking with the divine was far simpler than the dead.

4th day of the 9th moon, 299

Percy looked on as the men from the Flint Fingers and White Harbor worked on rebuilding the stronghold of Moat Cailin while the Ironborn prisoners were forced to do the heaviest of the labor. Sansa had declared her intent on fully repairing the ancient fortress.

It sounded nice, but realistically, they could only fix the remaining towers and perhaps raise the unearthed basalt after he drained the swamp. It's why he had remained here for the past few days; the Flint men were contacted via raven when he was still in White Harbor, and Howland's men had guided them here before the attack. The drained swamps would refill again in time, but Percy was needed to continuously drain it to the Fever River, which led to flooding and a lot of migraines as the damned river was about twenty miles away, at least for the heaviest of the workload to finish.

They had managed to recover enough of the basalt to rebuild a sufficient portion of the curtain wall to form a proper stranglehold of the causeway - it would still take considerable time, time that he could not afford to waste here. Still, with the region secured, it should not be an issue for the Crannogmen and the rest of the Northmen to oversee the rebuilding efforts.

Percy gazed down at the prisoners, making sure none of them got any ideas, yet for the past week, they had been the epitome of politeness and obedience. None dared to challenge him after that show he gave, yet it remained to be seen if they would retain their compliance after he departed.

A figure approached him from where he stood atop the Children's Tower, and a glance told him it was Howland and Jojen. "You have done wonders in cowing the squids. Many have tried to break their spirit, and even the Andals gave up after millennia, so I never believed it was possible, yet you have done it."

"The Flint men explain that I paid the Iron Price by defeating them so thoroughly. In their culture, I'm practically their lord now."

It honestly didn't make any sense to Percy, but it was the only explanation he got.

"Well, I wouldn't say lord, but at least you have established yourself as a power they cannot contest against. Makes sense for the men of Flint's Finger to know best about the Ironborn, they had interacted with them most and many share their blood as well." Howland coughed as he smiled sardonically at the Ironborn below. "Just look at them. One might mistake them for proper Northmen now that they are stripped of all their arms and armor and no longer act like lusty reavers."

"They certainly look similar to most Northmen I've met." Percy nodded as he rubbed his chin, "A bit more vulgar and less hygienic, yet remarkably similar."

"The blood of the First Men runs thick in both our peoples." Jojen replied, "The Andals failed to conquer the North or the Iron Islands, and the Faith failed to take despite previous attempts."

"Heh, the Faith of the Seven? Don't worry about it, just a private joke." Percy chuckled as he recalled what he had learned in the Weirwood Network but waved off their curious gazes. "So, what brings you here? I thought your men were busy scouting and fortifying the north side of the Moat?"

It would not do to let their guard down and get attacked from the least likely place, where anyone would attack Moat Cailin. Another curtain wall was planned to be built to the north, but it would still take a long time even to procure the stone and material necessary for such a venture. Nevertheless, Sansa was adamant about not allowing the gateway to the North ever to be threatened again. Lord Manderly saw it as an ambitious project, too ambitious with the North at war and not having the means to build such a massive undertaking.

In the end, Percy wasn't concerned about the specifics; his wife had a plan, and all he needed to do was make sure no hiccups formed and deal with any complaints directed to him.

As Percy had just discovered, he can be very persuasive when he wanted to.

"We are, and I have trusted men on assignment, yet we have word from White Harbor."

For a moment, Percy's heart skipped a beat as he wondered if anything happened to Sansa before calming down; if anything ill did happen, his father would let him know. "What is it?"

"It's nothing distressing." Jojen's smug voice answered him while Howland merely smiled, "Preparations are complete, and the army is ready to march on the Bolton Bastard."

"Oh, good." Percy let out a sigh of relief - Meera's brother gave him the creeps sometimes with how eerie he could sound and how he knew things that he had no right to know. "I suppose I can get the men to the ships, and we can be off within a few hours. We just need–"

"I also believe your wife is pregnant."

Silence. There were no sounds, no shouts of men working, blocks of stone getting dragged, or anything. Percy could only hear his heartbeat hammering so fast that it went at a hundred miles an hour. His eyes widened as he processed those words, and his mouth opened and closed as if unsure what to say.

His feet felt shaky then, and Percy instinctively found the nearest place to sit–a weather-worn chest. He struggled to deal with the complex tangle of emotions battling within his gut. Numbness took over, but a glance at Jojen told him it was not a lie.

Eventually, he settled on a weak "Okay."

Damn Perce! Got her preggers on the first try. It seems Catelyn's blood runs thick in her daughter.

Once again, I suffer from an extreme case of bloated POVs. This chapter was supposed to be several scenes, yet the retaking of the Moat ended up being the only scene in the chapter.

Moat Cailin does not seem to have an encircled wall, let alone a gatehouse. It's literally just three towers along the causeway, seemingly permanently flooded with swamp water. I tried to make as much sense out of it as possible, but I doubt I succeeded much.

If they are truly just towers overlooking the causeway, then the easiest way to completely nullify them is through covered wagons or just a shield wall. The defenders can only rain arrows at anyone trying to cross, and any melee would force them to wade through swamp water to reach the elevated causeway.

In my mind, there is still enough of the basalt curtain wall to form a proper encirclement, while Moat Cailin itself is a series of fortifications on some sort of hill that keeps them dry, along with a gatehouse. The Gatehouse Tower comes to mind as the Northern entrance, but the southern one uses a makeshift gate since its tower collapsed with time.

Percy "I am the Captain now" Jackson, lays down the law to the squids, but it remains to be seen if their miniscule brains will retain the obedience he managed to instill in them.

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