The jolt of consciousness was not the gentle drift from slumber that Lord Kaelan Blackwood remembered from his previous life. Instead, it was a violent, disorienting lurch, as if his very soul had been ripped from one reality and violently stitched into another. The sterile, climate-controlled air of his penthouse, redolent with the faint scent of expensive cigars and polished mahogany, was replaced by a raw, damp chill that seeped into his bones. His nostrils, accustomed to the subtle notes of fine spirits and gourmet meals, were now assaulted by the pungent aroma of woodsmoke, wet earth, and unwashed bodies. The rough, unfamiliar bed beneath him, its coarse wool scratching against his skin, felt alien compared to the silk sheets and memory foam mattress he had known. Distant howls, not of city sirens but of wild winds and perhaps actual wolves, echoed through what sounded like ancient stone.
This immediate sensory overload, a stark and brutal contrast to the predictable comforts of his former existence, would have crippled a lesser man. But Kaelan, a man who had clawed his way to the top of a brutal criminal empire, possessed an innate hyper-alertness. His mind, accustomed to processing complex financial schemes, anticipating rival gang movements, and identifying hidden threats in a blink, immediately shifted gears. Disorientation, though profound, was swiftly compartmentalized. Every detail of his new surroundings was cataloged with a cold, calculating precision: the rough-hewn timber of the ceiling, the unfamiliar sigil—a black weirwood tree on a field of grey, with a single, stylized wave at its base—on the bed hangings, the crude, flickering candlelight that cast dancing shadows across the room. This initial, almost instinctual, assessment defined him not as a victim of circumstance, but as a proactive agent seeking to re-establish control and dominance in this utterly alien landscape. His very survival depended on it, a lesson hammered home by a lifetime of high-stakes, unpredictable encounters where a single misjudgment meant death.
He quickly deduced his new identity: a minor lord in the North, a stark contrast to his former life as a powerful mafia boss. The name of the house, House Blackwood of Stonefist, registered in his mind, a distant, long-forgotten branch of the Riverlands Blackwoods, somehow transplanted to the frigid North. The location, a small, isolated keep on the Stony Shore, was confirmed by the raw, salty tang in the air and the distant roar of the Sunset Sea. This region, described as being "along the Sunset Sea on the western coast of the north" and dotted with "various fishing villages" , presented both immediate challenges and unique opportunities for the ambitious designs already forming in his mind. The Stony Shore's grim history of reaving by the Ironborn, who had controlled large portions of the area at times and whose attacks often left fishing villages devastated , immediately flagged a clear, tangible threat. This constant menace, a familiar echo of the "protection" rackets he once ran, provided a natural pretext for his maritime focus and offered a desperate populace ripe for his brand of leadership. The historical vulnerability of this "thinly populated area" meant less entrenched resistance and more room for his "improvements," a blank slate on which to etch his new empire.
His first subtle manifestation of power occurred almost by accident. As he rose from the bed, his muscles, though unfamiliar, felt surprisingly robust, a nascent strength humming beneath his skin. He moved towards a rough wooden basin filled with cold water, intending to splash his face. As the icy water met his skin, an unnerving clarity sharpened his vision. He saw individual motes of dust suspended in the water, each a tiny universe, and felt the subtle, rhythmic vibrations of distant waves through the very stone floor beneath his bare feet. Then, instinctively, he held his breath. What should have been a few moments stretched, effortlessly, into minutes, a chilling confirmation of his Atlantean physiology. This enhanced sensory perception and prolonged breath-holding were the first "tools" he instinctively tested, confirming their immediate presence. This subtle awakening was followed by a fleeting, symbolic green dream—a flash of a vast, ice-covered landscape, the Wall looming impossibly tall, then a sudden, disorienting glimpse through the eyes of a soaring seagull, its cry echoing in his mind as it wheeled over a churning, dark sea. These fragmented images hinted at the White Walker threat and the vastness of his new domain, driving his motivation without revealing all the answers. A cautious man, a boss who never revealed his hand too early, would test his new capabilities in private, understanding their scope and limitations before deploying them. The enhanced senses and superhuman durability of his new Atlantean body would prove invaluable, not just in combat, but in the meticulous, long-term planning he envisioned.
His new keep, Stonefist, was aptly named. It was a rugged, squat tower-house, built centuries ago from the ubiquitous grey stone that characterized the Stony Shore. It lacked the soaring grandeur of Winterfell or the intricate, formidable defenses of Moat Cailin, but its strategic position on a rocky promontory offered a natural defensive advantage against any land-based assault and a commanding, unobstructed view of the vast, grey expanse of the Sunset Sea. The immediate surroundings were sparse, reflecting the thinly populated nature of the region. A few clusters of wattle-and-daub huts formed a small fishing village, nestled precariously in a sheltered cove below the keep. Beyond them, the dark, brooding expanse of the wolfswood encroached, its ancient pines and sentinels stretching seemingly without end to the east and north.
His household was small, a reflection of his minor status within the Northern hierarchy. Ser Gregor, his grizzled castellan, was a man carved from the very stone of the North, loyal to House Stark and steeped in centuries of tradition. His loyalty was unquestioning, a virtue that Kaelan recognized as both a strength and a potential limitation. Gregor's mind, as rigid as Stonefist's walls, would prove resistant to radical change. Maester Ellard, on the other hand, was younger, his eyes bright with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, though his understanding was naturally constrained by the conventional teachings of the Citadel. Ellard, Kaelan surmised, would prove a valuable, if unwitting, asset, a conduit for introducing subtle innovations disguised as academic pursuits. The keep also housed a few distant cousins, children of his predecessor, who now looked to him with a mixture of apprehension and hope. They were his immediate "family" in this new life, the very people he aimed to protect and, more importantly, elevate, seeing them as potential loyal agents within his burgeoning enterprise. The composition of his household, with its mix of traditionalists and the more open-minded, created a microcosm of the challenges he would face in Westeros. He understood that control was exerted through a network of loyal individuals, and cultivating these relationships was paramount.
His first days at Stonefist were spent in meticulous, almost obsessive, observation. He walked among the smallfolk in the fishing villages, listening intently to their grievances: the meager catches that barely sustained them, the biting harshness of the Northern winters, and the ever-present, gnawing fear of Ironborn reavers. These "wolves of the sea," as they were sometimes called, had a long history of plundering the Stony Shore, their longships appearing without warning to raid and pillage. He noted their rudimentary fishing techniques, their reliance on basic, often inefficient, agricultural methods, and the general, almost ingrained, lack of innovation that permeated their lives. The North, despite its immense size, was "sparsely populated" and "much less fertile than provinces in southern Westeros" , making every resource, every life, precious. He saw the potential for improvement everywhere, a vast, untapped canvas for his modern knowledge. The poverty and vulnerability of his smallfolk were not mere background details; they were strategic opportunities. By addressing their immediate, desperate needs—food security, protection from raiders—he could rapidly build a loyal power base, much like a crime boss consolidates influence by offering "protection" and "services" where traditional authorities had failed. This approach would also provide a convenient, understandable cover for his more radical, potentially suspicious, innovations.
One crisp morning, as the sun struggled to break through the perpetual grey of the Northern sky, Kaelan descended to the small fishing village below Stonefist. The air was thick with the scent of drying fish and damp wood. He approached a group of fishermen mending their nets, their faces weathered and grim.
"Good morning, my lords," one of them, a burly man with a tangled beard, grunted, not looking up from his work. "Another poor catch, I reckon."
Kaelan nodded, his gaze sweeping over their crude tools and the small, open boats pulled onto the shore. "Indeed. I've been observing your methods. Tell me, what are your greatest struggles?"
The burly man, named Borin, finally looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes. "Struggles, my lord? The sea is cruel, the fish are few, and the Ironborn are ever-present. What else is there to say?"
"And your nets?" Kaelan knelt, examining a section of the hemp netting. "Are they always this coarse? And your boats, are they swift enough to outrun a reaver's longship?"
Borin scoffed. "These are the nets our fathers used, and their fathers before them. And our boats are what we can build with the wood from the Wolfswood. What else would they be?"
"Perhaps," Kaelan mused, his voice low, "there are ways to improve. Stronger nets, perhaps, with finer mesh for smaller fish, or larger ones for the deep. And boats that can brave the open sea, not just hug the shore." He paused, letting the words hang in the air. "I've been thinking of new designs, methods to find the fish where they gather in great shoals, not just where they happen to swim by." He didn't mention his Atlantean abilities, of course, but the implication of a lord taking such a keen interest, and hinting at "new designs," was enough to spark a flicker of curiosity, and perhaps hope, in the weary fishermen.
His liege lord was House Stark of Winterfell, the undisputed Wardens of the North. In 270 AC, Rickard Stark sat as Lord, a formidable and respected figure. Kaelan, with his pragmatic understanding of power structures, immediately grasped the delicate balance of fealty in Westeros. He was a minor lord, his military levy likely "negligible" compared to the thousands commanded by greater houses. Any overt defiance, any challenge to the established order, would be met with swift, overwhelming force from Winterfell. His strategy, therefore, would be one of quiet, methodical accumulation of power. He would demonstrate unwavering competence and loyalty to his liege, ensuring he remained in their good graces, while simultaneously building his own independent strength beneath the surface. This would involve sending regular, carefully crafted reports to Winterfell and offering appropriate gifts, such as fine furs or rare timber from the wolfswood, ensuring he was seen as a dutiful, if unremarkable, vassal, without ever revealing the true depth of his ambition or the nature of his unusual abilities. His mafia background informed this approach; he viewed the Stark-vassal relationship not as an unbreakable bond of honor, but as a transactional one, where loyalty was exchanged for protection and opportunity. While he knew that "betraying your liege lord to save your own skin" was a pragmatic choice in a losing war, for now, strategic compliance was paramount to building his own "economic moat" beneath the existing power structure.
Economically, his new domain was rudimentary. Fishing was the primary industry, a precarious existence dependent on the whims of the sea and the harshness of the seasons. Agriculture was limited due to the cold climate and infertile soil, forcing the populace to rely on hardy, low-yield crops. Yet, Kaelan's modern business acumen immediately spotted untapped potential. The vast Wolfswood, though dark and wild, held immense lumber resources, and the stony landscape promised quarries of valuable building stone. He recognized the lack of a major port on the western coast of the North as a significant bottleneck, hindering trade with richer southern markets. This bottleneck, however, was also an opportunity. He saw that by improving fishing and shipbuilding, combined with his unique Atlantean powers, he could create an economic advantage that would set his house apart, a self-sustaining enterprise immune to the vagaries of land-based feudal politics. A mafia boss thinks in terms of maximizing profit and control, and the North's abundant, yet poorly exploited, natural resources were a goldmine waiting to be properly managed.
With his initial assessment complete, Kaelan turned his attention inward, to the extraordinary abilities that now coursed through his veins. He knew, with the cold certainty of a man who had always sought an edge, that these powers were his greatest asset. His first conscious explorations were cautious, methodical, like a seasoned operative testing new equipment.
He sought out a secluded, rocky cove, its waters deep and shadowed. The first deliberate breath he took underwater was a revelation. The cold, briny liquid filled his lungs, yet he felt no choking, only a profound, invigorating chill. His vision, already enhanced on land, sharpened even further in the murky depths, allowing him to discern individual kelp fronds swaying in the current and the glint of scales on fish far below. He recalled information that Aquaman possessed "extraordinary vision" capable of seeing "clearly in depths as far down as 6,000 fathoms" and also had "night vision". This unparalleled clarity and pressure resistance made the ocean depths an open book, a stark contrast to the limited medieval understanding of the sea. His first attempt at communication was with a small, darting cod. He focused, extending his will, not through spoken words, but through a subtle, empathetic suggestion. The fish, after a moment of hesitation, turned, its movements now subtly guided by his unseen command. He then directed it towards a deeper, darker trench, sensing the presence of a larger school. This ability, he realized, was a game-changer for the impoverished fishing villages under his domain, promising a revolution in their meager catches and a rapid increase in his house's wealth and the loyalty of his people.
Next, he turned to his Northern blood, the Greensight and warging abilities. He chose a common Northern animal for his first deliberate attempt: a raven, perched high on the battlements of Stonefist. He focused, recalling the fleeting, disorienting glimpse he'd experienced earlier. The world blurred, then snapped into sharp, aerial focus. He was the raven, feeling the wind ruffle his feathers, seeing the world in shades of grey and stark white from a dizzying height. The keep, the village, the vast expanse of the Sunset Sea, all spread out beneath him like a crude map. The experience was exhilarating, a sense of freedom he hadn't known even in his previous life. He experimented, directing the bird to fly further, to circle the wolfswood, to observe the distant coastline. This ability, he immediately recognized, offered unparalleled intelligence-gathering capabilities, a silent, unseen network of "eyes and ears". The notion that warging had "no distance limit" for a strong warg was a revelation, transforming him into a spymaster beyond anything medieval Westeros could conceive. He could scout his territory, identify resources like optimal shipbuilding timber in the Wolfswood or stone quarries for construction materials , and observe his neighbors without ever leaving Stonefist, a crucial advantage for a man who valued caution and secrecy.
His Greensight, though still largely uncontrolled, offered more profound, if cryptic, insights. During a restless night, a green dream descended upon him with a terrifying clarity. He saw the Wall, impossibly tall, cracking and crumbling under a relentless tide of ice and shadow. Then, the vision shifted: a vast, dark cavern beneath the sea, illuminated by an ethereal, pulsing light, and within it, not fish, but shapes too large, too ancient to comprehend. The vision was symbolic, a "cloudy glimpse" of the future, but undeniably linked to the White Walker threat and his burgeoning underwater ambition. It confirmed the urgency of his mission and hinted at specific locations or challenges for his underwater kingdom, pushing him to seek more understanding of these raw, untamed powers.
Beyond his supernatural gifts, Kaelan began to subtly apply his modern knowledge to the rudimentary medieval world around him. He observed the unsanitary conditions in the fishing village, the open dumping of waste, and the lack of clean water sources. He initiated basic sanitation improvements, starting within Stonefist itself and then extending to the village. This involved designating specific areas for waste disposal away from living quarters, improving the existing wells by lining them with stone and instituting rules for water collection. While true water filtration was rudimentary in medieval times, he recalled basic methods like sand and gravel filters and even rudimentary distillation for fresh water. He tasked Maester Ellard with researching "ancient methods of purification," subtly guiding him towards these concepts. He also observed the local agricultural practices, noting the single-field farming and the use of light plows. He mentally cataloged improvements like crop rotation and the heavy, moldboard plow, which had revolutionized agriculture in the medieval period, increasing yields and supporting larger populations. These "simple" modern improvements, from his perspective, promised disproportionate benefits in this setting, boosting population, health, and productivity, thereby increasing his house's wealth and influence without drawing immediate suspicion of "sorcery." He could frame these changes as "good stewardship" or "Northern ingenuity," leveraging his reputation as a shrewd and intelligent lord.
"Maester Ellard," Kaelan began one evening, as the maester meticulously cataloged the keep's meager stores. "I've been thinking about our water supply. The well is sufficient, but I've noticed some… impurities. Have you ever read of methods to make water truly pure, beyond boiling?"
Ellard, a young man with earnest eyes, looked up, surprised. "My Lord, the well water is as pure as any in the North. Boiling, as you say, is the common method for sickness. The Citadel teaches little beyond that for daily use."
"Indeed," Kaelan replied, leaning back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. "But imagine, Maester, if we could ensure every drop was as clear as mountain spring water, free of even the smallest speck. I recall old tales, from beyond the Sunset Sea, of methods involving layers of sand and gravel, or even heating water to steam and collecting the condensation. What do your texts say of such things?"
Ellard's brow furrowed in thought. "Sand and gravel, my Lord? It is a simple enough concept, though I have not seen it applied to drinking water on a large scale. And distillation… that is used for spirits, not water, typically. But the principle is sound. I shall consult the ancient texts, my Lord. Perhaps there are forgotten methods."
"Do so, Maester," Kaelan encouraged, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. "And consider the fields as well. Our yields are meager. Have you heard of planting different crops in rotation, or using heavier plows to turn the soil deeper? I've seen such things described in old maps, though the details are scarce."
Ellard's eyes widened. "Crop rotation? My Lord, that is a radical notion. Our fathers have always planted the same fields year after year. And heavier plows… they would require more oxen, more strength. But if it could truly increase our bounty…"
"It could, Maester. Imagine, fields that yield twice, thrice what they do now. More food for our people, more to trade. It would be a boon to Stonefist, and to the North." Kaelan paused, letting the vision sink in. "These are but whispers of ideas, Maester. But I believe, with your intellect, we can bring them to fruition. Start with the water. A clean populace is a strong populace."
The chilling visions of the White Walkers, reinforced by his Greensight, were not abstract threats from ancient tales; they were a looming, existential doom. He recalled his fanfiction knowledge of their origins as creations of the Children of the Forest, their vulnerabilities to dragonglass and Valyrian steel, and their terrifying ability to raise the dead into wights. But most crucially, he remembered their Achilles' heel: their inability to cross large bodies of salt water. "Euron: Can they swim? Jon: No," the simple dialogue from his past life echoed in his mind, confirming the sea as the ultimate sanctuary. This fundamental weakness, combined with his own Atlantean nature, transformed his personal survival into a grand, desperate crusade. His goal was clear: "to create a kingdom under the sea to protect his family from the White Walkers, knowing that they can't enter the sea."
He spent hours by the windswept shore, gazing out at the vast, cold Sunset Sea. The harsh Northern winters, the constant struggle for survival on land, and the limited, vulnerable defenses of the Wall and scattered castles seemed utterly inadequate against an enemy that brought blizzards and raised armies of the dead. He contrasted this with the boundless, seemingly impenetrable safety of the deep ocean, a realm accessible only to him and, he hoped, his future Atlantean progeny. This conviction solidified: the underwater kingdom was not merely a preference, but a strategic imperative, the ultimate "safe house" for his family and, eventually, his people. His mafia mindset, which prioritized ultimate security and control above all else, found its perfect expression in this audacious plan.
His mind, ever the strategist, immediately began to sketch the blueprints of his underwater kingdom. He conceptualized the immense challenges: the crushing pressure of the depths, the impenetrable darkness, the need for a continuous supply of breathable air, fresh water, and effective waste management. He considered the materials—wood would rot, most metals would rust. But then, his modern knowledge, coupled with ancient lore, offered solutions. He recalled the "Drowned Town" of Braavos, partially submerged but still inhabited, and the legends of ancient Valyria and Atlantis, civilizations renowned for their "advanced architecture" and "unique metals." More concretely, he remembered the Romans' "hydraulic cement," or opus caementicium, made with volcanic ash, which could "set hard under water" and grew "more durable as it is exposed to the saltwater of the sea". The North, while not volcanic like Dragonstone, had mountains and quarries , and perhaps hidden volcanic ash deposits could be found through careful exploration. He knew that Winterfell itself was built over hot springs, and the Dreadfort over volcanic vents, suggesting geothermal activity in the North. This hinted at the possibility of finding the necessary volcanic ash for Roman concrete, perhaps in the mountains or near the geothermal areas.
For light, he considered the natural bioluminescence of deep-sea creatures, a living illumination. For air, he thought of rudimentary diving bells and bellows systems from his past world's history, which, though primitive, could provide continuous air supply to submerged structures. His own Atlantean abilities would allow him to shape the environment, carving out cave systems or manipulating underwater terrain as needed. Food sources could be cultivated through underwater "farming" of kelp and corralling marine life, a concept far beyond medieval comprehension. His mind, a whirlwind of plans, saw old world cunning meeting new world magic, all driven by the chilling prophecy of the White Walkers. He knew his path was set, and it lay beneath the waves.
A crucial element of his plan was family. He needed heirs, many of them, to ensure the continuation of his bloodline and, more importantly, the propagation of his unique powers. The user query had stated his children would inherit Atlantean abilities, Greensight, and warging. This meant a new race of powerful beings, a true underwater kingdom. However, polygamy was "strictly forbidden by the laws of all gods and men in Westeros". The Faith of the Seven, the dominant religion, considered it a sin. While some ancient First Men kings were said to have multiple wives, and the Ironborn had "salt wives" (concubines whose children could inherit if no trueborn sons existed) , and Dornishmen had "paramours" , true polygamous marriage was largely confined to the Targaryens, and even they only truly got away with it because they had dragons.
Kaelan, ever the pragmatist, understood the political ramifications. He couldn't openly defy the Faith or the customs of the North without risking the wrath of Winterfell and the other lords. "A man with a dragon can do as he likes," he muttered to himself, recalling the old saying. He had no dragon, but he had powers that, if revealed, might be even more unsettling. He would need to be subtle. The concept of "salt wives" among the Ironborn, or "paramours" in Dorne, offered a loophole. These women were not "wives" in the eyes of the Faith, but their children, while often considered bastards, could sometimes be legitimized or, in the case of salt wives, even inherit. Bastards in Westeros were given regional surnames like Snow in the North, but their legitimacy and inheritance rights were vague and often depended on the lord's will. This ambiguity was something he could exploit. He could take a trueborn wife for political alliance and legitimate heirs, but also discreetly take "paramours" or "salt wives" (perhaps adopting a modified Ironborn custom for his coastal domain) to produce more children, hoping their powers would manifest regardless of their birth status. He would then find ways to legitimize them, or at least ensure their loyalty and place within his burgeoning underwater society. The goal was quantity and quality of heirs, not adherence to archaic social norms.
Finally, the lore of Westeros spoke of other aquatic magical creatures. Sea dragons, like the legendary Nagga, were said to have once roamed the seas, mighty beasts that fed on krakens and leviathans. The Grey King, an ancient Ironborn figure, was said to have slain Nagga and used her bones to build his longhall, even making her "living fire" his thrall. Other creatures mentioned included krakens, leviathans (giant whales), and "Old Men of the River" (giant turtles). Kaelan knew that if such creatures truly existed, they would be invaluable allies or formidable obstacles. His ability to communicate with sea creatures would be paramount here. He envisioned not just taming, but forging alliances, creating a symbiotic relationship with the ancient powers of the deep. These creatures, if found and swayed, could be the ultimate guardians of his underwater kingdom, a living defense against any threat, be it White Walkers or ambitious men from the surface. His ruthless pragmatism extended even to mythical beasts; they were resources, tools to be understood and utilized.
Lord Kaelan Blackwood's reincarnation into 270 AC Westeros, specifically as a minor lord on the Stony Shore, presented a unique confluence of challenges and unparalleled opportunities. His immediate, almost instinctual, assessment of his new surroundings, driven by the ruthless pragmatism of a former mafia boss, highlighted his exceptional adaptability. He perceived the feudal system not merely as a rigid hierarchy, but as a network of power dynamics and transactional loyalties, ripe for strategic manipulation. The inherent vulnerabilities of his new domain—its sparse population, limited resources, and constant threat from Ironborn reavers—were not seen as insurmountable obstacles, but as fertile ground for the application of his modern knowledge and extraordinary powers.
The subtle awakening of his Atlantean abilities, Greensight, and warging capabilities provided him with a decisive, almost unfair, advantage. His enhanced senses and underwater breathing allowed for unprecedented exploration of the marine environment, while his ability to communicate with sea creatures promised a revolution in fishing and, by extension, his house's wealth. The strategic intelligence afforded by warging, capable of spanning vast distances, transformed him into an unseen spymaster, a critical asset in a world devoid of modern surveillance. Crucially, his Greensight, though initially cryptic, reinforced the looming threat of the White Walkers, solidifying the existential imperative of his grand design: an underwater kingdom.
The conceptualization of this submerged sanctuary, while fraught with medieval engineering impossibilities, was where Kaelan's modern intellect truly shone. His knowledge of pressure, air circulation, waste management, and the potential of ancient Roman hydraulic concrete provided a theoretical framework for construction that was centuries ahead of Westeros. By subtly introducing "simple" modern improvements in agriculture and sanitation, he could build a loyal, healthier, and more productive populace, laying the groundwork for his ambitious underwater project without arousing suspicion of sorcery. This initial chapter set the stage for a gradual, calculated ascent, where Kaelan Blackwood, the Drowned Lord of the North, began to weave a new destiny for his family, not on the land, but beneath the unforgiving, yet ultimately protective, waves. His journey would be one of cunning, power, and the relentless pursuit of security against a threat that the surface world could not fathom.