The Northern spring had given way to a brief, almost grudging, summer. The sun, though still pale and distant, lingered longer in the sky, coaxing a reluctant green from the land and melting the last stubborn patches of snow from the shadowed slopes of the Northern Mountains. At Stonefist, the rhythm of life had subtly but irrevocably shifted under Lord Kaelan Blackwood's quiet, relentless influence. The initial skepticism of his smallfolk had begun to erode, replaced by a cautious optimism, then by a burgeoning sense of loyalty. The increased catches from the Sunset Sea were undeniable. Every morning, the fishing boats, now slightly larger and sturdier thanks to Kaelan's subtle guidance on design, returned laden with fish, their holds overflowing. The bounty was so consistent, so abundant, that the villagers, once perpetually on the brink of starvation, now had enough to eat, enough to salt and preserve for the coming winter, and even a surplus to trade.
Kaelan had, with careful deliberation, established a rudimentary "fishing cooperative." He had convinced the village elders to pool a portion of their catches, not as a tax, but as an investment. This communal store was then used to purchase better quality hemp for nets, stronger timber for boat repairs, and even a few rudimentary iron tools from passing traders. He had also, through Maester Ellard, introduced the concept of a "fishing calendar," a simple record-keeping system that tracked the best fishing spots and times, based on the patterns he observed and, more importantly, the information he gleaned from his silent conversations with the marine life. He would often slip into the sea at night, guiding vast shoals of cod and herring towards the designated fishing grounds, a silent shepherd of the deep. The fishermen, witnessing the unprecedented hauls, attributed it to their lord's "deep connection to the Drowned God," a convenient and easily accepted explanation that Kaelan did nothing to dispel. He was building a reputation, not through grand pronouncements, but through tangible, life-altering improvements.
One blustery afternoon, Kaelan stood on the newly reinforced docks, watching the fishermen unload their catch. Borin, the grizzled elder, approached him, his face etched with a rare smile. "My Lord," he began, bowing slightly, "the sea has been good to us. Better than any man remembers. My nets are full, my belly is full, and my children do not cry from hunger."
"The sea is indeed generous, Borin," Kaelan replied, his gaze sweeping over the bustling activity. "But generosity must be met with diligence. Are the new nets holding? And the repairs on your boats, are they sufficient for the deeper waters?"
"Aye, my Lord, the nets are stronger, and these new planks you spoke of, fitted edge-to-edge, they make the boats feel like solid rock against the waves," Borin affirmed, gesturing to a newly repaired vessel. "We've even ventured further out, where the currents are stronger, and found fish there that we never knew existed. It's… it's like the sea itself guides us."
Kaelan nodded. "The sea holds many secrets, Borin. And much wealth. We must learn to unlock them. Soon, we will begin building larger vessels, true ships, capable of carrying our bounty to White Harbor, and perhaps even beyond. Imagine, Borin, trading our fish for fine southern wines, for steel, for silks! Our children will know a prosperity their fathers could only dream of." He was laying the groundwork for his expanded trade ambitions, using the immediate success as leverage. The North, while rich in timber and furs, lacked a major western port to connect with southern markets, a gap Kaelan intended to fill.
The agricultural reforms, though slower to take hold, were also showing promise. Maester Ellard, invigorated by Kaelan's unconventional directives, had thrown himself into the study of "ancient agricultural treatises." Kaelan had subtly introduced concepts like the three-field system and the heavy moldboard plow, explaining them as "lost knowledge from a time when men understood the earth better." The heavy plows, initially cumbersome and requiring more oxen, were gradually proving their worth. The deeper furrows improved drainage, and the first experimental plots, planted with a rotation of hardy grains and legumes, showed noticeably higher yields.
"My Lord," Ellard announced one morning, his spectacles perched on his nose, a parchment covered in diagrams spread before him. "I believe I have deciphered the principles of the 'three-field rotation' you spoke of. By allowing one field to lie fallow, or by planting a restorative crop, the soil regains its strength. And these heavier plows, they truly bring richer soil to the surface, as you said! The yields, even in this short summer, are… remarkable."
"Excellent, Maester," Kaelan praised, a genuine satisfaction in his tone. "This is but the beginning. Imagine the bounty we can achieve, enough to feed all of Stonefist, and perhaps even sell to our neighbors. A well-fed populace is a strong populace, Maester. And a loyal one." He knew that increased food production would support a larger population, providing more labor for his grand projects and a stronger base for his house.
His most ambitious project, the underwater kingdom, remained a closely guarded secret. The volcanic rock samples he had brought back from the Bay of Ice had proven to be a breakthrough. Maester Ellard, under Kaelan's careful guidance, had begun experimenting with them. Kaelan had described the "Roman cement" he needed, a material that could harden underwater, framing it as a theoretical marvel. He had explained the concept of combining volcanic ash with lime, and Ellard, fascinated by the challenge, had meticulously ground the dark, porous stones into a fine powder, then mixed it with slaked lime and water.
"My Lord," Ellard exclaimed one afternoon, his hands smudged with grey dust, "it works! I submerged a small block of the mixture in a bucket of seawater, and it hardened! Not as quickly as regular mortar, but it is incredibly strong, and it seems to grow harder with each passing day!"
Kaelan examined the small, grey block, feeling its surprising density. "This is truly remarkable, Maester. A discovery that could change the face of construction in Westeros. Imagine, harbors that defy the waves, foundations that stand for centuries! We must keep this knowledge close, for now. It is a secret weapon, more potent than any sword." He knew that the North had geothermal activity, and that volcanic rock deposits existed, particularly around areas like Winterfell and Skagos. His discovery of the warm fissures in the Bay of Ice was a direct link to this. This "Roman concrete" was the lynchpin of his underwater city.
With the concrete problem seemingly solved, Kaelan intensified his underwater explorations. He spent days, sometimes stretching into nights, beneath the waves of the Bay of Ice, venturing further and deeper than any man had before. His Atlantean vision, capable of seeing clearly even in the crushing darkness of the deep, allowed him to navigate vast underwater canyons and explore colossal cave systems. He felt the immense pressure, but his superhuman durability rendered it harmless. He was searching for the perfect location, a natural fortress that could be expanded and sealed, a sanctuary for his future kingdom.
He discovered a colossal underwater mountain range, its peaks soaring from the abyssal plain, riddled with a labyrinthine network of caves and tunnels. Some of these caverns were vast, cathedral-like spaces, large enough to house entire villages. He used his hydrokinesis, a subtle manipulation of water currents, to clear away debris and reshape certain passages, widening narrow openings and sealing off unstable sections. It was slow, painstaking work, but he was literally sculpting his future kingdom.
During one such deep-sea expedition, a shadow, impossibly vast, passed over him. Kaelan froze, his senses on high alert. He had felt the presence of large creatures before, but this was different. This was ancient, powerful, and utterly alien. He extended his consciousness, reaching out with his Atlantean communication, a silent query into the darkness. A response came, not in words, but in a cascade of images and emotions: immense age, profound solitude, a weary patience, and a deep, resonant hunger. Then, a colossal eye, the size of a wagon wheel, opened in the gloom, reflecting the faint bioluminescence of the deep. It was a kraken, not the mere "giant squid" of common lore, but a creature of immense power, its tentacles thicker than tree trunks, its body scarred by untold battles.
Kaelan felt no fear, only a profound sense of awe and opportunity. He projected his intentions: not of harm, but of alliance, of shared purpose. He showed it visions of the White Walkers, of the encroaching ice, of the threat to all life, both on land and in the sea. He offered it a pact: protection for its domain, a sanctuary from the coming cold, in exchange for its aid. The kraken's response was slow, deliberate, a deep rumble that vibrated through the water. It was a cautious acceptance, a recognition of a shared enemy, and a nascent curiosity about this strange, land-dwelling creature who spoke the language of the deep. Kaelan knew this was a monumental step. An alliance with a kraken was a defense beyond anything Westeros could imagine. He also sensed the presence of other, even more ancient beings, perhaps the legendary sea dragons or the elusive Deep Ones, whose existence was hinted at in Ironborn lore and the oily black stone of the Seastone Chair. He would seek them out, in time.
The matter of heirs weighed heavily on Kaelan's mind. He needed many children, all of whom, he hoped, would inherit his unique blend of Atlantean, Greensight, and warging abilities. This was the foundation of his new race, the future inhabitants of his underwater kingdom. Westerosi customs, however, were rigid. Polygamy was "strictly forbidden by the laws of all gods and men," a sin in the eyes of the Faith of the Seven. Only the Targaryens, with their dragons, had truly defied this, and even they faced opposition.
Kaelan, ever the strategist, had devised a multi-pronged approach. He needed a legitimate wife for political alliances and to secure his house's standing with Winterfell. He had begun discreet inquiries about eligible daughters of minor Northern houses, particularly those with lands bordering his own or with access to valuable resources like timber or iron. He considered House Flint of Flint's Finger, or perhaps a lesser branch of House Manderly, though the latter might be too ambitious for his current standing. He needed a woman who was intelligent, resilient, and, ideally, open to his subtle manipulations.
But for the sheer number of heirs, he turned to the smallfolk. He had continued his discreet interactions with Elara, the strong, sea-eyed daughter of Old Finn. He found her intelligent, practical, and fiercely loyal to her family and village. He had begun to spend evenings in the village, ostensibly discussing fishing improvements, but always finding time to speak with Elara, to learn her thoughts, to gauge her character. He knew that taking a "paramour" or "salt wife" from among the smallfolk was a common, if unofficial, practice, particularly in coastal regions like the Iron Islands. While their children would technically be bastards, given regional surnames like "Snow" in the North, their legitimacy and inheritance rights were vague and often depended on the lord's will. This ambiguity was his loophole. He could acknowledge them, raise them within Stonefist, and ensure their loyalty. Later, perhaps, he could find a way to legitimize them, or simply integrate them into his underwater society where the laws of the surface realm would hold no sway.
One evening, as the last light faded from the sky, Kaelan found Elara by the shore, mending a fishing net, her nimble fingers working with practiced ease. "Elara," he said, his voice soft, "you work tirelessly. Your family is fortunate to have you."
She looked up, her eyes meeting his, a faint blush rising on her cheeks. "It is the way of our people, my Lord. We work, or we starve."
"And yet, under my rule, you starve less, do you not?" he countered gently. "The catches are greater, the fields yield more. I seek to build a better future for Stonefist, Elara. A future where no child cries from hunger, and no man fears the Ironborn." He paused, then continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "And for that future, I need strong hands, clear minds, and… a legacy. A legacy that will endure beyond the ice and the long night."
Elara's gaze was steady. "What kind of legacy, my Lord?"
"Children, Elara," he said, his eyes holding hers. "Many children. Children who will carry my blood, and perhaps… my gifts. Children who will be safe, no matter what winter brings. The laws of men are rigid, Elara, but the laws of nature are more powerful. Would you… would you help me build this legacy?" He was offering her a place, a purpose, and a promise of security, appealing to her practical nature and her deep-seated desire for her people's survival. He did not speak of marriage, but of a deeper, more primal bond, a partnership in survival. He knew the risks, the potential for scandal, but his mafia instincts told him that loyalty, earned through protection and shared purpose, was more valuable than any formal decree.
The White Walker threat remained the driving force behind Kaelan's every action. His Greensight visions, though still fragmented, grew more frequent and vivid. He saw not just the crumbling Wall, but the relentless march of the dead, their icy breath freezing the very air, their numbers swelling with every fallen foe. He saw the terror in the eyes of men, the futile resistance, the inevitable defeat. But he also saw flashes of his underwater sanctuary, a beacon of warmth and life amidst the frozen apocalypse. It was a stark, terrifying dichotomy that fueled his urgency. He knew the surface world was doomed, and his only hope, the only hope for his bloodline, lay beneath the waves.
He began to draft a mental blueprint for his underwater city, a complex web of interconnected caverns and structures. He envisioned a multi-layered defense: the crushing pressure of the deep, the natural barriers of the underwater mountain range, and, eventually, the formidable presence of his kraken allies. He considered the logistics of sustaining a population underwater: cultivating bioluminescent kelp for light, harnessing geothermal vents for warmth, and developing closed-loop systems for air and fresh water. He even pondered the possibility of cultivating unique marine resources, perhaps even a form of "aquatic metal" or hardened coral, to supplement his Roman concrete.
His days were a relentless cycle of managing his land-based improvements, discreetly experimenting with his powers, and meticulously planning his underwater escape. He was a man living two lives: the dutiful, innovative Northern lord, and the clandestine architect of a hidden world. He knew that every successful harvest, every new ship launched, every loyal heart won, was a brick laid in the foundation of his submerged kingdom. The whispers of the tide were growing louder, carrying not just the promise of the sea's bounty, but the chilling premonition of the coming storm. He was ready. He would not just survive; he would thrive, deep beneath the waves, a new king in a new, hidden realm.