King's Landing – Tower of the Hand
Old Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, sat at his long desk buried under scrolls and ledgers. He rubbed his aching brow, the lines of age carved deep into his face, but those eagle-sharp eyes still missed nothing.
He looked up as a soft-footed figure slipped into the room—Varys, the Spider, in his flowing robes, smelling faintly of perfume.
"Lord Varys," Jon said wearily, "where has my dear foster son, our glorious king, run off to today? Chasing wild boars in the kingswood… or chasing whores in some brothel bed?"
Varys offered a perfectly measured smile laced with just the right amount of regret. "Your Grace the Hand, the king was in high spirits this morning. He took Ser Barristan and a few of the Kingsguard hunting in the kingswood. I doubt we'll see him before sunset."
Jon Arryn sighed and shook his head. He had long since moved past heartbreak over Robert's excesses and settled into numb resignation.
"Let's hope he at least bags a boar instead of coming back empty-handed and taking it out on the queen again." He straightened. "What news?"
Varys produced two raven scrolls from his sleeve as if by magic and laid them gently on the desk.
"Two letters worth your attention, my lord. The first is from the Vale—your lady wife Lysa's own hand."
Jon Arryn's brows drew together at once. He picked up the perfumed parchment and scanned it quickly. His frown deepened with every line until he let out an irritated huff.
"Again about Robin… Maester Henwyck at Runestone? Hmph. He's no better than Grand Maester Pycelle. The boy was born frail. Months in King's Landing did nothing. Sending him to Runestone will fix him? Nonsense! Tell her to come home!"
He kept reading. The second half made him pause. Lysa complained bitterly that farmers and craftsmen from Candleton and half the coastal villages were flocking to the new Golden Port. Many lords were furious.
"…That Pierce Celtigar is sucking our people away like a sponge. What is he plotting? There must be some scheme!"
"Varys," Jon Arryn set the letter down and looked at the Master of Whisperers, "is the migration from Crackclaw Point really that large?"
Varys bowed slightly, voice soft but certain. "Quite large, my lord. Not just the Vale—men are streaming in from the Riverlands, the Crownlands, even the edges of the Stormlands. Lord Celtigar seems unusually hungry for population."
"And the other letter?"
Varys's bald head caught the lamplight. "This one concerns Dragonstone… or rather, comes from there. My little birds confirm that Prince Stannis Baratheon recently sailed Fury to Golden Port. He and Lord Pierce Celtigar have sealed a marriage pact. Stannis has betrothed his daughter, Princess Shireen, to Lord Pierce."
Jon Arryn sat up straighter. Stannis? The rigid, solitary, almost friendless Stannis had willingly formed a marriage alliance with a newly risen lord?
He had always respected Stannis—his stubborn defense of Storm's End had bought Robert the time he needed to win the war. But now Stannis and the mysterious, fast-rising Pierce Celtigar were tying their houses together, and a faint thread of unease stirred in the old Hand's chest.
"Increase surveillance on Crackclaw Point at once, Varys," Jon ordered, fingers drumming the desk. "I want to know everything happening there—especially what this Lord Celtigar is truly planning."
"As you command, my lord." Varys bowed deeply, that enigmatic little smile never leaving his face, and slipped out as quietly as he had come.
…
…
King's Landing – Maegor's Holdfast, the Queen's Solar
The stooped Grand Maester Pycelle, long white beard brushing his chain of many links, entered Queen Cersei Lannister's private study with the familiar clink of metal.
The room held more books than his own library—especially lately. For reasons he couldn't fathom, the queen had developed a sudden fascination with ancient tomes on magic, sorcery, and foreign histories.
Pycelle secretly shook his head. The beautiful queen had changed in recent years. She seemed lost in those misty legends of power. He had gently tried to remind her that magic was the province of charlatans and fools, but she never listened.
He could only chalk it up to an unhappy marriage and a desperate search for comfort in fantasy.
"Your Grace," he rasped, bowing. "You summoned me?"
Cersei sat by the window in a deep-red gown that matched her wine, golden hair cascading like a waterfall. She swirled a goblet of blood-red Arbor red, her emerald eyes distant, as if gazing through time itself.
At his voice she turned slowly. Those green eyes held a depth Pycelle could not quite read.
"Grand Maester," she said, voice lazy and musical, "I've heard some fascinating rumors about that young lord who's making such a stir on Crackclaw Point… and our ever-so-serious Stannis."
Pycelle's heart gave a little jolt. The queen's network was excellent. He recounted everything he knew, including the two letters Jon Arryn had received.
Cersei gently swirled her wine, the liquid spinning like liquid fire.
"What is your opinion of this Pierce Celtigar, Grand Maester?"
Pycelle chose his words carefully. "Your Grace, Lord Celtigar is undoubtedly… a most capable young man. In an astonishingly short time he has unified Crackclaw Point and turned a barren rock into a thriving port. His methods and efficiency are remarkable."
"Historically many great lords have tried to tame that land and failed because of its poverty and savage people. That he succeeded is… extraordinary."
"Extraordinary?" Cersei gave a soft laugh and sipped her wine. "I hear he's been secretly studying magic. Does that surprise you?"
Pycelle's bushy white brows twitched. "Magic? Your Grace, if you'll forgive me, that is all—"
"Empty tricks and foolery. Yes, I know what you'll say." Cersei cut him off, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "But I still admire your loyalty, Grand Maester. You are always so… practical."
As she spoke, her slender fingers unconsciously stroked the enormous ruby ring on her other hand. The gem caught the light and seemed to burn with an inner flame.
She brought the conversation back. "So, what else do you know about his new domain? How exactly did he 'solve' those troublesome Crackclaw lords?"
Pycelle answered truthfully. "Runners report he used a mix of military force and generous incentives. He commands a well-equipped, disciplined army and won support from parts of the local Blount family. He crushed the stubborn Boggs clan and forced the rest to submit or relocate. The entire process was… clean and swift."
"Gold," Cersei set her cup down, tone light but laced with mockery. "Gold solves most problems in this world. It seems Lord Celtigar understands that very well."
She paused, then asked almost casually, "And what of his new marriage alliance with Stannis? Your thoughts?"
Pycelle answered cautiously. "That… was unexpected. Prince Stannis has never been one for alliances. This may signal a deeper pact between Dragonstone and Golden Port."
A shadow flickered in Cersei's green eyes. Stannis had always been a potential threat. She had briefly considered pulling Pierce to her side—perhaps through Myrcella—but quickly dismissed the idea. Something in her recoiled at using her daughter like a bargaining chip.
She had once dreamed her children could be free to choose their own happiness, the way she had fantasized as a girl about marrying the handsome Prince Rhaegar…
Thinking of Rhaegar made her thoughts drift. Robert, in one of his drunken rages, had once roared at her about Pierce's "damn violet eyes," cursing the stubborn Targaryen blood and swearing he'd smash the boy's head if he ever let his silver hair grow long.
For some reason, Rhaegar's melancholy, noble face now overlapped in her mind with the calm, deep gaze people described when speaking of Pierce Celtigar. The resemblance sent a strange, dangerous thrill through her.
She shook off the absurd thought and waved Pycelle away. "That will be all, Grand Maester."
Once alone, Cersei rose and walked to the tall bookshelves. Her fingers trailed along the spines until they stopped on an old, plainly bound volume—The Rise of the Queens of Leng.
She pulled it out, flipped to a certain page, and read Maester Marco Polo's famous note: "In the face of power and will, anything is possible."
The words struck like sparks on dry tinder, igniting the wild ambition and fire she had kept buried for so long. She clutched the ruby ring until her knuckles whitened. Her emerald eyes blazed.
…
…
King's Landing – Littlefinger's Brothel on Silk Street
Unlike the solemn Hand's Tower or the secretive royal apartments, the brothel on Silk Street hummed with luxury and raw desire.
Shae was no longer just a girl clinging to stronger men for survival. She had become one of the most influential managers here.
At that moment she stood in a warmly decorated room, addressing several pretty but nervous new "bed slaves"—girls mostly sold or tricked into the life.
"Listen up," Shae said, voice low but commanding. "If you want to survive here—and live well—spreading your legs is not enough. The girls who only know how to fuck are the lowest rung. What you need to learn is how to grab a man's heart… or better yet, his pity, his vanity, and his need to protect."
She paced slowly, eyes sweeping their young faces. "Craft your stories carefully—'sick mother, gambling father, abusive husband, little child who can barely walk and needs feeding.' Make them heartbreaking. Make those lords feel like you are the most pitiful, helpless creature in the world who only they can save."
"Learn to listen to their complaints. Give them adoring eyes and soft comfort at exactly the right moment. Learn to seem weak—it brings out their heroism and their urge to shield you."
"If you play it right," Shae's lips curved in a clever smile, "they'll happily hand over fistfuls of gold dragons. Some might even decide to keep your 'pure and tragic' image intact by never touching you—just stuffing coins into your hand. That is how you make real money."
The girls looked half-confused but their eyes glittered with hunger for wealth.
The door opened softly. Petyr Baelish stepped in wearing his usual gentle, calculating smile and waved the girls out.
Once they were alone, Littlefinger studied Shae with open appreciation and curiosity.
"Shae, my clever girl, you never cease to amaze me. This new 'foot-bath' service and the lines you're teaching them—I've never heard anything like it. I'm dying to know where you learned these… innovative tricks."
Shae had her answer ready. She gave a slightly worldly smile. "Before I came to King's Landing, my lord, I worked for a time at the 'Paradise' in Braavos. It's the hottest pleasure house in the city right now. They have every kind of novelty you can imagine."
"Paradise?" Littlefinger mused. "I've heard the name. A few of my high-born friends speak of it… though never favorably."
"Exactly," Shae nodded, slipping in the details Pierce had taught her. "Unlike the untouchable courtesans, the girls at Paradise can be touched. It's all about the full experience. That's where I learned these new techniques."
The suspicion in Littlefinger's eyes eased. Braavos was famous for its openness and innovation; he had heard whispers about Paradise.
He didn't fully trust Shae, but the woman undeniably made him money. As long as she kept the profits flowing and he still held her "beloved" bed-slave as leverage, he wasn't worried about her causing trouble.
"Very good," Littlefinger's smile widened. "Keep doing what you do best. Our partnership with the Golden Tassel is going smoothly. They've agreed to fund a grand 'Star Selection' event. More fresh talent will join us. I'm already planning to buy the building next door. Our business is only going to grow."
He was clearly in an excellent mood. The management ideas Pierce had indirectly supplied, plus the cooperation with the Golden Tassel, were turning his brothels into a gold mine.
More wealth meant he could finally realize his old dream—stepping on everyone who had ever looked down on him.