King's Landing – The Red Keep
Three days later, in the main hall beside the throne room—where the Small Council handled the kingdom's daily business—the usual meeting was underway.
A detailed map of Westeros lay spread across the heavy oak table. The air smelled of old parchment, sealing wax, and a faint trace of mildew.
For once, King Robert Baratheon's massive, slightly paunchy frame filled the head seat. His face was pale from last night's drinking, but those warrior-sharp eyes still glinted with leftover fire.
The reason he'd shown up at all was today's main topic: the ambitious Dragonpit renovation plan proposed by Pierce Celtigar, Lord of Crackclaw Point.
Present were Hand of the King Jon Arryn, Master of Ships Prince Stannis Baratheon, Master of Coin Petyr Baelish, Master of Laws Prince Renly Baratheon, Grand Maester Pycelle, and Master of Whisperers Varys.
Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, was out looking for Pierce, but everyone else was there.
Littlefinger spoke first, wearing his usual clever smile, voice light and easy.
"Your Grace, my lords, I believe Lord Celtigar's proposal has real merit. The Dragonpit is currently nothing but a breeding ground for crime and filth. Turning it into a thriving commercial and entertainment hub would bring the Iron Throne steady tax revenue and boost King's Landing's reputation, drawing more merchants and travelers. Imagine a marketplace and arena that never closes—it would be a huge boost for business in the city."
He was really talking about his own brothels, of course, but he wrapped it neatly in "kingdom benefits."
Stannis followed in his gravel-rough voice, face blank, jaw tight.
"I agree with the renovation. The current state of the Dragonpit is an insult to order. More importantly, the project will need a great deal of labor. It can give the city's idle smallfolk and poor men honest work and pay—far better than letting them cause trouble in the streets or beg for charity."
Hand Jon Arryn's brows drew together. His old but still-sharp eyes swept the table before settling on Robert.
"Your Grace, the Dragonpit is a Targaryen relic. Its ownership clearly belongs to the Iron Throne. A site this important should be developed under royal direction, with profits flowing into the royal coffers. Handing such a massive project to a… newly risen lord…"
He paused, shooting a meaningful glance at Stannis. His concern was for his foster son's throne and the future safety of the royal heirs.
Renly Baratheon, the handsome and easygoing Master of Laws, lounged in his chair and gave a light laugh.
"Lord Hand, you must remember our treasury isn't exactly overflowing these days. I think the project is a fine idea—it would finally give our dull capital some real fun."
His eyes flicked between his second brother and his royal brother.
"That said… a project this size needs expert builders and serious resources. House Tyrell of Highgarden has both wealth and experience—they're descendants of 'Greenhand' Garth, after all. Perhaps they should take the lead?"
He sounded casual, but he was clearly pushing for his close ally Ser Loras Tyrell and the Tyrell family to grab a piece.
Grand Maester Pycelle spoke in his wheezing rasp, gnarled, age-spotted fingers stroking the chain around his neck.
"My lords, the Dragonpit's structure has endured nearly two centuries of wind and rain and is now dangerously unstable. My acolytes report clear cracks and shifting in several domes and walls. Any large collapse would be catastrophic. Reinforcement and renovation are both necessary and urgent."
Robert's thick fingers drummed the tabletop with dull thuds.
He looked irritated. On one hand, he hated anything connected to the Targaryens and would've loved to erase the Dragonpit completely. On the other, he knew Jon Arryn's worries weren't baseless.
Stannis was already on thin ice with him—if the man's future son-in-law gained too much power in the capital…
Just as the mood grew tense, Varys—silent as a shadow until now—spoke in his soft, feather-light voice.
"Honored Your Grace, my lords… perhaps we need not argue over 'who leads.' Lord Celtigar brings fresh vision and bold ideas. House Tyrell brings experience and resources. Why not… let both houses work together?"
"Joint funding and joint development, with the Iron Throne as overseer. This prevents any single house from growing too powerful, combines their strengths, and brings the ruin back to life quickly—for the benefit of the realm and Your Grace."
Varys's suggestion acted like a key. Joint venture, mutual checks, royal supervision—it sounded like the safest compromise.
Robert's eyes lit up. He hated complicated politics, but this plan was simple, direct, and still got the Dragonpit fixed.
"Good! Done!" he boomed, slamming his decision down. "Tell that Celtigar boy and the 'inflated fish' from Highgarden the Dragonpit is theirs to share! Let them work out the details themselves!"
…
…
The Small Council's decision reached Pierce by afternoon. He was summoned to the Red Keep and headed to the Tower of the Hand for more detailed talks.
On his way through the Hanging Tower toward the west ward, Pierce unexpectedly ran into King Robert preparing to ride out.
Robert seemed in a fine mood today, dressed for hunting, though his belly strained the leather jerkin.
"Ah! The Celtigar lad!" Robert's loud voice echoed down the corridor. He clapped Pierce hard on the shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance. "Well done! That damn Dragonpit should've been torn down years ago—looked like bad luck every time I saw it!"
He leaned in, breath thick with wine and excitement. "Heard Littlefinger's got a new 'Tomorrow's Star'? Sings like a lake nymph, they say. I'm off to 'inspect' her—see if the rumors are true! Ha ha ha!"
Looking at the king's crude grin, Pierce could only smile politely. "As long as Your Grace enjoys it, sire."
After parting from Robert, Pierce met Littlefinger waiting ahead.
Petyr Baelish wore a slightly apologetic look. "Lord Pierce, you've heard the Small Council's decision… I did my best, but Lord Arryn and Lord Renly…"
Pierce waved it off. "No need to apologize, Lord Petyr. Politics is the art of compromise. Lord Arryn is the Hand and Warden of the East—he has to balance every faction for the king. This outcome is already far better than the worst we expected."
He knew perfectly well why Littlefinger looked nervous. Three days earlier the man had flatly refused his invitation to join the Rising Tide.
Littlefinger relaxed a fraction, about to say more, when Stannis Baratheon rounded the corner from another hallway, face as stern as ever. Littlefinger immediately made a polite excuse and slipped away.
Stannis walked up to Pierce and said quietly, "Walk with me."
As they passed the grand but empty throne room, Stannis's gaze lingered on the huge closed doors. His expression was complicated. Suddenly he spoke, voice low.
"Davos told me everything."
Pierce blinked, then realized he meant the conversation at the Star Selection about Stannis's rigid personality.
Stannis kept his eyes forward, almost talking to himself. "He said you think I'm too inflexible, that I don't know how to bend." His tone gave nothing away. "Perhaps… he's right. I'll try to… adjust in some areas. But honor and law are the foundation of the realm. I will never abandon them."
Pierce looked at his future father-in-law's strong but lonely profile and sighed inwardly. Stannis was like a block of black stone—you could polish him, but you'd never change what he was made of.
He simply nodded. "Holding to principle is a virtue, my lord. But when putting it into practice… sometimes a more… flexible approach is needed."
Stannis gave a noncommittal grunt.
They crossed a side hall connecting the east and west wards and reached the east ward where the Tower of the Hand stood. At the ivy-covered entrance they ran into Renly Baratheon.
The dashing young lord wore a sky-blue velvet doublet and flashed a brilliant smile.
"My dear brother!" Renly greeted Stannis warmly—though Stannis only gave a cold nod in return.
He turned to Pierce, eyes sparkling with curiosity and admiration. "And our talented young Lord Celtigar! Your vision is truly astonishing—turning the Dragonpit into the commercial and entertainment heart of the Seven Kingdoms! I can't wait to see it finished!"
Pierce bowed with perfect courtesy. "Thank you for the kind words, Lord Renly. The project will still require full cooperation with House Tyrell. I hope we succeed."
His reply was polite but distant, a sharp contrast to Renly's overly warm enthusiasm.
Stannis noticed Pierce's calm, unshakable demeanor and his tight expression softened a fraction. A tiny spark of satisfaction showed in his eyes.
At least his future son-in-law had far more steadiness than this flashy younger brother.
The three entered the Tower of the Hand and reached Lord Jon Arryn's study, piled high with scrolls. Almost every Small Council member was there except Varys.
The meeting felt more like an informal working session to iron out the joint-development terms and handle early details.
Grand Maester Pycelle wheezed, "Ravens have already flown to Highgarden. House Tyrell should send representatives soon. Until then, Lord Celtigar, you may begin detailed surveys and planning inside the Dragonpit."
Pierce nodded. "That's exactly what I intended—understanding the current state is the foundation of any build."
He turned to Jon Arryn. "Lord Hand, I hope to organize teams to enter the Dragonpit for inspection as soon as possible."
Jon Arryn thought for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. But royal officials and Gold Cloaks must accompany you. In that case…"
He paused, then looked at Barristan. "Ser Selmy, I'll ask you to handle it."
After the meeting broke up, everyone filed out—except Jon Arryn kept Pierce behind.
The old Hand gestured for him to sit, then studied him with deep, piercing eyes.
"Lord Celtigar, I still have one question. Why is Golden Port absorbing population on such a massive scale from every corner of the realm? That is not the usual behavior of a lord."
Pierce had prepared for this. He let an idealistic passion color his voice.
"Lord Hand, this is exactly what I wanted to report. During my travels in the east I discovered several high-yield crops—rice and corn from Yi Ti. Under the right conditions their output far exceeds our current grains. I have already opened experimental fields in Golden Port and am working to breed varieties suited to the Crownlands and beyond."
His tone grew serious. "You know, my lord, the Crownlands—especially King's Landing—depend heavily on grain shipments from the Reach and the Riverlands. The Reach is far away; the Riverlands have good waterways but are vulnerable to war and bad weather."
"Any disruption and King's Landing faces famine. I hope to turn Crackclaw Point—especially the Golden Crab River basin—into a new granary. At the very least it can ease the Crownlands' food pressure. In the future I even hope to develop cold-resistant strains that could help the North and serve the entire kingdom."
The words came out sincere and visionary, wrapping his personal ambitions in noble service to the realm.
Jon Arryn listened carefully. The sharp scrutiny in his old eyes slowly gave way to genuine approval.
In his eyes, a young lord who ignored pleasure and focused on the kingdom's food security was a rare and valuable quality.
"Your thinking… is excellent," Jon Arryn said slowly. "The Citadel may be able to offer assistance in this area. I can—"
"Thank you for the kind offer, Lord Hand," Pierce interrupted with calm confidence. "I have already hired a team of maesters from Braavos, including Maester Ferren. Our work is progressing well. Everything I do is simply to contribute to Westeros's prosperity and stability!"
Just as Pierce thought the talk was over and prepared to leave, the study door opened softly. Grand Maester Pycelle had returned.
"Forgive the interruption, Lord Hand, Lord Celtigar."
Pycelle wheezed, turning his cloudy eyes on Pierce. "I just remembered—Maester Ferren is serving under you, is he not? He is an old acquaintance of mine. Also, I heard you have a keen interest in books from Essos, especially ancient histories?"
Pierce's mind stirred, but his face stayed smooth. "I do have some interest, Grand Maester."
Pycelle gave an almost kindly smile. "As it happens, I have a few rare handwritten copies on Qarth and Asshai. Would Lord Celtigar care to examine them with me? I would also love to hear news of my old friend Ferren."
Pierce glanced at Jon Arryn, who waved permission. Pierce nodded.
"It would be an honor, Grand Maester."
So Pierce followed the shuffling Grand Maester out of the Tower of the Hand, through the corridor known as the Traitors' Walk, and toward the rookery near the White Sword Tower.
Their footsteps echoed alone in the cold stone passage. When Pycelle pushed open the door to a dusty ground-floor study filled with the smell of old ink and bird feathers, Pierce saw the room was not empty.
A figure stood with its back to them, browsing the shelves. At the sound of the door it slowly turned around.