King's Landing – Rhaenys's Hill
Three mornings later, a striking procession left "Eden" on Rhaenys's Hill and headed toward the massive, silent ruin of the Dragonpit.
At the front, a pale-blue banner snapped in the dawn breeze, embroidered with a fierce golden crab. One massive claw looked strong enough to crush stone, and the spikes on its head formed a crown—this was Pierce Celtigar's personal sigil.
Beneath the banner rode Pierce on a sleek black warhorse, dressed for work in supple leather hunting gear and a short dark cloak stitched with his house crest. He looked sharp, focused, and ready.
Behind him came Rosco and Benard Blount, a team of master craftsmen and maesters, plus a squad of elite guards straight from Golden Port.
As the column moved through King's Landing's still-quiet morning streets, every head turned. Whispers and stares followed them like a wave.
Early-rising vendors, sweating laborers, idle beggars, even a few lowborn knights stopped to gawk and point.
"Look—that's the lord from Crackclaw Point!"
"Him? The guy they say sleeps under a blanket of gold dragons?"
"I heard he's buying the Dragonpit to turn it into some giant shopping mall. Crazy talk!"
"Crazy? The man's loaded! He dropped a thousand gold dragons on a single vote—what's a ruined pit to him?"
"That place is cursed… haunted, they say. Full of old dragon bones from the burning…"
"Pfft, those bones rotted away years ago. Now it's just rats, squatters, and… heh, folks doing business that don't want daylight."
"Who cares? If he actually fixes it up, maybe the rest of us can get some honest work…"
The chatter mixed curiosity, envy, jealousy, and a touch of fear. Word of Pierce's Dragonpit plan had already swept the entire city.
Pierce ignored the noise, eyes calm on the distant silhouette of the Dragonpit—like a sleeping beast waiting to wake. His plan was moving exactly as intended.
As they drew closer, the ancient structure's full scale became clear. Even in ruin it was awe-inspiring.
The huge circular base was built from roughly cut giant stones, now blanketed in moss and crisscrossed with cracks after nearly two centuries of wind and rain.
The once-mighty dome had collapsed in huge sections, leaving twisted stone arches like the ribs of some dead giant pointing stubbornly at the sky—a reminder of its former glory.
The enormous windows that once let in light and air were now empty black holes, blind eyes staring coldly at anyone who dared approach.
The whole place radiated desolation, silence, and a heavy, oppressive weight.
At the two massive, rust-eaten bronze doors, another party was already waiting.
Leading them was a middle-aged Gold Cloak officer with a slight paunch and a neatly trimmed mustache. His face wore an oily, fawning smile—it was none other than Janos Slynt, captain of the Dragon Gate and future Commander of the City Watch.
He'd pulled strings (and slipped plenty of bribes) through his current boss, Manly Stokeworth, to snag this cushy "escort and observe" duty.
"Lord Celtigar! Good morning, good morning!" The second Pierce dismounted, Janos trotted forward, practically bowing in half. "I am Janos Slynt, here on orders from His Grace the King and the Hand to assist you with the inspection!"
Pierce flashed a warm, friendly smile like they were old drinking buddies. He stepped forward, clasped Janos's hand, and smoothly slipped a small, heavy pouch—its weight and sharp corners obvious even through the velvet—into the man's palm.
"Ser Janos! Commander Stokeworth has spoken highly of your competence and loyalty. I have no doubt you'll rise even higher soon. Just a little something for the men—buy them a round tonight!"
Janos squeezed the bag, felt the unmistakable weight of cut gems, and his smile turned blindingly sincere. He bent even lower.
"Oh, my lord, you're too generous! This is far too kind… Serving you is my honor! Rest easy—with me and my lads here, nothing will go wrong!"
His enthusiasm made it sound like Pierce was a long-lost brother.
At that moment another figure stepped out from the Gold Cloaks—a very young knight with the classic Lannister golden hair and green eyes. His face still held a boyish softness, but his manners were polished. He wore a squire's tunic yet carried himself with quiet dignity.
"Lord Celtigar," the youth bowed, voice clear and polite, "I am Lancel Lannister. On His Grace's orders I bring the official writ to open the Dragonpit and will serve as the crown's witness for today's inspection."
A flicker of surprise crossed Pierce's eyes—quickly hidden.
Lancel Lannister—Tywin's nephew, Robert's cupbearer… the future fanatic who would brand a seven-pointed star on his own head.
Right now he was just a slightly shy young noble trying hard to look composed.
Pierce returned the bow with perfect courtesy. "My thanks, Ser Lancel."
Lancel produced the parchment bearing the royal seal and read it aloud for everyone, officially confirming Pierce's right to survey the site.
Once the formalities were done, he stepped aside and left the stage to Janos.
Janos puffed out his chest, waved grandly, and barked, "Alright, lads! Get to work! Open the doors for Lord Celtigar!"
A handful of burly Gold Cloaks stepped forward, huge axes and hammers in hand.
They approached the two enormous bronze doors, chained shut with rust-thick iron links the size of a man's arm.
CLANG! CLANG-CLANG!
"Heave! Put your backs into it!"
The heavy blows and soldiers' grunts echoed across the empty square. Sparks flew, rust cascaded like red-brown snow.
The ancient chains fought back stubbornly. It took a long time.
Finally, with a screeching metallic snap, the thickest chain shattered. The crossbar followed.
The men shouted, braced their shoulders against the cold bronze, and pushed.
CREEEAAAK—
A groan like a dying giant rolled out as the massive doors—sealed for decades—slowly parted just enough for a man to slip through.
The instant the gap opened, an indescribable stench surged out—rotten decay, mold, and something darker, like the lingering despair of countless souls.
The nearest Gold Cloaks gagged and stumbled back.
Even Pierce frowned. He smelled the physical rot… but he also felt a deeper, psychic residue of misery.
This was the accumulated agony of the Great Spring Sickness, when bodies had piled here by the thousands… plus the screams of the countless septons and knights burned alive with wildfire during the reign of the "Cruel" Maegor.
Deeper still, he sensed something hotter, more dangerous, waiting in the dark…
Pierce had come prepared. He didn't rush inside.
He raised a hand. His guards immediately brought out several carefully crafted glass reflector mirrors. They angled them to catch the morning sunlight and bounce it deep into the black maw of the entrance.
Beams of light stabbed through decades of darkness, illuminating the area just inside the doors.
Thick black filth coated the floor. Scattered among it were things that looked disturbingly like bones.
"Inside! And watch your step!" Janos pinched his nose and waved the Gold Cloaks forward first. Pierce's own guards followed close behind, weapons ready.
…
…
The inspection moved slowly. The Dragonpit's interior was vast; the reflected sunlight only lit a small circle. Everything beyond remained swallowed by thick shadow.
Soldiers crept forward, boots echoing under the ruined dome, adding to the eerie atmosphere.
Then—
"AAAAHHH!"
A scream of pure terror tore out from the depths.
One Gold Cloak came scrambling back out of the darkness on hands and knees, face white as milk, covered in dust and cobwebs, eyes wide with absolute horror.
He collapsed at Janos's feet, babbling.
"Fire! Under the ground! Green fire! So many… jars! Demons! It's a nest of demons down there!!"
He'd clearly stepped on rotten flooring and fallen into a lower level.
"Green fire? Jars?" Janos looked confused at first—until he saw Pierce's face turn stone-cold. Then one terrible word slammed into his brain: wildfire.
The news spread like… well, wildfire.
When it reached Robert, the king was in the middle of "inspecting" one of Littlefinger's new girls at Eden. He nearly wilted on the spot, then smashed half a dozen wine bottles in a drunken rage.
An emergency Small Council meeting was called that very night. Pierce didn't attend in person. Instead he fed the information through Littlefinger—carefully worded as his own "speculation"—that the wildfire caches beneath the Dragonpit were almost certainly linked to the Mad King Aerys.
The revelation hit King's Landing like a real bomb. Both Robert and Jon Arryn understood the danger instantly.
If the Dragonpit was packed with wildfire, what else had the Mad King buried under the city?
By evening the entire capital was in chaos.
Thousands of Gold Cloaks were mobilized, torches in hand, sweeping the Red Keep, the Great Sept of Baelor, the Guild of Alchemists, and every major building on the three hills.
The results were horrifying.
They found more caches—under the Red Keep's foundations, beneath the Great Sept's crypts. Hundreds of jars filled with the thick, green, glowing liquid that shimmered like the eyes of demons in the torchlight.
Even worse, the search uncovered long-forgotten secret passages and hidden chambers.
The Red Keep was riddled with hidden tunnels. The already tense city now felt even more sinister, shadowed by ghosts of the past.
And Pierce—the man who had started the Dragonpit renovation—had, whether by accident or design, ripped open a secret that could shake the very foundations of the realm.
…
…
The next day Pierce was summoned back to the Red Keep. The small council chamber beside the throne room felt even heavier than before.
King Robert's face was ashen with leftover fear and fury. Jon Arryn's eagle eyes bored into Pierce like knives.
"Celtigar," Robert's voice was hoarse from rage and hangover, "did you already know that shit was down there? Why the hell didn't you say something sooner?!"
He'd come within a hair's breadth of being blown sky-high. The thought terrified and enraged him.
Jon Arryn was calmer but no less sharp. "Lord Pierce, your inspection was… unusually cautious. Using mirrors instead of torches doesn't sound like a spur-of-the-moment decision. Did you know something beforehand?"
Pierce knew the moment of truth had arrived. He put on the perfect mask of belated fear mixed with wounded innocence, took a deep breath, and delivered the story he'd rehearsed for days.
"Your Grace, Lord Hand—forgive me for keeping silent. The matter was too grave. Without solid proof I dared not speak, lest I cause needless panic."
He met their eyes with honest sincerity. "While traveling in Essos I met an old, broken man in Volantis. He claimed he had once been a pyromancer in service to the Targaryen kings. He fled during the Mad King Aerys's reign after disagreeing with the king's plans."
Pierce paused, as if recalling something painful. "In his cups he told me Aerys had a final, insane scheme: he had buried vast amounts of wildfire beneath King's Landing. If he ever lost his throne, he would turn the entire city into his funeral pyre. He specifically mentioned the Dragonpit as one of the largest storage sites."
"I always dismissed it as the ravings of a madman," Pierce spread his hands, letting real-looking dread show on his face. "But when I came to inspect the Dragonpit I remembered the story, so I used mirrors instead of torches. I never imagined… the old lunatic was telling the truth."
His expression perfectly blended shock and horror.
His real goal was simple: steer Robert and Jon Arryn's attention firmly toward Essos.
The trap had been set. Now he just had to wait and watch the pieces fall.