King's Landing – Rhaenys's Hill
The master of ceremonies' booming announcement lit a fuse under the entire Silk Square. First up was Chataya from the Summer Isles—the famous brothel owner known all over King's Landing for her exotic establishment. She personally led her daughter Alayaya onto the stage.
Alayaya had inherited her mother's striking features and honey-gold skin. She wore nothing but a short, colorful feather skirt and a glittering jeweled top that screamed wild, untamed beauty.
The second she stepped out, merchants from the Free Cities and thrill-seeking noble boys erupted in whistles and cheers. The crowd went wild before she even opened her mouth.
Alayaya moved to a heavy drumbeat, hips rolling in a traditional Summer Isles dance—bold, sensual, every twist and sway pulling fresh screams from the audience.
When her fingers hooked the ties of her top like she was about to take it further, the experienced master of ceremonies sensed trouble. He jumped in with loud praise for her "fiery passion," then politely-but-firmly ushered mother and daughter offstage before things got too spicy. The next group was rushed on immediately.
Even though the performance got cut short, the visual punch had already landed. Voting flowers started raining into the collection baskets like confetti.
Pierce did a quick mental count and raised an eyebrow— just the opening act had probably burned through over a thousand gold dragons. These brothels were throwing serious money at reputation and future profits, way more than he'd expected.
The performances that followed gave Pierce a front-row seat to just how cutthroat King's Landing's entertainment scene really was. Every house pulled out all the stops to win.
Some girls played the innocent card—singing sweet Dornish love songs. Others went full seductive Lysene erotic mime. A few were genuinely talented.
One girl from Oldtown played a heartbreaking version of "The Rose by the Road" on a seven-stringed harp; the notes wept so beautifully that even stuck-up nobles nodded and tossed flowers in approval.
A girl from the Vale performed "The Seven Swords" on an ancient harp with flawless skill and haunting emotion—she brought the house down too.
Of course, a couple tried copying Alayaya's bold, revealing style, but without that natural exotic flair it just came off as awkward imitation. Flat results.
The event was hitting its peak, the crowd buzzing louder than ever, when a sharp, piercing horn blast cut through everything from the square entrance.
The sea of people parted like magic. A column of red-cloaked Lannister guards in gleaming armor marched in, followed by a small, solemn group of Kingsguard.
The whole square fell silent. Every eye locked on the entrance. The master of ceremonies' voice cracked with excitement as he bellowed:
"Silence! Silence! All hail Her Grace the Queen—Cersei Baratheon!"
Under hundreds of gazes—awed, curious, fawning—Cersei Lannister, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, swept in surrounded by Lannister ladies.
This was Pierce's first time seeing the legendary queen in the flesh. She was even more beautiful than the actress from his old-world memories.
Time hadn't touched her. Skin like fresh snow, golden hair like molten sunlight, emerald eyes sharp and deep as the finest jade. She wore a stunning deep-green gown shot through with gold thread that hugged her still-perfect figure. A massive emerald necklace rested at her throat, perfectly matching her eyes.
She moved with effortless grace, chin slightly raised, radiating that born-to-rule arrogance and iron authority.
Pierce couldn't help a wry inner thought: How blind was Robert Baratheon to ignore a wife like this and chase after tavern wenches every night?
What surprised him more was that her inseparable twin brother, "the Kingslayer" Jaime Lannister, was nowhere in sight.
Cersei's arrival hit the crowd like a boulder in a boiling lake. Cheers and noise instantly turned into hushed excitement and careful stares.
She took the best reserved seat with queenly poise, eyes calmly sweeping the stage like a ruler inspecting her domain, ignoring every gaze turned her way.
The second her attention left him, the master of ceremonies snapped back into professional mode and called the next performer. The show went on, but the air now carried an invisible tension.
After several more acts—some brilliant, some forgettable—the master of ceremonies finally stepped forward with brand-new energy and announced:
"Next, from Eden, the candidate known as the 'Orchid of the Valley'—Miss Nia!"
All eyes locked on her. Nia still wore the same soft lavender gauze dress, stepping onto the stage like a shy woodland sprite.
She carried an old harp that somehow blended perfectly with her ethereal beauty.
She didn't even look at the noisy crowd. She simply gave a small curtsy, sat on the prepared chair, and let her slender fingers brush the strings.
An empty, distant melody—carrying the faintest trace of sorrow—flowed out like a mountain spring. It was Pierce's own "creation": May It Be.
Nia's voice was crystal clear, flawless, merging perfectly with the harp's ancient tone. She wasn't performing—she was praying, whispering an ancient, sad legend. The lyrics of hope and quiet strength cut straight into every heart.
The rowdy square fell miraculously silent. Even the merchants and nobles who'd come just to gawk lost their smirks and sank into the music.
Pierce was genuinely impressed. He hadn't expected Nia to deliver the song at this level. Her control of rhythm and emotion was perfect; she'd fused the ancient harp's soul with the modern melody so seamlessly it felt timeless.
Even the usually straight-laced, practical Davos Seaworth sitting beside him had his mouth slightly open, eyes distant, completely pulled into another world.
The final note faded. For a heartbeat the square stayed quiet—then exploded into the loudest, most sincere applause and cheers of the entire day.
Timing was perfect. Pierce shot Littlefinger a quick look. Petyr Baelish caught it instantly, a satisfied grin spreading across his face.
A team of uniformed servants marched forward carrying an enormous bouquet woven from the rarest gold-edged blue roses.
The master of ceremonies shouted, voice cracking with excitement: "From the noble lord of Crackclaw Point, Lord Pierce Celtigar, a 'Star-Crown' bouquet for Miss Nia—one thousand gold dragons!"
"One thousand gold dragons!"
The number hit like thunder. Every head whipped from Nia straight to the calm young lord in the stands. Gasps, whispers, and stunned chatter crashed over the square like a wave.
"Celtigar? That's the Golden Port guy—"
"Seven hells—one thousand dragons just for a vote?"
"Insane… absolutely insane generosity!"
…
Merchants started whispering furiously, asking who Pierce was. The nobles who already knew him wore far more complicated expressions—envy, jealousy, disdain, shock, all mixed together.
His move worked exactly as planned. The "throwing the first brick to attract jade" effect kicked in hard. Merchants and nobles who'd been holding back suddenly jumped in like they'd been shot with adrenaline.
Bouquets worth five hundred, eight hundred, even another thousand dragons flew onto the stage. Flowers piled up in front of Nia like a small mountain, leaving every other candidate in the dust.
In the end, with zero suspense, Nia crushed the competition and claimed the Golden Tassel "Tomorrow's Star" crown. Following protocol, the highest donor—a bald, fat, beaming merchant named Eo Varian—stepped forward under envious eyes and received the elegant silver-and-pearl crown from Queen Cersei herself.
Trembling with excitement, Eo carefully placed the crown on Nia's lowered head. The pearls glowed against her pure, slightly shy face. She lifted her eyes just enough for a glimmer of tears to show, looking even more heartbreakingly lovely. The crowd roared again.
The Star Selection wrapped up perfectly, but the real socializing was just beginning. Right afterward, the Golden Tassel flagship and the Silk Square in front of it opened for a carefully planned afternoon tea party.
It was nothing like the usual Westerosi feasts of huge slabs of meat, overflowing wine, and loud chaos.
Long tables were draped in spotless white linen, covered with tiered silver trays and crystal dishes holding delicate pastries and rare wines from every corner of the world.
This elegant, self-serve, relaxed social atmosphere felt brand-new and delightful to nobles and merchants used to crude banquets. People could wander, chat quietly, and enjoy the food without being stuck at assigned seats.
Even better, all the competing girls—including the ones who'd tried the raunchy dances—had changed into modest gowns and now moved gracefully among the guests, chatting politely and intelligently like well-bred noble ladies.
This was exactly the "class" Pierce had drilled into Littlefinger: blend refined elegance with hidden desire, and you'd hook—and keep—the top-tier clients.
Watching the civilized, laughter-filled scene, Pierce felt genuinely satisfied.
He was standing with a glass of wine, chatting with a Braavosi banker, when a rich, magnetic voice with an undercurrent of royal authority spoke behind him.
"Lord Celtigar?"
Pierce turned. Queen Cersei Baratheon had somehow appeared nearby, holding an untouched glass of red wine, wearing the perfect queenly half-smile of polite distance.
Pierce's heart skipped, but his face stayed smooth. He gave a flawless noble bow. "Your Grace! I never imagined I would have the honor of your attention here."
Cersei nodded graciously. Her eyes flicked around once. The Lannister ladies around her instantly understood—they casually shifted positions, using bodies and conversation to create a quiet little bubble around Pierce and the queen.
"I've heard certain things about your lands, Lord Celtigar," Cersei began, voice low enough that only he could hear clearly. "Crackclaw Point… that peninsula has always been famous for its wild, unruly people. Yet in such a short time you not only pacified the chaos but built a thriving port like Golden Port. Truly… impressive."
Her tone carried that condescending praise that somehow still felt like the highest compliment.
Pierce answered humbly, "Your Grace is too kind. It was simply adapting to the land, plus a bit of luck. Those so-called 'savages' aren't unreasonable—if you give them real order and real hope, they become the very strength that builds the domain."
"Order and hope…" Cersei repeated softly. A strange light flickered in her emerald eyes. Then her voice dropped even lower, almost a whisper, carrying an odd rhythm: "Tides rise and fall… gold remains unchanged."
"Equivalent exchange… tides eternal!"
The moment Pierce answered with the secret Rising Tide passphrase, the last trace of testing and distance vanished from Cersei's eyes. In its place was a subtle flash of recognition—like she'd just found one of her own. Her queenly arrogance stayed, but the curve of her lips became a touch more genuine.
"Very good," Cersei said, voice returning to normal volume but still for his ears only. "It seems I chose the right man. Pierce Celtigar… perhaps you already know—I am also a member of the Rising Tide."
"Meeting a fellow traveler in King's Landing is… reassuring," Pierce replied with a smile. He still wasn't entirely sure what the Ruby Lord wanted from him.
Cersei leaned forward slightly. A faint, expensive rose perfume drifted over.
"Your achievements on Crackclaw Point have already reached the organization. Your ability… and your ambition… deserve far more resources and support."
Her emerald eyes locked on his, carrying an almost hypnotic power. "Tell me, Pierce—have you ever considered stepping beyond mere partner… and becoming a true core member? Perhaps… a respected Gem Lord?"