King's Landing – Red Keep, Throne Room, Small Council
A whole month had slipped by without anyone noticing, but today the atmosphere in the throne room felt heavier than usual.
King Robert Baratheon wasn't slouched in his usual drunken haze. Instead his thick brows were knotted tight, his massive frame wedged uncomfortably into the Iron Throne's jagged metal branches.
He slammed a meaty fist on the armrest, the dull thud cutting through the silence like a war hammer.
"Enough! These goddamn religious lunatics!" Robert's voice rolled like thunder through the hall. "Brawling in the streets of my city over whose god is bigger! A few days ago some bastards dumped a bucket of shit on Prince Jalabhar Xho—he came here for my protection, not to swim in piss! This is an insult to the crown! Jon, you're the damn Hand—what the hell are we going to do about it?!"
Jon Arryn stood below the throne, his lined face etched with exhaustion and worry. He drew a slow breath and looked around at the rest of the Small Council: Stannis Baratheon (Master of Ships), Renly Baratheon (Master of Laws), Petyr Baelish (Master of Coin), Varys (Master of Whisperers), Grand Maester Pycelle, and Ser Barristan Selmy (Lord Commander of the Kingsguard).
"Your Grace, this situation is… delicate," Jon began carefully. "The Faith of the Seven has deep roots here in King's Landing. The followers of the Lord of Light are mostly Essosi merchants and sailors who also pay their taxes and keep trade flowing. The fighting is getting worse—markets are disrupted, the port's turning into a war zone, and now innocent outsiders like the Summer Islanders are getting caught in the middle."
He turned to Stannis. "Lord Stannis, your thoughts?"
Stannis's face might as well have been carved from granite. His voice came out flat and hard. "Chaos comes from disorder. Since the two faiths can't live together, separate them. I propose we set aside land outside the city, along the Blackwater, and build a 'Temple of Many Gods'—copy the Isle of the Gods in Braavos. Let every legal, non-evil faith put up a small altar or shrine there. Worshippers can go to it themselves. Inside the city walls, ban any big public gatherings of foreign cults. Keep the Faith of the Seven on top and maintain order."
Grand Maester Pycelle shook his head, his voice slow and wheezy with concern. "Lord Stannis's idea has logic, but… openly building temples for foreign gods—even outside the walls—could be read as the crown weakening the Seven. The High Septon and every devout soul in the city will scream bloody murder. And those foreign merchants are used to doing business inside the walls. Forcing them to trek outside every time they want to pray might… discourage them from staying and spending their gold."
Renly Baratheon smoothed his velvet sleeve with an elegant flick and jumped in. "The Grand Maester's right. King's Landing needs those outsiders. Kicking them outside the gates is terrible for business! We need a fix that calms the fighting without scaring off the gold dragons."
His gaze slid across the table and landed on Littlefinger.
Petyr Baelish had been sitting quietly, wearing that familiar half-smile that never quite reached his eyes. When everyone looked his way he gave a small, courteous bow and spoke in his soft, polished voice.
"You all raise excellent points. Perhaps… we don't need to look all the way outside the city. There's a place right here in King's Landing that's enormous and already being completely remade—perfect for a new idea."
He paused just long enough to hook every ear in the room. "The Dragonpit!"
"The Dragonpit?" Jon Arryn sounded genuinely surprised.
"Yes, Lord Hand!" Littlefinger continued smoothly. "Lord Celtigar and House Tyrell are already turning the place into a giant marketplace and entertainment complex. Why not carve out one section inside that huge building for an internal 'Temple of Many Gods'? Give every faith a quiet little prayer room. No sermons on street corners, no mobs—just peaceful worship inside a controlled space. People go to the Dragonpit to shop and enjoy themselves; they can pray on the side. No giant rallies, and the whole realm sees that King's Landing is tolerant… and smart about business."
He tied religion neatly to profit. "After all, a place where every believer can shop without fear will pull in even more merchants and customers, won't it?"
Robert's eyes lit up like a man who'd just been handed free ale. No extra cost to the crown, the problem solved, and the city gets louder and richer? Win-win. "I like it! Solid plan! Jon, what do you say?"
Jon Arryn exhaled. "It may be the most practical solution we have right now. We'll still need to sit down with Lords Celtigar and Tyrell to work out the details."
…
…
King's Landing – Dragonpit Construction Site
The worksite buzzed with noise and dust. The massive dome was being reinforced, new floor frames were rising, and workers swarmed everywhere like ants on a sugar hill.
In a shaded pavilion just off the main site, Pierce Celtigar sat with the three Tyrell siblings over afternoon tea. Delicate porcelain cups steamed with coffee and red tea, their rich scents mixing strangely with the smell of sawdust and stone.
Willas was deep in talk about construction timelines. Loras—the Knight of Flowers—looked bored and kept shooting Pierce sideways glances full of vague hostility. Maybe it was because Pierce had politely turned down Renly's heavier recruitment pitch. Maybe it was the betrothal to Stannis. Hard to say.
Somehow the conversation drifted to Pierce's travels in Essos and beyond. Margaery listened, eyes wide.
"Sothoryos…" she said, voice hushed with wonder. "The family maesters all claim it's a forbidden land—deadly diseases, strange beasts, ancient curses. Do the winged dragons really exist? Are they as huge as the stories say?"
Pierce took a slow sip of tea and nodded, gaze distant. "They do. It's brutal down there—wild, hot, humid. Half the plants and animals don't even have names and half of those will kill you. The winged dragons rule the skies; their roars shake whole forests. But because no one's really mapped it, the place is packed with treasure—rare timber, spices, minerals, and ruins of civilizations nobody remembers."
Loras snorted. "Even 'Longlegs' never pushed far into the interior, did he? Sounds more like a tavern tale, Lord Pierce."
Pierce just smiled, unfazed. "Ser Loras, the world is a lot bigger than the patch of dirt under our boots. What I saw was probably only the edge of the continent, but even that edge paid for every golden ship in my fleet. Those trade routes were bought with blood and years of risk. That's one reason my coffers never run dry."
Willas and Margaery exchanged quick glances. Given the flood of new luxuries and endless gold pouring out of Golden Port, they were inclined to believe every word.
Willas cared about profit margins. Margaery's mind went somewhere else entirely.
"Lord Pierce," she said, eyes flicking to the pale jade pendant that sometimes showed at his collar, "you hardly ever mention the Isle of Leng. I've heard their customs are… very different from ours. Women hold real power there. They say the island is ruled by an empress?"
She let the question hang, watching his reaction. "A few of our more traveled maesters told me that particular style of jade pendant is reserved for royalty on Leng. The stone itself is quite unique…"
Pierce's fingers paused on the teacup. He looked up, surprise flashing across his violet eyes before turning into quiet amusement. The little rose had done her homework.
"Lady Margaery is very observant," he said lightly, setting the cup down and cutting straight to the point. "A highborn maiden taking such interest in a gentleman's personal jewelry isn't exactly proper etiquette—especially one from House Tyrell."
Willas and Loras froze. Margaery's cheeks went scarlet, but the relief of being recognized mixed with her burning curiosity.
Willas started to stammer an apology. "Lord Celtigar, please forgive—"
"It's fine," Pierce waved it off with a grin. "I get it. She's 'Matt.' Your secret's safe with me."
He lifted the jade pendant, thumb brushing the warm stone, voice softening just a fraction. "It really was a gift from a friend on Leng… As for your question… I can only say I knew the current Empress rather well. Our relationship was… close. At one point I even became her husband."
He gazed eastward, as if seeing something far beyond the horizon. "But some chapters close. The reason I went there was for… another dear friend in Yi Ti."
Margaery's heart raced. The few sentences painted an entire epic in her mind—two mysterious eastern empires, an empress, a lost friend, sacrifice. She wanted to ask a hundred more questions, but Pierce had already tucked the memory away.
"Past is past," he said, lifting his cup again in a clear signal the topic was closed. "What matters is the present and the future, Lady Margaery. Don't you think?"
She studied him for a long second, then gave a small nod, swallowing the storm of questions still burning inside her.
But in her heart, Pierce Celtigar had just gained another layer—shrewd merchant, deadly warrior, and now a living legend wrapped in mystery.
…
…
Red Keep – Godswood
Night had fallen. The godswood lay quiet under moonlight, the heart tree's pale trunk and blood-red leaves watching like silent sentinels.
Melisandre stood in the clearing, red robes glowing like living flame against the dark.
Facing her was Thoros—also in red, but looking far more ragged, face lined by weather and too many years at the bottom of a wine cup.
"Brother Thoros," Melisandre's voice cut through the stillness, red eyes burning. "I sensed you here. I've heard of your… efforts. Yet the Lord of Light's flame feels so weak in this city. Why have you not thrown your full strength behind the true god's will?"
Thoros sighed, weary and a little mocking. "Lady Melisandre… I tried. I preached. The responses were few. It's been a long time since I clearly felt R'hllor's guidance. The bells of the Seven ring too loud here—they drown everything else out."
"That is because the darkness still holds power and blinds mortal eyes!" Melisandre's voice crackled with zeal. "But the true god has turned his gaze upon this place! His will will set this ancient, dangerous land ablaze and drive back the long night! The hour foretold in prophecy is almost upon us!"
Thoros gave a bitter little laugh. "Easier said than done, my lady. The Faith of the Seven's grip reaches everywhere—not just King's Landing, but Oldtown, Lannisport, every corner of the realm."
"That grip will not last," Melisandre stepped closer, voice dropping yet still iron-hard. "We already have powerful allies. If we stand together, the Lord of Light's flames will sweep this city—and all of Westeros."
Thoros looked at the fire blazing in her eyes and hesitated. He had noticed her movements, her closeness to Queen Cersei. He had simply never dared approach. The comfortable, half-drunk life trailing Robert had started to feel easier than holy war.
"What do you need from me?" he asked at last, resigned.
"Gather every follower of the Lord of Light you know across Westeros—especially any red priests who still carry real faith and power," Melisandre ordered. "Tell them the true god's work requires them now."
"Gather them for what?"
A mysterious smile touched Melisandre's lips. "Very soon, the Lord of Light's first true temple in Westeros will rise right here in King's Landing. We will need hands to lead the rites, spread the word, and show the world miracles."
"A temple? In King's Landing?" Thoros looked like she'd slapped him. "The Faith of the Seven will never allow it!"
Melisandre met his stare, red eyes reflecting the faint red shimmer of the heart tree's leaves. "Thoros, you have lived in this land too long. Mortal rules have blinded you. Remember this—in the eyes of those who truly hold power and unbreakable will, nothing in this world is impossible."
Her words hung in the silent godswood like prophecy and command, echoing against the ancient weirwood as if challenging the old gods themselves.
Thoros stared at the fierce, determined priestess and saw a shadow of the man he had once been, back when the fire still burned hot in his own chest.
After a long moment he gave a slow, heavy nod.