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King's Landing – Pierce's Secret Mansion, Bath Chamber
Three days later, late afternoon sunlight streamed through the colored glass windows, painting shifting patterns across the steamy bath chamber. The huge marble pool bubbled with hot water scented by rare eastern spices and Reach roses.
Melisandre lay completely naked in the water, her fire-red hair plastered wet against her flawless shoulders and breasts. Droplets traced every perfect curve of her body, skin pale and luminous like it carried its own faint glow.
Her ruby-red eyes—pure, burning gemstones—never left Pierce. She stared at him with religious fervor mixed with raw, naked hunger.
She always carried that same unshakable confidence and zeal. Without Pierce keeping her in check, she would have been even more arrogant.
Today she looked especially radiant. She had finally found that old fire again—thanks to Cersei.
Pierce sat in a cushioned armchair at the pool's edge, wearing a loose silk robe, swirling a glass of amber whiskey. He watched her the way someone might admire a priceless statue—calm, appreciative, but completely detached.
"Lord Pierce," Melisandre's voice came out low and husky, thick with steam and seduction, "the Lord of Light's flame burns inside me. His will led me straight to you. Only by joining with a man of your strength can we create a power great enough to stand against the Long Night… Accept me. Let me be the vessel that carries His will into the world…"
Pierce took a slow sip of whiskey and cut her off, tone flat. "Take off the necklace, Melisandre."
She froze, fingers instinctively rising to the heavy chain around her throat—the one with the massive ruby that never left her skin. It was the source of her power, the enchanted object that kept her young and alive.
"Why? This is the Lord of Light's gift…"
"Gift?" A faint, mocking smile tugged at Pierce's lips. "You know better than anyone how much it costs you. Every time you lean on that magic, especially something that keeps your body looking like this, it drains you. That stone is literally sucking the life out of you to hold up the illusion."
Truth was, back when he watched the show as a kid he'd been totally hooked on how hot she looked. Then he saw what she really was underneath and nearly had a heart attack.
But damn—the Lord of Light's power really was twisted, and combined with her own natural presence, the effect was dialed up to eleven.
"Tell me, Melisandre—if one day you found out the faith you've given your entire life to was a lie… or that the 'Lord of Light' isn't what you think he is… would you doubt? Would you break?"
His words sliced straight into the darkest corner of her soul—the place she refused to look at even in private.
In front of Pierce, all her seductive speeches and miracle tricks lost their power. Those violet eyes saw through every illusion and went straight to the bone.
A rare flicker of vulnerability crossed her face. Her body trembled once, almost imperceptibly, beneath the water.
But she recovered fast, red eyes flaring with stubborn fire. "R'hllor is the one true god! My faith cannot be shaken! Lord Pierce, you possess such incredible power and unmatched wisdom—why won't you embrace the Lord of Light? Together we could—"
"Enough." Pierce stood up, voice cold and brutally honest. "You're simply not qualified."
Shock and humiliation flashed across Melisandre's perfect features.
Pierce walked to the edge of the pool and looked down at her. "You want to know why I can be with Cersei? Because she's the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She's power made flesh. Conquering her gives me status, influence, and real satisfaction."
He watched her legendary arrogance crack a little more and allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.
"But you? All you have is a body kept alive by magic and some vague 'chosen by god' title. Cersei at least has herself—and me—and ambition, and desire. You? Your heart is nothing but your god. You're an empty shell filled with faith."
He leaned down until his lips were inches from her ear, voice low and dangerous. "I'm not wasting my time and energy on a fanatic who'd burn herself alive the second her so-called 'god' whispered in her ear. I know exactly how blood magic works, Melisandre—sacrifice, devotion, burning your own life away. Sorry, but I have zero interest in power that demands self-destruction."
The words hit her like hammers. Everything she was proud of—her faith, her divine favor—meant nothing to him. Worse, he saw it as a flaw.
She opened her mouth to argue, but every word died under that piercing violet gaze.
Pierce straightened, drained the rest of his whiskey in one swallow. "Do your job, Melisandre. Use the opening Cersei gave you. Get a real foothold in King's Landing. As for the rest… stop wasting your time on me."
He turned and walked out of the misty bath chamber without another glance.
Melisandre stayed alone in the cooling water, naked body suddenly chilled to the bone.
His words kept echoing in her head. For the first time in centuries, the tiniest crack appeared in her certainty—the kind of doubt she refused to name even to herself.
…
…
King's Landing – Great Sept of Baelor, Secret Chamber
At the same moment, deep inside the Great Sept of Baelor, a candlelit secret room felt just as tense. The seven High Septons representing the Seven sat around a long table, while the obese, sweating High Septon himself occupied the head seat.
The High Septon of the Father spoke first, voice booming with rage. "You've all heard the news from the Red Keep! They want the Faith to help fund and build a crown-controlled 'Religious Inquisition'? With its own army? This is blasphemy! Where is the dignity of the Seven? Where is the independence of the Church?"
The High Septon of the Warrior slammed his fist on the table so hard the candles flickered. "We cannot sit idle! This is the crown openly trying to weaken us! The king must learn that faith is not a bargaining chip!"
The High Septon of the Smith growled in agreement, voice thick with stubborn craftsmanship. "I say the same! We've been patient long enough. We should reach out to our brothers and sisters in Oldtown and every other city. Rally the faithful! Make the king hear the voice of the Seven!"
The High Septon of the Crone shook her head, voice old and weary. "Calm yourselves, brothers. Rally the faithful? Raise Church armies? Have you forgotten how our military orders were disbanded? How the Targaryens crushed us? What power do we have left to fight the crown? The second we move, the Gold Cloaks will storm the Sept."
The fat High Septon mopped sweat from his brow and nodded frantically. "The Crone is right! We must not act rashly! The crown… the crown only wants peace. We can negotiate, we can…"
The Father's High Septon cut him off with a cold snort. "Negotiate? I think the royal banquets and gifts have blinded you, Your Holiness. Have you grown so close to the crown that you've forgotten the independence and dignity the Seven demand?"
The room crackled with tension. Accusations flew—some demanded hard resistance, others called for caution, a few openly accused the High Septon of weakness. Candle shadows danced like demons on the walls.
The four female High Septons—Crone, Maiden, Stranger, and Mother—simply watched the men in weary silence.
In the end, cold reality and internal division won. The shouting died into heavy, resentful quiet.
They all knew the truth: after centuries without armies or real political power, the Faith of the Seven was no longer equal to the crown.
The Crone sighed. "Very well… we accept—for now. But we fight for every detail. We make sure the Faith of the Seven holds the dominant position inside both the Inquisition and the future 'Temple of Many Gods.' That is the best we can hope for."
Bitter as it tasted, the eight highest leaders of the Faith swallowed their pride and agreed to cooperate—at least on the surface.
…
…
King's Landing – Red Keep, Throne Room
That same afternoon the Small Council met again in the throne room. Robert lounged on the Iron Throne looking far more relaxed than last time. Jon Arryn stood below, holding a rolled parchment.
"Your Grace, my lords," Jon said steadily, "Lord Celtigar and House Tyrell have both agreed in principle to reserve space inside the Dragonpit for the new 'faith district.' I also sent discreet inquiries to the Faith… as expected, they grumbled but showed no sign of outright rebellion."
Robert barked a laugh. "Good! At least those bastards know when to bend! Now the real question—who runs this 'Religious Inquisition'? And who commands the… uh… 'Inquisition Guard'?"
The discussion kicked off immediately.
Renly spoke first, flashing his charming smile. "I nominate Ser Loras Tyrell—the Knight of Flowers. Skilled warrior, devout believer, beloved by the smallfolk. He'll settle religious disputes fairly and make the crown look just."
Stannis cut in, voice like grinding stone. "Ser Loras is too young and too tied to House Tyrell. He cannot be neutral in matters involving the Reach. Lord Pierce Celtigar is the better choice. He is not entangled with the great houses, he is calm and decisive, and his wealth can fund the Inquisition from day one. Most importantly, he just proved in the tourney that his fighting skill is more than enough to keep order."
Stannis rarely spoke this much, but he genuinely believed Pierce was the right man for the job.
Littlefinger gave a small bow. "Both nominations are excellent, but the Inquisition will need more than swords—it will need sharp eyes and… flexible hands. Perhaps a veteran who already knows every player in King's Landing."
He didn't say it outright, but everyone knew he was angling for the position himself.
Varys's soft voice floated across the table. "Oh my lords, the man must be… visible. Someone who clearly represents royal authority, yet stays above the messy details of doctrine. He should be a sword, not a prayer book."
Ser Barristan stayed silent—he believed the Kingsguard should stay out of such matters. Grand Maester Pycelle droned on about needing someone "steady," "reliable," and "loyal to the crown."
Robert's patience finally snapped. He rubbed his temples, scanned the room, and his eyes landed on Jaime Lannister, who stood brooding among the Kingsguard.
"Jaime!" Robert bellowed. "You're my Kingsguard—best swordsman in the realm. You're a Lannister—high enough blood. You're it! You're taking command of this damn Religious Inquisition. Round up the religious lunatics, lock up the troublemakers, fine the bastards—whatever it takes. Just keep this shit from bothering me again!"
The decision surprised some, but made perfect sense once you thought about it. Jaime had the rank, the skill, and enough distance from the other houses. Plus he was the queen's brother.
Jaime blinked, stunned. He looked up at Robert, gut twisting. Something about the order felt off, but he couldn't refuse a direct royal command.
With a tight jaw he dropped to one knee. "As you command, Your Grace."
And just like that—through political maneuvering and Robert's blunt decree—Jaime Lannister was named Commander of the King's Landing Religious Inquisition, tasked with building and leading the armed force meant to police religious disputes, arrest cultists, and punish fanatics.
The proud lion had no idea this was exactly what Pierce had orchestrated all along—to put Jaime in the hottest possible seat… and keep him far, far away from Cersei.