Crackclaw Point – Near Brown Cave Mountain
A full month had flown by in the whirlwind of construction at Golden Port. That afternoon, a small, dusty party crested the road from Brown Cave Mountain toward the port. It was Tyrion Lannister and his escort, all the way from King's Landing.
Tyrion rode a specially trained pony, his mismatched eyes sparkling with sharp curiosity behind his usual wry smirk.
Besides three heavily armed, watchful Lannister guards, he had a guide named Cather Brune—a distant cousin of House Brune who had left the barren peninsula years ago for the capital. His memories of home had long since faded.
"Cather, are you sure this is the right road?" Tyrion asked, staring at the landscape that looked nothing like the "wasteland" the man had described.
The road was unnaturally flat and solid, and the brush on both sides had been neatly cleared.
"My lord… I'm not sure anymore," Cather scratched his head, bewildered. "When I left, this was just a game trail trampled by wild animals. This road… it's smoother than the Rosby Road!"
Just then, heavy, perfectly synchronized footsteps echoed from up ahead. Five tall figures stepped out of the tree shadows and blocked the way. They were covered head to toe in matte black armor of an odd design, visors down, faces completely hidden.
What made them truly unnerving was the way they moved—stiff, precise, like wind-up killing machines rather than living men.
The leader's armor bore the Brune bear-paw sigil, marking him as a knight, but even he glanced at the black-armored guards with a flicker of awe.
"Halt! State your names and business!" the Brune knight called, hand on his sword hilt. The four black-armored "Tyrants" stood silent behind him like iron towers, radiating cold menace.
Tyrion's heart skipped. He'd never seen battle, but these "soldiers" gave off a purely inhuman pressure. He could even catch a faint metallic smell mixed with something old and indefinable.
He quickly signaled his guards to stand down and forced a smile. "I am Tyrion Lannister of Casterly Rock, here to visit Lord Pierce Celtigar."
At Pierce's name the knight relaxed slightly. He inspected Tyrion's seal, then nodded. "Lord Lannister, my apologies. I am Ser Rorik Brune, in charge of patrols here. Follow me—I'll send word to the lord at once."
Tyrion breathed easier but couldn't stop staring at the silent black-armored figures. "Ser Rorik, your… soldiers are quite unique."
Rorik gave a vague reply. "They're eastern troops in Lord Celtigar's service. Similar to the Unsullied, I suppose. I don't know the details." Clearly the standard answer.
The group continued. Soon they reached a small dock on the Golden Crab River. Several ships unloading cargo made Tyrion's eyes widen again.
He'd never seen ships like these. Massive wheel-like structures on both sides stood out. They weren't powered by sails or oars—something underwater drove the wheels, pushing the vessels upstream with eerie smoothness.
"Seven hells…" Tyrion muttered. "Did I take a wrong turn to Lys or Qarth?" Everything felt like another world.
The road beneath him left him speechless. He even stopped his pony, dismounted, and tapped the gray-white, stone-hard surface with his dagger hilt. "What kind of stone is this? Seamless, like one solid piece?"
Rorik explained, "It's 'cement,' my lord. Another technique Lord Celtigar brought back."
As they followed the Golden Crab River, the sights on both banks kept slamming Tyrion with shock after shock. Vast, perfectly planned fields held a green crop he'd never seen before, thriving in shimmering paddies. Dry fields nearby showed wheat with impossibly heavy heads. Even more astonishing were the clever water wheels lifting river water to higher fields.
"What crop is that? …And so many water wheels?" Tyrion wasn't ignorant of farming. "The lords of the Reach would go mad with jealousy if they saw this." He knew water wheels were expensive to build and maintain—usually only the richest domains could afford them.
While he was lost in this "foreign" scenery, a troop of riders galloped up. At their head was Ser Rosco Brune. He reined in, spotted Tyrion, and smiled knowingly.
"Lord Tyrion Lannister, welcome to Crackclaw Point. Lord Celtigar received word of your visit and sent me to greet you personally."
Tyrion was surprised—he hadn't announced his trip loudly in King's Landing. "Lord Pierce has sharp ears."
Rosco laughed. "My lord said you're one of his more… entertaining drinking companions. The nights at the Eden in King's Landing left quite an impression. Come, Golden Port has light wine waiting."
Tyrion smiled too, remembering those evenings in the Silk Street brothel—drinking and swapping stories about Westeros and the east with Pierce.
What he didn't know was that those friendly talks, plus a few "objective" compliments Pierce had casually dropped to Cersei about Tyrion's talent, had softened his sister's usual hatred just a little.
After all, Cersei—now convinced by Melisandre that she was the "Prince That Was Promised"—had grown more tolerant of certain details lately.
Otherwise, Tywin would have already summoned him back to Casterly Rock instead of allowing this trip to the remote Crackclaw Point to "broaden his horizons."
…
…
Golden Port – Western District
Entering Golden Port's western district, Tyrion's amazement peaked. The streets were clean, the houses mostly wood and stone but laid out in perfect order. People bustled everywhere, vendors shouting their wares.
Faces showed busy hope—nothing like any Westerosi port town he knew. It had the wild vitality of new growth without the usual filth and chaos.
"Is this… really Crackclaw Point?" Tyrion marveled to Rosco. "My father always said the gold dug from Casterly Rock built Lannister glory. But look at this place… Pierce Celtigar might as well turn stones into gold."
Rosco led him into the eastern district, where order grew even stricter. The simple but imposing castle—expanded from the old longhouse—loomed ahead. Pierce himself waited at the gates with a genuine smile.
"Tyrion! Welcome to my lands!"
"Pierce!" Tyrion slid off his pony and gave him a hearty hug. "This place of yours… you've left me speechless. Everyone says 'whatever Tywin Lannister shits turns to gold.' I think that title belongs to you now! How in the seven hells did you turn this wilderness into… this in such a short time?"
Pierce laughed and slung an arm around Tyrion's shoulders as they walked inside. "The secret to building wealth? Simple. Remember one name—'Sea Snake.'"
Tyrion caught on instantly. Lord Corlys Velaryon had grown obscenely rich through bold trade voyages. He winked. "So the blood of adventure really does run in your veins." Pierce just smiled enigmatically.
That night a grand welcome feast filled the castle square. The bonfire roared higher than usual. Whole wild boar and fat lambs sizzled on spits. The air smelled of rich meat and exotic Essosi spices. Barrels of King's Landing wine, Dornish strongwine, and local ale with a distinct sea-breeze tang flowed freely.
Pierce's bed-slaves danced again, wearing near-transparent colorful saris and delicate gold jewelry from Golden Port's workshops. They swayed in the firelight, drawing roars of approval. Tyrion watched, cup in hand, clapping enthusiastically.
After several rounds, Pierce stood and tapped his cup. The square quieted.
"Everyone!" his voice carried easily. "Tonight we welcome an honored guest from Casterly Rock in the Westerlands—one of the Seven Kingdoms' sharpest minds: Lord Tyrion Lannister!"
All eyes turned to Tyrion. Normally he might have felt uncomfortable—those looks often held curiosity or contempt.
But here he saw only respect and genuine interest, born from Pierce's words. Pierce's authority in this place was sky-high.
The crowd erupted in applause and cheers. Daggo Pyne, Quentin Hardy, and the others raised their cups in salute. That pure respect—given simply because Pierce trusted him—sent a strange warmth through Tyrion.
He stood, gave an awkward little bow, and spoke in his signature sharp voice. "Thank you for the kind words, Lord Pierce, and thank you all for the warm welcome. I only hope my liver can survive the hospitality of this miracle city!"
His words drew good-natured laughter. The mood grew even livelier.
At the feast's end, Pierce winked at Tyrion and nodded to Melara.
Soon several lovely young women approached—clearly not professional bed-slaves. They wore modest but finely made dresses, eyes clear yet shy.
Melara whispered to Tyrion, "My lord, these girls are from Tear Lake. They admire your wisdom and charm. They will attend to you tonight."
Tyrion looked at the fresh-faced girls, blinked, then shot Pierce a grateful glance.
The feast lasted deep into the night. Host and guest enjoyed every moment.
…
…
Golden Port – Eastern District Castle
After the noise died down, in the castle's spacious bath chamber—built with blackstone and fed by hot springs—steam rose gently. Pierce sighed in pleasure as he sank into the hot water. Melara slipped in like a mermaid, curling contentedly against his chest.
"You really love soaking in water," she said, toying with floating spices.
"Hot water washes away dirt and weariness," Pierce replied, eyes closed, relaxing. "And staying clean matters. If you smelled bad, I might have lost interest long ago."
Melara paused, then understood. "No wonder… you insist every steward, soldier, and dock worker bathes regularly. You even built all those public bathhouses. Maester Ferren said filth breeds plague… so that's why."
"Health and appearance both matter." Pierce twirled a lock of her silver hair. After a moment he asked, "She hasn't appeared these past days? How do you feel?"
Melara knew he meant the Lady of the Waves. She shook her head calmly. "No. The gods' will isn't for me to guess. It's normal—she sleeps for long stretches sometimes."
"Then," Pierce cupped her face, meeting those pure golden eyes full of love, "Melara, tell me—forget the gods' will. Do you truly want to stay with me… just as yourself?"
Melara didn't answer with words. She kissed him instead—deep, passionate, pouring her entire soul into it.
When they broke apart, breathless, her eyes shimmered. "I'm yours, Pierce. Completely. Only yours. Nothing—not even her—can change that."
Pierce's eyes softened with real emotion. He was about to reward her loyalty properly when Melara suddenly stiffened.
The love and shyness in her eyes drained away like a tide. In their place came an ancient, profound gaze full of divine majesty and playful mischief.
Her entire presence transformed—from a lovesick girl to the ancient goddess who ruled the seas.
The Lady of the Waves had arrived.
Her golden eyes swept over Pierce, then the surroundings. A seductive smile curved her lips. Her arms coiled around his neck like soft seaweed, body pressing close. Her voice was ethereal and tempting.
"My dear lord… I leave for only a moment and you grow so intimate with my little priestess? Still… it seems she has taken good care of you."
Pierce had grown used to these sudden shifts. He wrapped an arm around her more aggressive waist. "Where have you been all this time?"
"Inspecting my domain, dealing with… minor disputes." The Lady of the Waves waved it off casually, fingers tracing circles on his chest, eyes burning. "But none of that matters now… I only want to make up for lost time. We can talk after we've… played enough."
She laughed softly, like a siren's song, and kissed him with irresistible divine allure and surging waves, pulling Pierce completely under in the warm water and steamy haze.
The temperature in the bath chamber seemed to rise several degrees.