Crackclaw Point – Golden Port
After a comfortable night in Golden Port, Pierce invited Tyrion the next morning to tour his core industries.
Of course, these were only the "core industries" the public was allowed to see. The real ones Tyrion would never lay eyes on—if he did, he might drop dead on the spot from sheer terror.
They started at the heavily guarded weapons workshop on the edge of the eastern district. Even before they stepped inside, the rhythmic clang of hammers and the roar of bellows filled the air.
The workshop was enormous, divided into clear zones. In the forging area, dozens of bare-chested, muscular smiths sweated under water-powered hammers Pierce had improved. Massive hammerheads rose and fell with the flow of the river, smashing glowing iron and sending sparks flying everywhere—far faster and stronger than any man could manage by hand.
In the finishing area, craftsmen used strange new tools to grind, drill, and rivet armor plates. The air was thick with the smell of coal, hot metal, and sweat.
Tyrion stared at rows of finished longswords, spearheads, chainmail, and shaped plate armor stacked neatly on racks, all gleaming with cold menace. There was enough here to equip an army of thousands.
He frowned and looked up at Pierce, voice probing. "My dear friend, you're forging this many weapons and armor… Is Crackclaw Point about to go to war? Or are you planning to march on someone?"
Pierce laughed easily and picked up a newly quenched shortsword, testing its balance. The edge shone with a blue sheen. "War? No, Tyrion. These are products. Merchandise. Our flagship export from Golden Port."
Arms dealing had always been the most profitable business on Earth. The Americans had built an empire on two world wars. If Pierce wanted real money, this was the road.
Westeros's system gave lords almost total freedom. As long as you paid your taxes and didn't declare yourself king, the Iron Throne barely cared what you did in your own lands. In practice, if you paid on time, you were king of your domain—you just didn't use the title.
"Merchandise?" Tyrion looked even more confused. "Who buys? The neighboring lords can't afford this much, and the Seven Kingdoms already have their own weapon suppliers."
His mind raced through every great house's territory. He couldn't imagine who could absorb this volume.
Pierce set the sword back down with a mysterious smile. "That, my dear Tyrion, is a trade secret."
He wasn't about to tell him these weapons were meant for certain people scattered across the entire continent.
Pierce had spent years laying the groundwork for the coming great war. War brought destruction—but it also brought population and wealth. Pierce needed both. Once he had enough gold and enough people, he would rewrite the rules of this continent himself.
Tyrion blinked, then slapped his own forehead with a self-mocking grin. "Seven gods, listen to me—prying into another man's money-making schemes! Forgive me, forgive me!"
He quickly changed the subject, but the suspicion in his heart only grew deeper. A production scale like this wasn't just about profit. There had to be a larger, hidden trade network behind it… perhaps even supporting some unknown faction.
Tyrion's mind always worked three steps ahead—that was what he'd learned from books.
He knew Pierce's ambitions ran deep. The man was clearly preparing for something big. He just couldn't yet tell whether it would threaten House Lannister.
Next, Pierce took him to the even larger shipyard at the mouth of the Golden Crab River, where the waterway had been artificially widened into deep-water docks. Several massive dry docks stood side by side.
The most striking sight was inside one of them: a colossal keel and rib cage already laid out. The frame was far larger than any longship—bigger than many royal warships—clearly meant for an ocean-going behemoth.
But Tyrion's sharp eyes caught something strange. The keel wasn't carved from a single massive tree trunk. It looked like it had been pieced together from huge, naturally curved segments of pale bone. The joints were seamless, almost as if they had grown together, gleaming with an ivory-like sheen but thicker, crossed with faint, frost-like cracks.
"This keel…" Tyrion pointed, unable to hide his shock. "What kind of wood is that? I've never seen grain or color like it. It doesn't even look like wood."
Pierce's face stayed perfectly calm. "A new material from the east, specially treated. Stronger and more flexible than the best oak. Another trade secret." He brushed the question aside lightly.
Tyrion had no idea the "new material" was actually the re-forged remains of giant beasts from beyond the Wall, reshaped and fused by Qyburn's necromancy and the icy power of the White Walkers.
In a sense, the ship's core skeleton was one gigantic, modified wight construct. It never tired, resisted rot and insects better than any timber, and its only real weakness was extreme heat—especially fire.
Pierce was already thinking about applying some kind of fireproof coating to the outer hull.
Using undead constructs to replace key structural elements saved enormous amounts of quality timber and steel—resources that could go into more important tools, weapons, and buildings.
On the other side of the dockyard, craftsmen were studying a complex metal blade device Pierce called a "propeller," designed to give future ships powerful, wind-independent propulsion.
Tyrion could see at a glance that such a complicated mechanism would need an incredibly strong power source. But what on earth could drive it at sea besides sails?
Leaving the noisy shipyard, Tyrion stayed quiet for a long time, lost in the sheer shock of everything he had seen.
The tireless "eastern soldiers," the miraculous cement roads, the efficient water-powered hammers, the bizarre "new material" for ships… Everything pointed to one undeniable truth:
The knowledge and technology Pierce Celtigar controlled went far beyond Westeros—maybe beyond the entire known world.
Back in King's Landing, Tyrion had heard the rumors. Many called Pierce a living miracle. Others whispered he was a sorcerer practicing dark eastern magic.
Tyrion still didn't know whether that was good or bad. All he could do right now was learn as much as possible about the man—so he wouldn't be caught off guard if their interests ever clashed.
"Tyrion?" Pierce's voice pulled him out of his thoughts.
"Ah—sorry!" Tyrion blinked and forced a grin. "Your workshops are… truly unforgettable."
He paused, then couldn't quite hold back the question. Half joking, half serious, he asked:
"Pierce, looking at everything you've built… what kind of domain are you actually trying to create? You don't strike me as a lord content to rule one quiet corner. You look more like… an ambitious conqueror."
Pierce just gave him a long, meaningful look. Instead of answering, he clapped Tyrion on the shoulder. "Come on. Let me show you the western district—that's where Golden Port's real heartbeat is."
They strolled into the western district. Unlike the night before, the daytime market was alive with energy.
A huge covered marketplace built with wooden pillars and waterproof canvas dominated the center. Stalls were neatly arranged by category.
Around the edges were temporary booths, also perfectly ordered. From a distance it looked almost like a military formation. Vendors shouted, customers haggled, children laughed—the place buzzed with raw, vibrant life.
Tyrion wandered with real interest. He saw fine Essosi silks and spices, northern furs, Riverlands carvings, even Dornish oranges.
Crafts, fish, poultry, vegetables—everything was there. But he quickly noticed something odd. In such a massive market, there were no stalls selling grain or salt. Even iron farming tools were strangely scarce.
"Weird," Tyrion stopped and turned to Pierce. "No grain or salt? Those are the most basic necessities."
Pierce had clearly expected the question. "Grain, salt, and iron tools are all managed and sold directly through the Port Administration Office. Prices are slightly lower than in King's Landing and stay stable—no wild swings."
Tyrion caught the key point instantly. "Centralized sales? That keeps prices steady, but how do you stop black-market trading? Someone's always willing to risk it for profit."
Pierce smiled and gestured at the thriving stalls around them. "Look. A skilled craftsman or a sharp merchant can make far more money through honest trade here than by secretly reselling a little fixed-price grain or salt. And the risk is much lower."
Pierce understood human nature: people are greedy and love comfort. When they can earn real money without worrying about food and shelter, they'll do anything to protect that better life.
"Once other trades offer enough profit, no one bothers with the heavily regulated, low-margin 'trouble' items. That's why you see what you see."
Tyrion nodded thoughtfully. Pierce's method of creating more legitimate wealth to drain away potential crime was genuinely clever.
Just then, a commotion erupted at the edge of the market. Every head turned.
Three men in identical black uniforms—tight tunics, soft brimless caps, short swords and black batons at their belts—swiftly pinned down a scrawny man trying to flee.
The crowd barely reacted; most people simply stopped to watch, as if this were routine.
"What's happening?" Tyrion asked, fascinated.
"Port constables," Pierce explained. "They keep order on the streets."
The constables expertly twisted the thief's arms behind his back. One announced loudly, "This man is accused of stealing this merchant's purse! Caught red-handed! Under the Port Security Code, he is now under arrest and will be taken to the tribunal for trial!"
The thief went pale and started begging. "My lords! Honorable constables! I confess! I confess! It was a moment of stupidity—I stole the purse! Please don't throw me in the dungeon! I'll take labor service!"
The lead constable glanced at the merchant, who nodded. He told the thief, "Since you confessed on the spot and the stolen goods were recovered, we can offer leniency per the code. If you waive your right to a hearing in seven days, you may accept labor service immediately. Do you agree?"
"Yes! I agree!" The thief nodded frantically, looking almost relieved.
Tyrion stood there with his mouth open. In King's Landing, a caught thief would be beaten half to death by the victim or dragged off by the Gold Cloaks to a miserable fate. There was no "right to a hearing" or "labor service" option that sounded so… civilized.
Even more shocking, before being led away the thief actually bowed repeatedly to the constables and the merchant, muttering:
"Thank you, my lords! Thank you! I was too stupid—I never learned a proper trade. This time I'll study hard, reform myself…"
As the thief was marched off, Tyrion finally closed his mouth. He turned to Pierce, face full of disbelief.
"Is this… still Westeros? I feel like I'm dreaming! A thief gets caught and thanks them? He actually chooses labor service? He even wants to learn a skill while serving his sentence?"
Pierce burst out laughing at Tyrion's ghost-struck expression.
"Here, order and opportunity matter more than simple punishment. Labor builds the port. Learning a trade turns him into a useful man when he's free instead of a more vicious criminal or a corpse. That's the rule in Golden Port."
Tyrion stared at the orderly, vibrant city—beautiful yet utterly alien to everything he thought he knew about Westeros. His opinion of Pierce had quietly shifted from "interesting rich ally" to something that needed serious reevaluation… and maybe even a touch of awe.
He had the distinct feeling that under Pierce's will, this corner of Crackclaw Point was quietly nurturing a force that could one day reshape the entire game of thrones.