Crackclaw Point – Golden Port, Western District
Seven days later, on the southward road out of Golden Port, Pierce and his inner circle were seeing Tyrion Lannister off. A salty sea breeze brushed every face.
Tyrion's visit was ending. His small traveling bag now held a change of clothes, a carefully oilcloth-wrapped pouch of seeds, and a slim booklet Pierce had given him—written in the Common Tongue.
Tyrion was openly envious of Pierce's new writing material. He genuinely wanted to crack the man's skull open just to see what kind of genius (or madness) was inside.
Everything he had witnessed in Golden Port had shattered his understanding of the world. So many things here felt like they came from another planet.
But dreams always end. He had already stayed far longer than planned. It was time to go.
"Will this rice really grow in the Westerlands?" Tyrion asked, fingers tracing the precious seeds. His mismatched eyes gleamed with calculation.
He had seen the lush, high-yield paddies along the Golden Crab River with his own eyes. If this crop took root in the Westerlands, it would break their dangerous dependence on the Reach and the Riverlands for grain.
"As long as you find the right river valleys, build irrigation, and tend them carefully, it should work," Pierce said confidently. He tapped the booklet. "Everything's written down—site selection, seedling nurseries, transplanting, water and fertilizer management. There are even new ideas on crop rotation and composting that might shake up traditional Westerlands farming."
Tyrion tucked the seeds and booklet away with solemn care, then gave a bitter little smile. "You know, Pierce… sometimes I really envy you. You can do whatever the hell you want on your own land without anyone looking over your shoulder. Me?" His voice dropped. "At Casterly Rock I don't even have a garden that's truly mine."
Pierce looked at the brilliant, stunted dwarf who had been despised his whole life because of his height. His tone stayed calm, but carried a subtle nudge.
"Tyrion, you have one of the finest minds in the Seven Kingdoms—that's undeniable. But you have to face reality: you are not the heir of the Westerlands. I used to think that if I just proved myself, showed enough talent, maybe I could… change how people saw me."
He let just the right amount of shared bitterness show, as if he too had once struggled against the same walls.
In truth, Pierce had always known exactly what path he would take. He had never wasted a single second hoping for approval from so-called "family."
A spark of defiance flashed in Tyrion's eyes. "Heir? My father never formally named one! Jaime took the white cloak, and Tommen…" His voice trailed off with stubborn hope he probably didn't even believe himself.
Pierce sighed inwardly. Westeros inheritance laws were ironclad—eldest son, trueborn, male. Even when a second son inherited, whispers of kinslaying followed him forever.
In Tywin Lannister's eyes, Tyrion's brilliance would never outweigh the "flaw" of his body.
Unless some king brave enough to break tradition recognized his worth and forced him onto the Small Council, Tyrion would always be the freak on the outside looking in. And even then he would be a rootless "pet scholar" dependent on royal favor.
Pierce didn't shatter the fantasy. He simply clapped Tyrion on the shoulder and turned practical.
"Anyway, these seeds and this knowledge are innocent. They can grow food and feed people. That alone makes them worth planting. I hope they take root in the Westerlands and bring you—and your people—something real."
Tyrion drew a deep breath, pushing down the tangle of emotions, and nodded. "Thank you, Pierce. This gift is worth more than any dragon."
With the guide's help he mounted his pony, looked back once at the shining miracle city, and rode south—heart full of awe, suspicion, and the tiniest spark of possibility Pierce's words had lit.
…
…
Once Tyrion was gone, Pierce returned to the simple eastern-district castle that served as both office and residence. Construction was still underway, but Pierce wasn't in any hurry. He didn't need a fancy stone pile to feel safe.
Still, a castle was like a luxury car in the modern world. No matter how rich or capable you were, if you showed up to a business meeting in a cheap domestic ride, people assumed you were weak. A proper castle was the visible proof of a lord's power. So for now, Pierce lived in a tent while the stonemasons worked.
Inside the sturdy but simply furnished command tent, he received two visitors who had traveled far: Ser Quincy Cox of Saltpans in the Riverlands and his son, young Ser Martin Cox.
Quincy was a lean, sharp-eyed man whose face mixed merchant cunning with knightly pride. His son Martin looked a little nervous but had clear, honest eyes—clearly well-raised.
They had no idea Pierce was the mysterious "Lapis Lazuli Lord" of the Rising Tide. They only knew their organization had ordered them to Golden Port to discuss an "important trade" with Lord Celtigar.
"Lord Celtigar," Quincy bowed respectfully and produced a letter sealed with special wavy wax. "My letter of introduction."
Pierce took it, pretended to scan it (he had dictated the contents himself), then set it aside with a calm nod. "I've read it. The organization's request is clear. The arms deal can proceed."
Quincy's face lit up with relief, but hesitation quickly followed. "My lord, the sum is large and the risk… the deposit…"
Pierce waved it off. "The deposit is already taken care of. The middleman paid in advance." He leaned forward, voice turning serious and precise. "I will send a company of two hundred… 'mercenaries' back with you to Saltpans. Officially they are guards for my new trading house that will buy salted fish and sea salt. In reality, their job is to protect the weapons shipment when it arrives."
He picked up a heavy coin purse from the table and tossed it over. It landed with a satisfying clink; several high-quality gold dragons spilled out.
Quincy's eyes widened. He practically lunged to grab the purse, feeling its weight, and his wrinkled face split into a delighted grin.
"That's your operating money," Pierce said coolly. "The middleman has already smoothed the path. How you contact the buyers, negotiate prices, arrange transport—that's on you. Once the goods leave your warehouse in Saltpans, any further risk or profit has nothing to do with me or the trading house."
He made it crystal clear: the buyers were not his concern. Quincy wouldn't dare ask who they were—doing so would cost him the deal.
Pierce paused, adding a warning edge. "Remember, the organization is paving the road for you this time. Next shipment, there will be no deposit paid for you. Whether you can keep doing business—and how much you earn—depends on your own skill and willingness to invest. Frankly, I have more gold than I know what to do with. What I want is resources, goods of every kind… and people."
Quincy clutched the purse like a lifeline, face flushed with excitement. He thumped his chest. "You can count on me, my lord! Quincy Cox still has pull in the Riverlands! I'll make this deal shine. The organization—and you—will not be disappointed!"
Pierce nodded and had servants escort them to a meal while final arrangements were made. As Quincy practically skipped out of the tent, purse in hand, a faint cold sneer touched Pierce's lips.
Greed was always the best fuel for little men.
…
…
The moment the Cox father and son left, the tent flap lifted again. Melara stepped inside, but her eyes and posture had completely changed.
Deeper. Older. Divine authority mixed with a trace of ancient resentment.
The Lady of the Waves had returned.
"I saw you playing with those mortals' ambitions again." She slid naturally against Pierce, yet her gaze held appraisal. "Why arm the savages in the Moon Mountains? Those last scraps of the Children of the Forest… and their ridiculous weirwoods!"
Her voice carried long-suppressed hatred.
"Long ago those so-called 'old gods' and their followers toppled my brothers and sisters, stripping us of worship on land! If I hadn't reached an understanding with the Drowned God, we would have faded into silence ages ago. And now you want to arm their believers?"
Pierce wrapped an arm around her cool, supple waist, tone calm. "I'm not helping the old gods, my lady. I'm using the people of the Moon Mountains. They're fierce, isolated, and they hate the lords of the Vale. They are a dagger pointed straight at the heart of the Vale. When the storms come to Westeros, they will be a chaos factor that ties down every faction. As for what they worship… what do I care?"
The Lady of the Waves seemed bored by mortal power games. She gave a soft huff and dropped the subject. Instead, with a theatrical flourish, she produced an ancient, pale horn covered in twisting, living-looking runes.
"Do you remember this?" She held it out, golden eyes gleaming with temptation. "It thirsts for blood and sacrifice… Just one dwarf—like the clever little man who just left—would let me blow it again. A true deep-sea leviathan would answer the call and tear enemy fleets apart for you in any naval battle!"
Of course Pierce remembered the horn. It was his family's ancestral relic, though no one had ever truly mastered it. During his desperate exploration of the Smoking Sea and Valyrian ruins, he had used it once to summon a nightmare from the depths and escape certain death.
The price had been horrific—not just the precious sacrifice, but the toll it took on Pierce himself.
He took the horn. It felt icy in his hand. He studied the runes, then shook his head.
"One leviathan might create a miracle in a single decisive sea battle, but it can't rule the waves. And they can't survive long in shallow coastal waters. Most of the sea monsters in the Narrow Sea only attack big merchant ships because they mistake them for whales. The cost is too high and the reward too unpredictable."
He handed the horn back. "Instead, I'm far more interested in how your 'deep-sea folk' are coming along. I don't want to win one fight. I want to turn the entire Crab Bay into an inexhaustible fishing empire!"
Mention of her children brought divine pride to the Lady of the Waves' face. "Rest easy, my lord. I have already summoned most of my people from around the Three Sisters and the deep Bite. They are adapting to Crab Bay's waters. Soon your warehouses will be overflowing with catch."
She paused, a sly smile curving her lips. "And just as you wished, most of the lords of the Three Sisters are my descendants. Their current lord will arrive in Golden Port very soon… to swear fealty to you."
Pierce gave a satisfied nod.
Control the fisheries and you control a vital link in the food chain. Control the Three Sisters and you hold the throat of the Bite—and White Harbor itself.
His power network was spreading from land to sea, step by quiet step. When the last of the Stepstones finally knelt, he would truly be King of the Narrow Sea.