Crackclaw Point – Golden Port
A few days later, a small fleet flying the banners of Sunderland, Torrent, Longthorpe, and Borrell sailed slowly into Golden Port.
The four main lords of the Three Sisters—Triston Sunderland, along with Alexander Torrent, Roland Longthorpe, and Godric Borrell—stepped onto land that felt both strange and strangely sacred to them.
On the surface they were devout followers of the Seven, but only they knew the old gods still lived on the Sisters. Legends of the Lady of the Waves and the Storm God never died. When disaster struck, a unlucky dwarf was still quietly thrown into the sea to calm the divine wrath. Even the most pious septons who visited the islands for any length of time started to… change.
That was exactly why these lords had come—curious and awed. They wanted to see what kind of place could make their secret goddess send a direct divine command.
The moment they set foot on the dock, wave after wave of shock crashed over them.
The ground beneath their boots was hard, flat, gray-white "cement"—spotless, no mud, no filth. Glass streetlamps stood in neat rows, simple yet impossibly bright. Even in daylight they could picture how magical the harbor would look at night.
A clever drainage system ran like streams along the sides of the road, and tall cylindrical pipes—explained as part of the water system—rose like wooden pillars. The lords stared in wonder.
But the real jaw-dropper was the brick building Ser Rosco Brune proudly pointed out: the "public toilet." It was clean, odor-free, and nothing like the stinking latrines they knew. Compared to their own damp, fishy-smelling stone keeps, this place felt like heaven.
Patrols of men in sharp black uniforms—short swords and black batons at their belts—marched past in perfect step, eyes sharp and disciplined.
The ordinary folk moving through the port were dressed simply but neatly, their faces carrying something the lords had never seen on their own smallfolk: hope and peace.
"Seven hells…" Alexander Torrent muttered, running a hand over a cement seawall. "Is this really Crackclaw Point? I thought we'd landed in Lannisport!"
Roland Longthorpe stared at an old man calmly sweeping the street. "Look at his clothes—old, but no patches. His face is actually healthy. These people… they look like they eat every day."
Godric Borrell said nothing, but his eyes kept darting between the orderly warehouses, workshops, and the two-story castle skeleton rising in the distance—black stone mixed with timber. The mix of awe and complicated emotion on his face said everything.
Compared to their cold, damp, moldy-and-fishy stone keeps, this place was the difference between the Seven Heavens and the Seven Hells.
Under Ser Rosco's guidance, the four uneasy lords were led to Pierce's large command tent. Pierce didn't play the arrogant host. He greeted them warmly, like old friends.
"Welcome to Golden Port, my lords. You've had a long journey." Pierce smiled easily. "I've already had lunch prepared. We can talk business after we eat."
Even though it was still early for the midday meal, no one complained.
Lunch was served in a simply cleared hall on the castle's first floor. When dish after dish arrived, the four lords felt like they were dreaming.
Golden-crisp suckling pig rubbed with Essosi spices, slow-braised beef ribs in wine and honey, chilled Dornish fruits, soft white bread with butter, and delicate raw fish and shellfish they couldn't even name. Silverware and crystal-clear glass goblets sparkled in the sunlight streaming through the windows.
This was nothing like the black bread and weak ale they were used to. The feast wasn't just delicious—it was a silent, overwhelming display of power.
Triston Sunderland held his knife and fork, momentarily at a loss. Back home, fresh fish and black bread counted as a good meal. They had never seen anything like this. The lunch wasn't merely food; it was a statement.
After the meal and a short rest, the real meeting began inside Pierce's tent. The space was simple: a large wooden table, chairs, and a detailed map of Crackclaw Point and the surrounding seas hanging on the wall.
Pierce got straight to business. "My lords, I understand the situation and potential of the Three Sisters. You sit on an excellent location, but for years you've been held back by limited resources and… certain less-than-legal activities."
He was, of course, referring to the Sisters' infamous smuggling—and occasional outright piracy.
The four lords' faces tightened slightly. After the lavish lunch, they suddenly felt like backwater bumpkins.
"I can help you end that way of life," Pierce continued. "I will invest gold and technology to help you build a real fleet—one strong enough to protect your shipping lanes and crush actual pirates instead of joining them."
His gaze swept over the four men, tone firm. "But there is one condition: the smuggling stops completely. My future good-father, Prince Stannis, keeps a very close eye on the Narrow Sea. I don't want any trouble damaging our… good relationship."
Mention of the famously strict and law-abiding Stannis made all four lords look serious.
Pierce's tone shifted, revealing his true plan. "Stopping smuggling doesn't mean losing money. Quite the opposite. I will bring you steadier, far greater wealth. I intend to build large fish- and whale-processing factories on your islands. We will take over the Ibbenese whaling trade. The Ibbenese will get used to bringing every catch straight to the Three Sisters for sale."
He stepped to the map and pointed at the Bite and the Narrow Sea. "Later, I'll send technicians to teach you how to refine whale oil efficiently. We will build whale-oil lamp workshops and flood the Seven Kingdoms with brighter, longer-lasting, cheaper light than any candle or common oil lamp. This will be a market that sweeps the entire continent!"
The sheer scale of the vision made the four lords' breathing quicken. Monopolizing Ibbenese whales? Whale-oil lamps challenging the candle guilds? The profit alone made their hearts race.
"And that's only the beginning," Pierce said. "In the future I will build more factories—and you will be their managers!"
His eyes moved across every face, reading their hunger. Then he spoke slowly and clearly:
"As long as you follow my lead, each of you will one day own a true castle and live the noble life that goes with it."
Triston Sunderland, the highest-ranking among them, swallowed hard and spoke for the group. "Lord Celtigar, your vision and generosity leave us… speechless. We swear the Three Sisters will leave the past behind. We will follow the path you lay out without question. Everything will be as you command!"
Pierce nodded, satisfied. "Good. As a first step, I will gift you ten refitted ships suited to your local waters to help you build a proper escort fleet. I will also cover the cost of the initial processing plants and send the technicians. All you need to provide is land, labor, and your word that every Ibbenese whale will dock at your ports."
He paused, voice turning serious. "Remember—the Three Sisters used to be… semi-independent. That changes today."
The four lords understood exactly what he meant.
"Understood!" Triston Sunderland dropped to one knee on behalf of the others, practically ready to kiss Pierce's boots. "Most magnificent Lord Pierce! We will serve you faithfully forever!"
If the other three hadn't been present, he probably would have done exactly that. Pierce was offering more than they had ever dared dream.
…
…
Narrow Sea – Dragonstone
At the same time, a subtle but profound change was unfolding on gloomy Dragonstone.
The theater troupe and skilled musicians Pierce had gifted the island had brought life to the grim gray castle like never before.
Prince Stannis Baratheon wasn't fond of such "frivolous" entertainment and had even expressed distaste. But the troupe's wages were now paid by the increasingly profitable glassworks on Dragonstone, and Lady Selyse insisted. So the performances continued on schedule.
With steady money far beyond what they'd once had, Selyse was finally living like a true prince's wife.
She ordered new gowns, hosted proper salons, and had begun using the perfumes and skincare products from Golden Port, just like the noblewomen in King's Landing.
After one performance of The Siren's Love, the evening banquet was held. Selyse sat at the head table in a new deep-blue velvet gown, wearing what little jewelry she owned, graciously accepting the envious compliments from her vassals' wives.
"Lady Selyse, the play was so moving…"
"Thank you for your hospitality—this evening is more wonderful than any we've had on Dragonstone…"
"Lord Pierce is so generous… and so attentive to Princess Shireen…"
The words were sweet rain on Selyse's long-parched vanity. She smiled with dignified restraint, savoring the attention and envy she had been denied for so long.
Stannis, as usual, could not stand the noise and pointless socializing. Shortly after the play ended he excused himself, claiming he had work, and retreated to the cold godswood for his nightly prayers.
His departure actually relaxed the atmosphere. Truthfully, he rarely attended these banquets anymore—they had become routine.
But Selyse had insisted tonight, and Stannis was a man of honor. Dining with his vassals' wives felt improper to him.
At that moment Selyse gently clapped her hands. The musicians changed the tune. A strong, rhythmic, exotic drumbeat filled the hall—wild and full of raw, sensual promise.
A figure stepped into the open space at the center of the banquet hall. It was a powerfully built man with smooth, deep-chocolate skin, wearing only a colorful Summer Isles-style cloth around his waist that highlighted the strong lines of his legs.
This was the Summer Islander bed-slave Shae had secretly delivered and whom Selyse had "happened" to discover. His name was Callisto, but Selyse privately called him "Blackskin."
Callisto began to dance to the drums. His movements were nothing like any Westerosi noble dance—pure primal power and unmistakable erotic invitation, a ritual of worship to the Summer Isles goddess of desire.
His oiled muscles flexed and rippled with every step. His gaze was bold and burning as it swept over the noblewomen, finally settling on his mistress, Lady Selyse, with perfect submission and teasing heat.
The banquet hall fell silent except for the seductive drums and the dancer's heavy breathing. Many of the ladies flushed, their eyes both shy and helplessly drawn to that vibrant, powerful body.
They whispered among themselves, glances darting between the dancer and Selyse—full of envy, jealousy, and dawning understanding.
Selyse felt every eye on her. She watched the man who belonged entirely to her, who obeyed her every whim, and a rush of power, desire, and overwhelming vanity flooded her veins.
Her heart felt dipped in honey—proud, triumphant, and secretly thrilled by the forbidden thrill. She lifted her chin slightly, took a slow sip of wine, and savored the moment that was hers alone.
The banquet ended in a strange, charged atmosphere. The ladies left with their heads full of fantasies and gossip. Selyse pretended to be a little tipsy, cheeks flushed, steps unsteady.
"Blackskin" immediately stepped forward, respectfully yet naturally supporting his mistress. He murmured something low and soothing, his posture perfectly submissive and attentive. Under the meaningful gazes of the guests, he guided Lady Selyse toward her bedchamber, leaving behind a hall thick with unspoken imagination.
Even Dragonstone's thick gray walls could not contain the quiet tide of desire and betrayal that had begun to spread.
The seed Pierce had planted was already sprouting.