That same evening – Maester's Tower, Dragonstone
Maester Cressen's chambers still smelled exactly the same: that faint, papery mustiness mixed with the sharp bite of ink, and the occasional soft croak of ravens in the background.
But tonight the birds were dead silent, like they were staring down some kind of monster.
Because the man sitting behind the heavy oak desk wasn't Maester Cressen. The old scholar was down in the warehouse district inventorying a fresh shipment of glass raw materials. In his place sat Pierce Celtigar.
A plain-looking raven scroll lay open in front of him—standard supply lists and routine reports from Claw Isle.
Most maester letters were written in code. The ones stuffed with extra symbols took forever to break. That was exactly why the real messages were hidden in the blank spaces and around certain characters—written in special ink that only showed up under the right light.
Pierce had already warmed the edges of the parchment with a candle flame. The hidden text had bloomed into view.
He was decoding it now with a complex substitution cipher. Every mark stood for a different word. Each scroll carried its own reference key so it could be matched to the right codebook. Simple stuff back on modern Earth, but here in Westeros it kept secrets better than iron vaults.
Loana sat quietly in his lap. The Lysene woman with honey-toned skin and deep brown eyes wore nothing but a thin silk robe, her golden hair spilling over her bare shoulders. She was Pierce's chief agent on Dragonstone—smart, loyal, and knew exactly when to keep her mouth shut.
"My lord," she said softly when Pierce finally set the scroll down and rubbed his temples, "is it bad?"
He didn't answer right away. He picked the parchment back up, double-checked his decoding, then crumpled it into a tight ball and tossed it into the hearth. The flames swallowed it whole, turning every secret to gray ash.
"Dorne's making some little moves," Pierce said at last, voice calm but carrying a hint of dark amusement. "While we were talking with Jon Arryn, their people quietly reached out to Viserys Targaryen."
Loana's brow creased. "Viserys? That exiled beggar prince? What the hell does Dorne want with him?"
"Rebuilding the old Targaryen-Martell alliance," Pierce answered. "Dorne never really swallowed Robert's rule. They still remember what happened to Princess Elia and her children in King's Landing. Now they smell blood in the water. If Robert's kids really aren't his… the Iron Throne's legitimacy goes up in smoke."
The corner of Pierce's mouth curved. "Perfect timing for them. The second Robert drops dead or something happens, the whole Seven Kingdoms will rip itself apart."
He still wasn't sure whose bright idea this was—Doran's or Oberyn's?
"And at that point, backing a Targaryen comeback becomes the only 'reasonable' move."
The hearth flames danced, throwing shifting light and shadow across Pierce's face.
"But the Dornish don't know," he continued, smile sharpening, "that the Viserys Targaryen they're talking to has another title."
Loana looked up, eyes gleaming in the firelight. "He's… the Pearl Lord?"
Pierce nodded. He pictured the figure glowing with soft, milky-white light at the Rising Tide council table. He remembered the Pearl Lord's monthly reports on "Lorath's pearl and spice trade" and the line about "five-tenths of eastern continent earnings already deposited at the main Braavos Iron Bank branch."
Viserys Targaryen—the self-styled "True Dragon," the wandering exile who begged for scraps across Essos—was secretly one of Pierce's own. He was the man funneling wealth from half the Free Cities straight into the Rising Tide's vaults.
Pierce had found him at rock bottom. Back then Viserys had looked at him like a savior.
But time changes people. A broken man who suddenly gets everything back starts hating the version of himself that was desperate… and he starts resenting the guy who helped him when he was down.
Pierce knew exactly what was going on in that head: Viserys now believed it was all destiny—that Pierce had simply been the tool fate sent him.
"Dorne thinks they've found a secret ally," Pierce said quietly. "They just shoved their hand straight into the web I wove."
Loana thought for a second. "Will this mess with your plans? Could Viserys—"
"Viserys has been trained very well," Pierce cut in, sounding almost pleased. "He's ambitious now. Skills still need work—he grew up in exile, never got a real ruler's education—but for certain jobs he's good enough."
He stood and walked to the window. From the Maester's Tower you could see the whole harbor below. Workshop lights were flickering on one by one in the dusk. Ships were still loading and unloading. Everything down there was the living proof of his power.
"Dorne wants three things from Viserys," Pierce said, back still to Loana. "First, connections across the Narrow Sea for civil-war support. Second, to test the waters for a Targaryen restoration. Third, to find out if the Targaryen siblings are the secret power behind the Golden Company."
He turned around, firelight dancing in his violet eyes. "But I don't care. Let them talk. Let them plan. Every single one of those plans is going to collapse anyway. Every gold coin Viserys touches, every soldier he recruits, every contact he makes—I have it all written down."
Loana stood and stepped beside him, voice low. "So what are you going to do? Just let them keep going?"
Pierce stayed quiet a moment, staring out toward the Narrow Sea—toward Essos, toward Viserys and Daenerys.
"I'm thinking," he said finally, "maybe it's time to push Viserys onto the stage. My plans are moving steady, but we're not at the final act yet. Viserys… he's been dying to sail back to Westeros and take the Iron Throne for years. That ambition is like a pot of water about to boil. Keep the lid on too tight and it explodes."
He turned to face her, expression complicated. "Since Dorne already reached out, and he's getting restless anyway… why not go with the flow? Let Viserys draw every eye in Essos. Let him become the banner for Targaryen restoration. Let him raise armies, beg for allies, make noise."
"And you," Loana understood, "can keep working quietly in the shadows, untouched."
"Exactly," Pierce nodded. "Let everyone stare at Viserys and his dragon dreams. Let them get excited or terrified about a Targaryen comeback. Meanwhile I'll keep building Crackclaw Point, strengthening Dragonstone, expanding the Rising Tide network. When the time is right…"
He didn't finish the sentence, but Loana saw the answer in his eyes: when the time came, no matter who was performing on stage, real power would stay with the man who had woven the web.
A log cracked loudly in the hearth, splitting in two. Pierce walked back to the desk, pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment and a quill.
"Get the cipher tools ready," he told Loana. "I need to write a letter. Time to give him some… clearer instructions."
Loana nodded. She fetched the small wooden box from beside the desk—special ink, the codebook, everything. She knew this letter could shift the balance of power across Essos… and maybe Westeros too.
But she asked nothing. She simply prepared the tools, then stepped back and watched Pierce write.
The quill moved smoothly across the parchment, leaving lines that looked ordinary but carried three layers of code. His movements were calm and confident, like he was writing a simple business contract instead of something that might start a war.
At the very end he added a line only Viserys would understand:
"Pearls should shine. True dragons should soar. But remember—the tide is always higher than the waves."
He sealed the letter with his private stamp. Pierce could already picture the rage it would cause when it reached the other man's hands.
A lot of people in the Rising Tide had started out full of awe. Over time their attitudes changed. They began thinking they could control everything.
Pierce had built the organization for exactly that reason—so they would stir up trouble between the two continents. That chaos gave him room to grow.
"First thing tomorrow morning, tell Maester Cressen this raven needs to go to King's Landing," Pierce said, handing Loana the sealed letter. "Once it gets there, our friend will know exactly what to do."
Loana tucked it carefully inside her robe. She looked at Pierce—this younger man who held such enormous power—and felt a swirl of emotions: respect, loyalty… and maybe just a trace of fear.
"My lord," she asked softly, "aren't you worried Viserys might slip the leash? If he actually gathers real strength, if Dorne and the others throw everything behind him…"
Pierce smiled—that cold, utterly confident smile. "Loana, do you know what the first lesson I taught Viserys was?"
She shook her head.
"I told him power is like sand," Pierce said. "The tighter you grip it, the faster it slips away. Real power isn't control—it's guidance. It's not commands, it's deals. I gave him gold, resources, advice… but never orders. I made him feel free, like he was fighting for his own destiny."
He stepped to the hearth and watched the flames finish off the last piece of wood. "A man like that won't break free. Because he never feels controlled. He only sees me as his most reliable ally—the one person he can't do without on his road back to the throne. And when he eventually fails—and he will fail—he won't blame me. He'll blame himself for not being strong enough. He'll blame fate for turning against him."
Loana stayed silent. In that moment she finally understood the true nature of Pierce's power. It wasn't the crude grip of a tyrant. It was something far more elegant, far more unbreakable—an invisible collar. He let people walk willingly into his web, gave them the illusion of freedom, and made sure they could never truly leave.
"Go rest," Pierce said at last. "We've got a lot to do tomorrow. Stannis needs a new wife. Dragonstone has to keep running. Crackclaw Point's construction can't stop. All of it needs our planning and guidance."
Loana bowed and slipped out. Just before the door closed she took one last look at his back.
He stood by the window, staring out at Dragonstone Harbor in the night. His silhouette was sharp against the candlelight yet somehow blurred by shadow—exactly like the man himself. You could see him clearly, but you could never see the whole picture.
The door clicked shut. The chamber was left with only Pierce and the dying glow of the hearth.
He stayed there, thinking about the chessboard ahead. Dorne, Viserys, Stannis, Jon Arryn, Robert, Cersei, Lord Tywin… all of them were pieces moving according to their own motives.
And he was the player—the one standing outside the board, guiding the entire game.
The workshop lights beyond the window stretched into a glowing ribbon in the darkness. They were proof of his power, the beginning of the world he was reshaping.
But Pierce knew this was only the start. The real game was still to come.
He remembered the words he had once said to Arianne Martell:
"Fate isn't changed, Your Highness. Fate is created."
Right now he was creating fate—not just his own, but the fate of the entire Seven Kingdoms… and maybe the whole known world.
And this creation had only just begun.