Narrow Sea – Golden Crab
Lys stayed quiet for a long time. The sea wind lifted her loose black hair as her gaze drifted far away, full of complicated shadows.
"You… already know this," she finally said, voice soft like she was talking about someone else's life. "My real name is Lys Shad. Being a bastard in Dorne isn't any better than anywhere else. Too many bastards, and the ones from minor houses? They're worth less than a common knight."
Bastard-born kids in Westeros never got to choose their fate. They carried that name like a brand for life.
That was why bastards always split into two extremes: the oath-breakers and the oath-keepers. Just like their blood—some noble, some worthless.
But in a world where the strong ate the weak, who the hell decided what was noble and what was trash?
"My father was a distant cousin in House Wyl. My mother was a fisherman's daughter. When I was sixteen they married me off to another Wyl cousin—a useless, violent bastard."
Her fingers twisted the edge of her cloak without thinking. "At a family feast I met Lawrence Wyl's wife, Lady Vira. She was… like a spring in the desert, like the brightest star in the night sky. We fell in love. When it came out, my husband nearly beat me to death. So I killed him."
Dorne wasn't as hung up on who slept with who as the rest of Westeros, but not every house was that open-minded.
"The Wyls saw me as a stain on their honor. They wanted me executed. Lady Vira helped me escape. I ran to the sea, bounced around, and finally joined Jones's fleet."
Pierce raised an eyebrow. He'd heard of House Wyl. They controlled the southern passes in Dorne and were famous for being vicious troublemakers. Their most famous stunt was throwing Prince Aemon the Dragonknight into a pit of snakes—which later led to "Blessed" Baelor the First crawling into a snake den himself like a madman.
In Pierce's opinion, Lys's ex-husband was a classic hypocrite. The guy probably screwed around left and right—maybe both ways—but the second it was his own wife? Suddenly it was unforgivable.
"So you're a Wyl," Pierce said with a low laugh. "No wonder you built a pirate empire. Stirring chaos, ignoring rules, loving dangerous games… very Wyl."
Lys didn't argue. She just kept talking in that quiet voice. "When House Yronwood contacted me, they mentioned Vira. They said… Lawrence Wyl has her under tighter watch lately. He even suspects she's still in touch with me. If I helped them take you out, they promised they'd find a way to… set Vira free."
She gave a bitter smile. "I knew it was probably a lie. But I… I had to grab at any chance."
After spilling secrets she'd buried for years, Lys seemed to breathe easier. Even the pain in her shoulder felt lighter.
Her eyes weren't dead anymore. Instead they flickered with old pain, lingering love for Vira, helplessness about her own fate… and something new and complicated when she looked at the man in front of her.
He had conquered her. Humiliated her. Yet somehow he also made her feel strangely safe. In a world ruled by the strong, attaching yourself to someone even stronger didn't seem so bad.
Pierce watched her for a moment, then suddenly reached out and pulled her up from the chair. Lys gasped as she stumbled forward and fell into his lap, jarring her wound. She hissed in pain.
But his arm locked firmly around her waist, holding her in place.
"Listen to me, Lys," he murmured against her ear, voice low and seductive. "As long as you behave and work for me, I won't just let you keep being the Sea Witch. I'll give you bigger waters than you ever dreamed of. I'll help you get revenge on House Wyl. And maybe…"
He paused, feeling her tremble in his arms.
"Even getting your Lady Vira back… isn't impossible."
Lys's head snapped up. Her green eyes exploded with disbelief. "You… what? That's impossible! House Wyl is one of Dorne's great houses. Lawrence Wyl is the current lord, he—"
"Nothing is impossible," Pierce cut her off, fingers gently tracing the faint scar on her cheek. "Power, wealth, strength, schemes… the rules of this world are simple: the strong take whatever they want."
He looked at the beautiful woman in his arms with total confidence. The wild pirate queen was gone. All that remained was a woman who had been thoroughly broken and remade.
"And I, Lys, am getting stronger every day. Dornish lords? The Iron Throne? The city-states across the Narrow Sea? They all have weaknesses. They all have desires. They can be used, traded… or destroyed."
His eyes sharpened like a blade. "You only have one choice—believe me. Because you have nothing left except the life I'm giving you and a place on this ship. Besides…"
He leaned in until their breaths mingled.
"Our relationship isn't that simple anymore… is it?"
Lys stared at him—the man who had destroyed her in the most humiliating way days ago, bandaged her with shocking gentleness this morning, and now offered her the one thing she'd dreamed of for years.
Her mind screamed that it could be another trap, another lie. But her heart—those long-buried feelings of love, hate, and desperate longing—flooded out like a dam breaking.
Who else could she trust? Her family had thrown her away. Her lover was out of reach. The other pirates only cared about gold.
This man… he was powerful, mysterious, cruel, yet strangely gentle. He owned every part of her, but he also dangled a beautiful, impossible hope right in front of her.
Tears spilled from her eyes without warning. She didn't wipe them away. Instead she surged forward and crushed her dry, cracked lips against his in a desperate kiss full of blood, salt, and raw surrender.
It was a kiss that used every ounce of strength she had left. Pierce didn't push her away. He gripped the back of her head and deepened it, while waving the five stunned women away.
When the long kiss finally broke, Lys collapsed against his chest, breathing hard. Tears and sweat soaked his shirt.
"I… I'll obey," she whispered into his neck, voice muffled and thick with sobs. "As long as you really… really can help me…"
"I will," Pierce murmured, stroking her back. But his eyes were fixed on the distant Dornish coastline, and the corner of his mouth curved into a deep, unreadable smile.
...
...
Dorne – Water Gardens
At the same time, in the Water Gardens just west of Sunspear, a tense conversation was unfolding.
The Water Gardens were Dorne's miracle—a palace built by King Maron Martell for his Targaryen bride, Princess Daenerys (the Martells' dragon-blooded sword sheath).
Unlike the rest of Dorne's dry, scorching heat, this place was lush and green. Clear springs bubbled everywhere. White marble fountains and water channels crisscrossed the grounds, sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight.
Orange, olive, and fig trees cast dappled shade. The air smelled of flowers and cool mist.
The most beautiful sight was the children playing in the shallow pools—kids from every class in Dorne, noble and common, barefoot and laughing like silver bells.
This was Prince Doran Martell's rule: three days a week the Water Gardens belonged to every child in Dorne, no matter their birth.
In peaceful times, Prince Doran was exactly the kind of ruler the Iron Throne loved—someone who didn't keep launching pointless revenge raids at his northern neighbors.
But that same caution earned him plenty of scorn inside Dorne. Many called it weakness. They said it didn't suit House Martell at all.
So today the beautiful gardens carried an undercurrent of unease. In a quiet colonnade deep in the gardens, the atmosphere felt especially heavy, clashing with the distant laughter of children.
Prince Doran Martell sat in a wheeled yew chair. His gout had grown worse; he rarely stood or walked on his own anymore.
He wore a simple white linen robe with a thin blanket over his knees. His wrinkled face looked exhausted, but those deep-set eyes were still sharp and clear.
Standing in front of him was his brother, Oberyn Martell. The Red Viper paced restlessly, his bright silk robes swirling with every step.
"He detoured to the Stepstones," Oberyn said, voice certain. "Our people in the north sent word by raven. After leaving Tarth, Pierce Celtigar's fleet didn't sail straight south. They turned northeast into Stepstones waters."
"Several days ago thick smoke was seen rising from Bloodstone Island. This morning it was confirmed—his fleet has set sail again and is heading for Dorne."
Prince Doran's fingers tapped lightly on the arm of his chair. "Every merchant ship leaving Dorne is our eyes and ears. I knew before you did, Oberyn." His voice was slow and calm. "The question is, why did he go to the Stepstones? Coincidence? Or was someone… leading him there?"
Oberyn's eyes turned dark and dangerous. "Who else? House Yronwood—or the fools who still dream of being 'Lord of Dorne.' They bow on the surface but never forgot."
"I told you years ago—I should have done more than slowly poison old Edgar Yronwood. I should have snapped his neck and thrown every one of his sons into a scorpion pit!"
"Oberyn!" Doran's voice stayed quiet but carried iron authority. "Edgar Yronwood died in a trial by combat. Everyone calls it poison, but the forms were followed. We've kept House Yronwood in check for twenty years. Dorne needs stability, not more pointless blood."
"Stability?" Oberyn gave a cold laugh and slammed his hands on the chair arms, leaning in close. "Your precious 'stability' is exactly why Dorne looks like this! We bow like sheep to the Iron Throne while traitors and murderers sit on that chair enjoying glory and power! Our sister Elia and her children are rotting in graves! Tell me—what good is this 'stability'?!"
His voice rose with emotion. In the distance the playing children glanced over. Doran lifted a hand for calm, but his eyes stayed sharp as a hawk's.
"And you, Oberyn?" Doran's tone dropped, heavy with warning. "What exactly are you chasing? You sent your daughter Sarella to the Citadel to 'make friends' with the Hightowers."
"Now you're reaching out to Pierce Celtigar—a dangerous outsider connected to both Baratheon and Lannister, with roots across the Narrow Sea. Tell me, brother, what are you really planning?"
Oberyn froze. He slowly straightened, locking eyes with his brother. Those eyes that were usually full of mockery and passion now burned with cold fire.
"I'm planning revenge, brother," he said, each word deliberate. "Revenge for our sister Elia Martell. For the Mountain's sword that killed her. For the little prince and princess smashed to pulp by Jaime's men. For every traitor who hurt House Martell."
A savage smile twisted his mouth. "I want Tywin Lannister to watch his family's legacy burn to ash. I want him to lose everything he holds dear. I want Gregor Clegane screaming in endless agony until he dies. I want every single person who took part in that slaughter to pay a hundred times over."
He leaned in closer, voice dropping to a chilling whisper.
"As for Pierce Celtigar… he's a sharp knife, brother. A blade from outside the board that could flip the entire game. The Iron Throne, the Lannisters, the Tyrells—even the worms across the Narrow Sea—they're all watching him. That's our opening."
"I'm going to use that knife to slit every enemy's throat. I'm going to send every traitor in the Seven Kingdoms straight to the deepest layer of the seven hells, never to rise again."
Prince Doran stared at his brother for a long time. His wrinkled face showed nothing, but the hand resting on the blanket tightened almost imperceptibly.
In the distance the children's laughter still rang clear and the fountains still bubbled, as if this green paradise had nothing to do with the hatred and schemes of the world.
"You have no idea what kind of man you're dealing with. Never think you control everything, my dear brother. This world always speaks with strength. I'm thinking of Dorne—you just don't see it yet!"
After a long hesitation, Doran finally said what he had been holding back. But his brother clearly wasn't listening.
"For revenge… I'll pay any price!"