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Dorne – Sunspear – Hall of Fine Wines
Three leagues north of Sunspear, where nothing but empty sand used to stretch for miles, a jaw-dropping complex now rose from the desert like a mirage turned real.
They called it the Hall of Fine Wines. Pierce had drawn up every line of the plans himself, and Dorne had thrown everything it had into making the dream concrete—literally.
Pierce's special cement had been the game-changer. He'd tinkered with the stuff back in Essos, mixing volcanic ash from this world with certain sea-algae strains until he got a formula that set faster and stronger than anything the maesters had ever seen. The locals whispered it was "magic mortar." Hell, even half the lords and maesters in Dorne figured it had to be sorcery; nothing else explained how a building this massive went from foundation to finished in just five months.
The main hall took its cues from a memory Pierce carried from his old life—the Taj Mahal—but it had been reshaped for Dornish heat, wind, and taste. A soaring white-marble palace with a high dome and four slender minarets at the corners. The front entrance was a thirty-foot arched gateway carved with the Martell spear-and-sun intertwined with Rhoynar sun motifs. Every wall glowed with mineral dyes from Dorne's own mines—deep red from the Red Mountains, rich green from the Greenblood, sapphire blue from the Summer Sea—so the whole place shimmered like a desert jewel under the blazing sun.
Out front stretched a perfectly geometric garden: straight water channels slicing the space into symmetrical plots, each one planted with different grapevines, olive trees, and exotic flowers. A dozen fountains bubbled everywhere, the tallest shooting twenty feet high and throwing tiny rainbows across the sky.
Inside the great hall, the atmosphere was electric. Long tables fanned out across the marble floor, each draped in deep-red velvet and set with silver plates and the crystal-clear glassware from Dragonstone's workshops. Massive tapestries on the walls showed Princess Nymeria leading the Rhoynar fleet to Dorne and her marriage into House Martell.
But the real showstopper stood on the raised dais at the center: a massive oak wine cabinet protected by thick glass. Inside, twenty dark bottles rested in perfect rows—the legendary "Nymeria-era cellars." Every label was a miniature masterpiece painted by the best artists from Dorne and Lys. Golden tasting cups, ornate corkscrews, and those ridiculous decanters that made the whole ritual feel impossibly sophisticated sat ready. Pierce knew the game: rich people had tried everything. The only thing that still excited them was something new, something exclusive, something that screamed status.
And right now, every eye in the hall kept drifting back to that cabinet like it was magnetic.
Prince Doran, Oberyn, Arianne, and the heads of every major Dornish house were already seated. Pierce stood off to the side of the dais—unassuming black robe, no flashy jewelry, but the calm power rolling off him made half the guests steal glances his way anyway.
"Unbelievable," Oberyn muttered to his brother, eyes sweeping the packed hall. "The Braavosi Sealord sent his personal representative. The Prince of Pentos sent his eldest son. Three of Lys's most powerful trade princes, Tyrosh's top bankers, Myr's glass magnate… even the Qartheen Spice Guild showed up. Brother, we did it."
Doran gave a slow nod, face still calm, but his eyes sparkled. "This is only the beginning. The real fireworks start when those twenty ancient bottles go up for auction."
His gaze drifted to Pierce again. In the last six months the young man had delivered miracle after miracle—technology, crops, marketing genius, and an almost supernatural feel for power and people. The design and construction of this very hall, every detail of tonight's gala—from the wording on the invitations to the seating chart to the exact timing of the tasting and auction—had all been Pierce's work.
(He must remain Dorne's ally. No matter the cost.)
Doran silently renewed the vow. Whatever price Dorne had to pay, it would be worth it.
…
Meanwhile, deep in the Shadow City of Sunspear, in a windowless stone chamber lit by a single oil lamp, someone Pierce would never have expected had slipped in unnoticed.
A figure sat at a rough wooden table, wrapped head-to-toe in a deep-gray cloak, face hidden behind a featureless white mask. The only thing visible was one pale, long-fingered hand resting on the table—middle finger wearing a strange golden ring set with a perfectly round black pearl. Inside the pearl, faint dark currents seemed to swirl like living smoke.
Three men in plain Dornish smallfolk clothes knelt before the table, heads bowed in total deference.
"Continue," the masked figure rasped. The voice, filtered through the mask, came out hoarse and genderless.
The middle spy swallowed hard. "When Pierce Celtigar first appeared in King's Landing, almost no one knew who he was. Only a handful learned he was the third son of House Celtigar. He used his connection to Stannis to approach King Robert and bought the lordship of Crackclaw Point for one million gold dragons. Our sources say the money came from years in Essos—slave trading, mercenary contracts, treasure flipping… and possibly even expeditions into the Valyrian ruins."
The masked man's fingers traced the black pearl. "One million dragons… and the Usurper sold him a piece of the realm for it." The contempt in that voice was ice-cold. "Robert Baratheon… he defiled the Iron Throne, then sold the kingdom's land for gold."
The spy flinched, forehead nearly touching the floor. "Forgive me, master—my words were clumsy—"
"No matter." A gloved hand waved dismissively. "What happened after Crackclaw Point?"
The second spy took over. "In less than half a year he crushed the rebellion there using brutal methods—and a lot of Essosi sellswords plus those… undead soldiers everyone now calls Tyrants. Then he built Golden Port, brought in craftsmen and techniques from across the Narrow Sea, and turned the place into an economic monster."
"Next came the partnership with Littlefinger for the Star Selection contest in King's Landing. They made that singer Nymeria famous. The event earned him a fortune and connections with half the nobles in the capital. After that he won rights to renovate the Dragonpit—though the Tyrells took half—and he's already turning the area outside the city into a new commercial district and arena."
The third spy added, "Most important is his alliance with Stannis Baratheon. After curing Shireen Baratheon's greyscale scars, he secured a betrothal. He's now Stannis's future good-son and the real power behind Dragonstone's workshops."
Silence fell. The oil lamp flickered, throwing twisted shadows across the walls.
"Greyscale… cured?" The masked figure's voice finally cracked with real emotion—shock mixed with cold calculation. "And that's not even the half of it. Seawater purification machines, crops no one's ever seen, marketing that multiplies value tenfold… this is beyond any single man."
He lifted his head. The black holes of the mask seemed to pierce the darkness itself. "What do you think Pierce Celtigar actually is?"
The three spies exchanged uneasy glances. The middle one ventured, "An incredibly lucky and capable adventurer and merchant? Maybe he found some lost Valyrian knowledge in Essos…"
"No." The masked man cut him off sharply, tapping the table. The black pearl caught the lamplight and seemed to pulse. "He is not one man. He is the agent of an organization."
The spies froze.
The figure rose, cloak whispering across the stone floor. At the chamber's only door he paused, back turned to them. "'The tide rises… gold endures.' Have you ever heard that phrase?"
The youngest spy shook his head blankly, but the oldest sucked in a sharp breath. "Master… you mean the legendary Rising Tide Organization? But that's just sailor folklore—Essosi lords say it's a story made up by drunken deckhands…"
"Essosi lords," the masked man repeated with pure disdain. "They can barely keep their own thrones. How would they understand how the world truly works?"
He turned, mask facing the kneeling men. "Everything Pierce Celtigar has done—rapid wealth, seizing land, building ports, developing technology, forging noble marriages, reshaping politics—every step is too precise, too efficient. It follows a map that was drawn long ago. One man doesn't operate like that. An organization does."
The oldest spy trembled. "Master… how do you know all this? Unless you…"
The masked man didn't answer. He simply raised the hand with the black-pearl ring and stared at the living darkness swirling inside the gem.
"Because I, too, am a player in this game," he whispered, almost to himself. "I simply chose a different board."
The lamp flame suddenly flared and nearly died. When the light steadied again, the masked figure was gone. Only his final words lingered in the stone chamber like smoke:
"Keep watching Pierce Celtigar. I want to know every move, every choice. This game… has only just begun."
The room fell silent once more. The three spies remained on their knees for a long time, afraid to rise. Outside, faint music and cheers drifted from the direction of the Hall of Fine Wines. The tasting gala had officially started.