Dorne – Hall of Fine Wines
The Hall of Fine Wines was buzzing like the waves of the Summer Sea at high tide.
Hundreds of crystal chandeliers hanging from the soaring dome had all been lit. Every piece had been hand-cut by Dragonstone craftsmen, and now they scattered dazzling light in every direction, turning the entire hall bright as noon.
The air was thick with layered scents—rich oak from aging barrels, fresh flowers, expensive perfumes on the nobles, roasted meat and spices, and that constant heady aroma of wine rising from hundreds of glasses.
Guests sat exactly where Pierce had arranged them. The front rows closest to the dais held the most important people in the room.
The Sealord of Braavos had sent a stern older man with a monocle—a representative of the Braavosi scholarly faction, rumored to be a full doctor of the Citadel.
The eldest son of one of Pentos's princes was a handsome twenty-year-old with golden hair and blue eyes, lazily swirling the wine in his cup.
The three powerful trade princes from Lys sat shoulder to shoulder, dressed in almost comically lavish clothes dripping with jewels that flashed under the lights. All three were strikingly attractive—pure Valyrian blood at its finest. Just like Pierce had joked back when he traded there: throw a rock down any street in Lys and you'd probably hit half a dozen silver-haired, purple-eyed Valyrians.
The Tyroshi bankers murmured about interest rates and exchange rates, fingers tapping silent calculations on the table. These guys had been in open war with the Iron Bank lately.
The glass magnate from Myr was studying the stemware in his hand like a jeweler, clearly judging the craftsmanship. Pierce's premium glass had basically become Dorne's official tableware now.
Farther back sat Qartheen spice merchants in long robes embroidered with strange symbols, veiled servants hovering behind them.
Summer Isles nobles with dark skin wore ivory and gold necklaces, their colorful outfits decorated with feathers, looking like a flock of magnificent black peacocks.
There were even a few faces from the distant cities across the Jade Sea, their clothing completely different from everyone else. Pierce recognized them as merchants from the coasts of Yi Ti.
On both sides of the hall, the musicians were ready. A unique orchestra blended Dornish lutes, Lysene violins, Braavosi harps, and Summer Isles drums into something both haunting and rich.
They played a smooth melody that carried the lonely vastness of the Dornish desert while weaving in the ornate elegance of the Free Cities.
Every eye in the room was locked on the raised dais.
Prince Doran sat in his custom "Cloud Walker" wheelchair, Oberyn stood at his side, and Princess Arianne sat elegantly beside her father. The main members of House Martell and representatives from the great Dornish houses formed an impressive, regal tableau.
But the true center of attention was the enormous glass-covered wine cabinet in the middle of the dais—and the woman standing in front of it.
Her name was Serena.
Serena was one of the Lysene bed-slaves Pierce had brought back with him. She had once been a highly trained "nightingale" in the household of a trade prince. After that prince's business collapsed, she was given to Pierce as payment.
Six months ago, Pierce discovered that not only was she stunningly beautiful, but she also possessed a breathtaking voice and an extraordinary memory. After months of secret training, she had been completely transformed.
Tonight she wore a specially designed outfit—a daring, semi-transparent layered gown made of pale golden gauze embroidered with silver grapevines. Every time she moved, the fabric flowed like liquid, catching the light in hypnotic waves.
The cut was bold: it draped diagonally from her right shoulder, leaving the left completely bare to reveal smooth olive skin and elegant collarbones. A silver chain studded with amethysts cinched her waist, emphasizing her breathtaking curves. The skirt was slit high up the thigh, offering tantalizing glimpses of long, toned legs with every step.
Her black hair was woven into an intricate, elegant updo sparkling with tiny diamond pins like stars. Her makeup was flawless—deep purple eyeshadow that made her amber eyes even more mesmerizing, and lips painted the dark red of fine wine.
Serena stood at the edge of the dais holding a golden speaking trumpet—an improved version of the ones used on ships, with a special spiral interior Pierce had designed to carry her voice clearly across the entire hall.
She took a deep breath and looked out over the crowd. The moment her gaze swept across them, the noisy hall fell miraculously silent.
Men held their breath. Women unconsciously straightened their posture. This was the result of rigorous training. Pierce had spent countless hours teaching her how to command a room with nothing but her eyes, posture, and perfect timing.
"Honored guests," Serena began. Her voice, amplified by the trumpet, was clear, magnetic, and carried that soft Lysene lilt while remaining perfectly dignified. "Welcome to Dorne. Welcome to the Hall of Fine Wines."
She gave a graceful curtsy, as fluid as a dance. "Tonight, the miracles of sunlight, sand, and time will reveal themselves before you. But before we taste this liquid gold, please allow me to tell you a story—a story of love, loss, and reunion."
The musicians changed the melody on cue. A few sorrowful notes rose from the lutes.
"One hundred and seventy-three years ago," Serena's voice grew lower and more rhythmic, "the beautiful Rhoynar princess Nymeria—the great leader who brought ten thousand ships across the Narrow Sea and planted Rhoynar civilization in Dorne—lost the most important person in her life. Her husband, Prince Mors Martell, died from wounds sustained in battle against knights from the Marches."
Her gaze turned toward the wine bottles behind the glass, her expression perfectly calibrated with sorrow.
"According to ancient Martell scrolls, Prince Mors loved two things above all: his spear, and a strong wine produced in the Sulfur River valley. Before every campaign, Princess Nymeria would pour him a cup as a blessing. Upon every victorious return, they would drink together in celebration."
Serena walked slowly toward the wine cabinet, her figure moving like flowing golden light under the chandeliers.
"The night Prince Mors died, Princess Nymeria did not weep. She walked alone into the castle cellars and brought out twenty casks of their favorite wine. She personally transferred the wine into special clay jars, each one carved with the name of a battle they had fought together: the Battle of Starfall, the Assault on Prince's Pass, the Siege of the Red Mountains…"
Her fingers gently traced the glass case as if she could touch the bottles inside. "After sealing each jar with beeswax and olive oil, she ordered them buried beneath the deepest date palms in the Water Gardens!"
"She told her servants: 'When my longing becomes as dry as this desert, I will open one of these jars and let his memory return to me on the scent of the wine.'"
By now, soft sobs could be heard throughout the hall. Serena paused, letting the emotion build.
"However, fate is cruel," her voice grew even softer. "Princess Nymeria never opened a single jar. In the years that followed, she continued to fight, to rule, to build Dorne into legend. Those wines—along with her most private memories of Prince Mors—were forgotten beneath the sands of time."
"Until half a year ago," Serena's tone suddenly brightened, "when workers expanding the water channels in the Water Gardens accidentally unearthed the jars. Prince Doran ordered the maesters to open them carefully. The beeswax seals were still perfectly intact. The moment the jars were broken, the fragrance of one hundred and seventy-three years filled the entire garden."
She turned to face the guests, arms spread wide. "Tonight, these twenty bottles of 'Nymeria's Longing' will see the light of day once more. This is not ordinary wine. This is liquid memory—nurtured by love, sculpted by time, steeped in legend. Every drop carries the most fragile and precious emotions of a queen."
Serena bowed deeply, her golden gauze flowing like a waterfall. "And now… the tasting gala officially begins!"
Thunderous applause erupted and lasted a full minute. Many noblewomen were already dabbing their eyes with embroidered handkerchiefs. The men sat solemn, as if they had just witnessed something sacred.
From his position, Pierce watched his beautiful Lysene bed-slave deliver the story he had personally written and gave a satisfied nod.
He had been recruiting talent like Serena ever since his days trading in the Free Cities. He had many such women under him—just like Shae. Some gathered intelligence across the world, others ran his businesses.
This world was brutally harsh on ordinary people. Pierce, coming from modern society, understood better than anyone the true value of talent.
Most men saw women like Serena as nothing more than toys.
Pierce saw their potential—and turned them into pillars of his growing empire.
…
In the shadows to the side of the dais, Pierce stood with a faint smile as the four Dornish women quietly gathered around him.
"A love story?" Obara crossed her arms, voice low and dripping with amusement. "Nymeria and Prince Mors? I've read the family histories. Prince Mors was killed by Yorick Yronwood the Fifth in battle, not some random Marcher knight!"
Nymeria Sand chuckled softly, her Lysene accent making her whisper even more seductive. "More importantly, Nymeria's true great love was actually her first wife—the Rhoynar general Nym the Morning Star. Prince Mors was just a political marriage to solidify Rhoynar power among the local Dornish lords. 'Most private longing'? My lord, when you make up stories, you should at least check the actual history!"
Tyene blinked her big innocent eyes, voice sweet as honey but the words sharp. "And another thing—clay jars from a hundred and seventy years ago? In Dorne's climate, anything buried in sand that long would have crumbled. Plus, real Rhoynar artifacts from that era should have Rhoynar runes, not simple battle names."
Arianne didn't join the teasing. She just stared at Pierce, violet eyes gleaming with complex emotion. "You knew all these holes existed. So why create a story that's so easy to tear apart?"
Pierce didn't answer right away. He simply pointed down at the crowd.
The four women followed his finger.
In the front row, a Lysene noblewoman was gently pressing a handkerchief to her eyes, whispering to her companion, "How touching… So even Nymeria had such a soft side…"
Nearby, a Braavosi banker's wife was telling her husband, "We must bid on one of those bottles. This isn't just wine—it's a piece of history. A testament to love."
Farther away, several Summer Isles nobles were excitedly discussing the story's details, clearly completely enchanted.
Only then did Pierce speak, his voice calm and confident. "Because people don't buy the truth. They buy the story they want to believe."
He looked at the four women. "Nymeria is a legend. Legends should feel legendary. A queen mourning her early-dead husband from a political marriage is far less romantic than a queen secretly treasuring memories of her greatest love. History is written by the victors—and tonight, we are the victors."
Arianne watched the noblewomen below who were visibly moved, her expression shifting from confusion to realization, and finally to admiration. "So you weren't telling history. You were… creating a legend."
"Exactly," Pierce smiled. "A hundred years from now, when people speak of 'Nymeria's Longing,' they won't fact-check it. They'll only remember tonight's story—the beautiful tale of war, love, and time. And House Martell will be forever tied to that legend."
"Just like Baelor the Blessed with the Targaryens. Because he was a pious king, the Faith wrote him endless beautiful legends. In my eyes he was just a brainless idiot!"
Pierce gave the example with clear disdain for that foolish king.
Obara shook her head, but she was smiling. "You sneaky bastard."
Nymeria gave Pierce a long, thoughtful look. "You don't just know how to sell products. You know how to sell… dreams."
"Dreams are the most expensive product," Pierce replied. "They never wear out, and everyone can own their own unique version."
Tyene tilted her head, asking innocently, "Then what about our version? Do we have to believe the story too?"
Pierce reached out and gently ruffled her golden hair. "You don't need to believe it. You only need to know that after tonight, Dornish wine will no longer be just wine—it will be the carrier of legend. That's more than enough."
The four women exchanged glances. In each other's eyes they saw the same stunned realization:
This man from the crab island was reshaping the rules of the world in ways they had never imagined.