295 AC, King's Landing
The harbor at Mud Gate was the busiest spot in the whole city. But that same bustle made it feel straight-up terrifying—people packed in like bloodthirsty flies, scrambling for any scrap of hope they could find.
"Why the hell would anyone actually want to live in a place like this?"
Pierce Celtigar lifted a hand to cover his nose, voice thick with disgust.
"At least the Red Keep doesn't stink like this. A splash of Myrish perfume would cover the smell right up."
The bearded Onion Knight, Davos Seaworth, gave an awkward little cough as he explained. He shot the young man in front of him a genuinely surprised look—this kid was bolder than he'd expected.
Pierce was around twenty, tall and powerfully built. For a second Davos swore he was staring at King Robert Baratheon in his prime.
"Guess a lord's fancy airs only look good when they're set against all this filth."
"Mr. Celtigar, if I were you I'd keep my mouth shut right about now."
Davos was already regretting taking the job.
"Hahaha… sorry about that, Ser!"
Pierce looked at the flustered knight and laughed at himself.
"I forgot—I'm about to be the one getting highlighted by all this crap."
Davos just shook his head and stepped forward to flash his credentials at the City Watch men moving in to question them.
"Come on, my dear young Lord Celtigar. Pretty soon I might have to start calling you Ser."
…
…
Red Keep – Throne Room
The throne room was unusually lively today. King Robert and the Small Council were already deep in conversation about the man walking toward them—Pierce Celtigar.
"Varys! Tell me about this Celtigar boy. Why have I never heard of him before?"
Robert Baratheon's booming voice filled the huge hall. His massive frame was wedged into the Iron Throne, blades jutting everywhere. He took a long pull from his wine cup, face bright with curiosity.
The Spider folded his soft hands, wearing that humble smile touched with just the right hint of concern.
"Your Grace, Ser Pierce Celtigar… ah, forgive me—he's not a ser yet. This Mr. Celtigar has been quieter than morning mist over the Narrow Sea for the last five years. Shockingly low-key."
He glided forward a step, voice smooth as silk.
"Everyone knows House Celtigar of Claw Isle is famous for ships and… well, stacking gold. But five years ago this third son had a small… difference of opinion with the family. Instead of staying comfortable on Claw Isle he took a modest sum and sailed alone to Essos."
"Get to the point, Varys. I don't want family drama."
"As you wish, Your Grace." Varys bowed lightly. "At first his trail was unremarkable. He joined the Second Sons in the Disputed Lands. People just saw him as another Westerosi lordling chasing thrills. Then everything changed."
Varys paused, gathering the fragments his little birds had brought back. "My sources say the boy has an… extraordinary gift for persuasion and tactics. Under his influence the Second Sons grew bigger and more feared every season. They stopped taking penny contracts. Their greatest victory came on the plains outside Pentos—they smashed a full Dothraki khalasar in open battle."
"Dothraki?" Robert leaned forward, suddenly interested. "On flat ground? How the hell did he do that?"
"The exact tactics are lost to rumor now—only legends remain." Varys's voice took on that perfect note of mystery. "Some say he used a strange formation. Others claim terrain and tricks. All anyone knows for sure is that khal never roared again."
Even Varys's eyes flickered with unease.
"That one fight made the Second Sons famous across Essos. People started comparing them to the Golden Company."
"Interesting!" Robert grinned. "So the kid's not like the rest of his family—just another soft bastard counting gold dragons."
"Indeed, Your Grace. But here's the strange part: right when he could have taken real command, he sold every share he owned, pocketed a fortune, and vanished."
"He used that coin to recruit sailors in Pentos and build a solid fleet. Then he sailed east—straight into the legendary lands of gold and mist. Yi Ti."
The hall went dead quiet. Even Grand Maester Pycelle stopped dozing. To Westerosi ears, Yi Ti was farther and stranger than Vaes Dothrak itself.
Varys spread his hands, real awe mixing with helplessness in his tone. "Your Grace, from that moment on, Pierce Celtigar's story stopped being intelligence reports and turned into pure legend."
The words instantly hooked the room. Renly Baratheon looked openly curious. Stannis stayed stone-faced.
"Some say his fleet passed through the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai and traded with silk-clad merchants. Others claim he found a lost city on the far side of the Bones. There are even wild tales that he served the Emperor of Yi Ti himself and returned with wealth and knowledge no man should possess…"
Varys scanned every face. Aside from one old rival, he could read exactly how they all felt about this third son of House Celtigar.
But he kept one suspicion to himself: he wondered if the boy was tied to some new, shadowy organization. Only a suspicion… for now.
…
…
The heavy oak doors groaned open. Pierce Celtigar's tall figure filled the entrance.
He strode in, boots ringing on the stone. His rich Essosi clothes looked completely out of place among the Westerosi lords, but the battle-hardened confidence in his step made everyone take notice.
Long golden hair, pale violet eyes, and a face handsome enough that people instinctively warmed to him.
Handsome men get extra slack everywhere—just like back on Earth. Look good enough and even a blank stare gets called brilliant.
He stopped in front of the throne, dropped smoothly to one knee—perfect form, zero flaws.
Davos hurried forward and bowed.
"Your Grace, this is Pierce Celtigar of Claw Isle, third son of Lord Adrian Celtigar."
Robert shifted his bulk on the Iron Throne, peering down with clear interest.
"Rise, lad! Varys was just telling your story. Sounds like you've had a hell of a lot more fun than sitting on Claw Isle counting gold dragons!"
Pierce stood, offering a perfectly respectful smile.
"Thank you for the praise, Your Grace. The sands of Essos are definitely harsher than the salty sea winds back home."
"Out with it!" Robert waved a meaty hand, done with ceremony. "You sailed all the way back from the Jade Sea and rushed here to see me. You're not just here to spin Eastern fairy tales. What do you want?"
Pierce met the king's eyes without flinching.
"Your Grace, I request that you grant me Crackclaw Point as new holdings for House Celtigar. I will tame those lands and make them truly loyal to the Iron Throne."
Before he finished, a steady, elderly voice cut in.
The Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, stepped forward, lined face tight with disapproval.
"Crackclaw Point? Celtigar boy, to my knowledge that land has never been formally granted to your house, even though it borders Claw Isle."
Lord Arryn looked genuinely surprised. The people of Crackclaw Point were basically wildlings—always claiming loyalty to the Targaryens.
If the place weren't so poor and roadless, the Crownlands lords would have swallowed it years ago.
"By law it belongs to the crown. That's why I came—to petition our great King Robert for full rights to those lands."
Pierce answered calmly, voice carrying through the hall.
"You know it as well as I do, Lord Hand. They've never sworn to the Iron Throne. Never paid a single tax. Even the Targaryens couldn't control them!"
He let the word "Targaryens" hang for a second, then continued with just the right touch of concern.
"An uncontrolled force with a long coastline, sitting this close to Dragonstone… who can guarantee they won't one day side with certain exiled 'rebels'?"
The entire council fell into thoughtful silence—especially Jon Arryn.
"I will crush those factions, unify Crackclaw Point under the crowned stag, and turn that thorn in the realm's side into a solid shield for the Crownlands."
Pierce turned slightly toward Robert, voice growing warmer and more persuasive.
"Your Grace, I will be your most loyal Golden Crab—rooted on those rocky shores, guarding the northeastern gate for you without fail. Unlike certain… Red Crabs who like to waver."
"Hahaha! Would the Red Crabs betray like the Reynes in the Westerlands? Then how am I supposed to trust you Golden Crabs?"
Robert stared at the golden crab sigil on Pierce's chest—huge pincers, oversized eyes, spikes on its head, looking like some monster from a sailor's nightmare.
Pierce dropped his final card, calm and confident:
"To prove my loyalty and my worth, once I am granted the lands I will immediately donate one million gold dragons to the royal treasury—for the good of the Seven Kingdoms."
"One million gold dragons?!"
Robert's eyes lit up like a man who'd just seen the gods answer his prayers. He lurched forward on the throne, nearly standing.
The crown's coffers had been bleeding for years. Littlefinger was clever, but money was still tight. This sudden fortune hit Robert like rain in the desert.
"Well said! Golden Crab! Hahaha—I like that title!"
He raised a hand, decision made. "I say it's settled. Crackclaw Point shall be—"
"Your Grace!"
Jon Arryn stepped in urgently, old face full of worry. "This needs careful thought. Trading gold for land… this is not how honor is won."
Pierce answered instantly, voice steady.
"Lord Hand, this is no transaction. This is my tribute of loyalty to His Grace and the Iron Throne—proof of my ability and resolve. How can a penniless knight guard the borders? Wealth used to protect the realm—isn't that the greatest honor of all?"
"Well spoken!" Robert cut Jon off with a wave. "Honor won't fill bellies or keep the smallfolk happy. I'm convinced."
"I…"
Just as the king opened his mouth to give the formal decree, a clear, lazy, mocking voice drifted from beside a side pillar.
"Wait a moment, my dear king."
Every head turned.
There stood Petyr Baelish—Littlefinger—wearing that same unreadable smile.
"Before you make such a generous decision," he bowed gracefully, "perhaps we should first hear what House Celtigar's patriarch, Lord Adrian Celtigar, thinks about his… ambitious son and this new fief?"
The room went dead still.
Littlefinger didn't seem to mind at all.
"Lord Adrian is already waiting outside. Shall we bring him in first?"
Pierce's brow twitched for the tiniest fraction of a second—then smoothed out. His eyes sharpened as he stared at the man who had just thrown a very large wrench into the works.