Narrow Sea – Waters off Dragonstone
The waves around Dragonstone glittered like scattered gold under the midday sun. Seagulls wheeled overhead, crying out as they curiously eyed the newcomers below.
The Golden Crab's distinctive golden figurehead sliced through the dark-green swells, its sleek hull carving a graceful white wake across the sea.
The wight-powered engines at the stern were silent for now, and the oars manned by the Thousand Hands crew had been shipped. When both systems ran together, the Golden Crab was the pinnacle of modern naval power.
Right now, though, she was running with a steady northeast wind, sails full and proud.
On the foredeck, a striking group of Dornish beauties had gathered, turning heads even among the hardened sailors.
Lys Shad stood at the far left, still in her signature black leather armor but wrapped in a deep-blue seafaring cloak. The wind tugged at her loose black hair. Her emerald-green eyes stayed fixed on the slowly sharpening silhouette of the island to the south. She'd spoken less since leaving Dorne, but the sharp edge in her gaze hadn't dulled one bit.
Beside her, Vira Wyl—no longer of House Wyl—huddled in a cream-colored wool shawl. Her face was still a little pale from seasickness, but there was a long-lost spark in her eyes now. Their fingers were secretly intertwined beneath the wide sleeves of their cloaks.
On the other side, Dorne's three Sand Snakes and one very thorny rose showed off completely different flavors of beauty.
Obara Sand stood with arms crossed, wearing her trademark studded leather, reddish-brown hair whipping wildly in the wind. She squinted like she was scouting enemy territory.
Nymeria Sand leaned against the rail in a wine-red silk gown that clung to every curve. Her black hair was tied in a thick braid that danced in the breeze, and that signature roguish smirk never left her lips.
Tyene Sand stood sweetly beside her sister. She'd let her short hair grow out—Pierce had mentioned he liked long hair—and her pale-blue eyes were wide with curiosity. Being the youngest, she had endless energy and wanted to know everything about everything. She wore a light Dornish gauze dress layered under a Northern-style wool coat Pierce had suggested; the winds north of the Narrow Sea were a lot colder than Dorne's desert heat.
At the center of it all stood Arianne Martell.
The Dornish heir had dressed for the occasion in formal diplomatic attire: a deep-purple velvet robe embroidered in gold with House Martell's spear-and-sun sigil at the collar and cuffs. Her black hair was woven into the intricate updo traditional for Dornish noblewomen, held in place by a silver coronet studded with amethysts.
Yet her posture was pure Arianne—barefoot, delicate golden chains at her ankles, three rings flashing on her fingers in the sunlight. No stuffy restraint here.
Their official story for the visit: Princess Arianne was returning Pierce Celtigar's hospitality with a state visit to Golden Port, then continuing on to King's Landing to strengthen ties between Dorne and the Iron Throne.
When would they reach King's Landing? Arianne would just smile and say, "That depends on how pleasant the journey is… and how many beautiful sights are worth stopping for."
Classic Dornish answer—polite, non-committal, and leaving every door open.
Dorne was all-in on production right now. They were stockpiling goods and gold, getting ready for the day they could finally settle old scores and avenge their blood.
Honestly, Pierce still couldn't quite believe Arianne had decided to come with him. But it showed just how serious she—and Dorne—were about their alliance.
And when a beautiful woman wanted to throw herself into his arms, Pierce wasn't about to say no. His castle was finished; he could easily house a hundred more guests without breaking a sweat.
"Is that Dragonstone?" Arianne asked first, a rare note of genuine awe in her voice.
People in this world were limited by terrible roads and even worse ships. Most never traveled far from home, and sea voyages were always dangerous.
Sunspear had always felt like one of the greatest cities in the Seven Kingdoms to Arianne… until she saw Dragonstone up close.
As the fleet drew nearer, the island's full shape became unmistakable. It really did look like a black-stone beast crouched in the sea, carved by some ancient, inhuman hand.
Jagged volcanic cliffs gleamed wet and dark gray in the sunlight, dotted with sparse vegetation. At the highest point loomed the famous castle—Dragonstone itself.
Even from leagues away, the fortress radiated an oppressive, almost heartbeat-like pressure. It wasn't built with bricks and mortar; it had been shaped by some forgotten power.
Towers twisted like dragons. Battlements flared like spread wings. The whole structure felt alien, powerful, and completely un-human.
Unlike Sunspear's warm, desert-living beauty, Dragonstone was a pure declaration of conquest and dominance.
This place had watched Valyria rise and fall. It had watched the Targaryens rise and fall. And one day, Pierce thought, it might watch House Baratheon do the same.
"Seven hells," Nymeria breathed. "I saw paintings of the Valyrian ruins in Lys, but they don't come close to this. Did… mortals actually build that?"
"Valyrian sorcerers did," Pierce's calm voice came from behind them. He stepped onto the foredeck wearing a dark-gray travel tunic embroidered with silver thread and a black cloak. "Shaping black stone was one of their greatest magical arts during the height of the Freehold. Sadly, most of the knowledge was lost in the Doom."
Tyene turned, eyes sparkling with innocent curiosity. "My lord, didn't you say you've mastered some black-stone techniques? Are they the same?"
"Not even close," Pierce answered honestly. "I can make strong building materials and the right mortar, but I can't shape it freely like the old Valyrian sorcerers. Dragonstone… is one of the last surviving masterpieces of that lost civilization."
Obara squinted at the fortress and snorted. "Looks gloomy as a giant stone tomb. Does Stannis Baratheon really live here without getting depressed? When we meet him, is he going to look like a walking corpse—pale face, pale everything?"
That earned a round of light laughter. Dorne and the Stormlands had been enemies for generations, and House Baratheon sat right at the top of every Dornishman's grudge list.
But there was also a grudging respect mixed in—after all, the Baratheons had led the rebellion that toppled the Targaryens.
Dorne had lost. A prince had died. They acknowledged that. And while they hated their enemies, they still admired strength.
"I heard King Robert was a handsome warrior in his youth," Nymeria said with a playful tilt of her head. "But his brother Stannis… I've seen the portraits. He looks like a block of granite."
"And that face," Obara added, "always like someone just owes him a thousand gold dragons and won't pay up."
The Sand Snakes had done their homework before the trip—Pierce's first stop had to be Dragonstone.
Arianne smiled and joined in. "Pierce, I'm curious about your little betrothed. Shireen Baratheon… she must be eleven now? Still just a child."
Her tone was light, but a sharp glint flickered deep in her violet eyes. Shireen was still a real threat in Arianne's mind. She was Pierce's future wife; her words could easily sway him and affect Dorne's alliance.
The other three women exchanged quick glances. They all knew Shireen was only a little girl, but that subtle, very female competitive spark was still there.
Pierce was their ally. The man who brought Dorne wealth and power. Even if their heads understood political marriages, their hearts couldn't help comparing.
"Shireen is indeed eleven," Pierce answered calmly, as if he hadn't caught the undercurrent. "She was frail as a child and still carries greyscale scars, but under my physicians and handmaids she's improved a lot."
"Greyscale?" Tyene blinked. "I heard it's awful—turns people to stone."
"There are rumors it came from a Rhoynar curse," Pierce explained. "But as long as it doesn't flare up and kill you outright, you can survive. It just leaves scars. Shireen has some gray patches on her left cheek, but they're fading. She's kind and very bright."
Nymeria laughed softly. "Kind and bright—lovely qualities. But tell me, my lord… when she grows up, will she be beautiful?"
The question was blunt and bold. Pierce met her eyes. Nymeria stared right back, smirking.
"She inherited the Baratheon good looks," Pierce said evenly. "If her health keeps improving, she'll be a lovely young woman. But that doesn't matter. Marriage is about alliance, not beauty pageants."
"Very diplomatic," Obara muttered.
Arianne looked thoughtful. "House Baratheon does carry a thin thread of dragon blood. Daemon Blackfyre gained so many supporters simply because he looked like the Young Dragon. In the Seven Kingdoms, appearance is never unimportant. In my opinion… it matters a great deal."
Pierce was about to reply when the lookout shouted from above:
"Harbor signal! Dragonstone grants permission to dock!"
Everyone turned toward the port. The black cliffs that formed Dragonstone's natural harbor were now clearly visible.
Compared to Pierce's last visit, the changes were striking. The once-ramshackle fishing huts had been replaced by neat rows of stone buildings. Dozens of chimneys puffed white smoke—glassworks running at full capacity.
Production was still expanding. Pierce figured the entire outskirts of Dragonstone would eventually become one giant industrial district.
"Are those your industries, my lord?" Vira asked softly—the first time she'd spoken since boarding.
"Mine and Lord Stannis's together," Pierce corrected. "Dragonstone sits on rich dragonglass deposits—perfect raw material. The workshops produce glassware that sells all across Essos and brings in serious income."
Guided by a pilot boat, the fleet eased into the harbor. A small welcoming party waited on the dock.
Pierce spotted the leader instantly.
Stannis Baratheon stood ramrod straight in his Master of Ships uniform, a cloak bearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon over his shoulders.
Same stern expression, tight mouth, furrowed brow—like the whole world was personally offending him.
But today there was something different.
His posture was still rigid, his face still unsmiling… yet his sharp blue eyes seemed lighter. Less brooding. Almost… relaxed? Even a hint of suppressed satisfaction.
Beside him stood little Shireen.
The last time Pierce had seen her—half a year ago—she'd been a pale, frail little girl.
Now she was taller, with color in her cheeks, wearing a light-blue velvet dress and a white fur-trimmed cloak. Her hair was the classic Baratheon black, eyes deep blue.
The biggest change was her greyscale scars. The gray patches that had once spread across her left cheek had faded and shrunk dramatically. Only faint traces remained, and healthy pink was starting to show through.
Greyscale was magical in origin. It wouldn't vanish overnight—it was like a stubborn fungus. As long as any roots remained, it could return.
Perhaps only when Shireen fully awakened the dragon blood in her veins would the curse finally disappear.
On Stannis's other side…
Pierce's gaze narrowed slightly.
Selyse Florent—Stannis's wife—was nowhere to be seen.
By custom, the lady of the castle should greet important guests, especially an ally and future good-son. Selyse might not be loved by Stannis, but she had always been scrupulous about protocol.
Unless… she couldn't appear.
Pierce remembered the latest report from his spies inside Dragonstone. Selyse was nearly nine months pregnant and could give birth any day. The timing fit perfectly.
(The seed I planted is finally about to sprout, is it?)
The Golden Crab glided alongside the dock. The gangplank dropped. Pierce straightened his cloak and stepped ashore first. The Dornish women followed, forming a striking procession behind him.