One month later – Crab Bay
A medium-sized cargo ship called the Spotted Whale glided along the coastline, sails bellied full in the steady breeze, heading straight for the sparkling new port that had completely replaced the old Warsong Keep.
Her captain, Balser Boggs, was a burly forty-something with sun-blackened skin and a voice that carried like a foghorn. He leaned against the rail, talking a mile a minute to the mysterious woman in the deep-red hooded cloak who hadn't said much the whole trip.
"Miss, you wouldn't believe how wild it got a month ago!" Balser waved one thick arm like he was still swinging an axe. "Warsong Keep—well, it's Golden Port now—turned into a slaughterhouse. Old Fishspear Hollan thought he could go toe-to-toe with Lord Pierce. Poor bastard."
He shook his head, half laughing, half still a little stunned. "Lord Pierce rolled in with those elite troops of his and wiped the floor with us—uh, with the hard-heads who wouldn't bend the knee. Over in two shakes."
Balser paused, searching for the right words. "After the fighting stopped, His Lordship ordered every clan to move their people right around the port. Even old Eustace Blount from Fear Hollow came sniffing around thinking he could play hero. Took one look at the fleet and the golden crab banners and folded like wet parchment. Packed up his whole family and settled here without a fuss."
His eyes flicked hopefully toward the hooded woman, but she stayed silent.
"Now, Castor 'Stonebreaker' Blount from Brown Hollow—big dumb ox—figured the empty Fear Hollow was free real estate. Thought he'd just squat there." Balser snorted. "Lord Pierce didn't even bother showing up himself. Sent Ser Rosco Blount and his cousin Benard with five hundred mercenaries. Rolled the whole clan up in a single afternoon. Both hollows belong to the lord now. They're already recruiting settlers to mine the stone and timber."
The woman in the red cloak listened quietly. Under the hood her face was impossible to read, but the tilt of her head said she was paying close attention.
She finally spoke, voice cool and clear. "Why rename it Golden Port? The name sounds… greedy. Vulgar."
Balser barked a laugh, completely unbothered. "That's the whole point, miss! Lord Pierce says he's turning this bay into a harbor where gold flows like water—but honest gold. Trade, craftsmanship, hard work. You bring a skill, you make money. Simple as that."
A few passengers—mostly craftsmen from Gulltown—leaned in, ears perked. One middle-aged carpenter couldn't hold back.
"Captain, they really paying triple what we get back home?"
"Triple? Try five times!" Balser slapped the rail. "Lord Pierce is starving for real talent—carpenters, stonemasons, blacksmiths, sailors. Show up ready to work and you'll get land, a house, the works."
The deck buzzed with excited murmurs. High wages and free land were the kind of promises that made grown men dream.
But the woman in red had already turned toward the rail, staring out at the water. Dozens of fishing boats criss-crossed the bay, nets heavy and decks glittering with silver scales.
"Captain," she said quietly, a faint note of unease in her voice, "why are there so many boats? The catch looks… unnaturally rich."
Balser puffed out his chest. "Lord Pierce's luck, they say! Ever since he took over, the fish and shrimp have gone mad—bigger, fatter, more of 'em every day. Fishermen swear it's a blessing from the gods."
The woman shook her head almost imperceptibly. Under her breath she muttered, "…Not luck. This is an outsider power twisting nature itself…" The words were lost beneath the chatter of the passengers.
Just then someone shouted and pointed toward the river mouth. On a smaller delta sat the half-finished base of an enormous statue. The foundation was already massive, built from glossy black stone that caught the sunlight in an eerie, almost living way.
"Look! That's gonna be the goddess statue Lord Pierce ordered!" Balser said proudly. "Supposed to be magnificent when it's done."
A few Seven-worshipping passengers muttered uneasily. "A maiden statue? Why black? That color feels… wrong."
Under her hood the woman's brows drew tight. Blasphemy, she thought. Desecration of the true gods.
Balser overheard and laughed. "Nah, it's not ordinary rock. Special stuff from Essos—only Lord Pierce's maesters know how to work it. Hard as Valyrian steel and laughs at seawater. Black as night and twice as tough."
The passengers fell silent, awed all over again by the mysterious lord's reach.
As the Spotted Whale drew closer to the harbor the current picked up, rocking the ship hard where river met sea. Balser bellowed for everyone to hold on. The woman in red stood perfectly steady, as if the waves obeyed her.
She felt it then—a colder, sharper presence sweeping across the bay like an invisible tide. Her head snapped up. Her sharp gaze locked on the new high tower in the eastern district. At the very top a slender white figure stood at the railing, looking out over the entire port and the sea beyond.
"Captain," she asked, voice tight, "who is that on the tower?"
Balser squinted, then fished out his prized brass spyglass. After a moment he lowered it with a knowing grin. "Sharp eyes, miss. That's Lady Melanye—from Tearmark Lake. Folks say she's Lord Pierce's… favorite. Real mysterious, though. Most people give her a wide berth."
He licked his lips and leaned in a little too close. "Once we dock, I know a nice tavern in West City. Cold ale, hot meat—my treat for listening to me yap the whole way. What do you say?"
The ship slid neatly into a West City berth while East City's military docks stayed off-limits, bristling with warships and guards. The woman glanced at the heavily patrolled eastern piers.
"Why not moor over there?"
"Those are for the lord's fleet and military only," Balser shrugged. "Regular merchants and passengers stick to West City."
The gangplank thudded down. Balser opened his mouth to keep flirting, but the woman simply reached up and lowered her hood.
The deck went dead quiet.
Heart-shaped face, snow-pale skin, hair the color of living flame. A ruby the size of a pigeon's egg glowed at her throat like a drop of fresh blood. Her eyes held centuries of secrets and a cold, knowing distance that made men want to look away and keep staring at the same time.
She gave the stunned captain a small, mocking smile. "Thank you for the offer, Captain Balser. But tonight you're destined to spend three silver stags on a very friendly tavern wench and wake up too hungover for the morning tide. I, however, have far more important business."
She pulled the hood back up, hiding that striking face again, and stepped off the ship with the rest of the passengers.
Balser stood frozen, mouth open. "How the hell did she know my name? And the silver stags…?" A chill ran down his spine and he decided not to think about it any further.
The crowd was funneled toward a roped-off area instead of being allowed straight into the city. Seven orderly lines, sturdy ropes, men and women in dark uniforms wearing odd flat caps and carrying short clubs. Short swords at their hips. Some even had compact repeating crossbows slung across their backs.
Anyone who tried to cut in line or shove got barked at instantly. A couple of swaggering free riders who'd just stepped off the boat were politely but firmly told to hand over their weapons. When one hesitated, more black-uniformed guards closed in, hands on hilts. The mood turned ice-cold in a heartbeat.
The woman in red waited patiently. A wooden sign in Common Tongue and several trade languages read: IMMIGRATION & ENTRY REGISTRATION.
After about half an hour it was her turn. She stepped up to a long table where a young man in maester's robes—no chain around his neck—sat with a stylus.
"Name?" he asked without looking up.
"Melisandre," she answered softly.
"Origin?"
"Essos. Near Astapor."
"Purpose in Golden Port?"
"Travel. Seeking… potential kindred spirits of faith."
The scribe scratched rapidly on his tablet, then slid her a small wooden token the size of half a palm. "Keep this temporary identity chit on you at all times inside the port. Lose it and report to the building next door immediately. Any mismatch in information can result in fines, labor service, or permanent expulsion."
The token bore a strange emblem—half crab, half swirling vortex—plus a line of characters she couldn't read.
Farther down the line a commotion erupted. A free swordsman who'd had his longsword confiscated started shouting.
"What the hell is this?! I came to swear to Lord Pierce! I'm here to be a knight, not get treated like a criminal! Give me back my sword!"
He tried to rally the others. "Brothers, why are we letting these pencil-pushers—"
His voice died.
At least ten black-uniformed guards had already raised their arms. Ten compact, beautifully made crossbows were aimed straight at his chest. The cold promise of death silenced the entire dock.
The man went white. Two guards stepped in, grabbed him under the arms, and hauled him off toward a stone building without another word.
Melisandre watched the whole thing, then turned back to the scribe with a faint smile. "What usually happens to… enthusiastic would-be knights like him?"
The scribe finally looked up, adjusting his spectacles. His gaze was sharp and calm, like he could see straight through people. "We ask very patiently about his real purpose and whether anyone put him up to it. Then we escort him out—politely—and he is never allowed back on Lord Pierce's lands. Ever."
She tilted her head. "You're not worried he'll spread ugly rumors? Or try something more violent later?"
The scribe's eyebrow rose. "His Lordship says the future of Crackclaw Point isn't built on fear. It's built on order and prosperity. One buzzing fly doesn't change the tide. But if it comes back and tries to bite…" He shrugged. "We swat it."
His eyes flicked briefly to the enormous ruby at her throat. His voice dropped, suddenly knowing. "Also, my lady… sometimes too much curiosity isn't healthy. Especially for a servant of the Lord of Light."
Melisandre's eyes sharpened to blades beneath the hood. "How did you know?"
The scribe gave a small, polite smile. "I trained in Braavos. I've seen every faith and its little symbols. Red priestesses aren't exactly common, and your presence is… distinctive. That's why you were directed to my line. I have a passing knowledge of the world's religions."
She was quiet for a moment, taking in the disciplined efficiency all around her. "Then tell me, scribe—what is Lord Pierce's attitude toward other faiths?"
The scribe lowered his head again and went back to the next traveler's papers. His answer drifted over, calm and final.
"His Lordship permits any faith that does not disturb order or incite hatred. But he has been very clear: here, the law stands above any divine command. No one—priest, septon, or red witch—may judge or punish in the name of their god. Lord Pierce simply wants to build a good land. Nothing more."
Melisandre stood very still, the ruby at her throat catching the sunlight like fresh blood. For the first time since stepping onto the dock, the faintest smile touched her lips.
She slipped the wooden token into her sleeve and melted into the crowd, red cloak swirling like living flame.
Golden Port had just welcomed its most dangerous new arrival.