Sunspear – Hall of Fine Wines
"Step four: decanting."
Once every drop had been poured into the crystal decanter, the sommelier began the most intricate part of the ritual. She gripped the slender neck with both hands and started a slow, precise figure-eight rotation.
Not shaking — a unique swirling motion that created elegant little vortices inside the glass.
"This is the 'River Vortex Decanting Method,' restored from ancient Rhoynar texts," Serena's voice carried through the hall. "It mimics the flowing rhythms of Mother Rhoyne, gently awakening the sleeping wine, letting it breathe and release layer after layer of aroma. The entire process requires exactly one hundred and seventy-three figure-eight rotations — one for each year the wine has slumbered."
The sommelier moved with total concentration. The hall fell into absolute silence, broken only by her soft breathing and the quiet swirl of wine against crystal. Every guest was mesmerized by the almost religious ceremony.
"Final step: serving."
After the rotations ended, the sommelier let the decanter rest for a moment, then used an exceptionally long glass ladle to scoop small portions into five different tasting glasses.
Each glass had a unique shape — some with narrow mouths, others wide and rounded, some with long, elegant stems.
"Different glass shapes are designed to capture different layers of aroma," Serena continued, her voice perfectly in sync with Pierce's quiet explanation below. "The Blossom glass brings out floral notes. The Flame glass highlights alcohol strength. The Time glass reveals aged complexity. The Memory glass catches the most subtle hidden scents. And the Heart glass… is meant to experience the changing finish on the palate."
The five glasses were presented to the masters. The whole ritual took nearly fifteen minutes, yet no one looked impatient. On the contrary, the guests were completely spellbound by the elegant complexity.
Nymeria leaned toward Pierce and whispered in awe, "This whole procedure… it's practically a religious ceremony. Where in the world did you come up with this?"
"From human nature," Pierce smiled. "Take something simple and make it complicated — that creates value. Tell people a bottle of wine costs a hundred gold dragons and they'll hesitate. But tell them it requires a five-step ritual, three custom tools, and sommeliers trained for three months… suddenly a hundred gold dragons feels too cheap for all that ceremony."
Tyene blinked. "Those tools… are they expensive?"
"Corkscrew: pure silver, fifty gold dragons per set. Decanter: crystal glass, eighty gold dragons. Full glassware set with five specialized shapes: one hundred gold dragons."
Pierce listed the prices casually. "And these aren't available just because you have money. Only clients who spend over five hundred gold dragons on wine qualify to purchase the tools. Over a thousand gets you the complete set. Over five thousand… and you become a 'Cellar Club' member with access to limited private tastings of 'Nymeria's Longing.'"
Obara sucked in a sharp breath. "You're insane! People will actually buy this?"
"Not only will they buy it," Pierce's smile widened, "they'll fight over it. Because it signals status. When your guests see this complete set on your table, they'll instantly know you're not just rich — you're refined. That kind of vanity is far more seductive than gold."
Complicating simple things to make more money — this was one of the core lessons Pierce had brought from his old world.
As long as the marketing was strong enough, quality barely mattered. People wanted prestige.
Arianne shook her head with a helpless laugh. "So you're not just selling wine. You're selling an entire… system?"
"System, status, superiority," Pierce nodded. "Wine is just the entry point. After that come endless revenue streams — tools, training courses, membership fees, exclusive events… Every layer can be monetized. And the more exclusive something is, the more people crave it."
Nymeria stared at him for a long moment before speaking softly, "Lord Pierce… I'm suddenly a little scared. One day, are you going to package us up and sell us the same way?"
Pierce turned, looked at her, then at the other three women. He reached out and pulled Tyene into his arms. She let out a small surprised sound but didn't resist.
"You four?" Pierce's voice was quiet but clear enough for all of them to hear. "You're not for sale."
The women froze.
"The cheapest thing in this world is human life," he continued, fingers absently stroking Tyene's golden hair. "A life on the slave market costs only a few dozen silver stags. Even the most beautiful bed-slave goes for just a few hundred gold dragons at most."
He released Tyene and swept his gaze across all four. "But you're different. You carry Martell blood. You are the jewels of Dorne — political assets, strategic resources. Selling you would be a waste. Your best place is exactly where you are, delivering maximum value."
His eyes suddenly turned playful. "For example… warming beds."
All four women blushed at once — Obara with angry red, Nymeria with teasing warmth, Arianne with complex crimson, and Tyene with shy pink.
"Of course," Pierce added, tone returning to normal, "this is also part of our partnership. Dorne gives me resources, I give Dorne wealth and influence. You and I… we make each other stronger. That's the strongest kind of alliance."
He said no more and turned his attention back to the stage. The five masters had just raised their glasses.
…
Master Haji "Spicetongue" brought the glass to his nose, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. His expression shifted from calm to surprise, then pure shock. When he opened his eyes, his aged voice rang through the hall:
"I smell… the blazing sun of the Sulfur River valley from one hundred and seventy years ago. That summer was unusually long. The grapes ripened half a month later than usual, but the sunlight was extraordinarily intense, giving the skins more thickness and heavier tannins."
He tilted the glass, watching the legs crawl slowly down the sides. "Thick, slow tears… high alcohol content with balanced residual sugar. Classic characteristics of Dornish wine from that exact era."
He took a small sip, held it in his mouth, then swallowed slowly. He remained silent for ten full seconds.
"Brick-red flavors…" he finally spoke, voice trembling slightly. "Aged leather, dried fruit, candied dates… and a faint trace of beeswax — exactly the sealing material used in Nymeria's time! This is impossible… yet this truly is… the taste of time itself."
The hall erupted.
Marco "Waterdancer" was even more meticulous. He tasted from three different glasses, timing each sip to the second.
"In the Blossom glass, I caught the aroma of the extinct 'Desert Rose' grape. Its final harvest was exactly one hundred and seventy years ago." Marco's voice was calm and precise. "In the Flame glass, the body is powerful but the alcohol has perfectly integrated with no harsh burn — undeniable proof of extreme aging. In the Time glass… I tasted sorrow."
He paused and looked toward Prince Doran. "It's real! There is a restrained melancholy in the wine — not violent, but deep and lingering. Like quietly missing a loved one in the middle of the night. If this is not the personal longing Princess Nymeria sealed with her own hands, then my forty years of tasting have been wasted."
Aurelio Volaris from Lys was the most theatrical. After one sip, actual tears rolled down his cheeks.
"I'm reminded of my first wife…" he choked out. "She passed twenty years ago. This wine… it carries the exact same feeling — love, loss, and the gentle ache time leaves behind. I'm bidding! No matter the price, I want a bottle!"
Grassis Moredo pushed up his spectacles, pulled out a small notebook and pen, and began writing. "Color: 9.8. Aroma: 9.9. Palate: 10. Finish: 10. Story value: 10. Overall score: 9.94! This is the highest score I have ever given in my career!"
Soro Glasshand raised his glass to the light. "The way it clings to the glass looks like stained cathedral windows… Beautiful. This isn't wine. This is liquid art."
Five masters. Five different styles. But the conclusion was unanimous: this was undeniably a legendary vintage lost for over a century — the living proof of Princess Nymeria's love. A priceless treasure.
The hall exploded. Noble ladies wiped away tears. Merchants calculated their funds. Lords exchanged meaningful glances. Everyone wanted a bottle. They needed one.
Serena stepped forward at the perfect moment, her voice rising above the chaos:
"The certification by our five honored masters has proven the authenticity and priceless nature of 'Nymeria's Longing.' And now… the auction begins. Of the twenty legendary bottles, ten will be used for tasting tonight — every guest will receive a small sample. The remaining ten… will be auctioned publicly."
She paused, letting the tension build.
"Rules are simple: each bottle starts at one thousand gold dragons. Bids must increase by at least one hundred gold dragons. Each person may purchase only one bottle, because legends should be shared. We begin with Bottle Number One — 'The Battle of Starfall.'"
A server carefully removed one bottle from the cabinet. The label clearly read "Starfall" in archaic script.
"One thousand gold dragons!" someone shouted immediately.
"One thousand five hundred!"
"Two thousand!"
"Three thousand!"
…
The price skyrocketed at a shocking speed. The Lysene trade princes competed fiercely. Braavosi bankers jumped in. The Prince of Pentos's eldest son refused to back down. Qartheen spice merchants called out numbers in accented Common. Summer Isles nobles slammed their tables to raise bids.
"Eight thousand!"
"Nine thousand!"
"Ten thousand gold dragons!"
…
When the price broke ten thousand, the hall fell briefly silent — only for a few seconds.
"Eleven thousand!"
"Twelve thousand!"
"Fifteen thousand!"
…
Arianne gripped the arms of her chair so tightly her knuckles turned white. Obara's mouth hung slightly open. Nymeria shook her head in disbelief. Tyene unconsciously clutched Pierce's arm.
The first bottle, "The Battle of Starfall," finally sold for twenty-three thousand gold dragons to the representative of the Sealord of Braavos.
The second bottle, "The Assault on Prince's Pass," went for twenty-six thousand to the richest trade prince from Lys.
The third, "The Siege of the Red Mountains," reached twenty-nine thousand and was claimed by the Prince of Pentos's son.
…
The tenth and final bottle, "The Last Farewell," shattered all records at forty-eight thousand gold dragons!
The winner was an elder from the Qartheen Spice Guild, a white-haired old man who wept openly after the win. "I will take it back to Qarth and place it in the temple, so everyone may know that love can transcend time…"
Ten bottles. Total revenue: three hundred and fifteen thousand gold dragons.
And it still wasn't over.
After the final winner completed payment (Pierce accepted no credit), Serena returned to the dais, her voice trembling with excitement.
"Congratulations to the ten new owners of these legends! You have not only acquired priceless treasures — you are now the founding members of the 'Nymeria's Star' Club. From this day forward, the Hall of Fine Wines will always be your second home."
She spread her arms wide. "And now, please enjoy the rest of this magnificent night! The Hall of Fine Wines will present Dorne's most exquisite cuisine, the most moving music, and… the most unforgettable performances."
As her words ended, the orchestra's music transformed — shifting from solemn tasting melodies into passionate, fiery Dornish rhythms.
Servers poured out like a wave, carrying the feast: whole roasted lambs covered in desert spices, charcoal-grilled squid with lemon, pigeon stewed with pomegranate in silver bowls, and an array of desserts made with new preservation techniques — grape tarts, fig cakes, cactus fruit sorbet…
The guests ate and drank with abandon. The ten record-breaking bottles had been carefully stored away, but countless other fine Dornish wines flowed freely. The atmosphere turned into a full-blown summer festival.
Prince Doran watched everything from the dais, complex emotions flickering in his eyes. Oberyn leaned close and whispered, "Brother… three hundred and fifteen thousand gold dragons. That's more than Dorne's entire annual tax revenue."
"And this is only the beginning," Doran replied softly. "Pierce was right. We're not selling wine. We're selling dreams. And dreams… are infinite."
At that moment, the hall lights changed again. The main chandeliers dimmed, leaving only wall sconces and several dramatic spotlights hanging from the dome.
The music shifted once more into a powerful, never-before-heard rhythm dominated by drums and strange metallic percussion.
All eyes turned to the central open space.
Ten polished copper poles rose slowly from the floor — each about two men tall and as thick as a bowl, engraved with intricate vine patterns that gleamed seductively under the lights.
Ten women emerged from the side curtains.
They wore… clothing that was difficult to describe. Extremely thin, dark-red silk bodysuits that hugged every curve of their bodies, strategically adorned with crystals and flowing tassels at the most tantalizing places.
Their lower halves were barely covered by high-slit skirts that were more like two floating silk ribbons. They were barefoot, with delicate golden chains and tiny bells around their ankles.
These were the pole dancers Pierce had personally trained — created specifically to elevate the fame and reputation of the Hall of Fine Wines even higher.