[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 126 - 130

Chapter 126: A Secret Betrothal

"Alleras."

Joffrey explored the depths of her dark eyes, as if peering into some secret chamber hidden within.

"You are Sarella Sand, are you not?"

The king's voice, laden with spirit and magic, cut through the air like Valyrian steel, reaching every ear in the chamber.

All present stood transfixed, their expressions dazed as the weight of the revelation settled upon them.

The king nodded to himself, satisfied. "It truly is you, Sarella."

No verbal response was needed; Joffrey had already confirmed the answer from her trembling eyes and the poisoned needle concealed between her slender fingers.

An unexpected pleasure, this.

Sarella Sand—bastard daughter of Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell, the notorious "Red Viper"—was renowned for her vivacious nature, formidable intellect, love of learning, passion for history, and relentless pursuit of hidden knowledge.

Sarella and her seven half-sisters all bore the Dornish bastard surname "Sand" and were collectively known throughout the realm as the "Sand Snakes."

Though these eight young women were nominally bastard daughters, Oberyn had provided them with the finest protection and education, allowing them to grow alongside the trueborn children of Sunspear and various Dornish lords.

Thus, the Sand Snakes had become a formidable force among the rising generation of Dorne's nobility.

Joffrey savored this unexpected development.

He had long contemplated the matter of Dorne, wondering when and how best to break the ice and incorporate its considerable strength into his domain. Now, remarkably, a Sand Snake had delivered herself to his very doorstep.

Sarella Sand.

He scrutinized the tense and wary Dornishwoman with a gaze that held both amusement and calculation.

"Could it be that Prince Doran intends at last to heed the Iron Throne's call? That he means to march north against the rebels and has sent you ahead to deliver his message, demonstrating his sincerity?"

In theory, such a possibility existed.

Oberyn's elder brother was Doran Nymeros Martell—Prince of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear, and liege to whom all Dornish vassals pledged their fealty.

By virtue of this relationship, Sarella was Prince Doran's own niece, certainly qualified to serve as messenger or even hostage.

But in truth, Dorne would never willingly yield its independence at this juncture.

The southernmost kingdom's unique geographical features—vast deserts and harsh wilderness—had always hindered its integration with the other six kingdoms. Its economy remained relatively self-contained, making it notoriously difficult for foreign armies to conquer completely.

Its culture and ethnicity, strongly influenced by the ancient Rhoynar, further weakened the Dornish people's sense of belonging to the Iron Throne.

To this day, Dorne remained the only one of the Seven Kingdoms that retained its royal titles. The ruling Martell family and their children all proudly bore the style of "Prince" or "Princess" rather than mere lords.

Evidently, compared to other territories nominally loyal to the Iron Throne, Dorne functioned more as a vassal state—perhaps even as a united but separate kingdom.

For these reasons, Dorne possessed ample justification and confidence to maintain its neutrality, without need to hastily declare for any faction.

Moreover, House Martell had stood firmly with House Targaryen during Robert's Rebellion, choosing to oppose the Baratheon uprising at great cost.

Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard and countless Dornish soldiers had perished in that war. Later, Lannister forces had brutally murdered Elia Martell—Rhaegar's wife—and her children in the very halls of the Red Keep.

Elia Martell had been Prince Doran's beloved sister.

Though Hand of the King Jon Arryn had personally journeyed to Dorne afterward to negotiate peace, leading to a nominal renewal of their alliance, Dorne had since harbored an irreconcilable hatred for House Lannister. Its support for the Iron Throne had grown increasingly tepid, while its isolationist tendencies only strengthened.

Joffrey also knew that House Martell had been secretly supporting a Targaryen restoration for years.

Oberyn himself had traveled to Braavos and, with the Sea Lord as witness, entered into a clandestine agreement with Ser Willem Darry, protector of the exiled Viserys Targaryen.

The parties had agreed that Viserys would wed Arianne Martell upon reaching maturity, whereupon Dorne would rise in rebellion to support Viserys in reclaiming the Iron Throne.

Varys, the Pentoshi magister Illyrio Mopatis, the exiled Lord Jon Connington, and Myles Toyne, commander of the Golden Company, had all played roles in this elaborate conspiracy.

But this scheme had undoubtedly been shattered beyond repair.

Joffrey extended his left hand, and Daenerys obediently pressed her cheek against it, allowing herself to be guided onto his lap as his hand moved with gentle insistence.

"Daenerys, you may not be aware, but Ser Willem Darry once secured a betrothal for your brother Viserys."

Joffrey's gaze returned to Sarella.

"A most advantageous match—Princess Arianne Martell, heir to Dorne itself."

Arianne!?

Sarella's eyes darted from Daenerys back to the king, meeting his mysterious, captivating gaze. She could not prevent the involuntary tremor that passed through her body.

"A pity that Viserys will have no need of her now," Joffrey remarked with feigned regret.

"I truly worry for Princess Arianne's future. Whom might she marry? Willas Tyrell of Highgarden, perhaps? Or will she compete with Lady Margaery for my uncle Renly's affections?"

"I would recommend Uncle Renly. Who says a king may have but one queen?"

"Ah, but I forget—Uncle Renly is no king at all."

Joffrey added with false kindness, "Though I could issue a special decree, permitting Uncle Renly to take two wives. I trust Princess Arianne would find such an arrangement satisfactory."

Sarella maintained her resolute silence.

King Joffrey's words cut too deeply, their implications too profound. She found herself utterly at a loss for response.

Everything about this night had transcended her expectations.

All had been proceeding according to plan.

As Assistant Scholar Alleras, she had successfully accompanied Archmaester Marwyn to King's Landing.

Her intention had been to quietly investigate the city's secrets, cleverly obtaining whatever knowledge and information she desired.

No one would mark her presence, just as none had truly seen her at the Citadel.

What an intriguing adventure it should have been.

Yet how could her carefully constructed identity have been so easily penetrated?

Is this magic?

Will Renly and the Tyrells truly fail in their ambitions?

Did Father and the others indeed conspire to restore the Targaryens? Is King Joffrey now set against Dorne?

Excitement, panic, and other emotions beyond description surged through her heart. Sarella raised her head and met the king's piercing gaze, forcing herself not to look away, demonstrating the resilience for which the Dornish were famed.

But she knew, with cold certainty, that she had nowhere to flee.

Joffrey then turned his attention to the golden-haired youth standing nearby. "Leo Tyrell, has Highgarden sent you to sue for peace?"

"Lazy Leo" executed a respectful bow.

"Your Grace, though I am merely an assistant scholar, I have long since dedicated myself wholly to knowledge and truth, setting aside the burden of my surname. All matters concerning House Tyrell belong to the past and hold no relevance to my present circumstances."

Joffrey lifted a six-pointed star badge from the table before him. "In truth, I had already reached my decision."

"To restore peace as swiftly as possible, to reunite the vassals of the Seven Kingdoms, and to deliver the smallfolk from the ravages of war, I stand prepared to endure criticism, to break with tradition, and to take Lady Margaery as my second queen."

Leo Tyrell stared at the king, shock evident in every line of his face.

Joffrey sighed. "The misunderstandings between our houses run deep, and mere letters cannot adequately convey sincerity. You would have made a suitable messenger. What a waste."

"It seems we must quell this rebellion with blood and fire after all."

Joffrey tossed the six-pointed star carelessly onto the table.

The brass badge spun upon the polished surface, producing sharp, rhythmic sounds that grew louder and more urgent with each revolution.

Before the six-pointed star could come to rest, Leo Tyrell—scion of Highgarden—bowed with newfound solemnity.

"If my actions might end this turmoil and preserve innocent lives, then personal interest becomes insignificant. What does it matter if I reclaim the name Leo Tyrell?"

"Your Grace, I willingly offer myself as your messenger."

Chapter 127: Valyrian Steel Ring

Joffrey finally turned his attention to Archmaester Marwyn, the so-called "Magician," who had been waiting in patient silence.

The stocky man grinned at him, revealing a mouthful of teeth stained with mottled red—as if he habitually chewed sourleaf or some similar substance, unable to curb the habit or to cleanse his mouth before attending the royal presence.

Joffrey returned a faint smile.

Marwyn's nose bore more than one mark of old fractures, his hands were rough and oversized, and his attire could most charitably be described as careless.

At first glance, he appeared nothing more than a slovenly and irascible brute, a man who knew only how to brawl, create disturbances, and live at others' expense.

Yet he was, undeniably, a maester.

Moreover, the chain encircling his thick neck boasted nearly as many links as Grand Maester Pycelle's—an impressive testament to his diverse learning.

It was well known that the Grand Maester, selected by the Citadel's Conclave to advise the King, wore a chain forged of almost every metal known to man.

Joffrey's gaze settled on Marwyn's left hand.

The archmaester's thick finger bore a ring fashioned from Valyrian steel. It emitted a faint white luminescence, and within its band was etched a pattern that Joffrey recognized as a restoration rune.

"Archmaester Marwyn."

Joffrey's voice was soft as summer rain. "Is Valyrian steel truly indestructible?"

Marwyn shook his head with firm conviction. "Nothing in this world is absolutely indestructible, Your Grace, and Valyrian steel is no exception. Were it otherwise, how could the blacksmiths of Qohor reforge it? How would I possess this ring?"

He raised his left hand, displaying the black steel band that adorned his finger.

Marwyn knew far more than he revealed.

Yet at present, only two young women attended the King—along with the elderly Qyburn. The two acolytes Marwyn had brought to King's Landing had been exposed one after another, both implicated in the greater conflicts engulfing the Seven Kingdoms.

The atmosphere hung delicate as spider's silk.

Marwyn had gradually tempered his fanaticism for magic with prudence.

This was a private audience, he understood—a testing of waters between them, and a negotiation of great importance. At least, that was Marwyn's perception.

He burned with curiosity: how much did King Joffrey truly know about the higher mysteries?

Joffrey posed another question. "Beyond blood sacrifice and flame, what else might destroy Valyrian steel? Surely Archmaester Marwyn has conducted experiments in this regard?"

Marwyn recognized then that King Joffrey likely knew the answer already.

"Your Grace, repeated and violent collisions with swords or blunt instruments can diminish the efficacy of Valyrian steel, rendering it vulnerable to destruction, much like common steel in prolonged combat."

Marwyn met the King's gaze, finding it calm and unwavering as a frozen lake.

"If one seeks merely to destroy its form rather than divide it, Valyrian steel will gradually recover its shape independently.

"If it is severed into multiple pieces, it will not regrow to its original configuration, but instead will stabilize as separate, smaller pieces of Valyrian steel. These fragments retain their efficacy and maintain the characteristic hardness and self-restoration of the original.

"However, if the number of divisions grows excessive, it will produce degenerate fragments incapable of restoring their form, pieces that no longer possess the hardness and sharpness of true Valyrian steel.

"The upper threshold for effective division varies; almost every piece of Valyrian steel differs in this regard."

In Marwyn's observation, Daenerys Targaryen, the girl called Master of Whisperers, and Qyburn all maintained expressions of indifference, as if they were merely enduring a tedious story repeated too often.

"Therefore," Marwyn concluded, "Valyrian steel must incorporate multiple magical runes."

"These invisible and colorless, yet indestructible runes likely constitute the source of Valyrian steel's magical properties. They can be separated when the carrier is divided, though there exists some numerical limit to this process."

Sarella Sand and Leo Tyrell gradually succumbed to fascination.

Archmaester Marwyn had never before explained the mysteries of Valyrian steel in such detail, always revealing half the truth while withholding the remainder, stoking his listeners' appetite for knowledge without sating it.

"However, no matter how intently my mortal eyes might gaze upon the sun, I dare not stare overlong into its brilliance, much less claim to have glimpsed its true essence. My understanding must contain countless omissions and errors."

Marwyn inclined his head respectfully.

"I beseech Your Grace to correct my imperfect knowledge."

All eyes returned to the King.

Joffrey yawned softly, then withdrew a small golden figurine from within his sleeve and tossed it casually into the air.

The tiny figure tumbled downward in lazy circles, its limbs and body twisting in mid-descent.

With a whisper of sound, it landed gracefully upon the wooden table, its feet planted firmly, its body upright, making scarcely a sound.

"Chirp."

The figure took minuscule steps toward the King's right hand, which rested upon the table. Its pair of rice-grain-sized fists began to hammer against the royal knuckles, apparently expressing displeasure, though the gesture seemed more akin to a child's affected petulance.

Sarella and the others exclaimed in wonder, then immediately fell silent.

Qyburn rushed forward before Marwyn could move, his body bent so far over the table that he was nearly prostrate. "Is this the Child of Fire?! It lives!"

Marwyn stared at the diminutive being's every movement with obsessive intensity, as if beholding his most cherished treasure.

Child of Fire.

Marwyn savored this strange and evocative name.

Indeed, its body consisted of golden flame, born from fire itself—a creature of evident wisdom. What name could be more fitting than Child of Fire?

"This is the first piece of Valyrian steel born from my hands," the King declared suddenly.

Marwyn's gaze shifted to the King's left hand, which held a dagger as black as a moonless night.

"'Light of Peace' is its name. I once placed great hopes in Valyrian steel."

The King rotated the weapon in his hand, cold light dancing along its edge.

"The gods have blessed me with the all-knowing eye, that I might survey the world, examine souls, and perceive truth with perfect clarity."

"Through this gift, I have learned countless mysteries."

The King laid the dagger flat upon the table and sent the Child of Fire skittering onto its blade.

"Valyrian steel contains magical runes, and the power it engenders possesses the miraculous property of healing and restoration. This power created Valyrian steel itself, and has also blessed the priests who accompany my Holy War Army."

"It shall spread throughout all the world."

"With it, the wounded shall be reborn, swords shall become indestructible, and castles shall endure for all time."

"Surely this power alone suffices to bring glory to the Seven Kingdoms."

Imagining those wondrous possibilities—soldiers rising again and again despite grievous wounds, self-repairing magical swords, fortresses that could withstand any siege—Marwyn could only nod in profound agreement.

"But there exists more than one truth in this world, and more than one variety of rune."

The King tilted the dagger, causing the tiny Child of Fire to tumble to the floor. Immediately, the flames composing its form surged outward, expanding until the entity stood as tall as Marwyn himself.

The flames danced with hypnotic beauty, causing Sarella and Leo to retreat involuntarily.

"Fire, soul, light, information—compared to Valyrian steel, there exist all manner of more potent and wondrous magics. One need only research and apply them systematically, and the day of establishing the kingdom of heaven upon earth shall not be distant."

"Archmaester Marwyn," Joffrey said as he set aside the dagger, "that is why I have summoned you."

"What say you to this prospect?"

Facing the scorching golden flames of the Child of Fire, countless thoughts raced through Marwyn's mind with dizzying speed.

King Joffrey's manner had proven surprisingly elliptical, seeming to answer no questions directly while somehow conveying everything of importance.

Runes, magic, and magical creations of all descriptions—Marwyn had witnessed them with his own eyes.

He could discern no falsehood in what he had seen and heard.

It appeared that the King's discoveries drew closer to fundamental truth than anything Marwyn had encountered in his long travels, offering others a glimpse of realities beyond ordinary comprehension.

What cause remains for hesitation?

It is enough.

Marwyn removed the Valyrian steel ring from his finger, offering it to the King as he bowed with profound respect.

"I am at Your Grace's disposal," he said simply.

Chapter 128: King's Landing Academy

"Marwyn, from this moment forward, you are no longer a maester of the Citadel."

Joffrey took Marwyn's ring, closed his fist around it, and when he opened his palm again, a stream of fiery red molten steel slid down his fingers onto the table below.

The wooden surface, infused with solid magical energy, remained unmarked by the scorching metal.

"A King's Landing Academy shall rise from the ground. You and scholars like Qyburn will serve within its walls, arranged in ranks of Doctor, Master, Bachelor, and Student, in descending order."

The molten steel on the table flowed in irregular patterns, threatening to spill over the edge.

Joffrey extended his right hand and made a casual gesture in the air. At once, the liquid metal gathered itself into a perfect sphere, then solidified into a badge with a six-pointed star as its base and an inlaid circular surface.

Joffrey handed over the newly formed badge. "You will find the Academy much to your liking, Doctor Marwyn."

Marwyn accepted the emblem in reverent silence.

The badge retained the color of night, adorned with a pair of soaring wings. At their center, connecting the two, was a single eye.

Flying eyes?

"I have specially chosen the 'Omniscient Eye' as the symbol of the Academy, with the hope that you and your fellows will tirelessly explore truth, make good use of all eyes at your disposal, and perceive the reality of the world."

Marwyn noticed two lines of curved, minute characters inscribed along the badge's edge:

"Omniscience is Omnipotence."

"What is Seen is What There Is."

Directly beneath the eye was etched his own name: "Doctor Marwyn."

A ring transformed into a badge, the Academy supplanting the Citadel.

What enchanting magical power. What a capricious and proud king.

Events grew more intriguing by the moment.

Marwyn carefully pinned the badge to his chest.

"Yes, Your Grace."

With these words, Doctor Marwyn completed the transformation of his identity.

Joffrey produced a similar black badge from within his sleeve. "Qyburn, do not stand there in a daze. You certainly have a share in this as well. Come forward."

As he presented the badge to Qyburn, Joffrey issued casual instructions: "The Research Department shall henceforth be known as the Research Institute and incorporated into the Academy. Going forward, personnel shall be drawn primarily from the Academy to serve as researchers. Of course, for the present, continue to recruit talent regardless of background or origin."

Qyburn accepted the directive with proper deference.

Joffrey's gaze swept over Marwyn and the two acolytes. "Qyburn, proceed with the implantation. Doctor Marwyn has traveled far—how could we bear to make him wait for divine grace? As for the other two, use high-level cores for both."

Qyburn withdrew a sharp blade and three small chips.

Marwyn had anticipated this moment. Far from being discomposed, he displayed keen anticipation and excitement.

Sarella Sand and Leo Tyrell, however, found themselves utterly bewildered. Seeing the gray-haired old man approach with a steel knife, they could not help but feel nervous and uneasy. The old man's smile did nothing to inspire confidence.

Sarella prepared to deploy the poisoned needle concealed within her hand.

Fortunately, Qyburn's blade first opened a small incision at the nape of Doctor Marwyn's neck.

Sarella and Leo stared intently at the wound, monitoring Qyburn's every movement.

The gray-haired man delicately pinched one of the chips between his fingers and, with steady precision, inserted it into Doctor Marwyn's wound. Even the resilient archmaester couldn't suppress a wince, suggesting the process caused considerable pain.

Leo shifted his gaze slightly away.

Sarella's eyes remained fixed on the procedure. She harbored no fear of pain, but wondered what damage the chip might inflict and what interference it might bring.

The chip disappeared completely into Marwyn's flesh.

Qyburn pressed his palm against the wound. After several breaths, he withdrew his hand, revealing that Doctor Marwyn's wound had vanished entirely!

Sarella's shock and unease deepened.

This must be the power of magical runes that King Joffrey had spoken of—and evidently, it could indeed be shared with others.

Her thoughts immediately turned to future conflicts.

Dorne had once resisted Aegon the Conqueror's dragons, but could it withstand King Joffrey's terrifying army in times to come? What price would her homeland pay for defiance?

She dared not pursue this line of thought to its conclusion.

All she could do now was observe in silence—and even this was permitted only by the King's indulgence.

The steel knife and another chip now approached Leo from behind.

The Tyrell acolyte drew a deep breath, struggling to control his trembling, his eyes fixed upon King Joffrey as if seeking courage from the royal visage.

Joffrey observed Marwyn with interest.

The doctor, who scarcely resembled a scholar in appearance, had adapted quickly to his altered state. He shook his head in wonder, muttering to himself at intervals.

This reaction came as no surprise.

When the Divine Grace Light Curtain—visible only to its recipient—was first implanted, almost everyone exhibited similarly amusing behavior.

After all, the Divine Grace Light Curtain introduced what amounted to a second world to its host—a realm of pure information.

An intense initial reaction was only to be expected.

"Your Grace, if I may presume to ask, what is your opinion of the Citadel?"

Joffrey felt mild surprise. Marwyn had not spoken these words aloud, but had sent them through the Divine Grace Light Curtain.

His learning speed is impressive indeed.

Joffrey replied through the same channel: "What are your thoughts on the matter? Feel free to offer any suggestions—I shall consider them with all seriousness."

Joffrey understood well both the importance and the potential harm of the Citadel.

The institution that trained maesters for service throughout the Seven Kingdoms maintained a façade of neutrality, never openly favoring any particular lord or king, ostensibly focusing solely on scholarly pursuits and service to the realm.

Yet this pretense convinced few who truly understood the world's workings.

The Citadel not only stood in Oldtown but had received long-term patronage from House Hightower, the city's ruling family.

The Citadel claims absolute neutrality?

House Hightower exerts no influence over the Citadel?

A laughable notion.

What Joffrey found even less tolerable was that the Citadel was not only suspected of having contributed to the extinction of dragons, but stubbornly and foolishly continued to resist magic and mystical forces of all kinds.

This was intolerable.

In a world where magic demonstrably existed, scholars who claimed to pursue knowledge while rejecting objective truth represented a reactionary force.

They must be overthrown.

The goal was clear enough. But how best to achieve this result—whether through direct confrontation or through subtler means of division and strategic recruitment—remained open to consideration.

Marwyn, having abandoned darkness for light, might well play a significant role in this endeavor.

Marwyn's response came through the Light Curtain:

"The Conclave of the Citadel has always despised magic and clung tenaciously to outmoded ways of thinking.

Once Your Grace compels Highgarden to submit and pledge loyalty, the Citadel will not dare to resist openly. Yet for the sake of the realm's future, the antiquated leadership of the Citadel cannot be permitted to hinder the Seven Kingdoms' development.

However, as the Citadel encompasses far too many individuals, force is best avoided if possible.

Those within the Citadel who have not yet succumbed to intellectual decay might be absorbed into the Academy. When confronted with irrefutable facts, their prejudices will crumble, allowing their minds and ideas to serve our purposes and explore mysteries for Your Grace's benefit.

Within a few years, the backward and obsolete Citadel will fade from relevance of its own accord."

Marwyn's words clearly established his position: abandoning the Citadel, pledging loyalty to the Iron Throne, and devoting himself to building the King's Landing Academy.

Joffrey expressed his satisfaction. "A sound suggestion. I believe talent yet remains within the Citadel's walls. Suitable individuals may be selected for the Academy and placed under your supervision. The Academy's tasks shall be numerous and demanding—the more talent at our disposal, the better."

Marwyn would certainly raise no objection to this proposal.

Qyburn withdrew the blood-stained steel knife. "Your Grace, all three divine graces have been bestowed."

Joffrey cast a brief glance at the dazed Sarella and Leo, then dismissed them from his attention and projected a map of King's Landing upon the floor.

"The Academy exists for your use. Qyburn, Marwyn, and Hallyne of the Alchemists' Guild—the three doctors shall collaborate on designs for the Academy. It must be both practical and inspiring."

A beam of light highlighted Flea Bottom on the projected map.

"The entirety of Flea Bottom has been cleared. The Academy shall rise there."

Joffrey added specific instructions: "You need not concern yourselves with technological limitations. Simply imagine, as if engaged in crafting a beautiful dream. Any structure you envision can be realized."

Can a beautiful dream truly become reality? Marwyn felt the weight of the badge upon his chest.

Yes, he answered himself. With power such as this, what remains to fear?

Chapter 129: Little Demon Warlock

"You may leave."

Joffrey leaned back against the broad expanse of his throne and closed his eyes, the weight of authority settling upon him like a familiar cloak.

Archmaester Marwyn, Qyburn, Sarella Sand with her countenance a mask of conflicting emotions, and Leo Tyrell departed the royal chambers in respectful silence.

At last, stillness descended upon the royal apartments.

Hanna gently settled herself to Joffrey's right, offering the warmth of her body to soothe the king after his taxing day of governance.

To his left, Daenerys continued her silent vigil, listening to the steady rhythm of the king's heartbeat.

Despite the numerous pronouncements and decisions that had just transpired, the king's heart maintained its strong, unwavering cadence, as if no external force could disturb its resolute tempo.

Except, she had noted, when he had mentioned Margaery Tyrell and Arianne Martell.

Viserys's betrothed.

He likely had no knowledge of this arrangement. Otherwise, Viserys surely would have been unable to contain himself from speaking of it incessantly.

Having spent over a decade in his constant company, day and night, Daenerys believed she understood her brother well enough—at least the Viserys he had once been, before their arrival in King's Landing.

As for now... a servant, a pet—who remained unchanged by such circumstances?

Viserys's betrothed.

Why had Ser Willem Darry, even as illness consumed him, never revealed this agreement?

Of course, Ser Darry had understood that Viserys lacked patience. So what had required such cautious waiting? The Dornish marriage? The shifting tides of Westerosi politics? The machinations of hidden players?

Could matters truly be as the king had described?

Had she and her brother always been mere pieces on the board, manipulated by ambitious schemers?

Numerous figures flashed through Daenerys's mind: Varys, the "Spider," now confined within a wooden box; Magister Illyrio, whose throat had been pierced by the ruthless Hand of the King; the governors, princes, great lords, and merchant princes of various Free Cities...

Such men were invariably cunning and insidious, well-practiced in the arts of deception and betrayal.

Without question, had they been so inclined, these individuals could have effortlessly ensnared Viserys and herself within some elaborate conspiracy.

Perhaps even the proposed marriage to Khal Drogo had been yet another scheme hatched by these manipulators.

What fate had they intended for the last Targaryens?

Recalling that blood-soaked wedding with corpses strewn across the field, and the night of slaughter in Pentos, Daenerys found herself uncertain whether to feel relief or sorrow.

The predictable security of the Red Keep versus the wild uncertainty of Essos—which life held greater value?

Daenerys closed her eyes, no longer willing to dwell on such troubling questions. The past was immutable; her future lay within the Red Keep, not across the Narrow Sea.

Besides, the Red Keep had become a place of wonder.

Divine grace had transformed it, rendering it increasingly beautiful and exquisite, ever more magical and fantastical—like a realm plucked from legend.

And King's Landing itself was changing as well.

She had heard that the city had undergone remarkable transformations, and these were merely the beginning.

Curiosity suddenly kindled within Daenerys.

Her impression of the city beyond the Red Keep remained frozen on the day of Joffrey's coronation: crowded and bustling, with towers rising high above humble dwellings, the mingled odors of humanity and livestock, and people of every station prostrating themselves before the miracle they had witnessed.

Compared to the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea, King's Landing had seemed merely ordinary—even backward in many respects.

What new form would the king's vision impose upon it?

Daenerys was still contemplating how she might persuade the king to escort her beyond the palace walls when she detected the soft approach of footsteps.

"Your Grace."

A diminutive figure emerged from the doorway of the side hall—Tyrion, the "Imp" of House Lannister.

Daenerys knew she ought to despise him by rights, yet she found Tyrion to be a decent man.

Unlike the cold and ruthless Tywin.

Each time she beheld Tywin's frigid, granite-hewn countenance, she could envision the callous manner in which he had betrayed her father and ordered the sack of King's Landing.

Tyrion halted silently near the council table.

With sudden insight, Daenerys realized that Tyrion must have been listening from the side hall during the preceding audience.

Why? What schemes did the king harbor?

Daenerys lifted her head slightly, but from her position, she could discern only half of the king's profile, his expression inscrutable.

Joffrey spoke with practiced indifference. "How fare the Holy Warriors assigned to the Engineering Bureau?"

"Your Grace, they perform beyond all expectation."

Tyrion remained amazed by the extraordinary powers these individuals displayed. Clearly, Joffrey commanded more than the few types of magic previously revealed. This latest gift he had bestowed allowed direct manipulation of physical matter!

Unlike the "Holy Fire Warriors" who wielded flames, the "Holy Grace Priests" who excelled in healing and restoration, or the "Holy Shield Warriors" whose flesh turned aside blade and spear alike.

These "Holy Creation Artificers" dispatched to the Engineering Bureau possessed unique capabilities.

Tyrion had witnessed their work firsthand.

Without any tools or assistance, these artificers could instantaneously conjure a house from mere rocks and soil! Solid and intricate structures, precisely conforming to the architect's design!

What extraordinary craftsmen.

They truly merited the title "Holy Creation."

Tyrion's only regret was that these artificers could not transform base iron into gleaming gold—a talent that would have greatly eased his burdens as Minister of Finance.

Nevertheless, the powers displayed by the Holy Creation Artificers already inspired profound satisfaction.

Tyrion offered a slight bow. "With the abilities of these artificers at our disposal, the various projects undertaken by the Engineering Bureau shall proceed at vastly accelerated pace. If possible, Your Grace, consider sending more Holy Creation Artificers—the results would surely approach the miraculous."

Joffrey chuckled softly. "Very well, I shall consider it."

Of course, he would merely consider it.

Given current circumstances, Joffrey had already established clear parameters for the distribution of rune power.

A fire rune image required three units of rune power and could create a "Holy Fire Warrior." Their ranks presently numbered approximately four thousand.

A recovery rune image likewise required three units of rune power, used to create "Holy Grace Priests," now numbering over four hundred.

The solid rune image that created "Holy Shield Warriors" demanded four units of rune power, and about one thousand had been bestowed.

The "Holy Creation Artificers" employed shaping runes obtained from Dragonstone, capable of manipulating an object's form while leaving its essential properties unchanged.

A shaping rune image required four units of rune power, and two hundred had been granted thus far.

The ratio of the four types of runes stood at 20:2:5:1.

According to the established plan, only these four categories of runes would be bestowed upon the Holy Warriors in the foreseeable future.

Other runes either consumed excessive rune power, produced peculiar and unpredictable effects, or proved too difficult to control. The time for their broader implementation had not yet arrived.

Overall, these four types of runes represented the most efficient allocation of resources.

Furthermore, the distribution ratio of the four types would remain fixed.

Rune power, after all, remained too precious a resource to squander. Various magical applications required not overwhelming numbers, but strategic sufficiency.

Moreover, construction of the eastern half of the city had not truly commenced—how many artificers could reasonably be required?

By Joffrey's calculation, Renly and his Stormland cavalry would soon reach Bronzegate. From there, his army could advance westward at any moment, yet the transformation of King's Landing continued to languish.

Joffrey could wait no longer.

"Employ these artificers to build the King's Landing Academy and reconstruct the eastern half of the city."

Tyrion understood now why he had been instructed to observe the meeting with Archmaester Marwyn—it concerned the eastern district's reconstruction.

"Tyrion, how many remain stubborn in their resistance, hindering the sacred work of creating our Holy City?"

Tyrion reported the numbers without hesitation. "Several dozen dwellings and businesses belonging to commoners, over a hundred properties of various lords of the Seven Kingdoms, and approximately three hundred establishments owned by merchants from the Free Cities."

Tyrion had thoroughly familiarized himself with the situation.

Few commoners dared resist outright; certain lords proved unwilling to surrender their private holdings; and the foreign merchants from across the Narrow Sea demanded exorbitant compensation while demonstrating the least compliance.

"We stand in a time of war," Joffrey declared. "Let your City Watch enforce our will. Those who defy the crown shall be treated as spies and saboteurs."

Joffrey rose to his feet, drawing both maidens into his embrace.

"All must be completed before sunset on the morrow. This is war—only victory is acceptable. Neither failure nor delay can be tolerated."

Tyrion watched as Joffrey entered his bedchamber and closed the door with quiet finality.

War, indeed.

Chapter 130: Two Wars

War, ah.

Gazing at the chaotic scene displayed upon the screen before him, Hot Pie released a silent sigh.

The people of King's Landing had yet to witness Renly's soldiers and swords firsthand, but already they suffered the torments of war, breathing its heavy atmosphere with every moment that passed.

Hot Pie felt this truth more keenly than most.

In recent days, a growing tide of humanity had fled northward into King's Landing from the lands south of the Kingswood.

The vast majority arrived with nothing to their names, able only to sell their labor or bodies, accepting any meager employment with pathetic gratitude.

Those who had initially sympathized with these desperate souls quickly hardened their hearts.

As the refugees lowered their asking price and labored without complaint, those who hired workers grew increasingly selective. Their expressions darkened when settling accounts, and the cost of labor diminished with each passing day.

Life grew steadily more difficult for all.

And for the beggars and orphans, conditions approached the unbearable.

Hot Pie had even returned to visit the bakery where he had once toiled from dawn until dusk.

The familiar heat embraced him, along with the comforting aroma of fresh bread.

Tables stood laden with flour—white, yellow, and brown.

Every face and hand bore the marks of their trade, dusted with powder, and neither cloth nor leather remained untouched. The flour had penetrated every pore, leaving skin both smooth and rough to the touch.

Hot Pie instinctively moved to wipe his hands against his clothing, but his palms met the unfamiliar texture of hardened leather armor.

A baker's apprentice he recognized approached hesitantly, casting uncertain glances, lips moving without forming words, as if afraid to confirm the identity of the visitor before him.

Hot Pie understood that he had lost weight and changed in other ways as well.

So he took the initiative, embracing his former companion, offering good-natured curses, and soon the other apprentices gathered around to share their tales.

His old friends complained bitterly about the master baker's newfound cruelty. The bread ovens operated without cease, day and night, and the profits could scarcely be counted—yet the old miser not only withheld copper coins from his workers but had reduced their rations to merely two loaves of black bread each day.

They lamented that despite baking countless loaves and pies, as well as running deliveries throughout the city, their bellies remained hollow from dawn till dusk, barely sustained by their meager allotments.

Since the flood of refugees had entered the city, they reported, the old baker scrutinized every handful of flour with miserly attention, to say nothing of the finished bread. Any apprentice caught pilfering even half a loaf would face severe beatings or immediate dismissal.

Lemons, blueberries, and meat fillings had grown increasingly scarce within the bakery, they said, while the price of every variety of bread rose steadily, leaving customers to vent their frustrations upon the innocent apprentices.

Hot Pie listened attentively, occasionally offering sympathetic noises, while calmly observing each speaker's face.

Even as they voiced their grievances, his friends cast eager, expectant glances his way. More apprentices with whom he'd shared only passing acquaintance crowded around, laughing and creating a commotion, ostensibly seeking only to avoid their duties and find momentary diversion.

Some of the lads who had once opposed him now either hid in corners, attending to various tasks, or stood with affected indifference at a distance, pretending deafness while their eyes repeatedly darted toward the lively gathering.

Others slipped quietly from the room to alert the old baker to the visitor's presence.

There were also unfamiliar faces among the crowd.

Hot Pie had already gleaned enough information to know these were newly recruited apprentices, mostly refugees from the south, whose expectations had been lowered to the point that two daily loaves of black bread satisfied their modest ambitions.

Yet these new apprentices were not merely random bodies plucked from the desperate masses.

Hot Pie had personally overheard a veteran apprentice of several years admit that these newcomers' skills matched or even surpassed his own.

The new arrivals explained that they had previously worked in bakeries, and but for the rebels' looting and the burning of fields and homes, they would still be selling bread in their native villages.

At this, the assembled workers united in cursing the ungrateful, treacherous Renly who had plunged the realm into rebellion.

No one harbored any love for war.

Hot Pie echoed their sentiments with genuine feeling, while simultaneously acknowledging the fortune of his decision a month past.

He recognized with perfect clarity that had he not impulsively enlisted when he did, he would likely stand among these same apprentices now, living a hardscrabble existence and taxing his mind merely to fill his empty belly.

Or perhaps his lot would have been worse still.

The most unfortunate apprentice had already been cast out onto the streets—who could say what sustained him now?

The gathered apprentices scattered suddenly.

Hot Pie turned to behold the grim countenance he had once feared above all others: the old baker himself.

Yet the anger and ruthlessness that had so often marked those features vanished almost instantly. Before Hot Pie could fully register the change, the baker's expression transformed into an amiable, somewhat ingratiating smile.

Hot Pie understood that the old baker reserved this particular expression exclusively for distinguished patrons.

He understood, too, that this unprecedented deference arose from the accoutrements of his new station: the hardened leather armor, chain mail, helmet, whip, and longsword he now bore, and especially the crossed-swords badge adorning his right arm—the symbol of the Department of the Army.

Repeated, rigorous blockades and investigations had made this emblem known throughout the city, along with the power and authority it represented.

I never expected this badge to serve me so well on its final day, Hot Pie mused silently.

The Department of the Army's insignia would soon no longer belong to him.

Beginning tomorrow, he would wear the more terrifying "All-Seeing Eye" badge of the Security Bureau, under Minister Alyn Lantell of the Security Bureau.

This transition explained his unusual freedom to wander the city today.

Fortunately, he had received formal notice that he was henceforth relieved from the recruit training regimen, and would report officially to the Security Bureau tomorrow alongside ninety-nine fellow selectees.

The other nine hundred newcomers to the Security Bureau would continue to endure the instructors' rigorous methods until the Bureau claimed them as well.

This signified that he had placed among the top hundred out of a thousand candidates.

Beyond his natural excitement at this recognition lay persistent questions: why had he, specifically, been chosen? Good performance in assigned missions? Lack of unauthorized personal possessions? Perfect attendance? Superior performance in training exercises?

Gendry had suggested a simpler explanation: You've grown quieter lately.

The observation struck Hot Pie with sudden clarity.

Yes—when did I become like this?

He had no precise answer to offer.

Perhaps it stemmed from a particular look he had witnessed during some investigation, some sentence overheard, or the metallic scent of blood that had filled his nostrils.

Perhaps it arose from his deepening understanding of the Security Bureau's true nature.

Perhaps it originated with a golden dragon coin, a badge, the cold gleam of steel, or the arcane power of dragon crystals.

Perhaps the divine grace light curtain bestowed upon him had wrought the change.

Gazing at the dreamlike light curtain, then back at his surroundings in the bakery, Hot Pie perceived with unprecedented clarity the vast gulf separating these two worlds.

His past ten years or more seemed so gray and indistinct, scarcely worth remembering.

By comparison, how monumental had been the impact of this single month upon him, transforming him utterly into another person—a person worthy of the old baker's respect.

Hot Pie calmed his agitated thoughts and earnestly advised his friends to respond immediately to any recruitment orders issued by the Iron Throne. Such service would not only fulfill the divine will and royal command, he explained, but also represented the best possible path forward for individuals of their station.

Then he stepped through the bakery door and moved forward without a backward glance, toward a brighter future, toward the Security Bureau.

And now.

He sat within the surveillance hall of the Security Bureau, observing through enchanted screens the high lords and bloody conflicts he had never before witnessed—safely, securely, and with undeniable excitement.

War, ah.

The screen directly before Hot Pie displayed the Hand of the King's squad confronting stubborn commoners who refused to yield their properties.

This was war of one kind.

The adjacent screen showed the Mud Gate beside the Blackwater Rush, where ragged, hollow-faced refugees formed a line extending beyond sight, enduring the gold cloaks' rigorous registration and inspection procedures.

This, too, was war of another sort.

Hot Pie's assigned task was to watch in silence, record all he observed, and report any anomalies, no matter how seemingly insignificant.

"Look!"

"There's movement at the gate!"

At these urgent cries, Hot Pie turned his head. The main screen dominating the center of the hall displayed the massive gates.

Countless mounted warriors bearing the crowned stag banner poured through the castle's entrance, their numbers seeming without end.