[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 101 - 105

Chapter 101: Theon's Screaming Arrows

Theon Greyjoy drew his bowstring taut against his cheek, his eyes narrowed in cold concentration. Archery had been his one true gift since his earliest days at Winterfell, a skill that had earned him grudging respect even from those Northern lords who would sooner spit on an ironborn than break bread with one. When Theon loosed an arrow, it struck true—always. He'd once boasted that he could hit the seven-pointed star centered on a copper coin, and had proved it thrice before bored onlookers.

The heads before him now presented targets far simpler than that.

Nocking another of the specially crafted arrows—those the Gold Cloaks had taken to calling "screamers"—Theon drew and released in one fluid motion, his aim unerring as the shaft whistled through the air to find the eye socket of a man in the front ranks of the seething mob.

"Quiet! Fall back!" he commanded, his voice carrying across the chaos.

Another arrow to his string, another draw, another release. Another head snapped backward, blood flowering like some grotesque red bloom where the arrowhead entered.

"Quiet! Fall back!" The command token in his hand amplified his voice to thunderous proportions.

Theon found his rhythm, a fatal cadence of death and command. One after another, the arrows flew, each finding its mark with lethal precision. He could have continued until his quiver was empty, or until three quivers or five were spent.

One, five, ten—the targets grew more distant as the crowd recoiled, the clamor diminishing with each shaft that found its mark. The faces of those who fell displayed expressions of increasing horror, their features contorted in the ugly grimace that death brings to those who meet it unprepared.

Only when his arrow caught a man already turning to flee did Theon finally lower his bow, a cold satisfaction curling his lip. The mob had retreated dozens, perhaps hundreds of paces, their mouths clamped shut, none daring to break the silence that had descended like a shroud.

A cruel smile played across Theon's face. They were, as he had always known, nothing but low-born scum who understood only the language of blood and steel. Such was the nature of smallfolk, particularly those who festered in the rotting abscess that was Flea Bottom.

Earlier, he had captured some four or five thousand of them. Then, during the chaos that had erupted across Flea Bottom, his men had taken several thousand more. Now, only a few thousand remained, their numbers dwindling to fewer than the soldiers who surrounded them with cold steel.

Should it come to open battle, Theon had no doubt every last one could be put to the sword within half an hour.

Jon Snow stepped forward, his Stark features somber in the afternoon light. "Theon, that's enough," he said quietly. "They're sufficiently cowed now. I don't believe they'll attempt further foolishness."

The unspoken reminder hung between them: His Grace desired not merely severed heads, but living bodies to serve as soldiers and laborers in the works to come.

Theon offered a careless shrug. "I suppose you're right." He nodded toward the small figure who approached from behind the line of Gold Cloaks. "Jon, our task is complete. Lord Tyrion, I believe the next move is yours."

Tyrion Lannister extended his hand expectantly. "His Grace shows such partiality," the dwarf remarked with feigned envy. "Giving out treasures that roar like thunder. Tsk, tsk."

Jon handed over the command token without hesitation.

The moment Tyrion's fingers closed around the flat, oval-shaped piece of dragon crystal, he felt the familiar resonance of magic pulsing through it. Understanding bloomed quickly in his mind; the token's function was immediately apparent to one accustomed to puzzling out complex systems.

Establishing a silent connection with the information magic embedded within the crystal, Tyrion activated it, triggering the sound rune energy that lay dormant within. The crystal would capture his voice, then amplify it beyond what any human throat could achieve.

"I am Tyrion Lannister, Master of Coin," he proclaimed. "Everyone will immediately drop their weapons, kneel where you stand, accept supervision, and submit to the will of the gods and His Grace. The crimes you have committed today may yet be forgiven."

He raised the dragon crystal high, channeling the sound magic once more. His words rolled across the square like the thunder of the Crone's judgment, impossible to ignore or deny.

The crowd stirred from their terrified stupor, awareness slowly returning to their eyes.

Gleaming swords surrounded them on all sides, the soldiers bearing them as still and implacable as statues carved from ice. Commands thundered in the air with supernatural force, while the feathered shafts protruding from the bodies of those who had been too slow or too bold offered mute testimony to the price of defiance.

Who could have imagined that the Gold Cloaks would prove so merciless? They had gathered merely to voice grievances, and blood had answered their words.

Many among the crowd struggled to comprehend what had befallen them. Why would anyone expend such effort on Flea Bottom? What value could be found in its rotting hovels, or among its wretched inhabitants—those who had nothing, not even all their limbs in many cases?

Flea Bottom had never before warranted such attention. Its people were the cockroaches and rats of King's Landing, creatures to be avoided and despised, never acknowledged.

They had expected today to unfold as others had before it: the Gold Cloaks would perform their duties with minimal effort, Flea Bottom would present its usual squalid face, and the highborn would eventually retreat in disgust, leaving them once more to their accustomed existence.

Yet everything had changed.

Septons and septas moved among them preaching of doctrines and divine will, strange crystal orbs demanded answers none had prepared, and the Gold Cloaks detained anyone without coin or property, claiming it served their welfare.

Fortunately, some had escaped the initial encirclement, spreading warnings of the fate that had befallen those neighborhoods already "cleansed" by the Gold Cloaks.

The people had united then, driving off the scattered handfuls of Gold Cloaks who guarded various alleys and intersections.

What followed should have been straightforward: gather their numbers, arm themselves with whatever would serve, and make the Gold Cloaks understand that the cost of pressing forward would be too high to bear.

But everything had truly, irrevocably changed.

The Gold Cloaks had not retreated. Instead, they had pressed forward in disciplined squads of twenty or thirty, their weapons gleaming with murderous intent.

All discovered their courage to be more fragile than imagined.

None were foolish enough to sacrifice themselves for others; instead, each had fled in whichever direction seemed safest, caring nothing for those left behind.

They had scattered like leaves before the wind, each aware only of their own desperate flight.

Later, the Gold Cloaks had herded them together again, as a shepherd gathers a scattered flock. As they congregated, each avoided the positions that had proved fatal to others, yet somehow they found themselves densely packed despite their caution.

They were pressed together, squeezed from all sides, with no clear sense of direction save the imperative to keep moving.

Finally, they had found Gold Cloaks on all sides, no avenue of escape remaining.

For reasons none could fully articulate, someone had begun to curse, and like a spark falling into dry straw, it had ignited the crowd's collective fury.

Voices rose in desperate longing: "Long live King Robert!"

Indeed, those had been better days. The silver stags that nobles had tossed during tournaments had fed dozens for a day, and those with certain skills had earned substantial rewards from appreciative audiences.

Now everything stood changed. Gold Cloaks patrolled ceaselessly, prime ministers and regents came and went, and not a single tournament had been held to relieve the monotony of their struggle.

Others cursed the Gold Cloaks directly. These men deserved every foul word flung at them. It was one thing to be bullied in the ordinary course of affairs, but to cut off one's last avenue of survival—that was inhuman beyond measure.

Some even whispered curses against King Joffrey, whose parentage—long rumored, seldom believed—now seemed more credible with each passing moment.

If Renly were the legitimate king, they reasoned, surely he would not subject the denizens of Flea Bottom to such hardship.

Fueled by their own shouts, they had raised fists and makeshift weapons, a human tide that seemed unstoppable in its righteous fury. The Gold Cloaks had appeared so few, so vulnerable, that it seemed a single concerted push would sweep them away.

But it had all ended with thunder and whistling arrows.

Those at the front had been the first to retreat, even as those behind pressed forward, still unaware of the deadly response. This had been the moment for Theon's deadly archery display, which continued until all had withdrawn to the center of the encirclement, well beyond the reach of those murderous shafts.

Now, gazing at the Gold Cloaks once more, each sword and spear seemed impossibly sharp, impossibly bright. How could flesh and blood stand against such steel?

Clang clang~

A dagger clattered onto the open ground before them, the sound of metal on stone carrying clearly through the now-silent square. Hearts plummeted, then surged with desperate relief.

A great wave of discarded weapons followed, as if every arm had acted at once, motivated by a single shared instinct for survival.

"...Kneel where you stand, accept supervision, and submit to the will of the gods and His Grace. The crimes you have committed today may yet be forgiven." The commands continued to echo through the air without ceasing.

One by one, then in groups, then all at once, the crowd sank to their knees, none daring to remain upright.

The Gold Cloaks approached in disciplined formation.

In silence, each watched as they were bound with tight cords, their mouths stuffed with wooden gags, black hoods pulled over their heads to complete their subjugation.

Fear claimed them all. What fate awaited them? What would become of Flea Bottom?

Everything now rested in the hands of the Gold Cloaks—and in the will of the King who ruled from on high.

Chapter 102: The King's Canvas

"Your Grace, what do you intend to do with so many people?" Tyrion asked, his mismatched eyes reflecting genuine concern.

The previous day's labors had borne terrible fruit. Through the combined efforts of 20,000 soldiers, alongside thousands of septons, septas, scribes, and others, the great cleansing of King's Landing had proceeded with brutal efficiency.

The tally stood thus: precisely 523,426 souls now registered in the crown's ledgers. Of these, nearly 30,000 languished in temporary detention for various infractions, more than 1,000 "rebels" had been dispatched to whatever hells awaited them, and 31 soldiers had returned to the gods who had granted them divine grace.

All this had been duly reported in the first half of the Small Council meeting. Now the question that hung in the air, unspoken yet pressing upon every mind present, was: what came next?

The ministers seated around the long table regarded their king in watchful silence.

Joffrey's gaze remained fixed upon the detailed model of King's Landing laid out before him. His fingers traced its contours with the delicate precision of an artist contemplating a fresh canvas.

"Tyrion," he said at length, "what is the total area of the properties we've confiscated? When added to what the crown already possessed, does it amount to half of King's Landing?"

Tyrion blinked, momentarily taken aback by the question. His mind worked quickly through the calculations, drawing upon the Research Department's latest measurements.

By the newly established units of measure, King's Landing encompassed approximately 71 square kilometers. The purge had claimed more than 300 brothels, 600 taverns and inns, 800 shops, 1,000 warehouses, 3,000 dwellings, and nearly the entirety of Flea Bottom. Add to this the properties already held by the royal family and House Lannister, along with streets, squares, and public spaces...

"About a quarter of the city, Your Grace," Tyrion replied carefully. "King's Landing still houses 500,000 souls, after all."

He watched the king closely, seeking some hint of his intentions. Could it be that Joffrey remained unsatisfied with this unprecedented seizure of property?

The previous day's actions had left Tyrion sleepless with anxiety. He had prided himself on his decisiveness, yet the other Purge Teams had proved even more ruthless than his own. Their leaders, captains, and scribes had followed the king's commands with single-minded purpose, utterly disregarding the concerns of the great houses.

The previous night, Tyrion had sat alone with the thick ledger of properties seized during the cleansing. His hands had trembled as he turned the pages, the implications of what he read washing over him in waves of dread.

The king's reach had proven longer and more grasping than anyone had anticipated. All properties with unclear ownership had been invalidated, all wealth of questionable provenance confiscated, all persons of suspicious background detained.

In the dense text of the ledger, Tyrion had discerned the shadow industries, proxies, and agents of many noble houses—not merely minor families, but great lords with ancient names. It was too reckless, too brazen.

Tyrion knew well that King's Landing had never truly belonged to any single person or family. Long before House Baratheon had claimed the Red Keep, powerful nobles from across the Seven Kingdoms and beyond the Narrow Sea had sunk deep roots into the city's fertile soil, secretly controlling countless enterprises and commanding the loyalty of innumerable retainers.

These forces had woven a complex web of influence throughout the capital, a tapestry so intricate that it had survived wars, rebellions, and the fall of dynasties.

True, the newly forged twenty thousand swords could slice through this web with brutal efficiency. But what of the places beyond the reach of steel? What of the lands outside King's Landing? What of the great houses whose trade sustained the capital?

Once ships and wagons ceased bringing provisions to the city, how long before the smallfolk starved? How long before the highborn turned their backs on a king who had stripped them of their hidden wealth?

Tyrion stared at Joffrey's placid features, a feeling of dread settling in his chest like a granite slab. What are you thinking, Joffrey?

The king's answer was disarmingly simple. "Then we shall continue the cleansing until half the city is ours."

He gestured toward the model, drawing an invisible line through its center. "East of the central square—this half of the city must be claimed. By the will of the gods, I shall paint here a clean and holy city, unblemished by the filth of ages."

Every minister's gaze fell upon the exquisite model, seeing it now as the king saw it—not merely as it was, but as it might become.

"Everyone who participated in yesterday's cleansing will receive a silver stag as reward," Joffrey continued, his voice calm as still water. "Rest today, then resume your work on the morrow. Block off one hundred grids each day. The soldiers shall be divided into two groups to alternate in their duties, led by Tyrion and Alyn."

Alyn bowed his head in respectful acceptance.

Tyrion fought to keep his expression neutral. He had no desire to hear his name associated with this venture. Ten thousand souls displaced each day, purging but an eighth of the city—he would make enemies beyond counting.

Joffrey rapped his knuckles against the table's polished surface. "Tyrion shall oversee the operation. Industrial exchanges and property redemption are acceptable methods. I desire only a blank canvas—a clean eastern half of the city. Until then, the gates shall remain closed. Only those who bring necessities into the capital—fishermen, farmers, peddlers, carters, and the like—may pass through. None shall depart without express permission."

The meaning was not lost on Tyrion. Joffrey was not so avaricious as to take without compensation. Properties and gold dragons from the western half could be exchanged for holdings in the east. Though still a bitter draught, it would prove more palatable than outright seizure at swordpoint.

"Tyrion?" The king smiled faintly. "Your thoughts? Do you foresee difficulties?"

"As Your Grace commands," Tyrion replied with a bow, keeping his reservations locked behind his teeth.

Joffrey's gaze swept across the assembled councillors. "For King's Landing to transform into a holy city beloved of the gods, change must embrace not only the smallfolk but ourselves as well."

Every minister sat straighter, anticipating the king's next pronouncement.

Joffrey turned first to the aged Grand Maester. "The maesters and acolytes who serve under the Grand Maester should bear a formal title. We cannot allow their contributions to the realm to remain unacknowledged."

"Your Grace's concern is most touching, most touching indeed," Grand Maester Pycelle responded, his trembling hand wiping at the corner of his eye.

"The Ministry of Education," Joffrey announced with the slightest of smiles. "To educate the world in service to the gods, to dispel ignorance, to spread knowledge—these are the proper duties of the maesters. Grand Maester, I would ask you to compile a registry as soon as may be done. Let not a single man of learning go unaccounted for."

"I shall see it completed within a fortnight, Your Grace," Pycelle pledged, his long beard quivering with apparent emotion.

Joffrey turned his attention to Tyrion once more. "I know that your tasks are arduous. Finance and cleansing are no simple matters. What difficulties do you anticipate? Speak freely."

Tyrion was not so naive as to accept such an invitation at face value. "I shall follow Your Grace's commands," he replied with careful neutrality.

Joffrey appeared to consider this for a moment before addressing the Kingslayer. "Ser Jaime, the Ministry of Finance bears a heavy burden and unquestionably requires additional strength. Assign four thousand of the new soldiers to form an 'Investigative Team' under the Ministry's authority."

Jaime Lannister glanced briefly at his diminutive brother. "Yes, Your Grace."

"You and Tyrion should communicate clearly," Joffrey instructed Alyn, "and establish distinct boundaries for your subordinates. The little birds and new soldiers assigned to you shall belong to the Security Bureau, while Tyrion's men shall form the 'Kingdom Statistics Bureau' within the Ministry of Finance."

The king's eyes gleamed with purpose. "We shall no longer speak of a Master of Whisperers. You are now the Minister of Security, commanding the Security Department."

Alyn bowed low, his face alight with gratitude. "I thank Your Grace for this honor!"

Tyrion observed the proceedings in thoughtful silence. In the span of mere moments, he had gained four thousand men for his service, along with grandiose new titles that carried the weight of royal authority.

"Ser Barristan," Joffrey continued, turning to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, "consider the fate of those who sat the Iron Throne before me. Aegon the Second perished from poisoned wine, the Mad King Aerys fell to the sword, and my own father was torn apart by beasts. Does this not suggest that the strength of the Kingsguard is insufficient?"

Jaime's handsome face immediately hardened, though whether from guilt or anger, none could say.

Barristan Selmy, valiant to the last, dropped to one knee, his white cloak pooling around him. "I can offer no excuse, Your Grace. I await your judgment."

Joffrey rose and, with surprising gentleness, helped the aged knight to his feet. "I intend no rebuke, Ser Barristan. Seven Kingsguard cannot stand against every threat that may arise. From this day forward, the Kingsguard shall number seventy-seven. You shall remain Lord Commander, with the other six original Kingsguard each commanding their own division, rotating duties as necessity demands."

The king's voice held no cruelty, yet his words left no room for dissent. "Lord Commander, do you find this arrangement acceptable?"

What answer could there be? The king had invoked the deaths of his predecessors as evidence. "I shall obey Your Grace's will," Barristan replied, his weathered face betraying nothing of his thoughts.

Joffrey's gaze returned to Tyrion. "As for the 30.000 souls now languishing in confinement..."

Chapter 103: Castle Game

"Once this round of investigation concludes, the number will exceed 30,000."

Of these unfortunates, more than 20,000 were destitute with no stable means of sustenance, several thousand lived by petty crime and thievery, and several thousand more were simply unlucky souls of suspicious origins. A considerable resource of flesh and blood, to be sure.

Joffrey had already laid his plans for them all.

"Ser Jaime, the Department of the Army may select 5,000 of these people to bolster the ranks of your new recruits."

By choosing the 5,000 most suited to martial pursuits and immersing them among the 20,000 recruits already in training, the outcome would inevitably be their complete assimilation. After all, these men had no other choice before them.

"Alyn, you shall select another 5,000 to serve as eyes and ears throughout the city. They will receive the same training as other recruits before being divided between the Security Bureau and the Statistics Bureau as needed."

Had not the little birds once taken wing from the same wretched nests?

"Hanna, you shall oversee the formation of the Logistics Bureau, which will ensure the proper supply of materials to our various departments and the army. Select 10,000 souls for this purpose. The dull-witted shall provide labor, while the clever may advance gradually—taught to read, reckon figures, and expand their knowledge until they become worthy logistics officers."

For these 10,000, becoming a logistics officer represented the most fortunate path available. If they retained any measure of reason or hope for better days, they would surely abandon whatever resentment they might harbor.

"Tyrion, to you I grant 10,000 to form the Engineering Bureau. Beginning in August, not merely the sewers but all of King's Landing shall undergo transformation—especially the eastern district." Joffrey's mind was already filled with plans for factories and other facilities yet to come.

"The remainder shall be delivered to the dungeons and the Research Department, which have their own need for willing or unwilling subjects."

"How does this arrangement strike you all?"

Joffrey's smile was soft as summer rain, his satisfaction with these thoughtful dispositions evident in every line of his youthful face.

Tyrion offered the expected compliments to his colleagues, matching their enthusiastic responses word for word. Yet inwardly, his thoughts dwelled upon the Logistics Bureau and Engineering Bureau that the king had mentioned with such casual ease.

New departments conjured from thin air, each comprised of thousands of men and women, each granted substantial authority, each burdened with momentous responsibilities—all by royal decree.

What a capricious child ruled them now, though he had seen but twelve namedays.

Tyrion found himself carefully reviewing the events of the past month. Joffrey had first demanded taxes from the Seven Kingdoms, then proclaimed miracles for all to witness, then enacted sweeping reforms—the Department of the Army, the Research Department, the Security Bureau, the Gospel Department...

Divine grace bestowed upon the chosen, a thorough investigation of the entire city, 30,000 souls seized at once, and now, it seemed, places found for each of them in the king's grand design.

Tyrion watched these developments from the sidelines, increasingly convinced that Joffrey viewed King's Landing—perhaps the Seven Kingdoms themselves—as nothing more than an elaborate game. The king was enthusiastically constructing his favorite sandcastle upon the shore, smiling all the while with childlike delight.

Yet was this not to be expected? The king was, in truth, still a child. And who among them did not harbor a child within, one that never truly grew to manhood?

More troubling was that none could check the king's impulses. Cersei's legendary strong will and tyrannical bent vanished utterly in Joffrey's presence. Even Eddard Stark had managed only the gentlest words of caution while in the Red Keep, and now he had returned to his frozen North.

Even more astonishing, the proud and noble Lord Tywin Lannister silently observed the king's capricious actions without a word of reproach.

Though perhaps this was not so surprising after all. The king might be a willful child, but he was also an emissary of the gods, wielding power beyond mortal imagining. Blessed with abilities that could only be described as divine grace, who would dare deny his holy mandate?

Any who opposed the gods' chosen champion to his face would need to consider carefully whether they could withstand divine wrath.

Moreover, Lord Tywin remained Regent and Lord of Laws, his brother commanded the royal fleet as Master of Ships, his firstborn son had risen to Minister of War with authority over all the Iron Throne's land forces, and his daughter continued as Queen Regent.

Even his unloved youngest son sat upon the Small Council as Master of Coin.

Viewed thus, the high and mighty Lord Tywin stood as perhaps the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. Why, then, should he oppose the young king's whims?

If even Lord Tywin accepted these changes, would the people of King's Landing not do likewise? Even as the king seized half their city and disposed of tens of thousands of souls according to his pleasure?

Could it truly be so simple?

Tyrion's thoughts twisted in upon themselves, and he began to doubt his own judgment. Perhaps his view was overly pessimistic?

"Ahem." Joffrey cleared his throat, setting aside his satisfied expression. "Now that we have dispensed with the more pleasant matters, we must address the difficulties before us. Tyrion, let us begin with you."

Tyrion raised his head in confusion, meeting the king's gaze.

Joffrey's face had grown serious as stone. "How many gold dragons currently rest within our treasury? How many weapons do we possess? What stores of grain? How long might they sustain us?"

Tyrion's mind snapped back to the present moment. "Including yesterday's acquisitions, the treasury holds more than 1.76 million gold dragons. The armory can equip an additional 10,000 infantrymen. We possess some 4,000 warhorses and 10,000 pack animals. Our granaries contain enough to feed the entire city for a year."

He left unspoken that Littlefinger and Varys had contributed substantially to these figures through their various schemes, now laid bare.

Joffrey summarized the situation with brutal clarity. "Once war begins in earnest, our resources will sustain us for a single year. Is that correct?"

Tyrion could only nod gravely.

The expressions of the ministers grew somber as one. None could fail to grasp the gravity of their position.

A year was not insignificant, yet neither was it abundant. Who could say when the flames of war might be extinguished? Even after Renly was dealt with, the Seven Kingdoms would not instantly know peace.

One year? Two? Perhaps three, or five? All possibilities must be considered.

Should the gold dragons and materials replenished during this period prove insufficient to meet their needs, when their reserves dwindled to nothing, coupled with mounting debt and inevitable rebellion—that would constitute a crisis capable of bringing down the realm itself.

Joffrey turned to Alyn. "What of the goods entering the city of late? Share your findings with the council."

Alyn manipulated his light screen with practiced ease, summoning detailed figures. "The fish brought into the city by fishermen from the riverbank and harbor remains relatively stable. The supply of vegetables, barley, wheat, and other foodstuffs from farms just beyond our walls has not diminished. Together, these are sufficient to feed perhaps 100,000 souls."

"Grain shipments from the houses of the Crownlands have gradually decreased. The day before yesterday, they had fallen to 80% of what we received at the end of June—enough to meet the needs of approximately 300,000 people."

"Materials from the Stormlands and the Reach to the south have all but ceased. Only the occasional small merchant ventures into the city, an amount so negligible it scarcely warrants mention. The Golden Road from the Westerlands faces constant threat from rebel forces in the south, making caravans pitifully few."

"Fortunately, grain transported from the Riverlands and the Vale barely—but only barely—meets the needs of our remaining population."

"But," Alyn added, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper, "should this continue, within a month, thousands upon thousands in King's Landing will face starvation. The price of bread will rise beyond the reach of common folk, unless we begin to distribute the grain stored within the Red Keep."

The grain in the royal storehouses was not to be touched lightly. It represented their greatest confidence, their very foundation for sustaining a prolonged conflict.

Tyrion offered a suggestion. "What of grain ships from Essos? At the very least, the sea routes and Blackwater Bay remain open to us."

It had always been Westeros that sold grain to the East. How strange that they now contemplated the reverse.

Joffrey preferred to seek solutions closer to hand. "Essos lies too distant, the sea conditions too unpredictable for stable supply. Such imports would inevitably prove costly. Our most reliable source remains the grain from the Crownlands and Riverlands."

He turned to the Kingslayer. "Why have the houses of the Crownlands reduced their shipments? Ser Jaime, I would ask you to pen several letters of inquiry."

Jaime understood the king's unspoken meaning. Should these inquiries yield unsatisfactory results, perhaps the new recruits might pay a visit to these reluctant suppliers.

"Everyone," Joffrey said, his voice light yet somehow all the heavier for it, "Renly's rebels will march against us in September. We have but a single month to prepare."

"Let us set King's Landing and the Crownlands in order. Let us take the first steps in building our Holy City. Renly is not to be feared!"

The king's eyes remained fixed upon the model of King's Landing that dominated the table before them.

"Yes, Your Grace!" The ministers responded with a single voice, united at least in this moment of purpose.

Chapter 104: Brienne of Arc

On the docks of King's Landing, Brienne of Tarth stood rigid as a spear, forcing herself to ignore the curious stares of the smallfolk that gathered along the waterfront. Instead, she fixed her gaze upon the rows of warships that swayed gently on the dark waters of Blackwater Bay.

Most magnificent among them was Robert's Hammer—the pride of the royal fleet, named for the weapon that had crushed Rhaegar Targaryen's breastplate on the Trident. Its massive sails of gold billowed in the salt breeze, causing the proud stag emblazoned upon them to ripple and dance as if alive. The dense rows of oars that hung from both sides of the hull began to dip and rise in unison, cutting through the waters with metronomic precision as the great vessel made its way toward the channel.

Brienne knew that this display of naval prowess required the coordinated effort of more than four hundred oars, each one pulled by men whose muscles burned with the strain of it. The flagship raised its gleaming banners, and as if responding to some silent command, dozens of warships in its wake began to move in perfect formation. This was merely a training exercise, she realized—not unlike those her father's modest fleet performed in the waters surrounding Tarth.

Her eyes drifted rightward, where another flotilla of warships lay moored near the inner river. Their flagship was Fury, a monstrous galley with three hundred oars. Once it had been the pride of Duke Stannis, Master of Ships and Lord of Dragonstone, but now it rested at anchor, its sails furled tight, as docile as a tamed beast in the harbor of King's Landing.

Earl Monford Velaryon had informed her that Fury now sailed under the command of Davos Seaworth, a former smuggler risen to captaincy of the Third Royal Fleet. The man who had once been called the Onion Knight now fought for the Iron Throne—and for little Shireen Baratheon, the daughter of his dead lord.

Brienne turned her gaze leftward, where a third fleet of warships remained docked in berths closer to the sea. The banners flying from the first three vessels were indistinct at this distance—only a silver field scattered with small golden specks could be made out.

Yet she already knew these to be the ships of Earl Gunther Sunglass of Gulltown—the Piety, the Prayer, and the Dedication. Names as pious as their lord.

The entirety of the Dragonstone fleet had gathered in King's Landing. With such naval might arrayed against him, how could Lord Renly possibly hope to cross the river when the time came?

Anxiety gnawed at Brienne's heart. At this very moment, she should have been standing at Storm's End, guarding Lord Renly's safety, silently watching over him—treasuring each smile that graced his handsome face.

Even if it meant enduring the mockery and pity of every courtier and servant in his service, she would have welcomed such a fate.

Her uncommon height—she stood taller than six feet—and her rough-hewn features had been a torment throughout her life. Men called her "Beauty" behind her back, though sometimes even to her face when cruelty overcame courtesy. She was not so naive as to believe the nickname sincere. They did not even see her as a woman—merely as some jest the gods had played upon House Tarth.

"Beauty" Brienne had understood her place in the world from an early age.

She had never dared to dress as befitted a highborn lady; such finery would only make the laughter grow louder. Yet her efforts to arm herself as a warrior earned her no respect either. When she donned mail and took up sword and shield, men suddenly recalled that she was, after all, a woman.

Her lord father had arranged three marriage contracts for her, each one an attempt to secure her future—and, if truth be told, the continued prosperity of House Tarth.

But these matches had been pursued solely for the sake of Evenfall Hall and the lands that came with it. Not one of these men had offered her so much as a hint of love, nor even the smallest measure of respect.

After she had bested Ser Humfrey Wagstaff—her third betrothed, a man of sixty-five years—in single combat, breaking his collarbone and two ribs in the process, her father had never again spoken the word "marriage" in her presence.

Brienne could not imagine who might one day share her life, who might draw genuine laughter from her lips, who she might long for during times of separation. Nor could she picture how, when her time came, she might leave the world behind.

Then Lord Renly had visited Tarth during his coming-of-age tour of the Stormlands. His smile had been neither false nor mocking, his words gentle and sincere. In his eyes she had seen a light unclouded by judgment or disdain—unlike any man she had known before.

When her father had sent her to Storm's End, Brienne had gradually discovered a purpose to her existence.

By the grace of the Seven, so long as she could protect Lord Renly with her sword, rejoice in his smile, and, if need be, die in his service, surely that would constitute a life well-lived—a life of meaning.

But now...

Everything had dissolved like morning mist before the rising sun.

Standing in the shadow of a warehouse, Brienne gazed up at the Pride of Driftmark that rode at anchor before her. Two weeks past, this very vessel had led a fleet of forty warships to besiege Tarth itself. Her home, isolated across leagues of open water, had been utterly defenseless, with no allies to call upon. Her lord father had been given no choice but to yield—and to surrender his only daughter to Velaryon's fleet.

Amid the salt spray and the creaking timbers of warships in full sail, Brienne had been forced to confront a harsh reality.

Not only could she no longer remain at Lord Renly's side, but her father and House Tarth might well be compelled to remain neutral in the coming conflict—or worse, to bend the knee to the Iron Throne.

Though the allegiance of Tarth would scarcely affect the wider struggle for the Seven Kingdoms, even so small a loss might prove harmful to Lord Renly's cause.

And if Earl Monford's boasts held even a grain of truth, the power at the Iron Throne's command surpassed anything the realm had witnessed in living memory—a force to rival an army of one hundred thousand strong.

This King Joffrey, whom Earl Monford described as a heroic monarch and champion of the gods, who would save the world from the Long Night, who carried divine favor like a banner—how much of this was true?

And should the Iron Throne prevail, what fate might await Tarth? What punishment might be visited upon Lord Renly?

The future lay shrouded in mist too thick to penetrate, and Brienne found herself adrift without compass or star to guide her.

Earl Monford approached, his voice cutting through her troubled thoughts. "Lady Brienne, shall we proceed? King's Landing has changed since you last saw it. I hope you will find the improvements to your liking."

I am Brienne of Tarth, a warrior, my own knight, and most certainly not a lady, she thought. But she had grown weary of correcting such errors. "I hope so as well," she replied, her voice flat.

Their party advanced under the protection of the silver seahorse of House Velaryon, meeting no resistance until they reached the Mud Gate.

Brienne could not suppress a small smile of satisfaction. "It seems much has changed indeed. Even the noble Earl Velaryon must dismount and submit to inspection by common gold cloaks."

Earl Monford's expression remained untroubled. "For the sake of His Grace's grand design, such minor inconveniences are hardly worth mentioning."

Since receiving divine grace on Dragonstone, Earl Monford had learned much about the transformations taking place in King's Landing. The sacred coronation, the manifestation of divine will, the purification of city and citizenry, the meticulous screening of all who passed through its gates...

The light screen of divine grace—what a miracle beyond comprehension.

With each passing day, Earl Monford grew more certain of the wisdom of his choice. A king blessed with such divine power would surely achieve final victory, and those who served him faithfully would share in his glory.

"Name? Age?" The gold cloak eyed Brienne suspiciously, then added with evident discomfort, "Gender?"

Though she had faced such questions countless times before, Brienne could not help the flush of anger that crept up her neck. "Brienne of Tarth, nineteen years of age. And I am a woman—a woman. Look more carefully next time."

The gold cloak—Gendry was his name, sewn onto his uniform—nodded awkwardly and continued with his questions, following some procedure known only to the city guard. He consulted a strange black sphere in his hand, which seemed to be recording Brienne's likeness somehow. Only when the sphere emitted a faint chiming sound did he wave them through.

Beyond the gate, the city appeared much as Brienne remembered it—the same narrow streets, the same stench of too many bodies pressed too close together, the same clamor of merchants hawking their wares.

She maintained an impassive expression, though inwardly she marveled at the black, shining sphere the gold cloak had wielded. It appeared to be crafted from dragonglass, and clearly performed some vital function in this new order.

What purpose could a ball of dragonglass possibly serve?

Earl Monford leaned closer, pride evident in his bearing. "Do not underestimate the dragonglass orb, my lady. Through divine grace, it has been imbued with wondrous powers. It captures a person's likeness and all manner of information about them. Henceforth, similar devices will be used for identification throughout the city. Nothing will remain hidden."

Brienne remained silent, though she had noted how the gold cloak had seemed to recognize something in Earl Monford when they'd been inspected. The man had been released promptly after exchanging a blessing: "Eternal Light."

Was this somehow related to the invisible divine grace of which Earl Monford spoke?

Their party proceeded directly toward the Red Keep, moving deeper into the eastern half of the city.

The further east they traveled, the more somber the pedestrians appeared, the more deserted the center of the street became, and the more numerous the soldiers in gleaming mail and plate.

During their journey of perhaps a quarter-hour, Brienne witnessed five separate inspections at various intersections. Each one centered around those same black dragonglass orbs.

Even the taverns and bakeries they passed had soldiers stationed at their doors, each one clutching a dragonglass sphere as if it were some talisman against evil.

Earl Monford surveyed the scene with undisguised pride, as though he himself were responsible for these changes. "None can escape divine grace now. No travel, no purchase of bread or wine, and random searches throughout the city. The glory of the gods will illuminate every corner of King's Landing!"

Brienne's sense of foreboding grew stronger with each passing moment. It seemed that Earl Monford's boasts might not have been mere fancy after all.

They had scarcely arrived at the outer courtyard of the Red Keep when a knight in gleaming armor approached them.

"His Grace summons you," he announced without preamble.

Brienne felt her stomach clench. The time had come to face the king whose name was spoken with such reverence—and such fear.

Chapter 105: The King Summons

A dazzling edict flashed to life on the Divine Grace Light Screen, its words pulsing with gentle but insistent light:

"His Grace summons you to the Throne Room. —Secretariat"

The two lines of text blinked ceaselessly in the center of Loras's vision, demanding attention with a persistence that could not be denied. With reluctance, he set aside the gold-dusted brush, returning it to the small lacquered box that rested upon his table.

This was his private chamber within the Red Keep, a place where, for brief moments, he might still be himself.

He had been sitting alone before a polished silver mirror, meticulously tracing the golden rose of House Tyrell onto a shield-shaped badge. The outline was complete, yet only half had been filled with gleaming gilt—the remainder still cold, silvery-white, awaiting his careful attention.

How he longed to complete his work in a single sitting, to see the golden rose bloom in its full glory, to offer a silent prayer for the success of the Southern Alliance.

But the edict continued to pulse before his eyes, its demand for attention brooking no delay.

With a soft sigh, Loras set down the unfinished badge. The Divine Grace Light Screen did not permit one to ignore its dictates—especially when the command originated from the Secretariat. Though this institution existed only within the mysterious realm of the Light Screen, all understood it to be the vessel through which the king's will was made manifest.

Loras rose and caught his reflection in the mirror. The summer air hung hot and damp in his chamber, and he wore only a thin linen shirt—hardly suitable attire for moving through the castle, let alone an audience with the king.

He summoned a servant with a single bell pull, and soon found himself encased in layer upon layer of rich fabric—garments both exquisite and formal, heavy with significance. Not unlike his position in the Red Keep, these clothes concealed his inner pain and passion beneath a veneer of courtly propriety.

Studying his reflection once more, Loras noted that while his military uniform appeared suitably imposing, something essential was lacking.

Ah. The daily instruction provided by the Divine Grace Light Screen had been quite specific on matters of proper attire for formal occasions. This would not suffice.

From a polished wooden box, Loras withdrew several badges of varying shapes and significance.

A bronze six-pointed star, symbol of the Seven Gods' grace and emblem of the Holy War Army—this he affixed to his left breast, directly over his heart.

A silver-cast all-seeing eye set within a triangle that radiated beams of light, representing the omnipresent divine illumination and marking him as a member of the Order of Light—this he suspended from a chain around his neck.

A circular badge engraved with an intricate swastika pattern, symbolizing the summoning of the Divine Envoy and identifying him as one favored by Divine Grace—this he fastened to his left arm.

Was there more?

Loras hesitated, mentally cataloging his manifold identities. Holy War Army soldier. Member of the Order of Light. One favored by Divine Grace. Loras of House Tyrell. Knight of Flowers.

Renly's lover.

No—His Grace Renly was betrothed to Loras's sister Margaery. At best, Loras could claim to be Renly's sworn knight, nothing more.

After long deliberation, Loras left the golden rose emblem behind. Instead, he fastened about his shoulders a cloak bearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon—for the king who held his heart, if not his oath.

He quit his chamber and proceeded directly toward the Throne Room along corridors grown familiar through endless walking.

As he moved with practiced swiftness, exchanging brief pleasantries with the courtiers and ladies who crossed his path, Loras pondered the reason for the king's summons.

Today was Tuesday, so it could not pertain to the submission of Divine Grace creations.

Since receiving Divine Grace, Loras and the others had discovered that this intangible power could be cultivated, drawn forth, and channeled into ordinary objects, thereby imbuing them with miraculous properties.

The Light Screen termed these "Divine Grace creations" and imposed a weekly obligation: eleven such items, to be surrendered every Sunday.

Eleven was precisely calculated—slightly less than the Divine Grace power one accumulated in a sennight. The surplus from two weeks would suffice to craft an additional creation. The Light Screen offered fair compensation for these items, though one might also retain them for personal use if desired.

Loras himself had kept a flame dagger wrought from dragon crystal, having learned that such material showed particular affinity for Divine Grace.

Merely two days past, he had submitted his required quota, fulfilling the Light Screen's demands. The deadline for this week's surrender remained distant, falling on Sunday—thus, this could not explain his summons.

Perhaps the king sought to assign tasks to the Holy War Army? After all, they had grown restless with inactivity.

Loras felt this acutely.

In recent days, beyond the regular obligations imposed by the Light Screen, he seemed to have vanished entirely from the notice of both the Red Keep and the broader sweep of King's Landing. No additional duties had been laid upon him.

This should have been cause for relief. His primary function in the Red Keep was as hostage to ensure House Tyrell's continued good behavior. He ought to have been grateful for this benign neglect.

Yet as days became weeks, Loras had watched the Red Keep transform again and again, had witnessed King's Landing altered beyond recognition, had seen the Gold Cloaks reborn as Divine Grace-favored Guards, and had observed the fresh-faced recruits under Ser Jaime's command harden into what appeared a battle-tested elite force.

Each day brought some new wonder that shattered Loras's understanding of what was possible, and with each such revelation, his confidence in the Southern Alliance's ultimate victory diminished by another fraction.

This growing helplessness proved an agony too keen to bear. Loras preferred to lose himself in the Light Screen's appointed tasks, to spend his strength and energy in prescribed exertion, thereby banishing all weighty and troublesome thoughts.

The Light Screen demanded ten thousand paces each morning? Very well—Loras not only led the pack but doubled the requirement through sheer determination.

Training in swordsmanship, spearmanship, horsemanship, and the application of flame and healing? Loras threw himself into these disciplines with complete abandon, wringing every drop of effort from his body and every spark of God-given flame from his soul, claiming the foremost position on the Light Screen's leaderboard day after day.

Study of documents, histories, and tactics? Loras committed the Light Screen's knowledge to memory and secretly supplemented this learning with additional texts.

In the weekly examinations, only Samwell Tarly's marks surpassed his own.

Even so, the hours of each day stretched interminably long. The Light Screen's tasks consumed perhaps half his waking time at most—what of the remainder?

Loras desperately required new goals, fresh labors, anything to forestall meaningless melancholy and dangerous reverie.

It must pertain to the Holy War Army. The more Loras considered this, the more convinced he became.

The content accessible through the Divine Grace Light Screen proved remarkably comprehensive. Detailed descriptions of the various departments beneath the Iron Throne, brief registries of the noble houses of the Seven Kingdoms with their territories, titles, and members, as well as those blessed with Divine Grace and enrolled in the Holy War Army—all lay open to his perusal.

Loras noted with growing unease that each week, the Holy War Army doubled in strength, while those favored by Divine Grace increased by hundreds, even thousands.

As of this day, the Holy War Army comprised one thousand soldiers, and those touched by Divine Grace numbered more than five thousand.

One thousand Holy War Army soldiers. Though the powers of flame and healing remained finite, slow to replenish, and not to be squandered heedlessly, they constituted divine might nonetheless. Even amidst the chaos of battle, such a force might well halt an army of ten thousand.

And these numbers represented not the limit but merely the beginning. Another month or two...

Evidently the king had not forgotten this tremendous resource. Loras began to speculate on what His Grace might require of him. Surely he would not be ordered to take up arms against his own blood?

Loras entered the Throne Room with trepidation weighing heavy upon his shoulders.

Two rows of Guards—no longer merely Gold Cloaks—stood in solemn vigil along the length of the hall.

The king stood before the Iron Throne, withdrawing his blazing, light-infused sword "Dragonflame" from the shoulder of a kneeling figure of uncommon height.

"Rise. Kingsguard, Brienne of Tarth."

The name caused Loras to falter in mid-stride, his eyes fixed upon the tall figure's broad back, which struck a chord of vague familiarity.

The newly appointed Kingsguard rose to her full height and turned to face the hall.

It was her!

Loras felt certainty settle cold within his chest. That face could not be mistaken for any other—"Beauty" Brienne, as cruel men named her behind her back.

Was she not a sworn admirer of Renly? What twisted fate had brought her to King's Landing, let alone to a place among Joffrey's Kingsguard?

The king beckoned with one pale hand. "Loras, approach."

The king had summoned. There could be no hesitation now.

Loras advanced step by measured step, a terrible suspicion taking shape within his mind.

"You know, Uncle Renly is destined for defeat," the king observed, his tone light as summer breeze. "Blood remains thicker than water, after all. I might yet spare his life—if two Kingsguard were to counsel mercy."

In that moment, Loras understood everything.

For the king who held his heart.

He lowered his head, knelt upon one knee, and offered up his sword.