[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 81 - 85

Chapter 81: Regent

The Small Council chamber had seldom witnessed a gathering of such consequence.

The young king, his three regents, and all members of the Small Council sat in uneasy accord around the long table of polished oak. Carved dragons curled along its edges, a reminder of the dynasty that had ruled before the stag.

Joffrey occupied one end of the table, flanked by Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, known throughout the realm as "Barristan the Bold," and the newly appointed Master of the Army, Ser Jaime Lannister, whom men still called "Kingslayer" behind his back.

At the table's opposite end sat Lord Tywin Lannister, his hard face betraying nothing. To his right was Queen Regent Cersei, to his left, Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, his face grim as winter.

Around them gathered Alyn Lantell, Master of Whisperers; Grand Maester Pycelle, his chain heavy about his stooped shoulders; Lord Tyrion Lannister, Master of Coin; Sandor Clegane, Commander of the City Watch; and Lady Hanna, the Lord Steward.

In the corner, positioned to observe but not participate, sat Samwell Tarly, a quill clutched in his plump fingers, tasked with recording the meeting's proceedings for posterity.

It was Tyrion who broke the silence.

"Your Grace certainly made quite an impression yesterday," the dwarf remarked, his mismatched eyes glinting with sardonic amusement. "A pity Lord Tywin was not present to witness the spectacle firsthand."

Lord Tywin made a sound between a snort and a cough. "Is there truly need to witness such things in person? The entire city speaks of nothing else. I doubt any will dare challenge the crown's authority now."

Joffrey shook his head, golden crown catching the light. "I think not. The greed that dwells in men's hearts cannot be so easily extinguished."

The Hound's ruined face twisted in what might have been a smile. "At least King's Landing will know peace for a time. And we need fear enemies beyond our walls even less—victory is assured."

Ser Jaime seized upon the opening. "This 'Master of the Army'—I confess I remain uncertain of its ultimate function."

"The title speaks for itself," Joffrey replied.

The king began to paint a picture with his words, one of conquest and glory.

"In time, the Master of the Army shall command all land forces throughout the Seven Kingdoms. We shall not confine our ambitions to Westeros alone; the continent of Essos and even lands as yet unknown shall be brought beneath the dominion of the Iron Throne."

Having witnessed the Light Giant with their own eyes only a day before, every word from the king's lips seemed imbued with irresistible force.

Grand Maester Pycelle spoke, his voice tremulous with age. "To achieve such lofty aims, a larger fleet becomes essential. Might Your Grace have given thought to the appointment of a Master of Ships?"

Joffrey looked between Lord Tywin and Lord Stark. "My lords, have you men of worth to recommend for such a position?"

The Hand of the King had grown increasingly withdrawn of late, intervening only in matters that directly concerned his official duties. "Your Grace must forgive me," Lord Stark said, his Northern accent more pronounced than usual. "The North maintains no fleet of consequence. I fear I cannot offer counsel in this regard."

All eyes turned to Lord Tywin.

Was this merely a request for recommendation? Or did it constitute a test of the Old Lion's ambitions? Perhaps the king no longer wished to rely exclusively upon House Lannister?

After all, in the days since the coronation, none could fail to observe the king's boundless appetite for power.

Tywin met Joffrey's gaze without flinching. "In terms of pure capability and qualification, the most suitable candidate in all the Seven Kingdoms would be Lord Paxter Redwyne. Yet, when loyalty must be considered above all, I shall disregard any appearance of favoritism and recommend my own brother, Ser Kevan."

"Ser Kevan would indeed serve admirably," Joffrey said with a slight nod.

"Lord Tywin, my uncle Renly has withdrawn to Storm's End, leaving the position of Master of Laws vacant. Perhaps you might assume additional responsibilities and shoulder this burden as well?"

Lord Tywin rose and offered a precise bow. "As Your Grace commands."

Tyrion sighed audibly. "Lord Renly appears determined to create difficulties. We must prepare ourselves accordingly, particularly regarding finances."

Joffrey signaled for blank parchment to be brought. "Let us address these matters now, together. Hear my plans, and then each of you shall enumerate the resources you require. We shall see if the royal coffers can withstand the strain."

The young king, not yet come of age, seemed to have forgotten his youth entirely. He conducted himself with a diligence that would have shamed his late father.

"Ser Jaime, your task shall prove arduous indeed. Within a moon's turn, you must recruit no fewer than ten thousand men into our army."

The Kingslayer's brow furrowed with concern.

Joffrey offered reassurance. "Have no fear. You shall enjoy the full support of both myself and my master of coin. Proceed with confidence."

"Lord Tyrion, you must bring order to the royal accounts within the year. Reduce expenditures, increase revenues, and produce a surplus of no less than five hundred thousand gold dragons."

The Imp acknowledged the command with a sardonic smile.

"Lord Stark, you too must bear your share. The crown requires the support of both you and the North. Summon your bannermen without delay. Your contributions shall not go unrecognized."

Eddard raised his head, his mouth opening as if to speak, then closing again.

The South is a labyrinth of intrigue, he thought grimly. I wish no further entanglement in these affairs. I long only to return to Winterfell, where honor still holds meaning.

Yet Bran, Jon, Sansa, and Arya all resided within the Red Keep. What escape remained to him?

Lord Stark finally found his voice. "Your Grace, forgive my directness. The North is a harsh and unyielding land. That decree you issued previously... I fear..."

Joffrey waved a dismissive hand. "That is of no consequence. Should the Northern lords send men to fight under our banners, what matter if past tax obligations are set aside? I shall not be miserly."

Lord Stark could only bow his head in acceptance.

Lord Tywin spoke without being asked. "House Lannister stands ever as the crown's most steadfast ally. Twenty thousand men have already assembled at Lannisport, and the gold of the West awaits Your Grace's disposal."

Joffrey acknowledged this with appreciative applause.

Lady Hanna adopted an expression of puzzlement. "Lord Renly's return to Storm's End need not presage rebellion, surely? How does Your Grace know his intent with such certainty?"

Joffrey's sigh carried genuine regret. "I am also aware that letters bearing Uncle Renly's seal now speed throughout the Seven Kingdoms, casting aspersions upon my lineage. Even the Red Keep shall receive such a missive on the morrow. Uncle Renly has crossed a threshold from which he cannot retreat."

A heavy silence descended upon the chamber.

Joffrey pressed on, assigning further duties. "Lady Hanna, you must quickly master the intelligence operations within both the Red Keep and King's Landing. Alyn, your focus henceforth shall be the broader Seven Kingdoms and the continent of Essos, preparing the way for our eventual expansion."

Both Hanna and Alyn accepted their charges with appropriate deference.

"Clegane, the City Watch can no longer continue in its present state of indiscipline. You must train and recruit in earnest, purge the ranks of undesirables, and forge an unassailable defensive force in the shortest time possible."

"Grand Maester, I bid you compose a letter to the Citadel. King's Landing requires additional maesters, even acolytes still in training. The crown shall establish a new institution for research, where knowledge shall flourish and illuminate our path forward."

The councillors began to record their requirements.

Only Ser Barristan and Queen Cersei remained idle. The old knight, concerned solely with the king's protection, appeared untroubled by this. Queen Cersei, however, showed visible signs of disquiet.

Joffrey offered his mother a reassuring glance. With the imposing presence of Lord Tywin beside her, the Queen Regent eventually mastered her impulse to interject.

The burden of regency proves heavier than anticipated, she reflected. My son has grown beyond my influence, learning not to heed my counsel.

Cersei studied her son—crowned, confident, vibrant with purpose—and found herself awash in emotions too complex to name.

The ministers began to circulate their lists of requirements.

The smile that had played about Tyrion's lips vanished abruptly. "Such vast sums," he exclaimed, scanning the parchments. "My lords, do you truly believe gold dragons sprout from trees like summer fruit?"

The Hound's contemptuous laugh was like a blade drawn across stone. "Wealthy merchants have more coin than they deserve, and few acquired it honestly. Confiscate a handful of their holdings, and we shall have all we require."

Tyrion shook his head. "Such action would only undermine confidence and security among the merchant class. The crown's credibility would plummet, and commerce would wither. The harm would far outweigh any immediate gain."

Lord Tywin regarded Joffrey with speculative interest.

The king, naturally, had anticipated this impasse.

"My lords," Joffrey said, leaning forward slightly, "did you imagine that divine grace comes without price?"

Chapter 82: The Shadow and the Flame

After two nights of restless torment, Melisandre finally received the king's summons.

She had made meticulous preparations, resolved to help the prophesied prince recognize his sacred destiny and understand that the Lord of Light—the one true god—represented the ultimate salvation for all mankind.

The servants withdrew, closing the heavy oaken door behind them. She raised her gaze to find herself alone with the prince.

Joffrey sat with casual composure at his desk, reviewing a sheaf of parchments. "Priestess of the Lord of Light," he said without looking up, "what brings you to my presence?"

Melisandre lowered herself to the floor in supplication. "Your Grace, I have glimpsed you within the sacred flames. You are the prince that was promised, foretold in the ancient books of Asshai—Azor Ahai reborn, the chosen champion of R'hllor, the Lord of Light."

"All has been ordained by fate."

"He has bestowed divine power upon you to stand against the cold and the Great Other."

"Only the Lord of Light!"

"The Seven Gods may placate the ignorant masses, but they are not true deities. Only the Lord of Light and his adversaries possess genuine power in this world. You shall become R'hllor's divine emissary, the hero who delivers the world from darkness!"

Melisandre tempered her fervor, uncertain how much the prince truly comprehended about the Lord of Light's mysteries.

Joffrey set aside his reports, his emerald eyes fixing upon the prostrate priestess.

He could acknowledge that the Lord of Light represented a tangible force, and that his priests wielded authentic power. Yet he remained uncertain whether such power could be empirically observed.

"Melisandre, demonstrate your art for me—show me the divine power of the Lord of Light."

He produced a velvet pouch that clinked with metallic promise, emptying its contents upon the desk. Dozens of polished gemstones spilled forth, each one suffused with an intangible source energy.

"Perhaps these will assist your spellcraft."

Melisandre regarded the gems with scarcely concealed excitement. What magnificent treasures! Each stone brimmed with power that exceeded even the ruby that hung at her throat.

"Your Grace is most generous."

Joffrey grew more certain of his suspicion. Divine spells requiring source energy? This resembles magic more than miracle.

Could the Lord of Light be merely a more advanced practitioner of the arcane arts? Or perhaps an organization of such practitioners? How was the miracle of resurrection achieved? Did some form of magic exist that could accomplish such feats? Squire Melisandre began to chant in a language that bore no resemblance to any Joffrey recognized. Her steps grew nimble, her arms and body swaying with hypnotic rhythm. Her voluminous red robes fluttered as though caught in a phantom breeze, resembling dancing flames—fervent and passionate.

Joffrey observed in silence, perplexed despite himself. As a performance of song and dance, it held some modest interest. But could such theatrics truly constitute the foundation of spellcraft?

Melisandre had, in fact, greatly simplified her ritual.

In times past, when performing spells, she had cultivated an air of both effortless grace and impossible complexity, ensuring her image remained shrouded in mystery and power—all to better spread the gospel of the Lord of Light.

Yet her present audience was no ordinary man. He possessed knowledge of true power that perhaps exceeded her own understanding. Thus, she could only return to the ritual's essential core.

Without warning, flames erupted from her red robes.

She could not suppress a cry of exultation. Such magnificent fire, conjured without artifice—power gained through spell and gesture alone.

Joffrey's attention fixed upon Melisandre's necklace. In the precise moment when flames manifested, a sigil shimmered into existence near the ruby at her throat, channeling some unseen force into the priestess.

The sigil appeared both familiar and alien to him—reminiscent of a fire rune, yet more intricate in its composition.

He lowered his head in contemplation.

Melisandre's dance gradually ceased, her red robes entirely consumed by fire.

She approached with sensual grace, her breath soft against his skin. "Your Grace possesses immense power within. Allow me to serve you, and the shadow of life shall be born. It will aid you in fulfilling your great purpose."

Joffrey studied her face, yet what appeared before him was Daenerys's visage, framed by silver hair.

He perceived sigils resembling those of light and spirit.

"Shadow," Joffrey said with a smile. He wished to measure the energy this would exact from him.

"Daenerys, your Targaryen lineage has spawned countless sins. Today, you shall bear the weight of that legacy." Joffrey slowly unbuttoned his garments.

"No!" She fled around the chamber in apparent terror.

"Please, spare me. I have not flowered. Men will die for this transgression!"

Her performance intrigued him. "Release you? Even if the people of the Seven Kingdoms might consent to such mercy, my father's shade would never permit it. Lie down and accept your fate."

They circled the room in a strange dance, weaving between tables laden with arcane instruments.

"Brother, help me! Viserys, where are you? Do not abandon me!"

Daenerys struggled to shield her exposed form with slender arms, her voice tremulous with fear.

Joffrey responded with playful malice. "Viserys? My squire would never dare interfere. I have sent him far from here. Cry out all you wish."

"Even if he stood beyond that door, do you believe he would dare enter?"

Daenerys glared at him with sudden fury, then staggered as though overcome. The king pounced upon her instantly.

"No!" She struggled desperately, yet could not dislodge the weight that pinned her.

Joffrey laughed softly. "Accept your fate."

"Ah!" She tensed beneath him, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes as a desolate cry escaped her lips.

"Usurper! You—ah—you will not... will not escape... judgment!" Daenerys shook her head weakly, her cheeks flushed, her breathing growing increasingly shallow.

Joffrey lifted her onto the surface of his desk.

"Rail all you wish. The one true god, the Lord of Light, has chosen me as his instrument. Why should I fear your feeble curses?"

Melisandre finally heard the confirmation she sought.

"No!" came her anguished thought. "Lord of Light, why have you selected this vessel? Must the Great Other be opposed by him alone?"

Joffrey caressed her neck with gentle fingers. "Dany, you misinterpret my jests. The divine grace of the Lord of Light shall benefit all the world in the name of the gods. The Others and their servants shall face the combined might of all believers, even those who have not yet embraced the Lord of Light. The Others shall be vanquished!"

Melisandre frowned inwardly. Would the Lord of Light truly sanction such inclusivity?

Joffrey drove forward with greater force. "Think no more on such matters. Hear me, Dany. When the Others reveal themselves, and with proper guidance from the priests of the Lord of Light, conversion shall follow naturally. Then you shall comprehend what a profound honor it is to serve me."

Daenerys clutched the man tightly against her.

Whatever his understanding, so long as the prince himself acknowledges the truth.

She placed her teeth against the man's shoulder with deliberate care. When he offered no reaction, she bit down with sudden savagery. "That remains to be seen. For now, do not imagine I shall submit so readily to your will!"

The tooth marks on Joffrey's shoulder vanished instantly, revealing yet another manifestation of power to Melisandre's watchful eyes.

"Waste not your strength," he said. "The divine power of the Lord of Light shields me always. I must concede that I bear a sacred burden. Westeros shall become the kingdom of heaven made manifest upon the earth."

Melisandre resolved to summon more of her brethren to Westeros. This truly is the promised land.

Meanwhile, Joffrey found his reserves of both rune energy and magical energy sufficiently replenished. He attempted to meditate upon the sigil he had glimpsed within the flames.

Nothing happened.

Lord of Light, he wondered, what manner of being are you truly?

Chapter 83: Blood and Fire Approaching

The afternoon light slanted through the high windows of the Red Keep as the priestess of R'hllor, the Lord of Light, took her leave, her white robes trailing behind her like wisps of smoke.

King Joffrey, first of his name, summoned a servant with a flick of his wrist. He adjusted the golden clasp of his crimson cloak, smoothed the wrinkles from his doublet, and made his way toward the throne room. There awaited a council meeting with the true Daenerys—one of many tasks that required his attention this day.

Despite the gravity of the matters before him, Joffrey found himself in high spirits.

His meeting with Melisandre had proven exceedingly fruitful. Her illusions alone were remarkably realistic—entrancing visions that stirred one's appetite for more. Though like the patterns dancing in flames, the two distinct symbols that appeared when the red priestess cast her spells remained things to be admired from afar, not trifled with carelessly.

He could sense, however, that these two patterns must be connected to the runes of light and the runes of spirit. The appearance of three types of patterns—simultaneously familiar yet strange, all seemingly beyond his grasp—could not be mere coincidence.

An evolved version of the runes? he wondered. Or perhaps the very rules of the world, nurtured by heaven and earth themselves?

Joffrey's mind raced with possibilities. He had glimpsed, however briefly, the deeper source code of the world—the power of gods, the very foundation of the song of ice and fire. The existence and might of the true god, R'hllor, had been thoroughly verified before his eyes.

More importantly, the Lord of Light had shown no reaction whatsoever to his probing, indicating either divine indifference or inattention. This was welcome news indeed.

Joffrey could only hope that He would value the mortal realm as late as possible. Ideally, after Westeros had transformed into a terrestrial paradise—a golden age of magic with himself as master of the world—only then would the Lord of Light deign to arrive. By then, even a true god might fall to the empire Joffrey envisioned, becoming nothing more than another subject to study on the path forward.

Renly and the lords of the Stormlands would be but the first stepping stone. The empire would rise from this moment, built on their bones if need be.

Joffrey stepped into the throne room, where a crowd of courtiers had already gathered. Their eyes followed his entrance, then shifted to the girl beside him—silver hair cascading like moonlight, violet eyes clear as amethysts, delicate features betraying pure Valyrian blood.

Those with good information had already discerned the truth. The new Master of Whisperers, Alyn Lantell, had risen to his position because of this girl. After all, she and her brother were the last descendants of the direct Targaryen line—the greatest challengers to the Baratheon throne.

The King settled himself upon the Iron Throne, which had been modified to appear less threatening, its edges dulled and its seat better fitted to his form. Many courtiers could not help but recall that day of fiery iron during the King's coronation, and the giant who had radiated infinite light and heat—a memory that still woke some from their sleep, drenched in sweat.

"I regret to inform you all," Joffrey announced, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the court, "that my uncle Renly sent a letter of challenge this morning. He claims I am not my father's true son, and according to the laws of gods and men, he intends to use swords to reclaim what he calls his rightful Iron Throne."

The courtiers below stood dumbfounded, as if they had heard the seven trumpets heralding the end of days.

"Gods be good, how dare Lord Renly make such accusations?" a voice cried out.

"The Seven Kingdoms shall face disaster again!" lamented another.

"His Grace Robert loved him so dearly, and this is how the brother repays him?!"

"Alas, why didn't we see this treachery before it festered?"

"Could it be that His Grace Robert and Duke Stannis..." The whispers grew like weeds after rain.

The small council members seated at the table remained calmer, observing the agitated courtiers with grave expressions, like maesters watching the symptoms of a disease manifest.

The King's face betrayed nothing, though his mind contemplated the timing of completely replacing the Iron Throne. It could be just a chair, true enough, but it was also the symbol of kingship and rule. Replacing it would be equivalent to rejecting the legitimacy of the regime inherited from the Targaryen dynasty—tantamount to revolution.

But what in the future would not be revolution? Joffrey thought.

He secretly arranged the steps in his mind: first defeat Renly, the Reach, and Dorne; then replace the Iron Throne; resist the Others; and ascend to imperial power. By then, the throne beneath him would not be Targaryen or Baratheon, but an imperial seat belonging solely to himself, and none would dare question it.

After the uproar gradually subsided, like a storm moving out to sea, Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, shook his head and offered a thin smile. "Lord Renly is truly unfortunate in his timing. Had he delayed his departure but a few days and witnessed His Grace's coronation and the divine blessings bestowed upon him, he would not have penned these ridiculous slanders. Would the gods favor bastards?" His question hung in the air like a dagger.

Ser Loras, standing below with the other knights, could not help but feel confused. Was Lord Renly merely finding a convenient excuse, or did he truly believe this accusation?

The people nodded in agreement, their eyes constantly darting forward, seeking reassurance.

The three regents all wore expressions dark as storm clouds, and none could tell that two of them already knew the answer to the question that now plagued the realm.

Only the Hand of the King, Lord Eddard Stark, felt his thoughts churning like a northern blizzard.

Joffrey not Robert's son? The notion was terrible to contemplate. If true, everything that had transpired this year would take on a different meaning—marriage alliances, Bloodraven, the miracles, wars, Hand Jon Arryn, the deaths of Stannis and Robert...

The vortex of possibilities was too dark, and Eddard could no longer see clearly through the shadow of doubt.

Who truly harmed Robert? Setting aside honor and emotion, not only Bloodraven, Joffrey, and Renly, but almost anyone could have wished the king harm.

Looking at the current situation, what chaos had Robert's death truly wrought? Renly approached the Iron Throne with blood and fire. Regardless of victory or defeat, how many would die in this conflict, and how many would rise from the ashes of others?

The only certainty Eddard clung to was the need to protect his eldest son. Robb must remain in Winterfell. The South was not suited for him—not suited for any proud Northerner with ice in their veins.

Regent Tywin Lannister spoke with the stern authority that had once made seven kingdoms tremble: "Thanks to Lord Eddard's timely warning, the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale have accepted the royal call to arms. Twenty thousand elite troops of Lannisport stand ready for battle, and more gather by the day."

"The King's Landing City Watch has already begun to expand," the Hound added, his burned face twisting as he spoke. "The young men will be bathed in divine grace, fighting one against a hundred."

"The royal fleet stands at the ready," another voice confirmed.

Queen Regent Cersei raised her chin, emerald eyes flashing with defiance. "Do they mean to bully my son and myself? Renly's ambition shall bear bitter fruit, not a crown."

What thorough preparations indeed! The atmosphere in the hall grew solemn as a funeral pyre.

Master of Whisperers Alyn rose to his feet, his voice carrying to the farthest corners of the room. "Lords of the Stormlands and the Reach, I urge you to contact your families without delay. Let me speak plainly—Renly, who is destined to fail and be reviled by history, is not the true king. The more you contribute to his cause, the more tragic your ending shall be."

The courtiers grew restless, shifting like leaves before a storm. Who indeed would dare suggest His Grace might fail?

A crack split the air as the door to the throne room opened unbidden.

All eyes turned toward the entrance, where a slender man with silver hair and violet eyes approached, leading what appeared to be a pure white stag. The man kept his head bowed, his steps faltering as if walking to his execution, until he reached the center of the hall and fell to his knees.

"Your... Your Grace," he stammered, voice weak as watered wine, "may the gods bless you. This white stag from the Kingswood is truly a miracle. It should be... Your Grace's mount."

The King tilted his head, puzzlement crossing his features. "A stag? Viserys Targaryen, why does it appear as a dragon to my eyes—a fire-breathing dragon?"

As if in response to the king's words, the white "stag" exhaled a plume of flames that illuminated the entire throne room with sudden, terrible brightness.

Every gaze in the hall pierced Viserys like Valyrian steel, nearly driving him mad with their intensity. Yet in the end, he humbled himself further, pressing his forehead to the cold stone floor.

"Your Grace, forgive me," he pleaded, "it is indeed a dragon, a fire-breathing dragon. I was mistaken. It is a dragon."

This was the last hope of House Targaryen? The gathered nobility could not help but exchange glances of pity or mockery. The Dragon dynasty was well and truly finished.

King Joffrey yawned with languid indifference. "That will be all for today. Return to your duties and rest well. Do not trouble yourselves—Uncle Renly shall not see King's Landing again, unless he comes in chains."

"Long live His Grace!" The cry echoed off the vaulted ceiling.

Everyone present understood the truth of the moment. Though no swords had yet clashed, no armies yet faced each other across a field, the war had already begun.

This was war. It came too slowly at first, almost as if it did not exist, making people unable to help but complain and even look forward to it. But when it truly descended upon them, it was too violent and hurried, like a storm that appears on the horizon one moment and drowns you the next.

In any case, blood and fire were approaching, as inexorable as the tide.

Chapter 84: The Blacksmith

Renly’s declaration of war and the royal recruitment proclamations had spread through King's Landing like wildfire through a summer-dry forest.

Some sneered at the news, lips curled in disdain. Others remained indifferent, shrugging shoulders grown weary of the games of lords and kings. The worried whispered in tavern corners, while the incredulous scoffed openly in the markets. And some—those with memories of the last war still fresh as blood—were simply terrified.

Still others, with gleams in their eyes, smelled opportunity as keen as hounds scent prey.

In short, King's Landing roiled with uncertainty. The Street of Steel rang with the symphony of smiths' hammers that never ceased from dawn till dusk, the rhythm proclaiming the extraordinary nature of these dark days.

The blacksmith shop on Visenya's Hill was the loudest of them all.

It boasted the most furnaces and anvils, the most blacksmiths and apprentices, and a master renowned throughout the city for his exquisite craftsmanship. Though it had only been at work through five sleepless nights thus far, the clanging from this shop had become a nightmare for nearby residents. Folk dared not imagine what their nights might become in a fortnight or even half a year hence.

Hot Pie, however, cared nothing for the neighbors' complaints; his thoughts were consumed only with his good brother's future.

"Gendry," he called, his voice nearly lost amidst the hammering. "Forget about those red-hot irons. Let's hurry and take action. You don't know—people over there are fighting tooth and nail to sign up. If we're any later, it'll be too late!"

Hot Pie was so anxious he was shifting from foot to foot like a man with fleas in his smallclothes, but he could see nothing of his friend's face—only a muscular back glistening with sweat in the forge's glow.

He has the build of a true blacksmith, Hot Pie thought. But I have better plans for him than pounding metal till he's old and gray.

Gendry continued his work, refusing to set down his hammer. "Fatty," he grunted between strikes, "there are so many people joining the recruitment. You seem awfully sure of yourself."

Hot Pie kept wiping sweat from his brow. The shop was deafening, and the air was hotter than the inside of one of his bread ovens, thick with the smell of hot metal and coal.

"I have confidence in you," he insisted. "As for me, just a baker's apprentice—they're recruiting tens of thousands this time. They'll need cooks by the score."

Hot Pie leaned closer, his eyes darting about with the look of a man clutching a secret worth gold.

"I've asked around," he whispered. "Join the Goldcloaks or that army department, and they provide food and lodging. After you pass basic training, they even give you seven silver stags a month! Seven silver stags!" He paused for emphasis. "How long would it take us to earn that much coin here?"

The iron in Gendry's tongs glowed orange-red, spitting angry sparks with each strike of his hammer.

"Tobho Mott is a good man," Hot Pie continued, glancing around to ensure no one was paying them any mind. "But even if you become a master one day, you'll still be just a blacksmith, still having to doff your cap to every strutting Goldcloak that passes."

Gendry said nothing, his face grim as he continued to swing the hammer, letting its rhythm speak for him.

"You saw it when His Grace was crowned, didn't you?" Hot Pie pressed, undeterred. "What a great miracle! I can't believe you had no reaction."

Gendry plunged the shaped iron into a water bucket, sending up a great hissing cloud of steam that slowly dissipated around them.

"That has nothing to do with the likes of us," he said finally, his voice low. "A blacksmith's apprentice only needs to think about being a good blacksmith. And you," he turned to look at Hot Pie, blue eyes stern beneath his shock of black hair, "your bread and pies are good. They'll find hungry mouths in any future."

Hot Pie shook his head vigorously. "That was before. Haven't you seen it? Everything has changed. The gods bestowed divine power upon His Grace because the Long Night is coming. When darkness falls, what good is even the most delicious bread?"

His eyes gleamed with something akin to fever. "Divine grace is priceless! His Grace will share the gods' blessing with us, and those who join the army will have the highest priority! That's divine grace, Gendry!"

Gendry set the finished piece carefully on a shelf before sitting down beside Hot Pie to rest, his broad shoulders slumping with exhaustion.

"Strange, then," he mused. "I heard that divine grace requires people to offer a tenth of their wealth, and even then, it's rarer than honest men in court. Did I remember wrong?"

Hot Pie waved a dismissive hand through the smoky air. "That's all outdated news. Just yesterday, a hundred Goldcloaks were bestowed with divine grace. I saw it with my own eyes—without them needing a single copper penny."

Gendry's brow furrowed. "Then why didn't you sign up yesterday?"

Hot Pie gave a sheepish grin. "Wasn't I thinking of my good brother? If we go together, we can watch each other's backs."

Gendry remained unmoved, like stone beneath a light rain.

He harbored no grand expectations for his life. It would be enough to continue working in his master's shop, step by careful step. At least here he needn't worry about food or shelter. What more could a bastard who knew not his parents' names ask for in this world of lords and kings?

Hot Pie's gaze fell upon an iron helmet resting on a nearby bench. He reached for it curiously.

"Don't touch that," Gendry growled, lunging forward to snatch it back with unexpected speed.

Hot Pie looked from Gendry to the bull-headed helmet in his protective grip, and a knowing smile spread across his round face. "Good brother, you still say you just want to be a blacksmith? Which smith would forge a special helmet for himself and guard it like the crown jewels?"

"Who says there aren't any?" Gendry shot back, his voice rising. "Many do the same. The one standing before you is one of them."

Hot Pie seized Gendry's arm with surprising strength. "Stop hesitating. Even if you just come with me to look, just for half a day—if you don't like what you see, you can return. Where's the harm in that?"

For some reason Gendry couldn't fathom, he found himself unable to break free from the plump boy's grasp.

Like the days preceding it, the Goldcloak headquarters adjacent to Cobblers' Square was thronged with eager recruits.

Rows of spears divided the yard into a grid of makeshift corridors. Newcomers shuffled along these channels in an orderly fashion, all making their way toward a line of long tables at the far end.

Hot Pie leaned close to Gendry's ear, whispering with nervous excitement, "Goldcloaks are to the left, the army department to the right. Which shall we choose?"

Gendry was not completely ignorant of these matters.

The army department was led by the "Kingslayer," he knew. Like many smallfolk, Gendry despised the man. How could a commander who would slay his own king produce followers worthy of respect?

But the Goldcloaks...

Gendry had seen them many times on the Street of Steel, finding fault with Tobho Mott's work, demanding bribes for imagined infractions. Their gold cloaks hid hearts black as pitch.

"Let's choose the Goldcloaks," Hot Pie urged. "They have comfortable lives, patrolling the city, enjoying its pleasures. The army department will be sent to fight. Of course, Stannis can't win against His Grace's divine power, but men will still die."

Gendry glanced sidelong at his friend. "Don't fret so. You're to be a cook—it won't be your turn to lose your life." He jerked his chin toward the right. "Let's go there."

Hot Pie shrugged, resigned. "True enough."

After standing in line for what felt like half a day, Hot Pie maneuvered himself behind Gendry, nudging his friend forward.

Gendry found himself before the recruiter's table, feeling as awkward as a bear in a sept. The man recording names wore a black sphere upon his chest, similar to those Gendry had glimpsed at the King's coronation.

The recorder looked up, and a flicker of recognition passed across his features. "Gendry," he said, his tone level. "What think you of Renly Baratheon's rebellion?"

Gendry parroted the answer of the man before him, words spoken by rote: "I swear to defend the throne to the death. May the gods protect us, His Grace is the one true king. Light Eternal!"

"What position are you inclined toward?"

Hot Pie jabbed him in the ribs several times from behind, and Gendry stammered, "Warrior protect me, Gendry is willing to kill the enemy for His Grace."

The recorder held the black sphere before him and waited in silence. After several long breaths, he looked up at Gendry with evident surprise, then produced a silver square badge threaded with a fine chain.

"Do you see that lord wearing the hound-shaped helm over there?" he asked, nodding toward a towering figure across the yard. "Show this badge to him. He is your superior now."

Gendry accepted the silver badge and walked a few paces before halting in confusion. I'm to serve under the Hound? he wondered. But isn't the Hound commander of the Goldcloaks?

Before he could ponder further, Hot Pie trudged over to him, his face as dejected as a rain-soaked cat. "What in seven hells is the 'Security Bureau'?" he lamented. "I've never even heard of such a thing."

Chapter 85: Eyes Watching Us

Within the King's private study, shadows played across the walls as afternoon light filtered through tall windows. Alyn Lantell, Chief of Intelligence and newly appointed Director of the Security Bureau, stood before his sovereign, delivering his report with practiced precision.

"Thanks to Your Grace's divine favor," he began, "the number of Little Birds nesting throughout King's Landing has exceeded five thousand, of which more than two hundred have proven themselves shrewd and capable enough to be transferred to the Security Bureau as trainee officers."

He paused, savoring the moment. "Adding the newly selected one thousand Security Bureau D-level personnel, we have sufficient numbers to watch over ten thousand of the God-Blessed. We await only your command, and the Security Bureau shall rise from the ground like a tower of strength."

With no other souls present, the exaggerated smile on Alyn's face never faltered, as if the expression had been carved there by some skilled sculptor's chisel.

Joffrey sighed and pointed to the glass screen resting upon the table. "Did I not tell you? If you have matters to report, contact me directly through the 'God-Given Light Screen.' There's no need to waste precious time with these formalities."

After much refinement, the instructions set within the God-Given Core had grown increasingly diverse. Users with sufficient permissions could now input edited text or images into the core, and this information would be transmitted to the "Central Hub" before Joffrey, achieving more convenient two-way communication than ravens or runners could ever provide.

The King harbored great expectations for what was to come. Why sit when one could recline? The convenience of ruling from afar held undeniable appeal.

Alyn squeezed out two glistening tears, his voice thick with emotion. "I am simply accustomed to the old ways, Your Grace. You cannot know how, during my exile in Pentos, I yearned daily to see you again. Now that I've finally returned home, Alyn desires nothing more than to remain by your side at all times."

"Enough," Joffrey commanded, cutting off the man's performance with a sharp gesture. "Spare me your theatrics. Even if you were to shower me with ten thousand honeyed words, should you fail in your duties, I will show no mercy."

"Yes, Your Grace." Alyn composed his features, though the smile never truly faded.

"I must also inquire—where shall the Security Bureau establish its headquarters? Many locations within the city are... not inexpensive to acquire."

Ever since learning of the new "Security Bureau" two days prior, Alyn had turned this question over in his mind like a copper penny. The gold dragons left behind by Varys were few, and the Minister of Finance, Tyrion, had in a mere fortnight earned himself the epithet "the stingy dwarf." From what coffers would the Security Bureau draw its funds?

"Is that all?" Joffrey shook his head, the ghost of a smile playing upon his lips. "Tell me again, how many God-Blessed are your people sufficient to watch over?"

Watch over. Alyn's gaze flicked involuntarily to the transparent glass upon His Grace's table. Though now blank, the scene from two days past seemed to hover before his eyes like a specter.

On that day, the glass had revealed the figure of Loras Tyrell, clear as if Alyn had been standing at the knight's shoulder, while Loras himself remained blissfully unaware of being observed.

Such was the power of God's grace.

Alyn had witnessed it all, clear as daylight. Ser Loras had been writing letters—one filled with longing and love for Renly, the other bearing his family's exhortations and warnings. A common servant had then carried Ser Loras's missives from the Red Keep.

Afterward, Alyn had personally guided that same servant to the comforts of the Black Cells.

With such artifacts at one's disposal, what need had they for Little Birds or scouts? The Security Bureau would become the brightest eye of the Iron Throne, missing nothing, forgetting nothing.

"Tens of thousands," Alyn repeated firmly, his voice carrying unshakable conviction.

Joffrey sighed once more, this time more softly. "Let me ask you again—how many God-Given have been bestowed thus far?"

Alyn hesitated, uncertain. "Hundreds, perhaps?"

Joffrey nodded. This represented the limit at their current stage of development.

The rune energy accumulated over these long months had eventually created more than two hundred mages and dozens of magical props attached with information rune mirrors. Through practice, each prop could produce ten units of magical energy per day in an environment with sufficient source energy, enough to power perhaps a dozen or a score of God-Given Cores.

Because of these limitations, there were only a few hundred God-Blessed in all of King's Landing at present.

Understanding dawned in Alyn's eyes as he grasped the King's meaning.

Joffrey clapped a hand upon Alyn's shoulder. "So, what manner of grandiose headquarters do you truly require?"

"Those thousand D-level personnel shall live directly in the barracks, training rigorously. At year's end, we shall screen them thoroughly and transfer the worthy few—perhaps dozens—into the Security Bureau proper. That should suffice to watch over hundreds or thousands of people. Would you not agree?"

Alyn felt the glorious Security Bureau he had envisioned in his heart drift away like smoke on the wind. "Your Grace is most wise," he managed.

"Do not be discouraged. Everything has only just begun." Joffrey gestured toward a wooden box nestled in the corner of the chamber. "There rest the eyes of the Security Bureau. Take them and grow familiar with their workings. Train those you deem capable."

Alyn approached the box and lifted its lid. Within lay dozens of transparent glass orbs, each the size of a man's head, stacked carefully atop one another.

"The eye at the bottom is yours alone," Joffrey continued. "Inscribe within it the names of Security Bureau personnel, and it shall grant you vision of them."

His voice dropped lower, the words carrying a weight of warning. "Alyn, place your complete trust in no man."

Alyn withdrew the bottommost glass sphere—this one was black as pitch. Who can escape these eyes? he thought. No one at all.

"Yes, Your Grace."

Clutching the box to his chest, Alyn departed the study in silence, descending the stone steps of Maegor's Holdfast and crossing the heavily guarded dry moat with measured strides.

Only upon returning to what had once been Varys's humble quarters—now Alyn's own—did he finally allow himself to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat.

His Grace had changed.

Half a year past, Alyn had thought Joffrey merely an arrogant prince, and himself a servant and playmate. Though often beaten, scolded, and mocked, he had found contentment in his place.

During his struggles in Pentos, Alyn had believed Joffrey a wise crown prince, with himself as the royal arms and legs, driving forward the prince's ambitions without regret.

Now, Alyn knew only that His Grace was an unfathomable true king, a messenger of gods beyond mortal understanding.

What was his own role in this grand design? Perhaps nothing more than a chess piece upon His Grace's board, to be moved at will, requiring only obedience.

Alyn dared not contemplate disobedience.

With careful hands, he removed the glass "eyes" from the box one by one, placing them upon the stone table in his dimly lit chamber.

After a moment's hesitation, he extended a finger and tapped one of the eyes twice.

A cloud of white light burst forth suddenly, flashing without pause.

Alyn stared, transfixed, for what felt an eternity.

He knew that behind the white light lay the true eye. They would inspect the world for the gods and His Grace, burning away all darkness and filth, uncovering all secrets and shame.

And it would all begin with his own hands.

Alyn gripped his trembling right hand with his left, forcing steadiness as he inscribed upon the eye's surface: "Eternal Light."

"Ding~"

The white light shattered, and the eye transformed into something akin to the God-Given Light Screen—rectangular, with a black background adorned with white characters and colored patterns.

The royal standard—the crowned stag and roaring golden lion—hung prominently at the top of the display.

On the left appeared eight well-known emblems: the lords of the Seven Kingdoms and the Greyjoys of the Iron Islands. When Alyn's finger brushed the Icefield Wolf, the history of House Stark and the heraldry of the North's major houses immediately leapt to the screen.

On the right clustered densely packed names. Among them, the names of hundreds of God-Blessed shone with inner light, while countless more remained dim as distant stars.

The time at the bottom ticked steadily forward—July 15th, followed by numbers Alyn did not yet understand.

Finally, his gaze settled upon the middle of the display.

There lay a blank parchment. With a hesitant hand, he wrote: "Loras Tyrell."

The parchment rolled itself tight, then unfurled once more. Upon its surface, Loras Tyrell appeared as if conjured by some unseen artist's hand.

The handsome knight stood alone, inhaling the fragrance of a deep red rose.

What a melancholy figure you cut, Alyn thought. Knight of Flowers, do your thoughts still turn to Renly?

A pity, indeed. Renly shall know only defeat.