[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 111 - 115

Chapter 111: Resurrection from the Dead

The blood had scarcely dried at Wendwater Bridge when word reached the capital. A fortnight had passed since the massacre, and Joffrey's web of spies had reported every gruesome detail of the tragedy that had unfolded there.

Today's petition before the Iron Throne was not the beginning of this matter, but rather its final culmination. Even so, before pronouncing his decision, Joffrey wished to hear his ministers' counsel one final time.

"Tyrion," he said, his voice echoing through the cavernous throne room, "what do you think?"

Within the pristine whiteness of the virtual space, Joffrey regarded his uncle, who appeared at normal height in this magical realm—freed at last from the prison of his dwarfism. Here, in this otherworldly council chamber conjured by sorcery, one could control projections with mere thought, commanding them to perform various actions while maintaining full consciousness in the material world. In essence, it granted one two bodies that functioned independently, unbound by mortal constraints.

Tyrion, having been called upon directly, felt the familiar weight of speaking when the king had likely already fixed upon a course of action. Nevertheless, he guided his projection to speak:

"Wendwater Bridge and Massey's Hook are not essential grounds to contest," he began carefully. "Renly, casting aside his reputation for benevolence, has ordered his men to commit unspeakable brutalities. This suggests he harbors designs far beyond these mere atrocities."

In the physical realm, Joffrey stared down upon the assembled petitioners from atop the Iron Throne, his face a mask of cold contemplation.

Indeed, until now, most had believed Renly would strike directly at King's Landing. Lord Massey and Lord Mallister had likely never imagined their holdings would be so thoroughly put to the torch.

Tyrion continued, "Renly's move appears designed to lure our army southward. His fleet is weak, and the Blackwater Rush presents an insurmountable obstacle for his forces. Once battle is joined in the south, the advantage will undoubtedly favor the rebels with their vast numbers of foot and horse."

The other ministers nodded, acknowledging the soundness of this reasoning.

Tyrion manipulated the light screen before him, conjuring a three-dimensional map of exquisite detail onto the floor of the white space.

"Observe, my lords," he said, gesturing toward the projection. "Should our army venture south to relieve Massey's Hook, we would face myriad perils. Not only would we need to traverse the vast Kingswood—ground ripe for ambush—but Renly's forces stationed at Bronzegate and Haystack Hall could reach Wendwater Bridge within a day, severing our retreat."

His finger traced a path to Bitterbridge in the west. "A force of cavalry riding at full gallop could reach the Kingswood from Bitterbridge in merely four or five days. Elite infantry would require a sennight, and levied peasant soldiers perhaps a fortnight."

"If our army becomes entangled at Massey's Hook, and the rebel host from Bitterbridge arrives to seal off Wendwater Bridge and the Kingswood, we would find ourselves encircled. Wendwater Bridge, Haystack Hall, Harvest Hall, and Blackwater Bay would form a noose around our forces—a noose that would tighten with each passing day. Why should we willingly place our necks within it?"

"Even if we were to retreat to King's Landing before the rebel army from Bitterbridge arrived, our men's spirits would be dampened by such a withdrawal. We would have expended valuable strength to no purpose."

Moreover, Wendwater Bridge was already naught but smoking ruins. Even if they dispatched relief to Massey's Hook immediately, they would arrive too late to accomplish anything of value. At best, they would gain hundreds of thousands of hungry mouths to feed—and these would not need to be taken by force. Renly would gladly drive them to the city gates himself.

Tyrion drew a circle around the Kingswood on the map. "Renly can only wreak havoc within this region."

"Wendwater Bridge and Massey's Hook are beyond salvation. The Kingswood is sparsely populated, and the remainder of the Crownlands shelters beneath the protective shadow of King's Landing. The rebels cannot repeat their tactics elsewhere."

Tyrion summarized his assessment with finality: "This is plainly a trap, and we shall suffer no further losses of consequence by refusing to spring it. We should not recklessly march southward. Our wisest course is to defend King's Landing itself. Can the rebels linger in the south indefinitely?"

As for the lords who had brought this petition, they would receive compensation after victory was secured, according to their own stated wishes.

At the Small Council's table in the throne room, Tyrion offered words of admiration toward the petitioners: "Lord Mallister, Lord Massey, you are exemplars of nobility, willing to sacrifice personal interests for the realm's greater welfare. I commend your selflessness."

In both the white space and the throne room, Joffrey remained silent, his thoughts hidden behind a face carved from stone.

Ser Jaime Lannister, his objection within the virtual council: "Renly burns and pillages within the Crownlands with impunity. How can we simply turn a blind eye to such provocations?"

"True, the rebels boast impressive numbers," Jaime acknowledged, "but that is the extent of their advantage."

The Kingslayer harbored immense faith in King's Landing's newfound power. "Massey's Hook might prove perilous for ordinary armies, but the Holy Warriors blessed by Divine Grace are no ordinary troops. The balance of war has shifted entirely!"

In recent days, Jaime had witnessed firsthand the capabilities bestowed by Divine Grace.

"A mere few thousand Holy Warriors would scatter Renly's host like chaff before the wind—a second Field of Fire to rival Aegon's conquest!" His certainty was absolute.

In truth, Tyrion shared his brother's assessment of magical power's potential.

Magic had spread with bewildering speed throughout the capital, its capabilities seeming limitless, inspiring only awe in those who beheld its wonders.

Yet the fundamental question remained: to what extent could this power truly reshape warfare? How did it compare to Aegon's dragons of old?

Tyrion had chosen the most cautious answer available.

If magic's effect proved indeed unparalleled, then defending King's Landing would not hinder their eventual victory in the slightest.

And if its effect fell short of expectations, defending King's Landing would still represent the least damaging decision.

The Hound spoke with unwavering conviction regarding magic's potency: "Renly's swords count for nothing against such power. Grant me five hundred Holy Warriors, and I swear not one of those bastards at Massey's Hook shall live to see another dawn! Even the Stormland rebels would prove powerless to halt our advance!"

Hanna raised a pragmatic concern:

"What shall we do with the flood of refugees entering King's Landing? Our current food stores can sustain perhaps five to six hundred thousand souls. If this influx continues unabated, we shall be forced to open the Red Keep's granaries."

As overseer of the Logistics Bureau, Hanna had become the minister most preoccupied with matters of sustenance.

Alyn offered a suggestion: "Perhaps we might enforce stricter controls at the city gates? Direct refugees beyond our walls northward to seek their livelihoods elsewhere, while finding employment for those already admitted. Does the Engineering Bureau not require additional laborers?"

Tyrion dismissed this notion with a wave of his hand. "No, the Engineering Bureau has reached its capacity. They've already taken on twenty thousand workers—more than sufficient for their needs."

Joffrey finally broke his silence with a pointed question: "Has the eastern half of the city not yet been cleared?"

Today marked the tenth day of August, and the second phase of King's Landing's purification had concluded several days prior, rooting out many more suspicious persons and properties. Yet this had not sufficed to claim half the city as planned.

The burdensome task had worn heavily on Tyrion, nearly driving him to resignation—a thought he dared entertain only in the privacy of his own mind.

"Your Grace, additional time will be required," Tyrion admitted reluctantly.

"War may erupt at any moment, and the gold dragons in our treasury cannot be spent frivolously. I can only attempt to acquire properties through exchanges of industry and promises, but this approach clearly does not persuade everyone."

Tyrion could well understand their reluctance.

To abandon businesses that had sustained families for generations, to relinquish ancestral homes—even shining gold might not prove sufficient inducement, let alone the offer of unfamiliar dwellings or empty promises of future reward.

But would the willful young king tolerate such resistance?

Joffrey pondered in silence.

Tyrion had counseled caution, Alyn and Hanna had spoken to their duties, Jaime and the Hound advocated for an aggressive response, and Pycelle had maintained his characteristic silence. Meanwhile, the matter of the eastern half of the city remained unresolved.

At last, Joffrey rose from the Iron Throne.

The throne room fell instantly silent, all eyes fixed upon the king.

Joffrey turned toward the courtiers on his left. "Lord Beric Dondarrion, I grant you two hundred Holy Warriors. You shall depart on the morrow for Massey's Hook, there to punish these brigands, enforce the king's justice, and spread the light of divine law."

Then Joffrey faced right. "Thoros of Myr, you shall assist him in this endeavor."

Thoros of Myr, the red priest of the Lord of Light, and Lord Dondarrion of Blackhaven—the same unlikely partnership, though in vastly different circumstances. Would the power of the Lord of Light to resurrect the dead manifest itself once more?

Chapter 112: The New Throne Room

The king had made his judgment.

Lord Beric Dondarrion and the Red Priest Thoros immediately bowed their acceptance, their faces solemn with the weight of their charge.

Many nodded their approval, the members of the Small Council offered no objection, and the petitioning smallfolk looked anxiously toward their lords, seeking some sense of what this decree might mean for their shattered lives.

Lord Mallister had already retreated behind the two lords, his momentary boldness evaporating like dew beneath the summer sun.

Lord Massey's brow furrowed slightly, the merest crease betraying his uncertainty.

Lord Mooton, by contrast, was effusive with gratitude. "Your Grace has dispatched the divinely blessed Holy Warrior Army," he proclaimed, "and with such an upright and wise man as Lord Dondarrion leading them, the rebels' evil deeds will surely be judged, and the people of Massey's Hook shall suffer no further calamities."

Divinely blessed.

The words echoed in Lord Massey's mind. Recalling the various miraculous transformations he had witnessed throughout King's Landing these past two days, he smoothed his expression and offered a deep bow of gratitude.

The three nobles returned to the ranks of courtiers, while the smallfolk who had knelt upon the hard stone floor staggered to their feet and departed from the throne room, their faces still haunted by memories of fire and sword.

The center of the hall stood empty once more.

The herald glanced toward His Grace upon the throne, awaiting some subtle signal to summon the next petitioning party.

Joffrey, however, had no intention of remaining any longer.

The requests of those who still waited beyond the great doors had already been presented to him in advance—trifling, tedious matters, unworthy of his precious time.

In truth, with the aid of the God's Grace Light Screen's instantaneous communication, King's Landing had already achieved a rudimentary form of governance through information. Except for matters of grave import and the petitions of those common folk not yet blessed with God's Grace, Joffrey no longer needed to sit upon the Iron Throne to issue his commands.

Viserys Targaryen entered from outside the hall, knelt in the center of the gleaming floor, and pleaded in a trembling voice, "Your Grace, I have been negligent in my duties. Your mount has suddenly fallen ill. It has refused all nourishment since morning and lies motionless in its stable. It appears that—"

The courtiers struggled to maintain expressions of concern.

The illness—this excuse had already been employed thrice, among several other transparent pretexts. Everyone understood that the king did not come to the throne room daily to conduct the realm's business.

Joffrey rose to his feet. "How could this happen again! You have been unconscionably careless!"

Viserys pressed his forehead to the floor, begging forgiveness with abject humility.

Joffrey sighed and descended the throne's steps one by one. "The white stag is a divine omen bestowed by the gods themselves. I am deeply troubled by this news." He turned toward the Queen Mother. "Mother, I must ask you to handle affairs of state in my absence."

Queen Regent Cersei fixed her son with a glare that mingled helpless affection with mild exasperation.

As Regent, she frequently sat upon the Iron Throne to render judgments, yet not a single matter of genuine consequence ever passed before her—merely ordinary disputes and petty quibbles, monotonous beyond measure.

If her son did not regularly please her with smiles and gifts, Cersei would have long since abandoned all pretense of desiring this cold, uncomfortable seat of power.

The truth that all recognized was that the Regent's authority had become mere ceremony, an empty vessel.

This reality was apparent not only to Cersei herself, but to every courtier, servant, and laborer within the Red Keep's walls.

The God's Grace Light Screen had all but replaced the throne room's function.

Compared to the instantaneous transmission of decrees through the Light Screen, these elaborate petitioning rituals seemed cumbersome and archaic, relics of a dying age.

Similar transformations had overtaken legal proceedings, personnel assignments, resource allocations, and countless other aspects of governance.

Beyond all doubt, as God's Grace illuminated the world with ever-greater brilliance, every system and tradition would prove fragile, subject to sudden overthrow.

When that day arrived, His Grace, who controlled God's Grace with absolute mastery, would wield supreme power that none could hope to challenge or constrain.

Everyone in the throne room watched the king depart, while the Light Screen that hovered at the edge of their vision continued to remind them who truly ruled King's Landing and the Seven Kingdoms.

If Regent Tywin were still present in King's Landing, what then?

Some could not help but wonder.

As he walked the corridors, Joffrey's mind entered the white space once more.

He surveyed his surroundings.

All projections of people had been removed, leaving only the vast, pristine emptiness—a realm of infinite possibility that nonetheless grew monotonous after extended contemplation.

The time had come.

The new throne room had been designed, and the moment had arrived to reveal it in all its glory.

With a mere thought from Joffrey, the whiteness of the space fractured into countless motes of light, which gradually recombined and coalesced, taking on vibrant hues and intricate forms.

Thus the illusory throne room took shape.

This was a magnificent domed hall, two hundred feet high, its circular expanse measuring precisely one thousand feet in diameter. The broad inner walls had been carved with elaborate pillars, statues, esoteric symbols, and noble crests.

Above the transparent dome stretched a crystalline night sky.

The Moon Palace and the seven Holy Stars shed silver light that converged upon the shining, sacred, square throne—a towering seat adorned with peculiar, otherworldly patterns.

Joffrey, transformed into a hundred-foot giant, sat upon this ethereal throne.

Perfect.

He gazed downward with immense satisfaction.

Before him lay a sunken pool wherein the pale blue waters surrounded a model of the continent of Westeros, proportioned to match his own titanic form.

Upon this three-dimensional map, miniature mountains and rivers crisscrossed the terrain, while white lines delineated the boundaries of lordly domains. Red, blue, and black spheres of light marked the castles of hostile, friendly, and neutral lords respectively.

Several chairs had been placed on either side of the map, each a full twelve feet high, yet they seemed no more significant than any other feature of this vast chamber.

Joffrey summoned the members of the Small Council.

Projections materialized one after another upon the chairs flanking the map, each six feet in height—no more, no less.

The ministers' consciousnesses entered these projections.

Wonder dawned upon their faces as this magnificent hall, unlike anything they had ever beheld, suddenly manifested around them.

The Minister of Finance, "The Imp" Tyrion Lannister, offered effusive praise, his gaze drawn repeatedly to the novel patterns adorning the throne.

The Minister of War, "Kingslayer" Jaime Lannister, surveyed the chamber with unconcealed amazement before fixing his attention on the map of Westeros in the pool, evidently contemplating future campaigns.

The Commander of the City Watch, "The Hound" Sandor Clegane, glanced briefly at the king before likewise studying the detailed map below.

Grand Maester Pycelle carefully observed the exquisite decorations adorning the opposite wall, his ancient eyes missing no detail.

Minister of Security Alyn Lantell, Lady Hanna, and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard "The Bold" Barristan Selmy all turned toward the throne, awaiting the king's commands with attentive silence.

Joffrey's gaze settled upon the nearest empty chair to his right—a seat reserved for Lord Tywin.

At present, Lord Tywin had assembled an army of thirty thousand at Casterly Rock, simultaneously training his forces and maintaining a strategic position against Lord Mathis Rowan of the Reach, while continuously recruiting fresh troops to bolster his numbers.

Lord Tywin's younger brother, Kevan Lannister, had led ten thousand cavalry from the Westerlands eastward along the River Road. He had now reached Harrenhal, where he had taken command of three thousand additional cavalry and ten thousand infantry contributed by the lords of the Riverlands and the Vale. These combined forces were now resting and training in preparation for the coming conflict.

Meanwhile, the true extent of King's Landing's newfound strength remained unknown to the lords of the realm.

In such circumstances, Joffrey strongly suspected that many throughout the Seven Kingdoms believed Lord Tywin to be the true power behind the Iron Throne.

Did Lord Tywin still remember their previous agreement?

Joffrey sent formal invitations to the Regent and Master of Laws, Tywin Lannister, and the Regent and Hand of the King, Eddard Stark.

After a brief interval, two additional projections gradually took form.

The ministers all looked toward these new arrivals. These projections stood six feet tall, like the others, but rather than appearing directly seated upon their chairs, they materialized standing beside them, facing the king.

Lord Eddard was the first to respond, bowing deeply to the hundred-foot king. "Good day, Your Grace."

Chapter 113: Regent Tywin

The ministers all turned their eyes toward Lord Tywin.

Though they could see only his back, each man present could envision his countenance with perfect clarity: those cold, appraising eyes, that face carved from stone, every wrinkle as immutable as the ancient laws of gods and men.

Lord Tywin bowed with one hand pressed to his chest. "Greetings, Your Grace."

Joffrey smiled and inclined his head. "Grandfather, such formalities are unnecessary, as they are for you, Lord Eddard. Be seated, I pray you. We have matters of grave import to discuss this day."

With these simple words, a subtle ceremony confirming the true hierarchy of power reached its quiet conclusion.

The regents and ministers gazed toward the throne. The hundred-foot-tall Joffrey and the magnificent seat beneath him dominated the entire northern expanse of the hall. The king looked down upon them as a man might regard ants crawling across his boot.

"The southern rebels have already begun to move," Joffrey observed, "and the threat from beyond the North grows steadily nearer. Lord Eddard, what thoughts have you on these matters?"

Eddard responded with characteristic solemnity. "Thanks to Your Grace's assistance and the knowledge provided by the Children of the Forest, the wildlings' movements beyond the Wall have been thoroughly exposed. The Others still lurk in shadow, but the Night's Watch stands firm for now. The lords of the North gather their strength, mustering forces sufficient to defend the Wall."

The ministers maintained impassive expressions.

The intelligence Eddard offered was hardly revelatory—they had all been apprised of these developments some time ago.

This was hardly surprising. Lord Eddard had been absent from King's Landing for three weeks, visiting various lords to recruit soldiers for the Iron Throne. He had only just emerged from the Vale and had not yet reached the Neck. Without the God's Grace Light Screen, his knowledge of northern affairs would surely have been even more limited.

Eddard hesitated momentarily before continuing. "There is much discord among the lords of the Riverlands. Lord Hoster at Riverrun struggles to maintain unity. Though he strives to gather troops, their numbers remain below 10,000. As for the Vale..."

Eddard recalled Lysa's wan, suspicious face. "Lady Lysa appears to harbor profound misgivings regarding the royal family."

Joffrey understood perfectly. He had witnessed the entire meeting between Eddard and Lysa through the Light Screen.

In Eddard's presence, Lysa had made little effort to disguise her hostility and wariness. Fortunately, she had not dared voice her suspicions.

Regardless, King's Landing's strength had grown sufficient unto itself. So long as the three northern kingdoms refrained from outright rebellion and continued to send vital supplies, this war would unfold far more favorably than the War of the Five Kings from the original timeline.

Once Renly had been dealt with, if Lysa still failed to recognize where her best interests lay, the time would come to settle that account as well.

Lord Eddard studied the map spread before them. "Balon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands will not remain indifferent to chaos in the Seven Kingdoms. Even with Theon held as hostage, we must be wary of the Iron Fleet."

"The Riverlands and the Westerlands coast could both suffer attacks," Eddard added with evident concern.

Joffrey could not help but recall the events of the original timeline. Eddard likely never imagined that Balon Greyjoy would fixate so obsessively on the North.

But now, with the North's forces remaining firmly within their borders, perhaps Balon would show greater wisdom than to venture deep into those vast, inhospitable lands.

So where might the Iron Fleet strike instead?

Joffrey turned his gaze upon Lord Tywin. "Grandfather, what are your thoughts on this matter?"

Lord Tywin remained impassive. "The forces of Casterly Rock are more than sufficient to defend against attacks from either the Iron Islands or the Reach. The lords of the Riverlands can muster additional soldiers at need, so there is likely little cause for concern."

The Riverlands were Catelyn's ancestral home. Eddard wished to object, but the Riverlands' tepid response to the royal summons was indisputable. He could only maintain a stoic silence.

Tyrion sighed. "The Riverlands have ever been thus. I can well understand Lord Hoster's difficulties. I merely hope the Tully family will exert their influence to mediate these disputes and ensure continued grain shipments to King's Landing. The city's population swells with each passing day."

This represented a legitimate request. Eddard could only offer his assurance: "House Tully has always maintained its loyalty to the throne."

Old Hoster Tully lay abed, perhaps mere days from departing this world. Young Edmure Tully lacked his father's strength, and Lysa of the Vale, for all her outward bluster, possessed an inner brittleness. The true foundation of the Northern Three Kingdoms Alliance was unquestionably Lord Eddard, a man in the prime of his life.

Eddard's guarantee carried substantial weight.

Joffrey directed his attention toward the Stormlands. "Grandfather, what do you believe Renly intends next?"

Through God's Grace, all those present had gained extensive knowledge of the southern rebels: their troop deployments, commanding generals, and even their clandestine resolutions.

Lord Tywin spoke, his deep voice resonating through the chamber. "The intelligence we have gathered paints a clear picture. Renly feigns an attack upon Massey's Hook to burden King's Landing with refugees while luring our forces southward, where they might be ambushed at a moment of vulnerability."

"But this represents merely a secondary gambit in the rebels' strategy."

Lord Tywin indicated the Roseroad on the map. "Renly's army in the Stormlands clears the western route. The rebel vanguard from Bitterbridge has already been sighted near the Roseroad."

"The rebels intend to cross the Blackwater Rush upstream, thereby circumventing the disadvantage posed by their inferior fleet, and attack King's Landing from the north."

This analysis offered nothing new.

Joffrey sought more than a mere recitation of Renly's plans. "Grandfather, if this proves accurate, then the decisive battlefield will be at a ford upstream along the Blackwater Rush?"

Lord Tywin nodded once. "Indeed—should we elect to prevent the rebels from crossing the river."

If the rebels were permitted to cross into the Riverlands, some initial damage would certainly occur. However, this might ultimately allow for a more complete annihilation of the rebel forces after their inevitable defeat.

Joffrey surveyed his ministers. "So, shall we halt their advance at the river?"

Lord Eddard immediately spoke. "Winter is coming, and the grain growing in the Riverlands' fields represents the sole hope for countless souls to survive the long winter. Those lands cannot withstand the ravages of war."

Tyrion contemplated the winding course of the Blackwater Rush on the map and sighed. "Is Renly truly so arrogant, or is Lord Mace Tyrell overcome with pride? Crossing the Blackwater Rush may prove simple enough, but following a defeat, retreat would become nigh impossible. Do they believe victory assured?"

Jaime glanced toward Lord Eddard. "Destroying all rebel forces north of the Blackwater Rush would hasten the war's conclusion, bringing true stability to the Seven Kingdoms."

Eddard's brow furrowed with evident displeasure.

Alyn interjected before Eddard could voice his objection. "With the power of God's Grace bestowed by His Grace, where might we not vanquish these rebels? Why must we permit them to devastate the Riverlands?"

Hanna concurred. "The treasury stands empty, and our material reserves dwindle. We must seize the initiative."

Lord Tywin turned his gaze toward the throne.

Grand Maester Pycelle spoke with obsequious deference. "The advantages and disadvantages of each course are difficult to weigh. Might I inquire whether Your Grace has reached a decision in this matter?"

The ministers fell silent, all eyes fixed upon the king.

Joffrey cast a beam of light toward the Stormlands. "We need not wait for the rebels to unite their forces. When the Stormlands rebels abandon their castles and march westward, we shall immediately dispatch 10,000 troops to intercept them in the Kingswood."

Another beam of light illuminated Bitterbridge in the Reach.

"Should the Bitterbridge rebels move east to reinforce their allies, we shall commit additional forces for a decisive battle in the Kingswood. If they march north to cross the river, we shall intercept them at the ford. Should they attack the Westerlands, we shall pursue them with all haste. And if they remain stationary or withdraw, we shall simply ignore them."

Joffrey fixed his gaze upon Lord Tywin. "In essence, the Westerlands, the Riverlands, and the Crownlands shall not become battlefields."

Eddard finally released a breath he seemed to have been holding.

The Hound raised a practical question. "What responsibility shall fall to Lord Kevan's army?"

In the king's battle plan, Harrenhal in the Riverlands stood too far removed from the anticipated theater of war. Where, then, should Kevan's force of 20,000 men be positioned?

The ministers looked toward Lord Tywin.

Joffrey spoke with studied indifference. "King's Landing will inevitably suffer a shortage of defenders. Lord Kevan's army shall garrison the capital to address this deficiency."

Lord Tywin inclined his head slightly. "Kevan will be pleased to render such service."

Joffrey felt profound satisfaction.

With Lord Tywin's words of affirmation, this meeting had proven worthwhile indeed.

Regardless of their original allegiances, once these forces entered King's Landing, they could only serve as warriors of the throne and the gods.

The council in the Throne Room concluded.

Viserys, who led the way as the king departed, paused momentarily. "Your Grace, your mount is still fast asleep."

Chapter 114: Dragon Dreams

After opening the door, the tamed Viserys retreated step by step with his head bowed low in obeisance.

Joffrey entered the chamber alone.

Within the exquisite, intimate bedchamber, warmed by a crackling hearth, Daenerys lay curled upon the bed, her delicate eyebrows drawn together in the slightest of frowns.

The girl's breath came in a gentle rhythm, causing the lace nightgown draped across her form to rise and fall in hypnotic cadence.

As she drew breath, her chest stretched the nightgown taut, revealing glimpses of fair skin without concealment. As she exhaled, the diaphanous garment gradually reclaimed its place, veiling the delicate curves it had momentarily betrayed.

Her tranquil, graceful repose, the silver hair spilling across the pillow in artful disarray, that shy, melancholic, yet bewitchingly delicate face...

What a vision of sublime beauty.

She inspired both tender reverence and savage desire—a contradiction that stirred conflicting impulses within the beholder.

Joffrey approached the bedside with silent steps.

After admiring her for a moment, he reached out his right hand and pressed it against a milky white sphere that rested beside her slumbering form.

So warm, the dragon egg.

He felt the heat and vitality emanating from within its crystalline shell.

It lived. It grew.

Joffrey observed the subtle changes in the dragon egg. Its surface bore a faint layer of red luminescence—the radiance of fire magic.

The once-dormant fire runes now actively devoured source energy from some unseen wellspring, transforming it into motes of fire magic energy. Perhaps they prepared for the birth of a magical dragon, or perhaps this was simply the natural order of things.

Beside this milky white dragon egg with its golden striations, the other two eggs also rested.

The pitch-black dragon egg exhibited a state similar to that of the milky white specimen.

The deep green bronze dragon egg, however, seemed to pulse with even greater vitality. Tyrion had taken to cradling it as he slept, bestowing upon it the name "Wildfire."

Wildfire—that masterpiece of the pyromancers of the Alchemist's Guild. A green, viscous liquid that could reduce flesh and steel alike to ash, capable of burning even upon water's surface, bearing uncanny resemblance to dragonflame.

Having witnessed so much, Tyrion now held absolute faith that the dragon eggs would eventually hatch.

Joffrey, however, understood that patience remained necessary.

He had attempted numerous methods to quicken their hatching.

He had provided the dragon eggs with what seemed the ideal environment: perpetual flame, crystals brimming with source energy, abundant growth magic energy and fire magic energy.

The dragon eggs had remained inert.

He had placed each egg before him and crafted new runes. Unlike other magical implements, the rune energy within the dragon eggs had not responded to external stimuli.

This suggested they were not mere inanimate objects, but living beings capable of preventing rune energy from escaping their confines.

He had attempted to forge contracts through contract runes, yet the dragon eggs had offered no response.

Recalling the methods used to control the great lion Rain, he had imprinted mirror images of fire, growth, and contract runes upon the dragon eggs, but these impressions had remained upon the outer shells, unable to integrate with the tiny lives nestled within.

The Research Department had even conducted blood sacrifices on multiple occasions—one life, ten lives, a hundred lives, various races, different identities.

The dragon eggs had remained unmoved, the revival of their inherent runes proceeding at the same slow, deliberate pace.

Though the eggs undeniably lived and grew, when did they intend to hatch?

Fire, blood, magic—the external conditions had been optimized to perfection. What further catalyst might they require?

A familiar aura, perhaps? The Valyrian bloodline?

It was precisely this conjecture that had led Joffrey to entrust all three dragon eggs to Daenerys and even have her preside over blood sacrifices, offering victims with the involvement of Valyrian blood.

But the results had fallen short of expectations.

The dragon eggs had indeed exhibited certain changes—the runes grew more active, and they felt warmer to the touch—but still showed no sign of imminent hatching.

Having eliminated one false path after another, Joffrey found himself drawn to the sole remaining variable: the red comet.

In the original timeline, Daenerys had conducted a ceremony beneath the red comet that streaked across the heavens, exchanging fire, blood, and souls for the birth of magical dragons.

The entire process had been remarkably simple, almost crude in its execution.

She had known no arcane incantations, possessed no mystical artifacts. She had merely walked into the flames and emerged bearing three infant dragons.

Red comet. Joffrey stroked the fine scales of the dragon egg, lost in contemplation.

During the reign of King Aegon the Dragon, the survival and reproduction of dragons had proceeded normally, not unlike that of other creatures. Many dragon eggs had hatched successfully in those days.

Later, the Targaryen dragons not only turned upon one another in fratricidal conflict, but the young dragons that hatched grew progressively fewer. Their bodies gradually diminished in size until they became deformed and weakened, dying shortly after birth. Eventually, no dragon eggs hatched at all.

As dragons vanished from the world, magic too began to fade.

More than one source in the original timeline had noted that following the appearance of dragons and the red comet, magical power had surged markedly.

The connection was undeniable.

Dragons and magic shared some profound, mysterious bond.

Some claimed that dragons brought magic, and that their demise had likewise diminished it—causing summers to shorten and winters to lengthen progressively.

Yet after dragons had vanished entirely, magic had not disappeared completely from Westeros and Essos. The Others, skinchangers, warlocks, and shadowbinders had continued their practices, albeit with diminished potency.

Magic had declined, not disappeared.

Moreover, Joffrey had verified through personal experience that magic retained some measure of its power even before the dragons' revival.

Perhaps, then, the relationship between dragons and magic might be the reverse of what was commonly assumed.

A theory began to coalesce in his mind.

It was not that dragons brought magic, but that magic brought dragons.

As creatures of immense magical potential, perhaps the survival and reproduction of dragons required a sufficiently magical environment. Source energy? Magical energy? Or some other element entirely?

Joffrey found this hypothesis compelling.

The ancient behemoths of Earth had depended on high oxygen concentrations and other specific conditions to survive. Fire-breathing, flying dragons must surely have their own environmental requirements.

If this were indeed the case, then what the dragon eggs needed most for hatching was neither fire nor blood, but a magical environment conducive to their survival.

Magic ebbed and flowed, and dragons prospered or declined accordingly.

Red comet.

Joffrey felt a stirring of anticipation.

If the present represented the nadir of magical influence, and the appearance of the red comet heralded a new surge in magical energy...

Then not only dragons but his own magical empire would flourish as never before.

What was the truth?

Joffrey could not be certain. Theories remained mere speculation until proven through tangible evidence.

He would have to wait with patience.

When the red comet appeared in the sky, the changes in magical energy would provide the answer he sought.

He could only hope it would be the answer he desired.

He withdrew his hand from the dragon egg and turned his attention once more to the sleeping Daenerys.

With this Princess of the Dragon bloodline in his possession, even if he merely repeated the methods employed in the original timeline, he could at least ensure the hatching of the dragon eggs.

Once the young dragons were born, methods of taming them would surely present themselves.

"Dragon... don't..." Daenerys murmured in her sleep, her expression betraying a hint of fear.

Joffrey smoothed her hair, allowing his fingers to trail gently across her cheek, collarbone, and back. Daenerys remained lost in her dream.

This was not the first such occurrence. Since coming into contact with the dragon eggs, Daenerys had frequently succumbed to slumber during daylight hours.

Joffrey recognized these as the fabled "dragon dreams"—visions unique to those of true dragon blood, said to possess prophetic qualities.

He lay down beside Daenerys and wrapped his arms around the trembling girl.

Then, with practiced ease, he entered her dream.

Chapter 115: Is Prophecy Inevitable?

Daenerys knew she was dreaming.

This wasn't the first time.

The first dream had come the night she touched the dragon eggs, and it was a nightmare.

In the blurry, dark space, Viserys's ferocious face loomed particularly prominent. As usual, he screamed and kicked her. "You have awakened the wrath of the sleeping dragon!"

"You have awakened the sleeping dragon..." Viserys's actions were merciless.

The pain felt so real, her brother's anger so familiar, that she thought she had returned to Illyrio's courtyard, and that the journey across the Narrow Sea and the sights of the Red Keep were just false dreams conjured by a desperate mind.

She tried her best to escape, with Viserys chasing closely behind.

"You want to see me make a fool of myself?!"

Her brother's voice was frantic and shrill, like the shriek of a wounded animal.

"I am the true dragon! I am the King of Westeros! Dany, have you sided with the usurper? How dare you disobey my orders? Stop!"

Daenerys remembered her first meeting with King Joffrey, when her brother knelt on the ground, trembling.

From that day on, Viserys was more timid and panicked than she had ever been at her weakest, turning a blind eye to any humiliation, but secretly gnashing his teeth, his eyes becoming increasingly strange and terrifying as he looked at her.

Daenerys couldn't help but be glad that she was in the Red Keep.

Behind her, Viserys began to sob, his voice gradually receding, growing fainter and fainter.

Daenerys stopped and looked back.

Viserys was lying motionless in the dark cave, his arched back twitching slightly, like a wounded little beast.

Then, a crack opened in the cave where Viserys lay, and flames and golden light poured out from it.

Daenerys's heart trembled.

It wasn't a cave, but an eye overlooking the world, its sharp, slender pupils staring straight at her, almost suffocating her with its ancient malevolence.

Daenerys wanted only to retreat, but her body wouldn't obey, and she couldn't move an inch.

Ugh ah~~

Viserys held his head back, letting out a painful and desperate scream.

Pop.

Viserys disappeared completely, like a bubble burst by a careless finger.

The massive eye suddenly rose higher.

Then, the whole world lit up, and endless flames condensed into countless giant pillars of fire.

Under the fiery light, scales as black as the night piled up into a steep form, like a mountain of volcanic rock. Two dragon wings spread out, covering the entire sky.

Daenerys slowly raised her head inch by inch.

A pair of eyes like molten lava were looking at her, meeting her gaze.

Dragon, black dragon.

It opened its mouth, and flames shot out from it.

Daenerys suddenly woke up.

The sunlight outside the window was warmly hot, but she was trembling all over, covered in cold sweat.

She lay on the bed in a daze for a long time.

After that, King Joffrey walked in, and Viserys closed the door from the outside.

The young king sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hand and asking with concern, as if the two were good friends, confidants, or even intimate lovers.

His eyes were very beautiful, like a calm green lake. Daenerys told him about her dream.

The king told her that it was a dragon dream, and that many people in the Targaryen family had experienced them, and that they were said to contain prophecies about the future.

Dragon. Daenerys thought of the black dragon egg the king had sent.

Was this the black dragon in the dream?

She began to look forward to the second dragon dream. Perhaps she would see the black dragon again, and this time she would no longer be afraid. The black dragon was a harbinger of the future, a guardian spirit hatched from the dragon egg.

The second dragon dream appeared the day after the blood sacrifice.

But this time there was no black dragon, but three dragon eggs as tall as a person, with the same color and texture as the three she held to sleep.

She stood in the middle of them, stroking each scale obsessively, so charming, as if possessing magic.

No, they did possess magic.

The dragon eggs were breeding magic dragons, which once soared in the sky, spewed flames, and won Westeros for the Targaryens.

Joffrey's smile flashed through her mind, and Daenerys's reverie stopped immediately.

The Iron Throne already belonged to the Baratheons.

She hugged the black dragon egg, pressed her face against it, feeling the scalding temperature and powerful heartbeat coming together, full of vitality, as if it could hatch at any moment.

Daenerys thought confusedly about her future.

Viserys didn't seem like a good king in the past, and now it was impossible for him to become king at all.

So what should I do?

Listening to the heartbeat of the dragon egg, Daenerys lowered her head. The ground was crimson, similar to the color of the Red Keep.

In truth, life in the Red Keep was not bad. There was no more beating and scolding from her brother, no more fear of being assassinated. There were people to serve her, no need to worry about food and clothing, and there were many playmates and games. Except for that Sansa Stark.

Daenerys knew what Sansa was thinking. It was nothing more than fear that she would steal her fiancé.

Nevertheless, compared to the various encounters in Essos, Sansa's petty actions still seemed so gentle and polite, almost like playing around, adding some diversion to the dull daily life.

Just live like this? Abandon the so-called ambition to restore the realm?

Daenerys was a little hesitant.

Viserys had repeated to her countless times that the Iron Throne was the glory and natural right of the Targaryens, and that the true dragon was the king of Westeros.

The crimson on the ground began to flow, gradually leaping up, and finally turning into a sea of fire.

She vaguely heard the roar inside the dragon egg.

Dragon dreams are some kind of prophecy, she thought. Let this dream make the decision for me.

All three dragon eggs let out the roar of a true dragon, one after another, louder and louder, gradually forming a rhythm, like an ancient and mysterious ballad.

So she stood in the middle of the dragon eggs, waiting for the verdict.

However, King Joffrey appeared abruptly, and the entire dream froze with him, and the dancing flames also stopped moving, turning into still lifes in a painting.

King Joffrey looked around, then took her hand and walked towards the milky white dragon egg.

"Prophecy? I don't believe in that kind of thing."

The king smiled softly. "When the dragon egg hatches, you will be the master of this white dragon. What I say is definitely true."

Daenerys sighed silently in her heart.

Is this still the prophecy of the dragon dream? What should I do?

Later, Daenerys had several more dragon dreams, but King Joffrey's figure appeared every time, and the dream almost became a secret stronghold for the two of them.

Until this dream now.

She appeared in the boundless ice and snow, and on the dark night sky, the stars wept blood.

Roar~

The behemoth was roaring. The wind swept in with ice and snow, and Daenerys could hardly open her eyes.

Roar~ Roar~

Similar roars came from behind, and the air seemed to be a little warmer, not enough to freeze people stiff, but a welcome respite from the bitter cold.

The behemoths rose into the air and fought each other in the sky.

One side was spitting frost, and the other was spewing flames. Ice dragon and fire dragon.

Under the occasional lighting of the fire, Daenerys looked forward, and an endless number of dead people stood all over the earth, their blue eyes glowing with an unnatural light.

Deeper in, a pale moon had cracks that flew out countless ice dragons.

There were only three fire dragons in the sky.

"Dragon... don't..." Daenerys didn't know what this foreshadowed, but it definitely wasn't a good thing.

Step~ Step~

Footsteps came from the snow behind her, and a familiar man's voice said, "Don't be afraid, it's just a prophecy. The future is in the hands of mankind."

The man threw out an inconspicuous metal ball.

An unprecedented explosion overturned everything.

On the bed, Daenerys opened her eyes.

The handsome young man smiled very gently, and his fiery eyes made people blush.