[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 106 - 110

Chapter 106: Grace and Authority, Power and Might

On this day, Joffrey raised thirty new Kingsguard to knighthood beneath the vaulted ceiling of the throne room.

Among their number were men of ancient bloodlines and proud houses:

Ser Robar Royce, second son of Bronze Yohn of Runestone, whose family stood as the second power in the Vale after the Arryns themselves;

Ser Alan Mooton, whose father commanded Maidenpool, the principal port on Crackclaw Bay and the Riverlands' gateway to the sea;

Ser Rosso Blount, scion of the Blounts of Crackclaw Point, who claimed descent from legendary heroes of that rugged peninsula in the northeastern Crownlands;

Ser Justin Massey of Massey's Hook, whose family controlled the strategic southeastern approach to Blackwater Bay;

And a score more besides—all second or third sons of lords who held key territories or commanded significant power throughout the realm.

Each of these newly anointed Kingsguard had received divine grace two or three weeks prior, training as Holy Warriors under the guidance of the light screen that had become their constant companion.

The results of divine grace had exceeded all expectations.

Though Joffrey could not peer into their hearts to discern their true thoughts, the outcome was plain enough—each man had offered his loyalty and future to the Iron Throne, swearing solemn and inviolable oaths before gods and men. From this day forward, they would serve as Kingsguard, bearing both the glory and the burden that such service entailed.

The infamous example of the Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister, would stand as perpetual reminder that oathbreakers could expect only eternal infamy and the abyss of dishonor.

Moreover, each knight lived now beneath the unfailing gaze of the divine grace light screen, which watched and judged without ceasing.

Joffrey felt absolute confidence that the shackles upon these men—both physical and spiritual—were heavy enough to hold them fast, and would only grow tighter with time. Such bonds would surely extinguish any rebellious thoughts, transforming these knights into guards of purest steel, loyal unto death.

Of course, their primary value lay not in their capacity as mere guards. Had that been his sole aim, why would he bestow knighthood upon them specifically, when he commanded so many Holy Warriors already?

What Joffrey prized above all was their lineage.

In the immediate term, these Kingsguard would incline their families toward the throne's interests, helping to stabilize the nobility at large and preventing chaos from engulfing the realm entirely.

Later, when the time proved ripe, their blood ties would play a crucial role in the centralization of power beneath the Iron Throne.

Order amidst chaos, conflict without collapse—this alignment served Joffrey's interests most perfectly.

The reforms he envisioned for the Seven Kingdoms must proceed with swiftness and force, yet they could not inflict excessive damage. This was, after all, his kingdom.

Tens of millions of square kilometers of territory, tens of millions of souls—these constituted the foundation upon which he would build his dominion over the world, the original accumulation necessary for constructing a magical golden age. If he could command them properly, he would prefer to avoid any loss whatsoever.

This desire to minimize bloodshed had driven his decision to expand the Kingsguard so dramatically.

War might prove necessary to establish his authority, but it could not degenerate into total opposition, endlessly deepening hatreds that would plunge the Seven Kingdoms into perpetual strife.

The lords and the throne must achieve a new equilibrium.

Joffrey had made all necessary preparations. For those who persisted in rebellion and stubbornness, the steel sword in his right hand burned with consuming fire. For subjects who acknowledged the throne's supremacy, the scepter in his left offered both power and light.

Fierce fire or holy illumination?

He was confident people would choose wisely.

This new balance had been heralded during his coronation ceremony, and now the knighting of the Kingsguard advanced it further.

Though the Kingsguard would eventually number seventy-seven, Joffrey had deliberately left half these positions unfilled—reserved for lords from the southern kingdoms.

The Stormlands, the Reach, and Dorne together comprised nearly half the realm's territory and population. This represented a formidable power that must be returned to the fold of the Iron Throne as completely as possible.

Joffrey's response to Renly's rebellion was clear: crush the lords' defiance with overwhelming force, then take them to heel like hounds returning to their master's whistle.

To achieve this end, the throne's own strength must grow rapidly, rather than relying solely upon the Westerlands and other loyal houses.

Otherwise, even should the rebellion be quelled, history would merely repeat itself—another cycle of the great lords jockeying for position and favor. The people would never truly revere the inherent might of the Iron Throne itself.

The most fundamental power of the crown—King's Landing and the Crownlands—must become the protagonists in this war, claiming the most glorious victory for themselves.

This had once seemed a slender hope indeed.

For centuries, the Crownlands had maintained such a meager presence that they barely registered in the affairs of the realm, their reputation inferior to that of any of the Seven Kingdoms.

Their military strength matched this dim renown. Even with the treasury and magic at his disposal, Joffrey had managed to arm only twenty or thirty thousand soldiers—and even this modest force strained the royal coffers nearly to breaking.

Such a Crownlands could hardly showcase the throne's true authority.

In bygone days, kings had relied upon dragons to flaunt their might. After the dragons perished, monarchs had been forced to woo the great lords, ruling through marriages and laws rather than raw power.

Consequently, the lords had come to despise the throne itself all the more. Whether a king received genuine reverence depended entirely upon how many lords supported his rule, how many dukes called themselves his friends, and how widely his benevolence extended.

Joffrey understood this dynamic all too well.

This explained why, even as Renly gathered his forces, Joffrey had chosen to focus on the cleansing of King's Landing—a bold stroke calculated to overturn the lords' contempt for both the capital and the Crownlands.

He would defeat an army of one hundred thousand with King's Landing's own twenty thousand troops, thereby tolling the death knell of the old era!

Magic had given him the confidence to pursue this audacious goal.

Already, King's Landing boasted more than a thousand Holy Warriors—mages bearing runic imprints within their flesh—who could collectively generate more than a thousand units of runic energy each day.

Joffrey labored without rest, gathering the runic energy accumulated by his Holy Warriors every Sunday for use in the week to follow.

A portion of this energy he devoted to bestowing runic imprints upon new candidates, steadily increasing the ranks of his Holy Warriors.

Another portion went toward the creation of various magical items: Wishing Stones, Advanced Grace Cores, Databases, All-Seeing Eyes, and Books of the Chosen.

The Wishing Stones bore information rune imprints that drew in source energy, converting it to information magic energy required by the Grace Cores, thus maintaining the operation of the magic network—the divine grace light screen that now governed so much of daily life.

The Databases represented another application of information runes. After editing specific instruction programs, they could store and retrieve information, thereby facilitating updates and upgrades to the magic network, while advancing magical research and operation.

The Advanced Grace Cores incorporated additional runic imprints, rendering them more stable and powerful, eliminating the need for frequent visits to the Wishing Stones.

The All-Seeing Eyes served as the literal eyes of the Security Bureau. Some were enhanced with runes for reconnaissance, positioning, and backtracking, enabling them not only to monitor those blessed with divine grace, but also to gather intelligence that was more extensive, secret, and distant by means of various media.

The Book of the Chosen, another form of database, specialized in storing and retrieving personnel information, making the soldiers' inspections more rigorous and efficient, thus ensuring better control over King's Landing.

Similar artifacts proliferated, born of Joffrey's own imagination and the inspirations of the Research Department.

This endless stream of innovations filled Joffrey with both excitement and uncertainty.

Though the accumulated runic energy had grown substantial, it remained insufficient to manufacture every type of artifact in the quantities he desired.

How best to allocate this limited resource?

Should he devote himself fully to expanding the ranks of Holy Warriors?

Or manufacture more Wishing Stones to extend the reach of the magic network?

Or dedicate his energy to creating diverse magical items, experimenting with novel ideas, and studying varied applications of magic?

Each path offered unique advantages. The sheer power of the Holy Warriors, the expanded influence of the magic network, and the research and application of magic—all presented themselves as options too valuable to abandon.

In the end, Joffrey could only exercise his own judgment, doubling the number of Holy Warriors each week, manufacturing one hundred Wishing Stones, and allocating the remaining runic energy to other artifacts or storing it against future need.

King's Landing grew more powerful with each passing day, and magic reshaped the world with every sunrise.

This, at least, brought him satisfaction.

Chapter 107: Sparrow

South of the Neck, where the Kingsroad wound its way toward the capital, the Wendwater River flowed northward to empty into Blackwater Bay. Near its mouth, on the eastern bank, lay the unremarkable fishing village of Strand. More than three hundred souls called this place home, eking out their living through net and plow, dutifully paying their taxes to the collectors sent by House Mallister, their days marked by the steady rhythms of sun and tide.

For fourteen-year-old Quell, however, such a life held little appeal.

He sat upon a scarred and weathered rock atop the cliffs, facing the churning white waves that crashed against the shore below. Puffing out his narrow chest, he spoke with all the conviction youth allows.

"One day, I'll wear bright armor that gleams in the sun," he declared. "I'll ride a fine courser that's never pulled a plow or carried sacks of grain. I'll wield a steel sword forged in a proper castle smithy, and become the finest knight in all the Seven Kingdoms!"

He turned to fix his gaze upon the girl who sat beside him, his eyes full of earnest hope.

"I won't be like Ser Jon, who does nothing but ride about collecting rents and squeezing coppers from poor folk like us. When war comes, I'll go to the battlefield and fight with real swords and spears, like a true knight ought to do."

Quell's face flushed slightly, though his dark skin concealed much of the change. "To my mind, only a true knight deserves a girl like you, Jeyne. What a beautiful name you have—just like the Jeyne from the stories, the one from Stonehedge."

The sea breeze blew strong and salt-laden, forcing Jeyne to constantly smooth her long brown hair with slender fingers. She merely smiled in response to his declarations.

Quell stared dreamily at the girl who had captured his heart.

Throughout the entire village, Jeyne was the most sought-after maiden. Boys in their teens and twenties, even married men with children of their own, took special notice when she passed. Her every smile, every movement seemed to possess a singular charm, bringing the most vibrant colors to their drab village, giving the young men their most beautiful dreams, waking each morning with renewed purpose.

Quell took particular pride in having persuaded Jeyne to join him alone on the cliffs—an achievement none of his rivals could claim. Though she had not yet accepted his suit, simply sitting here beside the girl of his dreams, occasionally feeling her fluttering brown hair brush against his cheek or nose when the wind shifted, was enough to sustain his happiness for a week or more.

His confidence ran deep.

Jeyne's father had proclaimed that only a knight would be worthy of his beloved daughter, and whoever first earned his spurs would win her hand. The other village boys were cowards, Quell thought contemptuously. They spent their days at sea casting nets or in the fields behind plows, knowing only the ways of fish and soil. None would dare to fight with sword in hand. Knights? They wouldn't even allow themselves to dream of such glory!

Though Quell himself had lived much the same existence until now, he had formulated a plan.

The present moment offered a golden opportunity. Lord Renly of the Stormlands had turned traitor against the King in King's Landing and was gathering an army to seize the Iron Throne. Surely the King would require many men—thousands upon thousands—to defend his rightful claim.

Quell had resolved that within days he would journey north to King's Landing and offer his service to the crown. The King was lord of all Seven Kingdoms and would surely triumph over Lord Renly in the south. Once a few good battles had been fought, and Quell himself had taken a few enemy heads, knighthood would follow as naturally as dawn follows night.

Were not the stories filled with such examples?

The Battle of the Trident, the Battle of Summerhall, the Dance of the Dragons, the Ragefire—how many common men had risen to fame in such conflicts? How many legends had been born from humble beginnings?

No one in the village would truly miss him. His uncle, the only one who showed him any real kindness, had departed on a trading vessel several days past and would not return for months. Quell needed only to gather some dried food, and he could leave whenever the mood took him.

He had announced his intentions to everyone who would listen, hoping both to attract companions for the journey and to win admiration for his courage.

Unfortunately, neither aim had been realized.

The adults had shown no interest whatsoever, responding with derisive laughter and contemptuous glances. A few of his friends had been momentarily swayed by his bold talk, but their parents had quickly dragged them home, administering beatings and harsh scoldings for entertaining such foolish notions.

Quell found their reactions puzzling. Everyone's response to news of the war seemed entirely at odds with the tales of glory and adventure he had heard all his life.

Especially among the village elders.

Upon learning that Lord Renly had raised his banners in rebellion, the old men had shown not excitement but terror. They spent their days scanning the horizon, questioning every passing traveler or merchant for fresh tidings, as though expecting armies to descend upon them at any moment.

How could any army possibly take notice of a place as insignificant as Strand?

Quell felt certain of this, at least. Strand was utterly unremarkable, trading only with a handful of neighboring villages and towns. The merchants who occasionally passed through expressed nothing but disappointment, lamenting that they had wasted their time in a place that offered neither goods worth purchasing nor customers with coin to spend.

Though Quell himself had traveled little, he had grown weary of everything Strand represented.

Life here was too quiet, like a stagnant fish pond with an untroubled surface. Draw closer, and the stench of rotting seaweed and dead fish assaulted the nostrils. Beneath the surface, half-dead creatures lay motionless at the bottom, devoid of thought or purpose, merely waiting to be plucked out and consumed.

And he could not even claim a place among such creatures.

Quell understood little of the wider world, but he knew well enough that an orphan without the support of adults could never truly prosper in such a village.

He owned no land, possessed no fishing boat, and had no proper trade.

The villagers all labored from dawn to dusk merely to feed themselves; none could afford to hire additional hands. Only in larger settlements would someone like him find opportunity.

Yet until now, he had lacked the means to leave. He wandered the beach each day, gathering odd shells, crabs, and small fish, then begging the use of someone's hearth to cook his meager findings.

When truly desperate, he might shelter at his uncle's house for a few days, enduring the cutting remarks and cold glances of his uncle's wife, a woman who had never shown him a moment's kindness.

Such a life was barely worth living. Only Jeyne's presence made the cold village bearable.

Quell shifted slightly, moving closer to the girl he loved—just a little closer.

Jeyne had never scorned him for being an orphan. Her smile had sustained him through these difficult years, giving him reason to continue struggling against the hardships of his existence.

If for no other reason than to win her hand, Quell was determined to become a knight.

Jeyne finally broke her silence. "The wind grows stronger. I should return home—my mother has tasks for me to complete before nightfall."

Quell leapt to his feet at once. "I'll accompany you."

Though he dwelled in an abandoned hut at the cliff's edge, he always insisted on escorting Jeyne to her home, one of dozens nestled in the village below—a proper dwelling with no drafts, a small barn, and even a fish tank.

As they walked together through the village, people smiled and chuckled in a manner Quell found infuriating. Some even called out mockeries like "True Knight" or "Pure Jeyne" as they passed.

Quell paid them no heed.

As they approached Jeyne's house, a tall, thin figure emerged slowly from a neighboring doorway. The man turned to regard Quell, his eyes cold and searching, as though examining not a person but some curious object.

Quell recognized him at once. This gray-haired man in his well-worn wool robe was a wandering septon who had arrived in the village several days past.

Many village children had received their formal names from this old man's lips, while others had confessed their sins and sought his blessing. Septons also presided over weddings. Quell had sometimes imagined his own glorious marriage to Jeyne, though by that blessed day, this particular septon would likely have moved on to other villages.

One peculiarity struck Quell as strange: though the old septon had granted formal names to so many, he permitted others to address him only as "Sparrow."

Sparrow—such a simple, common word for a man of the Faith.

Buzzzzz

A sudden commotion arose from the village entrance, a chaos of voices carried on the sea wind.

Quell raised his head, straining to hear more clearly.

The Sparrow clasped his hands in fervent prayer: "Mother, have mercy upon us. Bless this village—or at the very least, bless this child."

Quell stared at the Sparrow in confusion, unable to comprehend the sudden urgency in the old man's manner.

What peril could possibly threaten a place as insignificant as Strand?

Chapter 108: Sweet as a Song

Evening had settled over Strand, and most of the village folk had returned from their labors, weary after a day of toil upon sea and soil. They anticipated nothing more than a simple meal and well-earned rest.

Without warning, the world they knew shattered.

Several hundred knights thundered into the village, their steel-shod destriers trampling the packed earth between the stone and wooden hovels. The modest fence that encircled Strand—meant to keep livestock in rather than danger out—became not protection but prison, trapping the villagers within.

When the first few who attempted flight were caught and bloodied by lances and leather whips, none dared approach the perimeter again.

After the brief chaos subsided, the villagers huddled together like sheep in a storm, listening with dread to a single commanding voice that carried across the village square.

"In the name of Renly of House Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I deliver this decree to all subjects:"

The knights drew closer, forming a ring of steel around the frightened smallfolk.

"Joffrey Waters, the false king who now usurps the Iron Throne, is the product of incest between Queen Cersei and her brother, Ser Jaime Lannister. This pretender conspired with House Lannister to murder both King Robert and Duke Stannis."

Murmurs spread through the crowd, quieting only when a knight's sword hissed from its scabbard.

"His actions violate all morality. He rules with arbitrary power, belittles nobility, and harms the common folk. His sins are beyond forgiveness."

Quell listened, wide-eyed, as the pronouncement continued.

"Though the truth stands revealed, he remains unrepentant, falsely claiming kingship, hungry for power and position. The Seven Kingdoms have risen in response, forming a mighty host of one hundred thousand that shall soon march upon King's Landing to overthrow this false king's tyranny."

The man who spoke wore gleaming armor but no helm, allowing Quell to see his face clearly.

The knight's hair was black as a raven's wing, his skin dark and weathered, though not by sea and salt as was common among the fisherfolk. Beneath him stood a stallion of purest black, the kind of magnificent beast Quell had dreamed of riding when he became a true knight.

Upon the knight's left arm rested a kite-shaped shield painted with gold lacquer, its center dominated by a proud black stag. No other symbols or patterns adorned it.

A black stag—was that the king's emblem? Or King Renly's? Quell's understanding of such matters remained rudimentary at best.

"In order to restore proper law and enforce justice," the knight continued, "a military levy is hereby imposed upon all subjects of the Crownlands. None shall disobey!"

From his right hand dangled a dark red sack, which he shook once, allowing its contents to tumble forth. A furry ball rolled across the muddy ground, coming to rest near the front rank of villagers.

Quell stared at the object for several heartbeats before his mind comprehended what his eyes beheld. His heart seemed to stutter within his chest, his thoughts evaporating like morning dew.

All around him, villagers screamed and scrambled backward, as though the thing might somehow rise up and attack them.

A human head.

The black-haired knight guided his horse forward, deliberately driving its hooves into the mud, crushing the severed head further into the mire.

"House Mallary has defied this decree and blindly pledged allegiance to the false king," he announced. "Thus all its titles, territories, and subjects are forfeit. Every knight in its service has been brought to the king's justice—including the one who claimed lordship over your village!"

Quell gazed numbly at the ruined face in the mud, its expression frozen in death, eyes dull and clouded. Despite the damage, he recognized Old Jon—or was it Old John? He had been the only knight Quell had ever known, collecting taxes and settling petty disputes in Strand for as long as any could remember.

What was Old John's family name? Quell could not recall, though the man must surely have had one, being a knight with Strand as his fief.

It hardly mattered now. Old John had a wife and two daughters but no sons. Women could not inherit knighthoods—the village would be granted to some new lord to oversee.

Quell and Jeyne, along with many others, stared at the black-haired knight with uncertainty. Would this man become their new overlord? Would he dwell in Lord Mallary's modest keep?

Might Lord Robb Mallary—or was it Rosa?—fight to defend his holdings? The lord had always lived in King's Landing, serving at the royal court. Surely he would take action once he learned what had transpired here.

But several hundred knights in steel plate represented a force many times greater than anything House Mallary could muster.

And King Renly commanded a host of one hundred thousand! How many knights would that include? Could it be that the king—the one in King's Landing—would be defeated, and Renly would claim the Iron Throne?

Quell wavered in his plans. Perhaps he should seek to join Renly's forces instead?

The black-haired knight dismounted with practiced grace. "Tonight, I will lodge in your village," he announced. "Serve us well. Provide supplies and obey King Renly's commands, and your past transgressions may yet be forgiven."

At some unspoken signal, hundreds of knights dismounted, removing helmets and setting aside shields. They began issuing orders, demanding the villagers feed their mounts, prepare meals, make ready beds, and perform countless other tasks.

The atmosphere in Strand grew less tense, if not precisely relaxed.

Everyone fell into familiar patterns of service, though weariness from a day's labor made the additional work doubly exhausting. Yet this exhaustion carried a strange comfort—at least it proved the knights still required their services, suggesting they would not be slaughtered out of hand.

Though they would surely lose much of their meager property, their lives would be spared. In war, what more could simple folk hope for when confronted by hundreds of armed knights?

Quell had intended to remain close to Jeyne, to guard her as a true knight would. Instead, a gruff order directed him to the village storehouse, where he spent hours loading wheat and cured meat onto the carts that had accompanied the knights' arrival. Only when darkness fell was he finally released from this duty.

Staring at the heavily laden carts, Quell felt his desire to join an army grow even stronger. Such abundance of food! Enough to feed a man for years!

He thought of his constant hunger, of the cold eyes of villagers who never offered him a complete meal. Today, with merely a few words, these knights had claimed an entire storehouse of provisions, and none dared refuse them. How satisfying that power must be!

As if sent by the Seven themselves, Quell spotted two familiar faces among the throng—Bass and Beck, orphans like himself from a neighboring village.

Though they wore no armor, they carried lances and shields and even wore surcoats emblazoned with the black stag. They strode along the village path with newfound arrogance, as though they owned the very ground beneath their feet.

Hope swelled in Quell's breast.

He approached them, offering flattery and praise he had never before deigned to speak, before finally expressing his desire to join their company.

The two seemed to relish his unaccustomed deference. They thumped their chests proudly and led him toward their captain—the black-haired knight who had spoken earlier.

Their path led to Jeyne's house.

The captain and several knights were enjoying a sumptuous meal—freshly stewed fish, grilled fillets, and barley soup—while Jeyne's family attended them with nervous obsequiousness.

Quell had taken only a few steps toward the gathering when he heard Jeyne's father speak words that froze the blood in his veins.

"Sir, the night grows cold. Perhaps my little girl might warm your bed this evening. A small contribution to King Renly's cause, if you will."

Quell's mind seemed to explode in white noise, his feet rooted to the ground as his eyes sought Jeyne's face.

She stood with head bowed, silent as stone.

Refuse! Quell screamed in the silence of his mind. Jeyne, don't yield! Don't fear him! He's no true knight!

The black-haired man set down his knife and fork, regarding Jeyne with the casual appraisal one might give a horse at market. "Are you untouched, girl?"

Quell's muscles tensed, rage flooding through him like wildfire. Even without a blade, he would tear this man's throat with his teeth!

Before he could move, a familiar, sweet voice answered softly: "Please forgive me, sir. Jeyne was once... imprudent."

Quell's throat constricted. What did that mean?

The black-haired captain's lips curled into a smile. "I've no taste for used goods," he said, indolent with wine and power. "But the young men might not be so particular. What say you, lads?"

The knights around the table chuckled, exchanging knowing glances.

One set down his soup bowl with deliberate care. "Captain, I've had my fill of food. Brothers, I'll go first and test the wares for you, shall I?" His laughter rang harsh and unpleasant in the warm air of the cottage.

Standing just seven or eight paces away, Quell watched helplessly as this man brazenly wrapped his arm around Jeyne's waist. The knight's hands wandered freely over her body as he guided her toward the inner chamber, his coarse jests mixing with her soft, fearful protests.

From behind the rough wooden door came Jeyne's trembling cries.

The black-haired captain barely glanced up from his meal. "Sweet as a song," he remarked lightly, reaching for his wine.

Chapter 109: Quell Watched All Night

"What are you doing bringing him here?"

The black-haired captain finally acknowledged the three figures standing in the doorway, his voice cutting through the ‘sweet’ sounds that emanated from the inner chamber.

Bass shifted uncomfortably, excitement and agitation warring on his face as he listened to the rhythmic noises from behind the door while casting glances at Quell. He knew what Jeyne had meant to the boy—how Quell had actually dreamed of wedding her!

The thought had often provided Bass with cruel amusement.

But who could blame the lad? Jeyne had always presented herself as the very image of purity when in Quell's presence.

Recalling Quell's proud, defiant expression whenever he spoke of Jeyne, Bass felt a rush of satisfaction at having claimed what Quell had so foolishly treasured. How many times had he pinned Jeyne beneath him while she whispered for him to be quiet, lest anyone discover their secret?

Occasionally, Bass had experienced moments of unease. What if Quell somehow learned the truth? What might he do? What could he do?

But those concerns belonged to the past. Bass looked to the captain, drawing strength from the man's indifferent authority. Now, this knight who commanded hundreds of armed men was the sole master of Strand Village. Quell's fists and determination counted for nothing against such power.

"Sir," Bass replied with newfound respect, "this lad—Quell—wishes to join our ranks. What are your thoughts?"

The captain studied Quell with casual indifference, noting the youth's bloodshot eyes and trembling limbs but showing no particular concern for his obvious distress. "You wish to serve His Grace King Renly as well? What skills do you possess?"

Quell could not respond. The continuous, sweet cries filling the air occupied his entire consciousness, as though the sounds came from all directions at once, possessing some mysterious power that threatened to shatter his very soul.

He closed his eyes, then opened them again, repeating the action several times as though hoping the scene before him might change. His vision remained blurred and distorted, the world spinning like a nightmare from which he could not wake.

His heart ached as though pierced by a dull blade, each beat reverberating through his body. Blood rushed to his face, bringing with it an intense heat that only heightened his agony.

How desperately he wished this were merely a bad dream.

But why, then, could he still think? Still recognize this as the darkest, most hellish reality?

The man in the inner room dared to shout with pleasure!

What right had he to make such sounds? To defile Jeyne's very being? To force the cold, piercing truth upon Quell's unwilling ears?

Quell recalled Jeyne's demeanor just moments ago, how she had spoken softly with downcast eyes: "Please forgive me, sir. Jeyne was once... imprudent."

Imprudent!

He remembered, too, the villagers' mocking words: "True Knight" and "Pure Jeyne"—spoken not in admiration but in mockery.

The truth confronted him with merciless clarity.

They had never believed him capable of becoming a true knight, just as Jeyne had never been the pure maiden he had imagined.

It had all been a dream—his delusion from first to last. Knight, wedding, war, heroic tales—all of it mere fantasy!

He could believe in nothing now.

Jeyne of Stonehedge from the stories? Had such a woman ever truly existed?

Jeyne...

Her smile seemed to hover before him still, and Quell found himself bewildered anew.

How could she have smiled with such seeming innocence, like a holy maiden in a sacred sept, gently offering salvation from despair and pain?

Had she behaved thus with all men? Not merely with her smile, but with her...

The sounds from the inner chamber grew louder, faster, more intense. The wooden bed frame creaked rhythmically, inexplicably reminiscent of waves crashing against the shore during a storm.

Quell squeezed his eyes shut, covering his ears with both hands. Yet still he heard it all—faint screams, heartbeats, gnashing teeth, and a muffled buzzing that filled his head until he thought it might burst.

A bitter, salty, metallic taste filled his mouth, as though he were consuming the most disgusting, rotten fish imaginable.

Without warning, a powerful blow struck his waist, sending him staggering backward several paces. His body instinctively arched in pain, limbs twitching like those of a dying shrimp cast upon the shore.

"You bastard! The captain is speaking to you!"

Saliva dribbled from the corner of Quell's mouth as he raised his head blankly, staring at the black-haired knight with unfocused eyes.

The captain sighed, as though the situation were all too familiar. "Let him be. He's a pitiful creature, thoroughly deceived by a whore. Small wonder he cannot think clearly at present."

Whore.

Quell knew he should protest, should swing his fists in rage at such an insult to Jeyne's honor. Yet he could summon neither the strength nor conviction to do so.

Whore.

Was this not the truth?

The captain approached, crouching before him with casual disregard for any threat Quell might present. "What say you, boy? Would you care for revenge? I'll grant you this much—you may go next."

Whore.

Quell turned his head slightly. Jeyne's father and mother stood silently in the corner of the room, showing no anger, no distress—like wooden sculptures carved by an indifferent hand.

They had known all along.

He recalled Jeyne's father's promise: whoever first became a knight would win her hand in marriage. How grotesquely laughable that seemed now!

Quell remained silent, adrift in his shattered world.

The captain rose and walked away with evident indifference. "Leave him. Such a man is unworthy to fight for His Grace King Renly. Besides, we depart on the morrow."

The room's occupants promptly dismissed Quell from their attention, allowing him to lie forgotten in the corner while they continued their feasting and drinking.

Throughout the long night, the candles never went out.

The sounds from the inner chamber continued without cease, with figures entering and departing in grim procession.

Quell remained awake, his mind emptied of thought yet absorbing every detail of the scene that unfolded before him.

Nineteen knights in all entered the inner chamber where Jeyne lay.

They moved with casual ease, emerging later without their armor, some not even bothering to don their outer garments upon departure.

Quell observed the sigils upon their discarded shields and surcoats: a recumbent black lion, a white crescent moon above a forest, three golden buckles, a murder of black birds against a yellow field...

Bass and Beck had entered the room as well. When they emerged, they had smiled at Quell before departing to patrol the village through the night.

Dawn finally colored the eastern sky, though Jeyne had yet to emerge from the chamber. The knights gathered all the villagers in the open space near the entrance to Strand, Quell among them.

The invaders donned their armor once more, raised their shields, and took up swords and spears. Some mounted their destriers, the great warhorses stomping impatiently upon the packed earth.

The villagers exchanged fearful glances, uncertain what fresh horror this new day might bring.

Quell watched with blank eyes as the wandering septon—the Sparrow—moved among the villagers, offering whispered prayers and blessings. He recalled the old man's fervent prayer from the previous day, how he had beseeched the Mother's mercy for the village.

The knights made no immediate move, and everyone waited in anxious silence.

The sun climbed higher.

A caravan appeared beyond the village boundary—mules and donkeys pulling creaking carts, some laden with goods, others conspicuously empty.

The captain, seated atop his black destrier, raised one gauntleted hand in silent command. Several knights dragged two wooden frames into the village square, setting them upon the ground with deliberate care.

The frames were draped with gray cloth, beneath which bulged shapes that undeniably suggested human forms. A sense of dread settled over the assembled villagers.

With a swift motion, the knights pulled away the concealing cloths.

Gasps and cries of dismay rose from the crowd. Old men and women shook their heads in fearful understanding, while others merely sighed in resignation.

Quell recognized the corpses immediately: Bass and Beck.

Both bore hideous wounds across their throats, the dried blood forming dark patterns like twisted branches growing from their necks, covering their faces and chests with macabre artistry.

The captain's voice rang out, heavy with feigned outrage.

"These men were loyal soldiers in the service of His Grace King Renly. Yet after a single night in your village, they lie dead before us! It seems clear that some among you remain obstinate in your treachery!"

Quell watched with cold detachment as the black-haired captain continued his impassioned speech. The Sparrow and several village elders offered desperate denials and pleaded for mercy.

Their words fell upon deaf ears.

The knights, joined by men from the caravan, systematically emptied the village of its grain stores, tools, livestock, and every item of value that could be transported.

Next came the destruction of fishing nets, rods, and boats—the very means by which the village sustained itself.

Finally, they set fire to Strand. The flames spread quickly from house to house, consuming decades of toil and generations of memories in minutes.

Quell found himself brought before the captain, who sat upon his destrier watching the village burn with evident satisfaction.

"Sweet as a song," the knight murmured, as though admiring a particularly fine sunset.

In the same moment, he drew his steel sword and, with a single fluid motion, severed Quell's right arm at the elbow.

Chapter 110: The First Strike of the Rebels

"'Sweet as a Song!' That is the motto of House Caron of Nightsong! Your Grace, they are so brazen they do not even trouble to conceal their identity!" Baron Rosby Mallister's face contorted with righteous indignation as he addressed the throne.

Perhaps by mere chance—though few in the Red Keep believed in such coincidences any longer—the Kingsguard assigned to flank the Iron Throne that day were Ser Loras Tyrell and Brienne of Tarth. As sworn members of the white cloaks, they maintained rigid silence, their eyes fixed forward, betraying nothing of their thoughts.

King Joffrey sat in cold repose upon the Iron Throne, his gaze sweeping over the assembled petitioners who sought the crown's justice.

Beside Baron Mallister stood Earl Joshua Mooton and Earl Triston Massey, with a huddle of gray-faced, bedraggled smallfolk kneeling behind them—men and women whose haunted expressions spoke of horrors witnessed and endured.

"You," Baron Mallister said, turning toward a one-armed youth among the petitioners. "Tell His Grace everything you have seen. Speak without fear, and report truthfully."

The ministers seated at the council table and the courtiers lining both sides of the hall fixed their attention upon the young man, who might once have been handsome before grief and trauma had carved their marks into his features.

The one-armed youth's face remained as still as a death mask, his words emerging flat and emotionless. "There were hundreds of them, all in armor and bearing shields with the black stag. They rode into Strand to proclaim Renly's decree, and they brought Old John's head as proof of their resolve."

Baron Mallister hastened to add context: "John Bywater was a knight I had personally elevated to his station. His fief was Strand village."

The maimed youth continued: "First they demanded half our grain stores. Then they stayed the night. Come morning, two of their number lay dead, and they put the entire village to the torch. The black-haired captain said, 'Sweet as a song,' then took my arm at the elbow."

A weathered fisherman standing nearby added his voice to the grim testimony. "It weren't just that, m'lords. They took every valuable thing, every morsel of food. They destroyed our boats and fishing nets—all means of feeding ourselves!"

A farmer whose face seemed carved from ancient oak wailed in anguish: "Those men were beasts in human form! My poor daughter, just 14 namedays old, was defiled by them throughout the night. When they departed, they took her with them. Only the gods know if she lives or has found merciful release in death!"

A ripple of horrified murmurs passed through the assembled courtiers.

Baron Mallister spoke again, his voice tight with barely contained fury. "The two men who supposedly died were villagers from Hayford, which also lies within my lands. It, too, was put to the torch on the same day as Strand. Other towns and villages have suffered similar fates in swift succession, revealing this as no random violence but a deliberate, coordinated campaign of terror."

Another farmer, his clothes still bearing the scorch marks of recent fire, raised his voice: "I come from Hayford. After the black-haired knights departed, another company arrived, led by a red-haired commander."

"The red-haired man's soldiers also suffered mysterious deaths," he continued, his voice breaking, "and our village paid the same terrible price."

An old man with a trembling white beard pushed forward, his aged voice quavering with rage rather than fear. "These were no mere raiding parties. I witnessed their approach with these failing eyes. Their cavalry and wagons all came from the south. The caravans brought scores of empty carts for the sole purpose of carrying away our life's possessions."

His rheumy eyes burned with indignation. "The merchants with the caravans paid the knights directly for their services! They are worse than common bandits! We have lost everything, so we have come to King's Landing to beg His Grace's protection."

Joffrey's gaze settled on Baron Rosby Mallister, who stood at the forefront of the petitioners and had spoken most forcefully on their behalf.

House Mallister was among the minor nobles of the eastern bank of the Wendwater. Their lands were barren, their commerce declining, their strategic position unremarkable, their role in the greater politics of the realm insignificant.

Yet Baron Mallister had demonstrated unwavering loyalty to the crown.

He had served at court for many years, and when Renly raised his banners in rebellion, Mallister had answered the throne's summons promptly, contributing 20 knights and 100 infantrymen to the royal army. Though modest in number, these forces represented the majority of House Mallister's military strength.

By both sentiment and reason, the Iron Throne could not ignore the atrocities committed within its loyal vassal's territory.

Joffrey shifted his attention to the two men who stood slightly behind Baron Mallister—Earl Joshua Mooton and Earl Triston Massey.

House Mooton was the most powerful family along the Wendwater, their lands lying south of House Mallister's modest holdings. Though not Mallister's direct liege lord, House Mooton clearly wielded considerable influence over its smaller neighbor.

Earl Mooton had thus far maintained a conspicuous silence.

Baron Mallister, perhaps sensing the king's assessment, hastened to add: "The rebel forces continue their northward advance, Your Grace—toward Massey's Hook!"

Northeast of the Wendwater lay the narrow peninsula known as Massey's Hook, which curved around the southern half of Blackwater Bay, effectively controlling a key approach to King's Landing by sea.

Without a strong navy, this promontory presented more liability than advantage.

Yet House Massey had evidently not dismissed the danger. Earl Triston Massey had personally sailed to King's Landing to join the other lords in their petition.

"Earl Mooton," Joffrey said at last, breaking his silence, "what is the situation within your territories?"

Joshua Mooton offered a respectful bow. "The rebels employed similar methods throughout my lands, Your Grace. Initially, they used severed heads to frame various towns and villages for imagined crimes. Later, they dispensed with even this pretense, simply declaring all within my domain to be traitors before destroying everything—leaving only people's lives, and not always those."

He gestured toward the bedraggled smallfolk behind him. "Your Grace, most of these souls have fled from lands under my protection."

Joffrey's voice deepened. "What course of action would you recommend?"

Earl Mooton maintained his respectful composure. "With war looming so close, all actions must be weighed with the utmost caution. I dare not request anything specific. I ask only that after victory is secured, those who have perpetrated these evils receive the justice they so richly deserve."

Such beautiful, thoughtful words. Joffrey almost believed their sincerity.

"Earl Massey," the king continued, "what are your thoughts on this matter?"

Triston Massey's face hardened with apparent indignation. "House Massey and its loyal subjects stand prepared to make whatever sacrifices might be required, Your Grace. The realm's greater welfare must take precedence over all other concerns. Massey's Hook, though dear to us, is of limited strategic importance. If defending it would disperse our strength and imperil the larger conflict, we must bear that burden."

Not a single word of truth.

Joffrey divided his mind, entering the virtual Small Council meeting through his divine grace light screen, engaging in silent deliberation with his ministers while maintaining his outward presence in the throne room.

Lord Commander of the Kingsguard Arryk Cargyll provided a summary of the latest intelligence:

"Renly's forces have completed their assembly, Your Grace.

10,000 cavalry and 20,000 infantry are currently stationed at Highgarden in the western Reach under the command of Earl Mathis Rowan, positioning themselves against Casterly Rock.

10,000 cavalry and 50,000 infantry have gathered at Bitterbridge in the eastern Reach, with Earl Randyll Tarly leading the vanguard and Duke Mace Tyrell as overall commander. They harass the Gold Road while securing their own supply lines.

According to reliable sources, the Bitterbridge contingent intends to march directly northward, crossing the Blackwater Rush at its upper reaches, then circling through the Riverlands to attack King's Landing from the north bank of the Blackwater.

7,000 men at Haystack Hall and 10,000 infantry at Bronzegate in the northern Stormlands and eastern Kingswood respectively await further orders.

5,000 cavalry are advancing northward along the Kingsroad from Storm's End and will soon arrive at Bronzegate."

Arryk's tone grew more somber as he continued:

"Additionally, 2,000 cavalry have invaded the Crownlands, burning, killing, and plundering along the Wendwater, driving the smallfolk before them like chaff before the wind.

The primary participants include knights from House Caron of Nightsong, House Buckler of Bronzegate, House Fell of Felwood, and House Grandison of Grandview.

Though they have made token efforts to conceal their allegiances, these knights continue to wear their family crests openly—a deliberate provocation, in my assessment.

The destruction they have wrought is systematic and thorough.

As of this morning, more than 52,000 refugees have sought shelter within King's Landing. Our estimates suggest that nearly 200,000 more are fleeing toward various parts of the Crownlands or making their way toward the capital.

The rebel vanguard has now entered Massey's Hook.

The majority of the Crownlands' military strength is concentrated here in King's Landing. Facing 2,000 veteran cavalry with more reinforcements likely en route, Massey's Hook's defensive capabilities are woefully inadequate. The more than 300,000 souls who dwell within its borders..."

Arryk's voice trailed off, the implications of his final words hanging in the air like a headsman's axe.

The ministers fell into contemplative silence, each weighing the grave situation confronting the realm.

A single question burned in every mind, though none dared voice it aloud:

What did His Grace the King intend to do?