[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 91 - 95

Chapter 91: The Great Cleaning

Morning sunlight streamed through the high windows of the royal chambers, casting long fingers of gold across the polished stone floor. On the windowsill, two small sparrows quarreled over scattered grains of rice, their sharp chirping punctuating the otherwise tranquil air.

Within, the bed was draped in soft velvet the color of midnight. Joffrey reclined comfortably, his golden head resting upon a maiden's lap as he savored half a plump blueberry plucked delicately from her fair fingertips.

A peaceful and beautiful morning.

"Your Grace," Hannah whispered, her voice scarcely disturbing the serenity of the chamber, "everyone has arrived and awaits your pleasure outside."

A busy morning, after all.

The time had come. Joffrey swallowed the remaining half of the blueberry, rolled gracefully from his position of repose, and sat upright upon the edge of the bed. "Bid them enter," he commanded.

He slipped on an outer robe of crimson silk embroidered with golden stags as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed from the corridor beyond.

"What glorious sunlight greets us today, Your Grace." Tyrion Lannister, shortest among the councillors, nonetheless insisted on leading the procession into the royal chambers. "It must surely please you."

The clever dwarf had chosen the least Lannister-like garments from his wardrobe—a doublet and breeches in subdued tones of brown, black, and smoky gray, notably absent of the gold and crimson that proclaimed his house.

Beside him, the Kingslayer carried himself with characteristic arrogance. His white armor gleamed in the morning light, his gilded longsword catching the sun with every movement.

"Indeed, the sun shines favorably," Joffrey replied, the faintest of smiles playing at the corners of his mouth.

Tyrion glanced about the chamber before approaching a long table surrounded by carefully arranged chairs. "Your Grace is most considerate, having prepared a seat so perfectly suited to a man of my stature. I find myself genuinely touched by the gesture."

Joffrey seated himself in the high-backed chair positioned at the head of the long table. "Be seated, all of you. Henceforth, all small council meetings shall convene here."

A true king could, of course, summon his council to any location of his choosing, at any hour he deemed necessary.

"I see. My thanks for this thoughtful accommodation, Your Grace." Tyrion took his place to the king's right.

The other ministers studied the long table with curious eyes. Though similar in form to the council table they had known before, each seat bore unique markings that distinguished it from its fellows.

The first chair to the king's left was engraved with a radiating eye. Alyn, the new Master of Whisperers, recognized his place immediately.

The second chair to the right gleamed pure white, unmistakably reserved for Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Barristan the Bold.

The second chair to the left was adorned with crossed swords, clearly intended for the Lord Commander of the army, Jaime Lannister.

The third on the right belonged to the Commander of the City Watch, Sandor Clegane, known throughout the realm as "The Hound."

Grand Maester Pycelle tottered to the third position on the left, lowering himself with exaggerated care into a seat whose backrest featured an open book crafted in ornate relief, complete with padded cushions for his aged bones.

A smaller chair had been placed directly beside the king, and Lord Steward Hannah had already claimed it, her movements so practiced and silent that none had marked her passing.

All eyes turned expectantly toward the king, who occupied the only true seat of power at the table. Without question, today's gathering featured but a single protagonist—His Grace himself.

"My lords," Joffrey began, his tone measured and calm, "following Lord Tywin's departure, Lord Eddard has likewise quit King's Landing as of yesterday, bound northward to discharge his more difficult duties beyond the Neck."

Eddard's departure was already common knowledge throughout the capital.

Some celebrated in secret, believing the dour northman's absence would usher in a new era of prosperity. Others lamented that the realm had lost its last true hope for just governance. Still others suspected that King's Landing stood poised upon the threshold of tremendous, perhaps terrible, change.

"Undoubtedly, those of us gathered here must now bear the responsibility for maintaining the realm's proper functioning."

With both Regent Tywin and Hand Eddard absent from the capital, and even Queen Regent Cersei conspicuously missing from this meeting, it was abundantly clear that the collective "we" upon the young king's lips referred primarily to himself.

"Renly's rebellion has stirred clouds of dust into the air," Joffrey continued, "and we must now sweep them clean."

He brushed the surface of the table with one pale hand, as if removing invisible motes of dust. "My lords, would you not agree that King's Landing has grown altogether too filthy and disordered of late?"

Tyrion's mismatched eyes flickered, betraying the rapid calculations occurring behind them.

"Filthy and disordered?" Grand Maester Pycelle echoed, seemingly bewildered by the king's implication.

"Your Grace, King's Landing labors under the burden of excessive population. The Citadel has conducted extensive research on this matter over many years. Given the existing circumstances, there exists no superior method for managing the city's waste and miasma. Furthermore—"

"The Grand Maester grows forgetful in his advancing years," Alyn interrupted smoothly. "His Grace is a holy king blessed by the gods themselves. How might he be compared to ordinary scholars from the Citadel?"

Tyrion's mouth curved into an ironic smile. "May the gods grant King's Landing relief from its perpetual stench, that our city might enjoy air as sweet as that of the Kingswood."

Joffrey's gaze slid toward his uncle. "This is precisely where I shall require your particular talents, Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion felt a sudden foreboding, like the first cold breath of winter against his neck.

Hannah approached with a rolled parchment, which she spread carefully across the long table. "These are construction plans for a comprehensive sewer system, drafted according to His Grace's personal specifications. Upon its successful completion, I believe Lord Tyrion's prayer shall be granted in full measure."

Tyrion adopted an expression of theatrical suffering. "Surely another might better serve. I can count copper stars and silver stags by candlelight until dawn, and my appetite for books is legendary—but sewers, Your Grace? Sewers lie well beyond my area of expertise."

Joffrey turned to Jaime, whose golden armor caught the light with blinding intensity. The king's gaze seemed to waver, as if considering whether another might better serve this purpose.

Sensing imminent danger, Jaime betrayed his brother without hesitation. "Good brother, you do yourself a disservice. Was not the remarkable cleanliness of Casterly Rock largely your achievement? Do not decline so hastily—this task belongs rightfully to you alone."

Tyrion shot Jaime a withering glare of disbelief before reluctantly acquiescing to the inevitable.

"I pray the good people of King's Landing might summon a modicum of gratitude and refrain from bestowing yet more colorful epithets upon me," he remarked dryly.

Joffrey leaned forward, hands clasped before him. "But is this measure sufficient to truly cleanse our city?"

The Grand Maester wisely held his tongue.

"It may render the surface clean enough," Alyn observed with practiced gravity, "but though I have served as Master of Whisperers for merely a fortnight, I have glimpsed depravity in men's hearts that far exceeds the foulness of a hundred thousand sewers."

Hannah nodded in solemn agreement. "These individuals require a more thorough cleansing."

The Hound grunted his concurrence. "Renly's forces may yet fail to reach our walls, but the rats scurrying within the city could easily infiltrate the Red Keep itself."

The king remained silent, his green eyes moving deliberately from one councillor to the next.

Tyrion raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I concur. The sewers address merely the most superficial filth. If we intend to cleanse our city, let us do so thoroughly and completely."

Ser Barristan saluted the king with perfect courtesy. "So long as Your Grace requires our service, the Kingsguard shall shrink from no duty, however onerous."

The smile illuminating Jaime's handsome face never wavered. "I too am Kingsguard, after all."

The king and all his ministers turned as one to regard the Grand Maester, who alone had not declared himself. Pycelle's luxuriant beard began to tremble visibly.

"Your Grace," he stammered, "should you require the counsel of a maester in this endeavor, you need only command, and I shall provide whatever wisdom lies within my power."

Pycelle's words emerged with unexpected clarity and fluency, infused with apparent sincerity.

"Excellent!" Joffrey exclaimed, as if reaching a sudden decision. "Since all are so firmly resolved, I naturally shall offer no objection."

Tyrion observed the king in silence as orders began to flow.

"Alyn, Hannah, Pycelle—you shall oversee the registration of every soul within the city and the Red Keep, categorizing them with the utmost precision."

"Lord Tyrion, you shall inventory all properties throughout the city, determining rightful ownership of each."

"The Department of the Army and the City Watch shall provide necessary support while maintaining order and preventing any disturbance."

"Five days hence, at dawn's first light, seal the city gates and commence simultaneous operations throughout King's Landing."

"All vagrant, suspicious, or potentially dangerous individuals shall be detained for assignment to construction projects or delivered to the Research Department. All properties of uncertain, unclaimed, or strategic value shall be confiscated and allocated to the army."

"Remember," the king concluded, his expression one of pious devotion, "the gods watch over us all."

"Yes, Your Grace," the assembled ministers responded with perfect respect.

Tyrion found himself unable to discern the true thoughts behind his colleagues' carefully composed expressions, yet questions multiplied within his own mind like rabbits in spring:

How might this possibly be accomplished?

All, everything, every single one—such sweeping terms could not be transmuted into reality through mere declaration, no matter how royal the voice that uttered them.

Chapter 92: Father in Heaven Above

Outside the Great Sept of Baelor, the High Septon labored down the long stone steps, supported on either side by attendants who served the gods with unwavering devotion.

Beneath the bright summer sun, the seven-faceted crystal crown upon the High Septon's head scattered prismatic light in all directions—sacred and dazzling, a physical manifestation of the Seven's divine grace. Novice septons and septas watched from a respectful distance, curiosity evident in their youthful faces.

The Great Sept boasted seventy-seven steps leading from its main entrance to the plaza below. The High Septon, corpulent and short of breath, had long harbored a particular dislike for them. Under normal circumstances, he conducted his sermons and ceremonies upon the elevated platform at the summit of the stairs, rarely venturing beyond the confines of his holy domain.

As if summoned by this very thought, seven additional servants appeared bearing an ornately decorated litter. They positioned it carefully at the foot of the stairs, opening its delicate door in preparation for the High Septon's arrival. All of King's Landing knew that outside the Great Sept of Baelor, the High Septon's feet seldom deigned to touch common ground.

With meticulous care, the High Septon steadied the magnificent crown upon his head, then lowered his substantial form into the specially crafted conveyance with a series of labored movements.

"Proceed," he commanded between heavy breaths, waving one beringed hand in languid dismissal.

The attendant closest to him immediately lowered the curtain of the litter, transforming the interior light to a soft, diffuse glow. The litter rose smoothly from the ground and began to sway with gentle rhythm, offering a subtle massage that the High Septon had come to appreciate during his many journeys throughout the city.

He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath of the faint incense that perfumed the litter's interior, allowing his thoughts to wander freely.

He was exhausted beyond measure.

The new king was far too willful for the good of the realm. The coronation ceremony on the seventh day of the seventh month had presented such a splendid opportunity—the king might have gained prestige from the proceedings, while the Faith gathered more devoted followers to the worship of the Seven.

But that giant who had appeared at the ceremony's conclusion had ruined everything.

From that moment forward, the common folk no longer directed their devotion toward the Seven out of gratitude or hope for divine blessing. Instead, awe and naked fear now dominated these ignorant lambs, driving them to their knees, making them malleable to manipulation by forces other than the Faith.

The Long Night? The Doom? The will of the gods? The High Septon believed none of it.

If such claims were true, why bestow divine grace upon the king rather than upon himself, the most faithful messenger of the Seven Who Are One?

To demonstrate their sincere service, the septons of the Faith surrendered their family names upon taking their vows. He had gone further still, abandoning even his given name, willingly transforming himself into a vessel meant to convey the gods' will to the mortal realm. Could all of this devotion have been mere vanity, signifying nothing?

The High Septon sensed a threat to the very foundations of his authority.

The king already occupied the most glorious and lofty secular position. Now his giant lived firmly in the hearts and minds of hundreds of thousands throughout King's Landing, threatening to supplant the image of the High Septon himself.

This development was more than troubling—it was catastrophic.

The world must understand that the Faith alone served as the true messenger of the Seven. Otherwise, no matter how many sermons were delivered, they would serve only to buttress the king's power rather than the Faith's.

The litter came to rest with a gentle thud. They had arrived at their destination.

The High Septon adjusted the crown upon his head once more, a practiced smile of benevolence settling across his round face before he parted the curtain.

A gold-robed functionary with coal-black hair gestured impatiently. "Make haste, Your Holiness. His Grace awaits your presence."

The High Septon narrowed his eyes, peering into the middle distance. The wide and magnificent doors of the throne room remained tightly closed, appearing somehow smaller than he recalled from previous visits. More troubling still, they seemed impossibly far away.

Do they expect me to walk the entire distance unassisted? Would they demand such exertion of the gods' chosen representative?

"Your Holiness?" the black-haired officer prompted again.

Finding himself within the Red Keep, the High Septon had little choice but to abandon his beloved litter and proceed on foot.

Yet even in this, he overestimated his capabilities.

It required a full quarter-hour for him to drag his substantial form across the few hundred paces to the throne room. By the time he passed through its imposing doors, he felt as though he had consumed a hundred holy meals in succession, performed a thousand rituals, and chanted ten thousand hymns—a bone-deep exhaustion that bordered on despair.

To his immense relief, he spotted an empty chair positioned before the Iron Throne.

The gods be praised!

The High Septon hastened toward it with what speed he could muster, his heart suddenly overflowing with gratitude.

"It would seem the sun shines favorably today. Your Holiness perspires most generously," observed Joffrey from his perch atop the Iron Throne, his tone light and unconcerned.

The High Septon raised his gaze. The Iron Throne before him had undergone a transformation since his last visit to court.

The countless jutting spikes and blades that had once defined its fearsome silhouette had vanished, replaced by flowing lines etched into the platform of the throne itself. These supported the king at the throne's apex, as if the ancient seat of Aegon the Conqueror had shed its former menace.

The Iron Throne appeared to have surrendered its majesty, or perhaps more accurately, to have transferred that majesty directly to the young king who sat upon it.

The High Septon straightened his posture with effort. "I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. The demands of my holy office allow no idle moments. My days are consumed with prayer, leaving little opportunity for exercise. Thus, I typically travel by litter."

"I see. Your Holiness is indeed the voice of the Seven, truly devoted to their service."

Though the king's tone betrayed no obvious mockery, the High Septon found himself distinctly uncomfortable beneath those bright green eyes. "May I inquire as to why Your Grace has summoned me this day?"

A servant appeared bearing iced red tea, which the High Septon consumed in a single desperate draught.

Joffrey's gaze lingered upon the crystal crown adorning the High Septon's perspiring brow. "Nothing of great consequence. I merely wished to discuss certain points of doctrine."

Refreshed by the cool beverage, the High Septon felt his spirits lift considerably.

"What aspects of the Faith puzzle Your Grace? You need only ask, and I shall enlighten you."

Joffrey smiled thinly. He believes I don't understand? The arrogance is breathtaking.

"Your Holiness may be unaware," the king began, his tone suggesting that what followed was not merely idle speculation, "but the symbols representing the Seven have been incorrectly rendered for many years."

The smile adorning the High Septon's face vanished as swiftly as morning dew beneath a summer sun.

"Father, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Smith, Warrior, Stranger—the Seven manifest in these seven aspects, guiding mortals throughout their earthly journey," Joffrey continued. "Yet we all acknowledge that the Seven are One."

The High Septon could raise no objection to this statement; these were foundational tenets of the Faith.

"Then why does the Faith employ a seven-pointed star as its primary symbol?" the king inquired, a dangerous light kindling in his eyes.

The High Septon blinked in confusion, unable to formulate a response to this unexpected challenge.

"Your Holiness, which aspect do you believe the Seven favor above all others? The Father? Perhaps the Mother?" The king's question carried the weight of genuine interest.

The High Septon answered with practiced piety: "Any aspect pleases Them equally, Your Grace. The Seven love the world and all living creatures without distinction."

The king shook his head slowly. "You have misjudged Their nature. The Seven love all beings, true enough, but above all else, They cherish Their aspect as the Father, who presides over judgment and justice throughout creation."

Joffrey raised a gleaming brass star with six points. "Therefore, the Father should occupy the central position, worshipped by all the world, while the remaining six aspects should surround him. The Seven should be represented by a six-pointed star!"

The High Septon gaped in astonishment. A six-pointed star? The boy has gone mad!

But the king descended from the throne, each step leaving fiery red footprints upon the steel beneath his feet. "You doubt my words?"

"You truly disbelieve?"

The air grew so hot that even drawing breath became painful. The High Septon found himself unable to voice the objections that rose to his lips, instead lowering his gaze in wordless submission.

The king extended his right hand and grasped the seven-faceted crown that had adorned the High Septon's head for so many years.

"The Seven have bestowed divine grace and revealed Their will to me alone. Naturally, I know what pleases Them best. I tell you plainly, They favor the six-pointed star."

As the heavy crown was lifted from his brow, the High Septon experienced not only a physical lightening, but also a profound emptiness within his heart, as if something vital had been torn away.

His thoughts returned unbidden to the coronation ceremony—to the crown and scepter that the king had claimed by his own hand, to the light and heat emanating from the giant who had appeared. Gods forgive me, I considered resisting such divine power!

With a sharp sound, the High Septon flinched involuntarily. To his relief, the king merely pressed his heated palm against the crown of his head.

"Your Holiness," the king intoned, his voice suddenly calm and distant, as if emanating from some unknowable vastness, "the Seven have manifested Their grace and revealed Their will. Kneel before Them."

Divine grace. The High Septon sank to his knees with newfound devotion.

"The entire Faith shall be reorganized as the Gospel Department, under the authority of the Divine Envoy, tasked with spreading the true word throughout the world."

"Every seventh day shall be proclaimed Worship Day, when all believers must offer prayer."

The High Septon trembled as an inexplicable power flooded his consciousness, impossible to resist or deny.

"The covenant is sealed."

When at last he raised his head, the High Septon's eyes burned with a fanaticism and sincerity he had never before exhibited, as if gazing upon the Supreme Father in Heaven incarnate. "Your Grace," he whispered, "it is indeed the six-pointed star."

The king merely smiled, content with what he had wrought.

"Four days hence, on the twenty-sixth day of the seventh month, we shall observe the first Worship Day. The Faith must perform its duties with proper devotion."

Chapter 93: Sam and the Research Department

"The day after tomorrow is Sunday, Sam. A bit more effort, if you please." Qyburn's encouragement came soft as a whisper, though it carried weight all the same.

Samwell Tarly looked up from the floor strewn with ancient tomes and faintly luminous glass plates. The old man before him wore an earnest expression, the look of a grandfather expecting great things from his progeny. It unsettled Sam more than any threat could have.

Sam forced his lips into a smile. "I understand."

Qyburn nodded, seemingly satisfied, and took his leave.

Only when the old man's back had vanished beyond the doorway did Sam finally release the breath he'd been holding. He touched his neck; the skin was slick with perspiration, his collar damp with sweat.

Thank the gods, he suspected nothing.

Sam lowered his gaze to his lap. The light from the glass plate had extinguished entirely, its surface now reflecting only his own image. He stared into those eyes—his eyes—feeling hollow and distant from himself.

He was weary. Bone-weary.

From heir to Horn Hill, to a maester's apprentice, and now to... this. Sam's expectations had never aligned with the cruel reality the gods seemed determined to thrust upon him.

He'd known well enough that his lord father despised his fat, craven self, that his younger brother Dickon would inherit Horn Hill sooner rather than later. So he'd offered little resistance to this new life in King's Landing. At least here he could continue to read and study, to become a knowledgeable maester without concern for his daily bread.

The beginning had been stable. Pleasant, even.

The Red Keep housed countless books, some exceedingly rare, tomes that might never be glimpsed beyond its walls. With Grand Maester Pycelle's permission, he'd spent days and nights buried among those precious volumes, like a ravenous little mouse gnawing desperately at the tempting knowledge within each binding.

Every biography chronicled a life lived in full. Every history depicted scenes of days long past. Every ballad sang of mankind's deepest praises or lamentations.

There had been ample food, sweet harp music, and maesters who shared his dedication to knowledge. It was nearly perfect, save for the absence of friends.

Sam had thought such days would last for many years to come. As everyone had said, the Crown Prince had likely summoned him on mere whim. After all, wasn't he just an inconspicuous apprentice serving under Pycelle?

But the changes in the Red Keep came with the swiftness and violence of a summer storm.

In a single morning, two prominent members of the Small Council were reduced to prisoners, suspected of treason. Gold Cloaks patrolled in formations, their expressions fierce and unforgiving, as though they sought to slay men with naught but their gaze.

Did this concern everyone within the Red Keep? Sam wished to believe it did not, yet it was plain that few shared his optimism.

The Grand Maester grew both busy and idle in equal measure.

To the outside world, the Grand Maester was unwell, his daily duties diminished almost to nothing.

Yet behind closed doors, Sam had witnessed Pycelle writing letter after letter at his desk. Some were committed to flame immediately, others dispatched by messenger, and a select few tied to ravens by the maester's own trembling hands. Only after watching the black birds take wing would the old man's shoulders slump in relief.

Hannah, the once-beloved Steward, now spent her days summoning the Red Keep's servants for stern reprimands.

Sam knew not the particulars. He observed only as people entered with worry etched upon their brows and emerged with faces grave as stone—or never emerged at all.

Such occurrences made Sam realize how quietly a living person could disappear.

He could but silently long for the life he had gradually adapted to, while simultaneously adjusting to new cooks, new faces, new rules, and the smothering new atmosphere.

Yet these fragile new balances, too, were swiftly shattered.

News of King Robert's death reached the city. On that day, the bells of King's Landing roared their mournful song without cease, until Sam's ears ached with their clamor. Even as he lay abed that night, he fancied he could still hear their ghostly pealing.

That night, though Sam could not see clearly what transpired, something fundamental shifted within the Red Keep. It was an indefinable sensation, yet it caused unease to seep into his bones even as he tried to lose himself in his books.

After the night of bells, people began to encourage him to venture beyond his scrolls and tomes. The Grand Maester, too, involved him in excursions with increasing frequency. Sam suspected it had something to do with the Crown Prince whom he had yet to meet.

This seemed a positive development. Sam began to anticipate the arrival of the new king with cautious hope.

Until Lord Renly, the Master of Laws, vanished without trace. Until Ser Loras, the Knight of Flowers, and the Redwyne twins grew inexplicably withdrawn. These events transformed the Red Keep once more into a place of whispers and sideways glances.

Sam still could not discern the truth of matters, but he sensed the gathering storm on the horizon.

He simply hadn't expected the winds of change to blow so soon.

With alarming suddenness, he was appointed as a full-time historian, tasked with recording the proceedings of Small Council meetings.

Initial excitement quickly gave way to deep confusion and dread following his first attendance at the Small Council.

Every word that fell from the king's lips was shocking, as though the boy could scarcely wait to upend the Seven Kingdoms entirely.

Lord Tywin sat proudly opposite the king. A mere glance from the Lord of Casterly Rock could sway half the Small Council, and every word he uttered was neither humble nor arrogant, but grounded in cold authority.

Lord Eddard opposed nearly every proposal set before him. Honor and tradition were the words most frequently upon his lips.

Queen Regent Cersei sometimes supported Lord Tywin, sometimes agreed with the king, sometimes mocked Lord Eddard with barbed words, and occasionally cursed those present or absent with equal venom.

And his master, Grand Maester Pycelle, remained inconspicuous among the ministers, offering little but echoes of Tywin's declarations.

Is this truly the Small Council meeting I am meant to record?

Sam shrank into his corner, daring to move his quill only with the utmost care, fearful that any sudden movement might draw the attention of the lords and ladies who decided the fate of the realm.

He keenly understood that the ministers would hardly appreciate the records made by his historian's pen. The more truthful and detailed his account, the greater their displeasure would be. Yet to obscure or omit? The king would certainly not abide such dishonesty.

Sam endured those uneasy days until, not a fortnight past, everything changed again.

For reasons unknown, after Lord Tywin departed King's Landing, the king dispatched Sam to the Research Department, calling it a "temporary transfer."

Sam had been confined to this chamber ever since, unable to escape its oppressive walls.

His duties were varied and complex.

Initially, he sorted ancient texts and scrolls, seeking specific words and phrases;

Later, he screened and entered content in prescribed formats into the "database"—the scattered glowing glass plates that now littered the floor;

Then came the testing of various "divine grace modules," scoring the user experience, offering suggestions for improvements;

This task required him to handle different divine grace modules, producing dozens or hundreds of slightly varied divine grace light screens. His responsibility was to determine which configuration yielded optimal results.

So this is the secret of divine grace. Even mortals may touch such wondrous miracles. At first, Sam had barely contained his excitement.

Unfortunately, the Research Department's work extended beyond these seemingly innocent tasks.

The kindly smiling old man was, in truth, responsible for the most critical and darkest "work" the department undertook. All experiments requiring consumption of "materials" fell under the old man's purview.

Never had Sam imagined that suggestions like "the sound is somewhat harsh," "the vibration too weak," or "the pattern grows uncomfortable after prolonged viewing" would ultimately consume five lives and leave two others raving mad.

Little wonder the old man had been expelled from the Citadel, his maester's chain stripped from him.

Sam sighed heavily and tapped the "workbench" glass on his lap. The screen illuminated, displaying the tasks he had yet to complete.

The workbench showed a merciless countdown.

Before tomorrow's end, he must divide half of King's Landing into four hundred small sectors with roughly equal populations to facilitate blockades and control. He must also mark all passages between these sectors.

Drawing lines was tedious work, but at least no one would die from it... would they?

Sam attempted to console himself with that meager thought, though the comfort it offered was as substantial as morning mist.

Chapter 94: A Recruit's Daily Life

Night yielded grudgingly to dawn.

A dim blue light softly illuminated the land and the rows of tents that dotted it like strange mushrooms after rain. The sky was clear, without a wisp of cloud, and hanging there was not the sun, but a round, bright moon that cast its pale luminance across the sleeping camp.

The breeze moved silent as a shadow, the bonfires burned with quiet determination. No man moved or spoke, and even the distant hills seemed locked in slumber.

What a quiet, peaceful time.

Tens of thousands of recruits lay in dreamless sleep, bodies recovering the strength and spirit they had spent the day before.

Then a lone figure strode to the center of the camp. In the dim half-light, he raised a long, slender instrument to his lips and blew a mournful call that split the silence like a blade.

One sound followed another, like the shrill screams of the dying, like the desperate call of a mother for her lost child.

Wake up. Fight. That's what the horn commanded.

Eyes snapped open throughout the camp. Hands immediately and skillfully snatched up tunics, breeches, and belts from beside bedrolls. Legs slipped into breeches and boots with practiced efficiency, and then men rushed toward their tent entrances, charging out without a backward glance.

Clang! Clang!

An even more piercing gong sounded at the entrance of each tent. The soldier tasked with rousing stragglers used a long mallet to lift the thick curtain of each tent door. "Lazybones! Hurry up and crawl out of your warm dung heaps! Didn't you enjoy enough last night?"

"If you're not even enthusiastic about morning exercises, you're useless in this life. What's the point of living?"

"Warriors, please, continue to sleep, and then pray that your instructor suddenly died outside last night. Pray that all the adults have gone mad and granted you a day of rest."

The admonishments that slower recruits or those who slept more soundly heard each morning were rarely the same twice.

In what little leisure time they had, recruits would compare which camp had received the most cutting insults, the most creative mockery. They even held informal contests to determine the two most memorable of those who woke them: the one with the sharpest "needle tongue," and the "mute" who could express the deepest contempt with naught but a withering glance.

Regardless, none dared show sloth at this hour.

The horror of the small dark room was well known to all by now, and those who were deemed truly worthless, it was said, would be sent to the Research Department. The instructors always spoke of this fate to the recruits under their command with terrible smiles, assuring them that everyone had an irreplaceable role in the Research Department. Everyone.

Vague rumors sink deepest into men's hearts. Under the weight of such dread and the constraints of martial discipline, the recruits quickly transformed and grew hard as castle-forged steel.

Today's performance, mercifully, was better than usual.

In but a quarter hour, the training ground had fallen silent, all recruits already neatly arrayed in armor, gathered in their teams and squadrons before their instructors.

Only a quarter hour.

The recruits dared not show any expression on their faces, but pride kindled in their hearts nonetheless, a small flame of accomplishment.

The instructors, however, remained as unmoved as the stone faces in a sept.

"Attention!" The instructor's first command never varied.

The recruits under his command straightened like prey-birds catching sight of a mouse. "Long live King Joffrey the First!"

"Justice will prevail!"

The full-throated shouts of a hundred men, teeth gritted with fervor, resounded throughout the training ground. The roar was clearly audible even to those stationed a thousand paces distant.

Each man felt certain their shouts were loud enough to echo throughout the city. But was this truly so?

They looked to their instructor's face for judgment.

The instructor nodded slightly. This meager gesture was the highest praise they might hope to receive.

Immediately after, the shouted slogans rose and fell across the training ground, each team striving to exceed the volume of all others.

"Long live King Joffrey the First!"

"Justice will prevail!"

Again and again, again and again. The sound came from before them, from behind, from either side, until it seemed the very air trembled with their fervor.

What an emotional and enthusiastic display it appeared to be.

Yet the recruits' hearts remained calm, dispassionately judging which team produced the loudest and steadiest voice, and which suffered the shame of a member whose voice cracked like a boy's.

They had heard these slogans hundreds of times each day. Some even shouted them in their sleep. After mere days of training, any novelty or genuine feeling had been completely scoured away.

But to say they were annoyed would not be wholly true. The ritual had simply become a familiar habit, taken for granted, rendered ordinary by repetition.

Like air, bread, and water—bland and without savor, yet an essential part of life.

Dong!

A massive drum sounded, its deep voice silencing all others.

The recruits stood quiet as septons at prayer, waiting for the music to follow.

A melody gradually rose from nowhere, somewhat melancholy, somewhat serene, somewhat lighthearted, and carrying some feeling that defied description.

It bore no resemblance to the music of court bards with their golden harps.

This song was called "Mother Westeros."

The prelude faded.

And then, as one, they began to sing:

"Summer is gone, summer is gone
Winter is coming, the light will rest
We have finally overcome the obstacles ahead
As for the glory, let it belong to heaven
Let the golden years we once had remain in song after song
Remaining in that headwind of victory
In order to make you stand proudly on top of the world
For you, great mother!
We will persevere
For you, great mother!
We will eventually return in triumph
For you, great mother!
Shout 'Long live!' three times for you
For you, great mother!
Westeros, I will always be your child

Summer is gone, summer is gone
Winter is coming, the light will rest
Fighting on your suffering body, I still remember
The rushing Blackwater brings fish
The dancing golden millet exudes fragrance
The swaying red apple oozes honey
Lying on your suffering body, I still remember
Winterfell, where hot springs flow, is your outpost guarding the north
The Eyrie, towering into the clouds, is your watchtower guarding the east
Riverrun, with its turbulent waters, is the tip of your Trident
Casterly Rock, which never falls, is the mountain and mine you bestow with gold
Storm's End, which stops the storm, is your toy placed by the sea
Highgarden, rich in fruits and flowers, is the land where you feed your children
Sunspear, cast in sand and stone, is the tenacious fortress on your severed arm
And your cherished pearl, King's Landing, surrounded by the Blackwater
Westeros, I will always be your child

Summer is gone, summer is gone
Winter is coming, the light will rest
We have already set off
For you, mother!
Walking in the vast fields, I can't help but whisper
'I love you...'
Strolling on the endless coastline, I whispered
'I love you...'
Wading through the vast ice and snow, I silently confide
'I love you...'
Westeros, I will always be your child
Wherever I am, you are always in my heart
Until death do us part"

It was said that the king himself had penned these words.

After the singing ended, the instructor's emotions lingered but briefly, no more than the span of a few shallow breaths. Then he issued his orders without hesitation: "Right turn!"

"Running stance!"

The first team of recruits took the lead in entering the outermost track. This lap measured a full thousand paces, and they would run ten in succession to complete their morning exercise. No man could fall behind. The team with the poorest showing would have their breakfast withheld.

For recruits who trained from dawn to dusk, breakfast was as precious as gold from Casterly Rock, and each man competed with mad determination to secure his meal.

At the end, Hot Pie collapsed against Gendry as had become his custom, drool slipping from the corner of his mouth.

Compared to when they had first arrived, Hot Pie was considerably leaner and stronger, his muscles harder beneath his skin. Yet he still failed to reach the average standard of the other recruits, and training remained a trial that tested him sorely each day.

"I figure, see, coming out, the Security Bureau really, is nothing, just, threw us, here, with you, guys, extra, benefits, not a single, one," Hot Pie panted, managing to voice his complaints between desperate gulps of air.

Gendry handed a breakfast box to Hot Pie. "Hang in there," he said. "It won't be so taxing tomorrow. We all have outside missions."

He had been granted divine grace and would lead the team in the next day's endeavor.

Hot Pie's eyes brightened with hope. "Then today's training?"

Gendry shook his head, his expression calm as still water. "Morning standing in military posture, afternoon practicing skills. Unchanged."

Hot Pie sighed deeply, the sound of a man who sees the shore but must still swim a great distance to reach it.

Chapter 95: God's Will

Dawn had scarcely broken on the twenty-sixth day of July when the square before the Great Sept of Baelor filled with countless faithful.

For two days prior, word had spread through the narrow streets and winding alleys of King's Landing that the Faith would henceforth designate every seventh day as holy—a day when all true believers must serve with piety and pray with hearts stilled of worldly concerns.

The devout had come in droves to the Great Sept, eager to demonstrate the depths of their faith. Yet they had arrived before the Faith itself stirred to welcome them. The seven great doors of the Sept remained steadfastly closed, and neither septon nor septa could be glimpsed within its marble confines. The faithful had no choice but to wait in the vast square, beneath the shadow of the towering sept.

Most sat or stood in reverent silence, eyes closed in prayer, though here and there whispers began to stir among the crowd.

"They say His Grace arrived in the darkest hour of night and has prayed without rest until dawn," murmured a woman with a voice like rustling parchment. "The day of worship itself was his notion. Small wonder the gods shower him with divine grace without measure."

"Aye," agreed her companion. "A true emissary of the divine, spreading glory and gospel wherever he treads. The world is blessed by his coming."

A man leaned close to those nearby, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Have you heard what they're saying?" He glanced about as though fearing unseen ears. "The Faith has been wrong all these centuries. 'Tis not the seven-pointed star that is holy, but a six-pointed star, with the Father at its center."

"Impossible!" scoffed another. "Those are naught but the whispers of heretics. Seven gods, seven stars—what else could it be?"

"The gods are one and seven at once," ventured a third, his words cautious as a man testing thin ice. "The Seven we worship are but facets of a single divinity. 'Seven gods' is merely how our mortal minds comprehend what lies beyond comprehension."

"If that be so," reasoned another, "then why must it be seven stars at all? A six-pointed star or even a circle would serve as well. These are but mortal conceits."

The debate grew steadily warmer, voices rising despite their owners' attempts at discretion.

A cold laugh cut through their theological musings. "Debating dogma at the very doors of the Great Sept? How very brave." The speaker's lips curled with disdain. "A gathering of fools beyond remedy."

At once the debate withered, its participants falling silent as though by mutual accord, none wishing to draw further notice.

Before long, another voice rose in complaint. "Did you mark the guards at the city gates this morn? Standing with eyes wide as owls, as though each of us conceals a blade beneath our cloaks."

"Aye, I saw them too. Fresh from the Goldcloak barracks, those new recruits."

"You know nothing of it," declared an old man with a back still straight despite his years, his eyebrows dancing with self-importance. "My sister's boy serves as an officer among the Goldcloaks, commanding a hundred men."

The crowd around him leaned closer, hungry for whatever morsel of knowledge he might deign to share.

"He told me himself that His Grace will speak before the Sept today. They've doubled the watch at all seven gates and inspect each who passes to ensure the king's safety."

"Who would dare harm a divine emissary?" someone asked, voice thick with indignation. "Who would be so foolish?"

"Word has reached the king's ears that Lord Renly, fearing defeat in the field, has purchased the services of hired knives. They may strike at any hour, from any shadow." The old man nodded sagely. "That's the truth of it."

"How dreadful!" gasped a woman.

"How despicable!" spat another.

"Indeed," agreed a stout man with a merchant's hands. "The price of bread has risen these past days. I'd wager Renly takes pleasure in our suffering."

Another joined in, eager to contribute. "I've heard tell that Storm's End hosts feasts each night without end—wines and meats in abundance, and young maids gathered from across the Stormlands to dance and warm their beds. When they tire of the girls, they cast them to the common soldiers."

"By the Mother's mercy, such wickedness!"

"He is the Duke of Storm's End," someone said with a bitter laugh. "The Stormlands and all within belong to him, to use and discard as he wills."

"His Grace Robert was too gentle with the boy."

"Who could argue otherwise?"

With each whisper, Renly's name took on a darker hue in the minds of those gathered.

"Look there!" A shout cut through the murmurs. "The Father's Gate opens!"

The square stirred as one body, all eyes drawn to the great doors swinging wide. Reverent gazes fixed upon the figures emerging from the Father's Gate.

The High Septon, corpulent beneath the weight of his gaudy raiment, wore his gleaming crown of crystal and gold. Yet its brilliance dimmed to nothing beside the figure who walked before him—His Grace King Joffrey, First of His Name, wreathed in boundless white light.

The young king stepped forward, and to the awestruck faithful, he seemed to grow with each stride until he towered as tall as the Sept itself, his radiance outshining the sun.

The people fell to their knees as one, ready to receive the divine will from the lips of the gods' chosen vessel.

Joffrey stood upon the dais and gazed down at the sea of humanity. Tens of thousands had gathered, and this without any royal summons. The power of the Faith was undeniable.

The sight filled him with deep satisfaction, vindicating his decision to manifest divine power during his coronation.

Let the Faith grow as strong as it might, he thought. It cannot escape its own chains. It must forever rely on the image of the Seven to spread its teachings.

In ordinary times, such matters were merely a contest of who could best beguile the masses. But here and now, a single miracle could seize the fruits of centuries of the Faith's careful cultivation.

The Seven had been the object of worship throughout the known world for countless years, yet Joffrey had effortlessly claimed the position of their mouthpiece, draping himself in their sacred authority like a fine cloak.

Reality's cruelty spared no one. The High Septon had been unwilling to yield at first, but a single demonstration had transformed his thinking utterly. Now he stood meekly behind Joffrey, content to remain High Septon in name if not in power.

His fate was kinder by far than that of several colleagues who had chosen resistance.

Joffrey's voice, when he spoke, carried the weight of sorrow and pain.

"My brothers and sisters in faith, I must deliver grievous tidings."

The faithful froze, breath caught in their throats. What calamity could move the gods' chosen vessel to such solemnity?

"Intruders breached the sanctity of the Sept under cover of night, intent on slaughter," the king continued. "In defense of all who dwell within these hallowed walls, three Most Devout, nineteen septons, and seven septas were brutally slain."

A thunderous shock rippled through the crowd, faces slack with horror.

As if summoned by the king's words, a procession of septons and guards emerged from the Father's Gate, dragging the corpses of seven men into the square. The faithful surged forward, surrounding the grim display.

"Our investigation reveals these assassins were in Renly Baratheon's employ—well-trained, well-compensated, and bestowed with the title 'Rainbow Guard.' Their sole purpose: to bring death within these sacred walls."

The white shrouds covering the bodies were drawn back, revealing rainbow-hued garments beneath black, tattered cloaks—one color for each man, the complete spectrum laid bare for all to see.

"The Great Sept of Baelor stands as the most hallowed ground in all the Seven Kingdoms," Joffrey declared, his voice swelling with righteous anger. "Yet Renly would defile it with steel and blood. This is not merely a challenge to the laws of the realm and the dignity of the Iron Throne—it is contempt for the Seven Who Are One and a desecration of our most sacred beliefs!"

The king's fury was palpable, his voice rising to a shout. "People of King's Landing, can you abide such sacrilege?"

"We cannot!" came a lone cry, soon joined by others until the square resounded with thousands of voices joined as one.

"We cannot!"

"The Seven have bestowed their divine decree!" Joffrey proclaimed, his voice carrying to the farthest corners of the square as though borne on the wind itself.

"The Great Sept of Baelor is their first and greatest palace in the mortal realm, and King's Landing stands at the center of their gaze. This holy ground must be cleansed of all impurity—no filth shall remain, no shadow shall persist."

"From this day forth!" The king raised his arms toward the heavens.

"Faithful lambs, heed the call and cast aside worldly excess. We shall purify every corner, cleanse every heart, restore King's Landing to its unsullied state, and return peace to the Great Sept of Baelor."

His voice hardened to steel. "Renly's assassins shall find no refuge, liars and thieves no sanctuary. All shadows shall be driven before the light eternal!"

As the king's final words echoed across the square, septons, septas, and soldiers poured from the Father's Gate, streaming toward every quarter of King's Landing—southeast, northwest, to each district and alley of the great city.

The faithful prostrated themselves upon the stones, awaiting whatever was to come with quiet resignation.

Many did not fully comprehend the king's proclamation, but divine decrees were not for mortals to question—only to obey.

Of one thing they were certain: the coming hours would bring tumult unlike any King's Landing had known in living memory.