[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 71 - 75

Chapter 71: Land of Smoke and Salt

Dragonstone—that ancient land of smoke and salt—rose from the stormy seas like some great beast born of volcanic shadow. Today, the island fortress awaited its new master.

The harbor teemed with life. Nearly two hundred warships of the Royal Fleet lay at anchor, their drums beating like distant thunder across the water. Looking outward, countless masts stood adorned with dazzling golden banners—a sea of gold, as if the crowned stag of House Baratheon had conquered every inch of the narrow sea.

All this pageantry for a single merchant vessel sailing slowly toward the harbor.

Every eye followed the ship's approach, watching as it entered the dock, its anchor dropping with a splash, its gangway extending for disembarkation.

A voice rang out across the harbor: "Welcome the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, His Grace Joffrey of House Baratheon, the First of His Name."

The lords of the Narrow Sea immediately bent their knees, their retinues following suit, voices rising in unison: "Long live His Grace Joffrey, First of His Name!"

Step... step...

Joffrey's boots echoed on the weathered stones of the pier. Only two companions flanked him—the black-haired Jon and Ser Barristan Selmy, resplendent in his white cloak, white armor, and pale sword.

"No need for formalities. Rise," Joffrey commanded, raising his hand as his gaze swept across each face that rose to meet his own.

The handsome lord beneath the silver seahorse sigil had long, bright golden hair—Lord Monford Velaryon of Driftmark, heir to an ancient and proud house now fallen from its former glory.

Behind the banner of seven golden seven-pointed stars stood the devout followers of the Faith—Lord Gunther Sunglass of Sweetport Sound.

The elderly man adorned with red crab embroidery exuded an aura of dignity and deference—Lord Ardrian Celtigar of Claw Isle, known as the "Red Crab."

Beneath the blue swordfish standard waited a fat, soft-looking boy—Lord Duram Bar Emmon of Sharp Point.

And more were gathered—lesser lords and landed knights, all vassals to Dragonstone's rocky shores.

Joffrey regarded them all, noting their prompt arrival despite having received only three days' notice. A proper show of fealty, at the very least.

But the reason for his advance arrival went beyond testing the loyalty of these men.

Joffrey approached Stannis's widow, Selyse Florent. "Lady Selyse, my uncle's death is a grievous blow to us all. Yet you must endure, if only for your daughter Shireen's sake."

Stannis is dead, and Dragonstone has been granted to me, he thought. So why hasn't Selyse departed? Could she still harbor delusions about this fortress?

Joffrey smiled at the little girl standing beside her mother. Shireen immediately shrank back timidly, seeking shelter behind Selyse's skirts.

The girl held no fond impression of this cousin she had never met. Her father and mother had spoken ill of him, and in her childish mind, their words must surely be true.

Lady Selyse made no response to the king's overtures, her eyes revealing undisguised wariness and resistance.

It was the Onion Knight, Davos Seaworth, who stepped forward to thank the king on her behalf. "His Grace's sincere concern is truly admirable. I pray you forgive my lady—she is overcome with grief. Young Miss Shireen has scarcely spoken a word since it happened."

Joffrey nodded in understanding. "I suppose that's to be expected. Perhaps Shireen might return with me to the Red Keep? It's a livelier place, with children her age—companionship enough to ease the sorrow in her heart."

Shireen's small fingers clutched her mother's gown even more tightly.

Lord Velaryon seized the moment to approach, bowing respectfully. "I wonder if Your Grace has specific instructions for us on this visit? We stand ready to serve."

Joffrey regarded him coolly. "There's no rush. We'll speak of such matters at council in the Chamber of the Painted Table tonight." He looked up toward the looming castle on the high ground. "A fortress built by Valyria itself... You lords may be accustomed to Dragonstone's magnificence, but this is my first visit. Would you do me the courtesy of a tour?"

The lords visibly relaxed, expressions warming as they gathered around their king, each eager to point out the unique features of Dragonstone to His Grace.

It was, to all appearances, a harmonious and peaceful gathering.

Dragonstone's black stone castle was indeed a marvel beyond compare.

Thousands of gargoyles and dragon statues with outstretched wings adorned its walls and towers. Stone sentinels stood several feet tall, carved with such skill that they seemed poised to awaken at any moment, ready to descend upon the living with fang and claw.

Despite centuries of wind and salt spray, the ferocious sculptures remained intact. Even bird droppings did not mar their vigilant watch from the battlements, a silent threat to any who might covet this ancient stronghold.

Walking between these stone guardians, Joffrey grasped the parapet and surveyed the castle. What lay before him was not mere masonry but something else—a collection of dragons with flesh and blood of black stone.

The great hall was a dragon lying prostrate upon the ground, its open jaws forming the gates through which men passed.

The kitchens were a dragon curled into a ball, its nostrils perpetually belching smoke and steam.

The many towers, such as the Sea Dragon Tower, were stone wyrms of varying sizes—some sleeping, others with heads raised to the sky.

Viewed from afar, the entire castle itself formed the head and neck of some colossal dragon, making Dragonstone appear as a vast beast sprawled across the sea.

"Truly a rare wonder in this world," Joffrey murmured, unable to contain his awe.

Stone statues might be carved through great effort and skilled hands, but how had such a massive fortress been shaped to resemble a dragon so perfectly?

With such unusual structural stresses, how had the black stone maintained its integrity for centuries? It defied reason.

Lord Velaryon answered with pride in his voice. "The great Valyrian Freehold built it with magic, Your Grace. Each tower was shaped from the living rock itself—that is what created such a unique marvel."

"Unfortunately, the Doom came," Lord Sunglass intoned piously. "Praise the Seven. Valyria should never have angered the gods. A pity."

Lord Velaryon shot him a glare.

Joffrey pointed toward the improbable spire of the Dragonmont Tower. "Let us examine that one."

"Yes, Your Grace," the lords responded, hurrying ahead to lead their king.

Ignoring Lady Selyse's polite protestations, Joffrey insisted on lifting little Shireen—her eyes still red from weeping—into his arms as he strode forward, treating Dragonstone entirely as his own domain.

None dared suggest it wasn't.

Every lord present understood that His Grace remained, at the very least, the Prince of Dragonstone. Until he bestowed the title elsewhere, the island and its vassals remained his personal property.

It seemed increasingly evident that His Grace had no intention of relinquishing the title.

The lords silently calculated their responses to this development.

By Duke Stannis's legal decree, Dragonstone rightfully belonged to Shireen.

If they followed the tradition of Dragonstone belonging to the heir to the Iron Throne, it would pass to Prince Tommen or perhaps Duke Renly.

If His Grace claimed it for himself, perhaps even merging Dragonstone with the Crownlands henceforth...

The wind howled ceaselessly atop the Dragonstone Tower, lending a gloomy, foreboding atmosphere. The lords stood behind their king, gazing out over the angry seas stretching to the horizon.

Who would be the first to broach the subject?

"My lords," Joffrey said, breaking the silence, "I've heard tell of beautiful dragonglass deposits on this island. While daylight remains, let us examine them—we wouldn't want to delay tonight's council."

Joffrey turned from the spire, regarding the lords with their carefully composed faces.

Two faint magical auras emanate from this tower, he thought, one familiar, one strange. And below, vast dragonglass deposits and hot volcanic vents. Truly a land of treasures.

He sighed audibly. "The court requires my presence too dearly. I can remain on Dragonstone but a single day."

The Onion Knight bowed low. "The dragonglass mines are no longer worked, Your Grace. Only abandoned pits remain on the island. I beg your forgiveness."

Joffrey's smile was thin. "It matters not."

"Perhaps it's better they lie fallow," he added. "It makes for a cleaner restoration."

The lords murmured their agreement.

Yet something in their expressions suggested they understood he spoke not merely of dragonglass.

Chapter 72: The Storm in the Map Room

The sea churned in fury.

A storm had descended upon Dragonstone without warning, as storms were wont to do in these waters. The boundless dark sea crashed relentlessly against the jagged shores from below, while the skies unleashed torrents of silver rain, as though the gods themselves had vowed to drown all that stood upon the island's surface.

The castle grew both hushed and violent at once.

Bonfires, gargoyles, and human silhouettes alike were swallowed by the Lord of Darkness, while voices, footfalls, and hornblasts disappeared beneath the Storm God's watery assault.

What remained to be seen? Shadows upon shadows upon shadows.

What remained to be heard? The wind's wild laughter, the rain's thunderous song, the sea's wrathful roar, and the castle's pained groaning—but no human voice could pierce the veil of sound.

Without warning, darkness gave way to blinding brilliance. Lightning split the sky, piercing the heart with its sudden, merciless light—a proclamation of supreme divine power.

In that moment, men recalled with gratitude the gentle light the gods bestowed on ordinary days.

BOOM...

The deep, suppressed thunder shook the very souls of those who heard it. The heavens roared in unbridled rage.

No matter how many storms one weathered in a lifetime, their power never failed to remind humans of their insignificance in the grand design of the world.

People trembled and hid within the deepest recesses of the castle, seeking shelter from light and wind and rain and sound, like earthworms burrowing into the soil for protection.

And yet, the Chamber of the Painted Table, standing at the highest point of the Stone Drum Tower, remained an exception.

Candlelight still flickered there. Human figures still moved within.

"The storm grows stronger by the moment, Your Grace," said the Onion Knight, casting a worried glance toward little Shireen. "Perhaps we might move to another chamber to conduct our business."

Joffrey closed his eyes and listened. A rumbling sound echoed ceaselessly within the ancient stone walls around them.

Dragonstone's main keep was called the Stone Drum Tower for good reason—it was said that its ancient walls would rumble like a massive drum whenever storms lashed the island.

It seemed the old tales spoke true.

Another bolt of lightning cleaved the sky, its brilliance flooding through the chamber's four tall windows, rendering the candles all but invisible for that brief, terrible moment.

When Joffrey opened his eyes again, they fell upon the detailed map of Westeros carved into the surface of the twenty-foot table before him. The raised dais beneath his seat corresponded precisely with Dragonstone's position on that map.

Once, Aegon the Conqueror had sat in this very spot, gazing down upon all of Westeros as he plotted his conquest.

Joffrey raised his eyes to survey the lords and their retainers, who stood in respectful silence throughout the chamber, awaiting his command. Such dutiful vassals they appeared to be.

Joffrey's lips curled into a smile. "The storm is no enemy of mine. Listen to it—it welcomes my coming."

The tempest battered against the closed windows and stone walls. The assembled lords exchanged glances, though the constantly flashing lightning prevented any from truly reading the expressions of the others.

"Have you all forgotten?" Joffrey pointed toward the direction of the harbor below. "Decades ago, the last Targaryen fleet was torn asunder by just such a storm in these very waters. Daenerys herself earned the name 'Stormborn' from that night. Does she count it an honor, I wonder?"

His eyes gleamed in the candlelight. "Shall we make a wager? I suspect today's storm will leave the Royal Fleet untouched. What say you all?"

Joffrey's gaze swept across the gathering.

"I stand with Your Grace!" Lord Seaworth of Rainwood seemed to shout with all his strength, yet his voice reached the others as little more than a whisper against the storm's fury.

The youthful Lord of Sharp Point was the second to declare himself. "May the storm show favor to Your Grace."

The remaining lords had little choice but to echo these sentiments.

Joffrey sighed. "How dull. Is there no one who would speak against me?"

None dared break the silence that followed.

"Then let us proceed with our council. Better to conclude our business swiftly, lest Ser Davos grow more anxious with each passing moment."

Joffrey extended his right hand, and from the shadows behind him came a scroll of parchment.

All eyes followed as the scroll was unrolled, circle by circle, before their king.

Joffrey studied it briefly, then passed the parchment to his left. "Jon, let our loyal lords examine this news."

The black-haired bastard emerged from the shadows and carried the scroll to each man in the hall, following the proper order of precedence.

Lord Velaryon could not contain his shock. "Lord Renly stands accused of participating in the murder of King Robert and Duke Stannis? He has fled King's Landing? How can this be possible?"

The pious Lord Sunglass's face grew grave. "If this be true, then Renly has committed the sin of kinslaying. The Seven will not abide such a crime. His only fate is to languish in the seven hells after death!"

The other lords and knights erupted in a storm of arguments to rival the one raging outside.

Joffrey clapped his hands once, and the hall fell silent as suddenly as if the storm itself had ceased.

"I wish not to believe it either. Yet Uncle Renly did indeed depart King's Landing under cover of darkness, with no intention of facing me. I ask you—why?"

Why? The unspoken question lingered in every face that turned toward the young king.

Joffrey's features shifted eerily in the flickering lightning. "My lords, if that dark day should come to pass, would you stand ready to defend the legitimate succession of the royal house and fight for the monarch to whom you swore your solemn oaths?"

There could be only one answer. As one, the assembled nobles dropped to their knees. "It would be our greatest honor!"

Joffrey rose from his seat upon the dais. "Good! With such steadfast support for the crown, Uncle Renly will surely reconsider his path and spare the Seven Kingdoms from the ravages of war."

"I command the following," he pronounced, his gaze falling upon the lords of the Narrow Sea.

"The fleet at Dragonstone shall be divided into four squadrons of forty warships each.

The First Squadron shall sail for Storm's End to persuade Uncle Renly to return to court.

The Second Squadron shall patrol Blackwater Bay and the shipping lanes of the Narrow Sea.

The Third Squadron shall return with me to King's Landing, tasked with guarding the Blackwater Rush and the royal harbor.

The Fourth Squadron shall remain here, stationed at Dragonstone.

The position of Lord Admiral of the Royal Fleet remains vacant for the moment, to be granted according to merit in due course."

Joffrey's tone brooked no argument. "My lords, decide now—which squadron would each of you command?"

The chamber held its collective breath. Squadron commanders!

Joffrey withdrew a crystal sphere from within his doublet and placed it upon the Painted Table, positioning it carefully over Blackwater Bay.

Suddenly, surging magical energy filled the room. A globe of white light rose from the eastern seas of Westeros, casting enormous shadows across the curved stone walls of the chamber.

Every eye fixed upon the map, each detail now sharply illuminated.

Here lay the Vale with its winding valleys; there stood the Westerlands with mountains rich in gold and silver; beyond stretched the vast North, the fertile Reach, the sun-scorched Dorne, and the storm-wracked lands that bore their name...

And there, upon Dragonstone, stood His Grace, the King of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.

The king smiled thinly. "It was too dark before. That is the only failing of a storm. Now our path is clear. Shall we continue?"

Lord Velaryon stepped forward and bent his knee.

Sorcery, he thought with awe. The power of Old Valyria!

His face betrayed uncontainable excitement mingled with shock. "Your Grace, I would command the First Squadron, to fight in your name at Storm's End and return Lord Renly Baratheon to your side!"

Lord Sunglass offered a sincere prayer to the Seven, then knelt to request his assignment. "I would command the Second Squadron, to sweep the seas clean for Your Grace."

The elderly Lord Celtigar opened his mouth to speak, but Ser Davos Seaworth stepped forward first, approaching Joffrey with urgent purpose.

"Your Grace, will Lady Shireen return to the Red Keep with you?"

Joffrey nodded once.

Davos immediately prostrated himself. "I beg Your Grace to grant me command of the Third Squadron. By all my honor and what small reputation I possess, I swear eternal loyalty to your cause! I shall never waver!"

Joffrey descended from the dais and helped the Onion Knight to his feet. "The Third Squadron shall be yours, Ser Davos. Serve well in the days to come."

"Lord Celtigar, Lord Bar Emmon," Joffrey continued, approaching the old man and the rotund boy in turn, placing a hand upon each of their shoulders. "The responsibility of safeguarding Dragonstone in my absence is a heavy one. You must govern together and seek guidance often. The Red Keep is not so distant, after all."

"Yes, Your Grace," they answered as one.

The council concluded, and the nobles began to withdraw from the Chamber of the Painted Table. Lady Selyse, who had been waiting anxiously outside, rushed in the moment the doors opened.

"Shireen!" She embraced her daughter fiercely, then turned burning eyes upon Joffrey. "Your Grace, have you decided the fate of myself and my daughter?"

Joffrey showed neither haste nor annoyance at her tone. "I believe I can cure Shireen's greyscale. Naturally, I shall take her with me when I depart on the morrow. Surely my lady would not wish to see her daughter suffer needlessly when a remedy lies within reach?"

Selyse's expression was one of pure disbelief. "Cure greyscale?"

"I never speak falsely in such matters."

Joffrey turned to gaze out at the raging storm beyond the windows. "King's Landing and the Red Keep have changed greatly, my lady, and shall only improve with time. I believe both Shireen and yourself will find much to your liking there."

Chapter 73: King's Landing

June in King's Landing had proven extraordinary indeed.

First, King Robert had died, his passing marked by the doleful tolling of bells throughout the city. Only yesterday had His Grace's coffin been conveyed to the Great Sept of Baelor, and today the harbor welcomed a mighty fleet. The smallfolk breathed easier when they spied the crowned stag emblazoned upon those billowing sails.

Curious throngs gathered along the riverfront, their eyes fixed upon the harbor.

The largest berth had been cleared for the royal arrival. Gold cloaks stood at attention on either side, still as statues, while between them gathered lords and ladies of wealth and consequence. Even the servants and handmaidens who attended them seemed beings from another world to the common folk who watched.

The people knew what this meant, and they stared openly as the great warship eased into its mooring.

First to appear was a valiant young man wearing a golden crown, and beside him a sweet-faced little girl who seemed quite ordinary at first glance.

His Grace, the King, had returned to his loyal city of King's Landing.

"Long live His Majesty!" the crowd called out.

Joffrey moved with enthusiasm to raise Lord Eddard Stark from his bow. "Lord Eddard, there's no need for such ceremony between us. We are family now—such formalities can be set aside."

He asked immediately: "My father has been laid to rest in the Sept?"

The Hand of the King nodded silently.

Joffrey's face was the very picture of regret. "If not for Uncle Renly's troubling actions, I would never have needed to journey to Dragonstone, and might have looked upon my father's face one final time!"

Was it truly Renly? Eddard tilted his head slightly in doubt, but the little girl standing before him immediately captured his attention.

"Your Grace, is this Shireen?" he asked hesitantly.

Though he had never met Stannis's daughter, he had heard tell of her tragic affliction. The deadly greyscale had spared her life, but the fearsome gray-black patches of dead skin had—by all accounts—permanently claimed half the poor child's face. Yet he saw no trace of it now. Had the stories been mere rumors?

Shireen lifted the corner of her skirt with practiced grace and offered a perfect curtsy. "Lord Stark, Shireen bids you welcome."

She fixed earnest eyes upon him. "The greyscale was a heavy burden to bear, but tales of your honor and my father's deeds often helped me to forget the pain. I must also thank His Grace for my treatment. The suffering is behind me now."

Shireen offered a bright, unblemished smile.

Eddard looked to Joffrey, question plain upon his solemn face.

Joffrey merely smiled without speaking and beckoned for the procession to continue into the city.

Shireen's case was relatively mild, he thought to himself. At least the affliction hadn't turned her entire body to stone nor driven her to madness. The treatment had proved less challenging than expected.

He had administered a sedative potion to Shireen, excised the tissues ravaged by greyscale, and his recovered magical energies had successfully generated new, healthy flesh.

Only one aspect troubled him deeply.

Joffrey recalled the moment during the treatment when he had come to a disturbing realization: greyscale was far more than a mere disease.

The familiar strains of violins and trumpets reached his ears, pulling him from his thoughts.

Joffrey paused, momentarily startled.

Tyrion approached and bowed with surprising grace for one of his stature. "Your Grace named this melody 'King's Landing.' King Robert cherished it deeply. How could we fail to play it as you enter the city today?"

Joffrey smiled, his expression touched with genuine emotion. "Indeed. Since my father loved it so, I shall certainly honor its tradition."

Continuity is good, thought the courtiers who observed the exchange. Continuity suggests stability.

The assembled lords and ladies seemed to hear in the king's words an unspoken promise, and immediately praised His Grace's filial devotion. Yet all present had forgotten one crucial truth.

What Robert Baratheon had loved most was not music, but war.

Rain padded forward. Joffrey touched the lion's massive head, then climbed upon its back to make his entrance through the city gate.

The spirited music continued to echo through the streets.

The people watched as their young king and the giant lion galloped toward the Red Keep that loomed upon Aegon's High Hill. In that moment, it struck many that King's Landing had truly welcomed a new sovereign, and that the old era had ended completely.

A New King's Landing indeed.

The evening sky blazed crimson and gold as the sun sank toward the horizon.

The Hound entered the king's study bearing two heavy wooden boxes for His Grace.

Joffrey sat at his ease, leafing through a mountain of outdated reports.

Some bemoaned empty coffers, others lamented shortages of manpower, and still more offered tortured explanations for tasks left incomplete. Reports of good tidings were few and far between.

Looking at these documents alone, who would believe the royal household had sustained itself in such a state for more than a decade? That the realm appeared, on its surface, to function normally seemed nothing short of miraculous.

Joffrey glanced at the slightly trembling wooden box beside the Hound's massive hand.

A miracle wrought by men, he thought grimly.

"Sandor, why do you tarry? The realm faces crisis—announce the arrival of our two distinguished lords without delay," he said with mocking levity.

The Hound stared at the wooden box.

Though days had passed since he had first beheld its contents, each time the half-man-high container shuddered, his own heart quailed in sympathy. Once, he had believed that burning by fire was the greatest torment imaginable. Now he knew there existed methods of purgatory undreamt of in his darkest nightmares.

Truly, those who played the game of thrones possessed no hearts.

The Hound's mouth twisted into what might have been a grin as he lifted the front panel of the wooden box, revealing two familiar faces within.

Joffrey cast aside the report in his hand.

"Lord Varys, Lord Baelish—why do you weep? Could it be that you, too, mourn my father's passing?"

Tyrion sighed and looked away. "The world has finally produced men shorter than myself."

The two half-bodied men—amputated at their shoulders and the roots of their thighs—thrashed their non-existent limbs within the wooden containers, managing only to make the boxes tremble slightly.

How could they not weep?

Littlefinger reacted more violently than the eunuch. Once, he had commanded so many hidden advantages, cultivated countless schemes, harbored ambitions so lofty he had devoted his life to their pursuit.

Now, all of it lay buried in the soil alongside his hands, feet, and lower body—become a feast for worms and beetles.

And I have sired no heir!

The architect of his fate sat before him. Littlefinger struggled to compose himself and opened his mouth. "Joffrey, you—"

The Hound kicked over the wooden box, and Littlefinger nearly bit through his own tongue.

Varys managed to squeeze out a simpering smile. "Your Grace, I was already an incomplete man. My hands and feet were my final comforts. I beg you, restore them to me."

Joffrey chuckled. "I might even make you whole again, Lord Varys. But what would you offer in exchange?"

"Would you sacrifice your false Aegon? Could you bear to part with him? Would you dare?"

What?!

Varys shook his head and wailed in genuine dismay. How could the king know of Aegon? Have all my secrets been laid bare?

Joffrey approached the wooden box and crouched before it. "Call him false or true—even if he were a genuine Targaryen prince, what of it? Let him come. War will only add glory to my throne."

Varys could detect no trace of weakness or hesitation in those green eyes—only endless, consuming flames.

Tyrion handed a parchment to the Spider. "Here are the secret passages of the Red Keep that we have uncovered. Tell me, Lord Varys, have we missed any?"

Not one had been overlooked. Varys closed his eyes in defeat.

Joffrey motioned for the Hound to right Littlefinger's box.

"Varys, Petyr—be grateful that you are men of rare intellect. Beginning tomorrow, I shall place you on either side of the Iron Throne, and I shall look forward to your sage counsel."

"Apply yourselves diligently. One hundred useful pieces of advice will earn back a hand or foot. Two hundred shall restore a man's... dignity."

Varys and Petyr could not help but calculate how many years such redemption might require.

Joffrey waved his hand.

The half-bodied men in their boxes immediately dissolved into terror and supplications.

The Hound showed no mercy as he sealed the wooden containers and carried them back to their dark, silent storage chambers in some distant corner of the keep.

Joffrey returned to his seat and sipped thoughtfully at his wine.

Tyrion spoke with bitter disgust. "Littlefinger has earned his fate tenfold. What has he wrought upon the royal treasury? How will any Master of Coin repair such damage?"

The situation had proven worse than anticipated.

The crown's foreign debt had reached the staggering sum of six and a half million gold dragons. Annual expenditures exceeded one million gold dragons, while actual yearly revenues amounted to barely one million three hundred thousand. Taxes across the realm stood in arrears to varying degrees.

Littlefinger bore much of the blame, certainly, but the courtiers and great lords had played their part in the catastrophe as well—even those of the Westerlands and the North. How might such a tangle be unraveled?

The hideous, sharp-edged Iron Throne was not easily sat upon, in every sense of the phrase.

Joffrey mentally traced the invisible runes he had discovered. One, two... a total of twenty.

The time had come to change the manner in which one sat upon the throne.

Chapter 74: The Dazzling Iron Throne

The trial commenced in the throne room of the Red Keep.

Lady Hanna, newly appointed as Master of Laws, spoke first, her voice carrying across the hushed chamber. "Petyr Baelish, Varys, do you still refuse to confess to the murder of King Robert?"

All eyes fell upon the two half-men positioned in the center of the hall.

Without question, Lord Petyr and Lord Varys could not move so much as an inch without assistance. Food and water, even when placed directly before them, remained luxuries beyond their reach.

These were true half-men, their mutilation a testament to cruelty that made even hardened warriors blanch.

Thud.

Littlefinger suddenly toppled forward, his face striking the unyielding stone floor.

Varys felt a sharp pang of sorrow at the sight.

Without the support of his wooden container, even the slightest movement of his neck risked upending his entire truncated form. He could only carefully shift his eyes to survey his surroundings.

Directly before him loomed the Iron Throne, casting its cold, immense shadow across the hall. The King who sat upon it wore an expression carved from stone.

Queen Mother Cersei and Lord Eddard Stark occupied seats to the left and right of the Iron Throne, respectively. Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard stood at vigilant attention on either side.

Closer to where he lay, seated at the council table, were Lord Tyrion, Grand Maester Pycelle, Ser Barristan, Lady Hanna, Sandor Clegane, and the remaining members of the Small Council.

Varys knew with bitter certainty that the once-humble maid Hanna had claimed his former position.

Master of Laws—it sounded far more legitimate than Master of Whisperers.

"Your Grace, my lords," Varys pleaded, his voice quavering, "behold my wretched condition. Could I have foreseen such punishment and still acted against the crown?"

The assembled courtiers maintained their silence. Varys and Littlefinger had failed utterly, and thus their past relationships and promises had been rendered null and void as autumn frost renders summer flowers.

"It was Bloodraven!" Varys cried out, his words seething with hatred. "Thanks to His Grace's profound insight, I finally learned the name of this insidious villain. He seized control of my body and mind—I was powerless against him!"

Littlefinger struggled to turn his face from the floor, spitting stone dust as he spoke. "It is him! How can mere mortals resist such malevolent power?"

Joffrey observed the reactions of the courtiers in silence, his gaze measuring each face that dared meet his own.

Tyrion chuckled, the sound echoing in the quiet hall. "Surely you don't believe you can escape responsibility by conjuring tales of ancient sorcerers? Who among us can say whether this Bloodraven exists at all? My lords, do I speak truly?"

Several courtiers began to nod slowly, but sharp nudges from their neighbors reminded them of their peril. They hastily lowered their gazes to study the intricate floor tiles, not daring to betray the slightest reaction.

Bloodraven must exist, they thought as one.

Bloodraven must exist. How else could King Robert have died?

"I have seen those children," Varys insisted. "Children of the Forest! They know the terrible truth of Bloodraven! Your Grace, I beg you, let them speak."

The Hound glanced toward the throne, then gestured to the gold cloaks who guarded the entrance to a small antechamber. The passage opened slowly, and three chestnut-haired sprites emerged.

"By the Seven!"

"The Children of the Forest live!"

"Gods have mercy, what wondrous beings..."

Exclamations of shock rippled through the crowd as the courtiers lost their composure, though for some this was not their first glimpse of the legendary Children.

Littlefinger immediately raised his voice in desperate appeal. "My lords, I implore you—ask these little sprites how many conspiracies Bloodraven has hatched, which loyal servants he has murdered, how many good and kind souls his foul magic has bent to his will."

The hall fell silent as all eyes turned toward the Children with undisguised curiosity.

When Leaf spoke, her voice was as beautiful as a song carried on summer wind.

"Oh, the suffering and obsessed old man.
He once entered the tall human Gregor, strangling infants and queens;
He once entered the small human Petyr, stealing gold dragons and loyalty;
He once entered the crippled human Varys, concealing news and danger;
He once entered the proud human Renly, stirring ambition and desire.
The singer discovered him, and thus came to the South."

The mournful, otherworldly melody lingered in the hall, mesmerizing all who heard it.

Ser Loras Tyrell broke the ensuing silence, his handsome face flushed with anger. "Impossible! Lord Renly is not such a man! He has never committed any act that could be named evil or dishonorable!"

Those courtiers aligned with Highgarden either voiced immediate support or hesitated, uncertain whether speaking now served their interests.

The rest maintained their silence, watching and waiting.

The Hound's scarred face twisted in mockery. "Well spoken, Knight of Flowers. Do you speak for all of House Tyrell, or merely for your lover?"

Ser Loras glared at Clegane, his face flushing a deeper shade of crimson.

"There is no need for discord," Joffrey said, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade through silk. "Lord Velaryon has already sailed for Storm's End to extend my invitation to Uncle Renly. The truth shall be revealed in due course. Today, we must focus on the matter at hand."

His green eyes swept the assembly. "Does anyone else wish to speak?"

Ser Loras retreated reluctantly to his place among the courtiers. No one else stepped forward.

Joffrey rose from the Iron Throne. "Let the verdict be read."

The Regent and members of the Small Council likewise stood. The courtiers knelt on one knee, hands pressed to their chests and heads bowed low.

"Be it known throughout the Seven Kingdoms that the villain called 'Bloodraven,' Brynden Rivers, stands guilty of treason and rebellion against the crown. A reward of ten thousand gold dragons shall be granted to any who delivers this criminal, dead or alive, to the king's justice."

"As for his accomplices, Varys and Petyr Baelish—some small allowance may be made for their circumstances. They are hereby stripped of all positions, wealth, rights, and honors, and shall remain near the throne day and night to offer their counsel, that they might atone for their transgressions. Perhaps, in time, they may know forgiveness."

The courtiers raised their voices as one: "Long live His Grace!"

Joffrey resumed his seat upon the Iron Throne, inadvertently brushing against a sharp iron barb. A small measure of his solid magical energy was consumed by the contact.

The courtiers stood respectfully, awaiting dismissal.

Tyrion cleared his throat loudly. "My lords, pray do not depart with such haste. I face a thorny problem that requires our collective wisdom."

Additional business after the trial? This was only His Grace's first day holding court—was the king truly so diligent?

The lords and ladies exchanged wary glances.

Tyrion opened a large ledger and began to read. "The crown's total debt presently stands at approximately six million, five hundred and twenty-three thousand gold dragons:

Three million, two hundred thousand to House Lannister; one million, three hundred thousand to the Iron Bank of Braavos; seven hundred thousand to the Faith; six hundred thousand to House Tyrell; five hundred and forty thousand to the Tyroshi Trading Consortium—not counting interest, penalties for breach of contract, and other such encumbrances.

In the previous year, the royal treasury's income amounted to approximately one million, three hundred and ten thousand gold dragons, while expenditures reached approximately one million and two thousand gold dragons.

My lords, these figures reflect a time of peace. Should urgent need for coin arise..." Tyrion paused meaningfully. "The situation, as you can plainly see, is far from encouraging."

He sighed deeply, his mismatched eyes studying the assembled courtiers. Every face was downcast, expressions carefully hidden. "Which of you noble lords might offer a solution? Speak freely."

The hall remained as silent as the crypts beneath Winterfell.

Queen Cersei's patience finally snapped. "Has the treasury truly fallen to such a state? What have you all been doing these past years?!"

Joffrey idly attempted to bend a rusted sword blade that protruded near his right hand.

Lord Stark's voice was somber. "Your Grace, I counsel patience. With the treasury's coffers so depleted, our most pressing concern must be how to reverse our fortunes."

The courtiers maintained their uncomfortable silence.

They had been appointed to serve the crown in various capacities, but their responsibilities were rarely fixed—most were temporary assignments. So long as they held their tongues now, the responsibility for the royal treasury's condition would not fall upon their shoulders, regardless of the outcome.

"I have a solution," Tyrion announced.

All eyes turned to the Imp. What remedy could possibly salvage such a dire situation?

"My lords surely know that the total taxation due from the various regions amounts to some one million, five hundred thousand gold dragons. Unfortunately, these sums have gone largely uncollected for many years."

The tax system of the Seven Kingdoms had never been unified.

The lords of the Crownlands and other royal territories paid taxes directly to the Iron Throne, or saw them collected by crown-appointed officials.

The lords of the remaining kingdoms managed their own taxation, but were obligated to render tribute to the throne according to agreed-upon proportions or fixed amounts. Yet even this arrangement had never been strictly enforced from its inception—even the Targaryen kings, with their dragons, had accepted symbolic gifts and tokens of fealty rather than demanding their due.

This had long since become an unspoken rule.

But now...

Almost every courtier realized the implications simultaneously.

To provoke all the great lords at once—how could he dare?! Without the support of the high nobility, the Iron Throne itself would become nothing more than rusted scrap iron!

Without warning, the light in the throne room took on a reddish cast, growing suddenly, painfully bright.

Hisssss.

The searing heat drove those nearest the Iron Throne to retreat with unseemly haste—including the Kingsguard and the Queen Regent herself.

From a safe distance, they stared at the throne in disbelief.

His Grace remained seated calmly, as though the waves of blistering heat were mere figments of their collective imagination.

"Send word to every castle in the realm," Joffrey commanded. "All outstanding taxes must be paid in full within three years, and the past shall be forgiven. Those who cannot meet this obligation must surrender their lands to those better qualified to manage them."

The Iron Throne beneath His Grace had begun to glow a brilliant red, the ancient steel melting and flowing like candlewax.

How dazzling it was—too bright to look upon directly, yet impossible to ignore.

Chapter 75: Divine Grace

Beneath the solemn statues of the Seven in the Red Keep's sept, Ser Loras Tyrell stood among one hundred young men, waiting.

Half were scions of the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms—sons of lords high and low, knights' get and nobles' seed. The other half were strange, withdrawn youths draped in white cloth, summoned from gods-knew-where. The two groups seemed utterly incongruous, as though they belonged to different worlds entirely.

Loras asked himself silently: What game does Joffrey play at now?

What gave the boy-king such confidence that he could stand against the combined might of the Seven Kingdoms' ancient houses? Did he truly believe that a melted Iron Throne would suffice to make proud lords bow their heads in submission?

Loras, for one, had no intention of yielding.

Even so, he could not banish from his mind the image of those rivers of molten steel flowing from the throne. The air in the throne room had seemed to scorch his lungs, every breath laden with the scent of blood and fire.

In his mind's eye, he saw his ancestors facing the terrible breath of Targaryen dragons on the Field of Fire.

Fire and Blood.

His forebears had risen to become Lords Paramount of the Reach in the aftermath of that conflagration, when House Gardener was reduced to ash and cinder.

Fire and Blood. The words of House Targaryen had somehow become entwined with House Baratheon, descended as they were from Orys Baratheon, rumored bastard brother to Aegon the Conqueror. The words perfectly captured the Dragon Kings' terrible magnificence.

Had Renly safely reached Storm's End? Had the lords of the Stormlands already taken up arms in his name?

The Velaryon fleet would never be sufficient to prevent the outbreak of war.

When battle was joined, even with the support of Lord Stark and Lord Tywin, could Joffrey command the full allegiance of the North and the Westerlands? Not after displaying such arrogance and presumption.

Storm's End and Highgarden combined stood at least an even chance of victory.

But surely Joffrey must be aware of these unfavorable circumstances?

Loras suddenly recalled the dragon eggs in Joffrey's possession, and a chilling possibility took root in his heart: Could he hatch living dragons anew?

Flanked by two knights in immaculate white armor, Joffrey entered through the sept's main doors.

"Your Grace," the assembled young men intoned as one.

"Do you know why I have summoned you here?" Joffrey positioned himself beneath the towering statue of the Father.

Loras observed the fanatical gleam in the eyes of the white-robed youths, as though they stood on the cusp of receiving some incomparable boon. His unease deepened.

"Accept the gifts of fate," Joffrey proclaimed, his voice echoing from the seven walls.

"The gods have chosen me to fulfill a sacred mission, and I have chosen you—to be messengers who will spread light and divine glory throughout the world."

"Know this truth: the scourge of frost has arrived. The eternal night of the apocalypse approaches, and you shall be the vanguard of salvation!"

"Light Eternal!" cried the white-robed youths as they prostrated themselves reverently upon the marble floor.

The scions of the great houses stood bewildered, exchanging uncertain glances. Eventually, they had little choice but to lie reluctantly upon the ground, mimicking the zealots' devotion.

Loras nearly laughed aloud. The king sounded no better than some street charlatan peddling false prophecies for a crust of bread.

But then he saw Joffrey extend his left hand. In his palm rested a pile of small, dark, glittering discs unlike anything Loras had ever seen.

"Come forward and share in the great power of the gods," Joffrey called. "This is Divine Grace."

The white-robed youths surged forward in an instant—more frenzied than the most deranged zealots, more ravenous than beasts that had not fed in days, more single-minded than soldiers in the heat of battle.

"One at a time," Joffrey said softly, his tone soothing but brooking no argument.

The white-robed youths immediately fell silent, forming a neat and orderly line. Yet their expressions grew even more eager, like servants awaiting a precious reward.

The nervous scions of the great houses gradually shuffled toward the end of the line. Loras found himself somewhere in the middle of their number.

He craned his neck to see what transpired at the front of the queue.

Joffrey held a Valyrian steel dagger and was cutting open the back of the first white-robed youth's neck—yet the young man did not so much as flinch!

The king pinched up one of the small glittering discs and inserted it between flesh and bone.

So that's how it's done. Loras felt ice water in his veins. Will that... thing... be buried in my neck as well? Is it safe? What effect will it have in battle?

Loras balked inwardly at the prospect. He nudged Hobert Hightower, who stood before him in the line.

Hobert turned. Loras raised his chin in Joffrey's direction, shook his head, and fixed the man with a meaningful stare.

Hobert understood Loras's intent well enough.

But ask me to step forward and challenge the newly crowned king's arrangements?

Those who had recently seized power were especially dangerous to cross. Even the simplest question might be interpreted as deliberate provocation.

The pitiful state of Littlefinger and the terrifying display at the Iron Throne remained fresh in his memory. Hobert knew the Redwyne fleet, far away in the Reach, could offer him no protection within the walls of the Red Keep.

Besides, he had seen no real danger yet. In truth, this "Divine Grace" sounded like a wondrous gift.

Hobert turned to face forward once more. Joffrey wiped the youth's neck with one hand, and before Hobert's eyes, the exposed wound closed completely, as though it had never existed.

Magical power. The mission of the gods...

The process continued smoothly. Joffrey proceeded to cut open the next youth's neck with evident satisfaction.

The small discs were magic net cores crafted of dragon crystal, containing both one-time contract magic energy and sufficient information magic to sustain the panel's operation for a fortnight. The instructions contained within were more complete and sophisticated than any previous iteration, and Joffrey had named them "Divine Grace Generation 1 Cores."

Accounting for the particular circumstances of this world, Joffrey had cloaked the magic net in a veneer of righteousness and divine purpose—a presentation that left no room for argument.

Divine Grace—who could refuse such an offering?

To achieve the most sensational and awe-inspiring effect, Joffrey had prepared the powers of flame or healing for this first batch of one hundred Divine Grace beneficiaries.

Fire runes and recovery runes were ideally suited for widespread adoption, being both practical and energy-efficient. The creation of either rune required six units of rune energy, while the rune mirror image demanded only three.

One planting, three days to recover the investment, and then profit thereafter.

The momentum would build like a snowball rolling downhill, growing ever larger. The initial size of that snowball would determine its rate of growth—hence Joffrey's eagerness to create one hundred mages in a single stroke.

Preparing three hundred units of rune energy had proven no small feat.

His body could store no more than one hundred units at once. Excess energy had to be channeled into magical props for indirect storage, to be reabsorbed later when needed for creating runes or rune mirror images.

Joffrey felt keenly the weight of the dozens of steel pieces concealed upon his person. The magic stored within them dissipated one by one as he worked.

At last came the turn of the first scion of a great house.

Joffrey nodded with apparent satisfaction. "Samwell Tarly, your enthusiasm does you credit."

Sam's round face managed only the faintest approximation of a smile. The process of accepting Divine Grace appeared utterly terrifying. How could anyone believe he had volunteered to be first among the nobility? Had he not been shoved forward by the others?

Sam watched helplessly as the sharp blade approached his neck.

No, this is the end of me!

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, trembling like a fat rooster awaiting the butcher's knife.

Joffrey had no choice but to exert his mental power, taking control of Sam's body. Only then could he successfully complete the implantation of the Divine Grace core.

Half a day later, the hundred young men still milled about the sept, unable to contain their agitation.

Loras felt as though his body were aflame—as hot as if he bathed in dragonfire—yet somehow he remained unharmed. I live still!

"Divine Grace has been bestowed," Joffrey declared from beneath the statue of the Father, "and the mission can no longer be forsaken. Shall your destination be the Seven Heavens or the Seven Hells? Fight to the death for the gods!"

Loras stared in wonder at the faint blue light hovering before his eyes, where rows of words and numbers appeared. He had become a "Divine Grace Beneficiary," a "Holy War Army Trainee Soldier," and a "Lightbringer Trainee Member."

The king raised his arms high. "Rejoice, my champions! Rejoice for all enemies you shall face—for countless victories await us! Return to the kingdom of heaven covered in glory!"

"Light Eternal!" came the answering cry.

It was not only the white-robed youths who howled their devotion now.

Loras thought desperately of his beloved—that bright sun that now seemed fated to be shot from the sky.

My Renly, what madness do you contemplate?

End it quickly, I beg you.