"You may leave."
Joffrey leaned back against the broad expanse of his throne and closed his eyes, the weight of authority settling upon him like a familiar cloak.
Archmaester Marwyn, Qyburn, Sarella Sand with her countenance a mask of conflicting emotions, and Leo Tyrell departed the royal chambers in respectful silence.
At last, stillness descended upon the royal apartments.
Hanna gently settled herself to Joffrey's right, offering the warmth of her body to soothe the king after his taxing day of governance.
To his left, Daenerys continued her silent vigil, listening to the steady rhythm of the king's heartbeat.
Despite the numerous pronouncements and decisions that had just transpired, the king's heart maintained its strong, unwavering cadence, as if no external force could disturb its resolute tempo.
Except, she had noted, when he had mentioned Margaery Tyrell and Arianne Martell.
Viserys's betrothed.
He likely had no knowledge of this arrangement. Otherwise, Viserys surely would have been unable to contain himself from speaking of it incessantly.
Having spent over a decade in his constant company, day and night, Daenerys believed she understood her brother well enough—at least the Viserys he had once been, before their arrival in King's Landing.
As for now... a servant, a pet—who remained unchanged by such circumstances?
Viserys's betrothed.
Why had Ser Willem Darry, even as illness consumed him, never revealed this agreement?
Of course, Ser Darry had understood that Viserys lacked patience. So what had required such cautious waiting? The Dornish marriage? The shifting tides of Westerosi politics? The machinations of hidden players?
Could matters truly be as the king had described?
Had she and her brother always been mere pieces on the board, manipulated by ambitious schemers?
Numerous figures flashed through Daenerys's mind: Varys, the "Spider," now confined within a wooden box; Magister Illyrio, whose throat had been pierced by the ruthless Hand of the King; the governors, princes, great lords, and merchant princes of various Free Cities...
Such men were invariably cunning and insidious, well-practiced in the arts of deception and betrayal.
Without question, had they been so inclined, these individuals could have effortlessly ensnared Viserys and herself within some elaborate conspiracy.
Perhaps even the proposed marriage to Khal Drogo had been yet another scheme hatched by these manipulators.
What fate had they intended for the last Targaryens?
Recalling that blood-soaked wedding with corpses strewn across the field, and the night of slaughter in Pentos, Daenerys found herself uncertain whether to feel relief or sorrow.
The predictable security of the Red Keep versus the wild uncertainty of Essos—which life held greater value?
Daenerys closed her eyes, no longer willing to dwell on such troubling questions. The past was immutable; her future lay within the Red Keep, not across the Narrow Sea.
Besides, the Red Keep had become a place of wonder.
Divine grace had transformed it, rendering it increasingly beautiful and exquisite, ever more magical and fantastical—like a realm plucked from legend.
And King's Landing itself was changing as well.
She had heard that the city had undergone remarkable transformations, and these were merely the beginning.
Curiosity suddenly kindled within Daenerys.
Her impression of the city beyond the Red Keep remained frozen on the day of Joffrey's coronation: crowded and bustling, with towers rising high above humble dwellings, the mingled odors of humanity and livestock, and people of every station prostrating themselves before the miracle they had witnessed.
Compared to the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea, King's Landing had seemed merely ordinary—even backward in many respects.
What new form would the king's vision impose upon it?
Daenerys was still contemplating how she might persuade the king to escort her beyond the palace walls when she detected the soft approach of footsteps.
"Your Grace."
A diminutive figure emerged from the doorway of the side hall—Tyrion, the "Imp" of House Lannister.
Daenerys knew she ought to despise him by rights, yet she found Tyrion to be a decent man.
Unlike the cold and ruthless Tywin.
Each time she beheld Tywin's frigid, granite-hewn countenance, she could envision the callous manner in which he had betrayed her father and ordered the sack of King's Landing.
Tyrion halted silently near the council table.
With sudden insight, Daenerys realized that Tyrion must have been listening from the side hall during the preceding audience.
Why? What schemes did the king harbor?
Daenerys lifted her head slightly, but from her position, she could discern only half of the king's profile, his expression inscrutable.
Joffrey spoke with practiced indifference. "How fare the Holy Warriors assigned to the Engineering Bureau?"
"Your Grace, they perform beyond all expectation."
Tyrion remained amazed by the extraordinary powers these individuals displayed. Clearly, Joffrey commanded more than the few types of magic previously revealed. This latest gift he had bestowed allowed direct manipulation of physical matter!
Unlike the "Holy Fire Warriors" who wielded flames, the "Holy Grace Priests" who excelled in healing and restoration, or the "Holy Shield Warriors" whose flesh turned aside blade and spear alike.
These "Holy Creation Artificers" dispatched to the Engineering Bureau possessed unique capabilities.
Tyrion had witnessed their work firsthand.
Without any tools or assistance, these artificers could instantaneously conjure a house from mere rocks and soil! Solid and intricate structures, precisely conforming to the architect's design!
What extraordinary craftsmen.
They truly merited the title "Holy Creation."
Tyrion's only regret was that these artificers could not transform base iron into gleaming gold—a talent that would have greatly eased his burdens as Minister of Finance.
Nevertheless, the powers displayed by the Holy Creation Artificers already inspired profound satisfaction.
Tyrion offered a slight bow. "With the abilities of these artificers at our disposal, the various projects undertaken by the Engineering Bureau shall proceed at vastly accelerated pace. If possible, Your Grace, consider sending more Holy Creation Artificers—the results would surely approach the miraculous."
Joffrey chuckled softly. "Very well, I shall consider it."
Of course, he would merely consider it.
Given current circumstances, Joffrey had already established clear parameters for the distribution of rune power.
A fire rune image required three units of rune power and could create a "Holy Fire Warrior." Their ranks presently numbered approximately four thousand.
A recovery rune image likewise required three units of rune power, used to create "Holy Grace Priests," now numbering over four hundred.
The solid rune image that created "Holy Shield Warriors" demanded four units of rune power, and about one thousand had been bestowed.
The "Holy Creation Artificers" employed shaping runes obtained from Dragonstone, capable of manipulating an object's form while leaving its essential properties unchanged.
A shaping rune image required four units of rune power, and two hundred had been granted thus far.
The ratio of the four types of runes stood at 20:2:5:1.
According to the established plan, only these four categories of runes would be bestowed upon the Holy Warriors in the foreseeable future.
Other runes either consumed excessive rune power, produced peculiar and unpredictable effects, or proved too difficult to control. The time for their broader implementation had not yet arrived.
Overall, these four types of runes represented the most efficient allocation of resources.
Furthermore, the distribution ratio of the four types would remain fixed.
Rune power, after all, remained too precious a resource to squander. Various magical applications required not overwhelming numbers, but strategic sufficiency.
Moreover, construction of the eastern half of the city had not truly commenced—how many artificers could reasonably be required?
By Joffrey's calculation, Renly and his Stormland cavalry would soon reach Bronzegate. From there, his army could advance westward at any moment, yet the transformation of King's Landing continued to languish.
Joffrey could wait no longer.
"Employ these artificers to build the King's Landing Academy and reconstruct the eastern half of the city."
Tyrion understood now why he had been instructed to observe the meeting with Archmaester Marwyn—it concerned the eastern district's reconstruction.
"Tyrion, how many remain stubborn in their resistance, hindering the sacred work of creating our Holy City?"
Tyrion reported the numbers without hesitation. "Several dozen dwellings and businesses belonging to commoners, over a hundred properties of various lords of the Seven Kingdoms, and approximately three hundred establishments owned by merchants from the Free Cities."
Tyrion had thoroughly familiarized himself with the situation.
Few commoners dared resist outright; certain lords proved unwilling to surrender their private holdings; and the foreign merchants from across the Narrow Sea demanded exorbitant compensation while demonstrating the least compliance.
"We stand in a time of war," Joffrey declared. "Let your City Watch enforce our will. Those who defy the crown shall be treated as spies and saboteurs."
Joffrey rose to his feet, drawing both maidens into his embrace.
"All must be completed before sunset on the morrow. This is war—only victory is acceptable. Neither failure nor delay can be tolerated."
Tyrion watched as Joffrey entered his bedchamber and closed the door with quiet finality.
War, indeed.
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