War, ah.
Gazing at the chaotic scene displayed upon the screen before him, Hot Pie released a silent sigh.
The people of King's Landing had yet to witness Renly's soldiers and swords firsthand, but already they suffered the torments of war, breathing its heavy atmosphere with every moment that passed.
Hot Pie felt this truth more keenly than most.
In recent days, a growing tide of humanity had fled northward into King's Landing from the lands south of the Kingswood.
The vast majority arrived with nothing to their names, able only to sell their labor or bodies, accepting any meager employment with pathetic gratitude.
Those who had initially sympathized with these desperate souls quickly hardened their hearts.
As the refugees lowered their asking price and labored without complaint, those who hired workers grew increasingly selective. Their expressions darkened when settling accounts, and the cost of labor diminished with each passing day.
Life grew steadily more difficult for all.
And for the beggars and orphans, conditions approached the unbearable.
Hot Pie had even returned to visit the bakery where he had once toiled from dawn until dusk.
The familiar heat embraced him, along with the comforting aroma of fresh bread.
Tables stood laden with flour—white, yellow, and brown.
Every face and hand bore the marks of their trade, dusted with powder, and neither cloth nor leather remained untouched. The flour had penetrated every pore, leaving skin both smooth and rough to the touch.
Hot Pie instinctively moved to wipe his hands against his clothing, but his palms met the unfamiliar texture of hardened leather armor.
A baker's apprentice he recognized approached hesitantly, casting uncertain glances, lips moving without forming words, as if afraid to confirm the identity of the visitor before him.
Hot Pie understood that he had lost weight and changed in other ways as well.
So he took the initiative, embracing his former companion, offering good-natured curses, and soon the other apprentices gathered around to share their tales.
His old friends complained bitterly about the master baker's newfound cruelty. The bread ovens operated without cease, day and night, and the profits could scarcely be counted—yet the old miser not only withheld copper coins from his workers but had reduced their rations to merely two loaves of black bread each day.
They lamented that despite baking countless loaves and pies, as well as running deliveries throughout the city, their bellies remained hollow from dawn till dusk, barely sustained by their meager allotments.
Since the flood of refugees had entered the city, they reported, the old baker scrutinized every handful of flour with miserly attention, to say nothing of the finished bread. Any apprentice caught pilfering even half a loaf would face severe beatings or immediate dismissal.
Lemons, blueberries, and meat fillings had grown increasingly scarce within the bakery, they said, while the price of every variety of bread rose steadily, leaving customers to vent their frustrations upon the innocent apprentices.
Hot Pie listened attentively, occasionally offering sympathetic noises, while calmly observing each speaker's face.
Even as they voiced their grievances, his friends cast eager, expectant glances his way. More apprentices with whom he'd shared only passing acquaintance crowded around, laughing and creating a commotion, ostensibly seeking only to avoid their duties and find momentary diversion.
Some of the lads who had once opposed him now either hid in corners, attending to various tasks, or stood with affected indifference at a distance, pretending deafness while their eyes repeatedly darted toward the lively gathering.
Others slipped quietly from the room to alert the old baker to the visitor's presence.
There were also unfamiliar faces among the crowd.
Hot Pie had already gleaned enough information to know these were newly recruited apprentices, mostly refugees from the south, whose expectations had been lowered to the point that two daily loaves of black bread satisfied their modest ambitions.
Yet these new apprentices were not merely random bodies plucked from the desperate masses.
Hot Pie had personally overheard a veteran apprentice of several years admit that these newcomers' skills matched or even surpassed his own.
The new arrivals explained that they had previously worked in bakeries, and but for the rebels' looting and the burning of fields and homes, they would still be selling bread in their native villages.
At this, the assembled workers united in cursing the ungrateful, treacherous Renly who had plunged the realm into rebellion.
No one harbored any love for war.
Hot Pie echoed their sentiments with genuine feeling, while simultaneously acknowledging the fortune of his decision a month past.
He recognized with perfect clarity that had he not impulsively enlisted when he did, he would likely stand among these same apprentices now, living a hardscrabble existence and taxing his mind merely to fill his empty belly.
Or perhaps his lot would have been worse still.
The most unfortunate apprentice had already been cast out onto the streets—who could say what sustained him now?
The gathered apprentices scattered suddenly.
Hot Pie turned to behold the grim countenance he had once feared above all others: the old baker himself.
Yet the anger and ruthlessness that had so often marked those features vanished almost instantly. Before Hot Pie could fully register the change, the baker's expression transformed into an amiable, somewhat ingratiating smile.
Hot Pie understood that the old baker reserved this particular expression exclusively for distinguished patrons.
He understood, too, that this unprecedented deference arose from the accoutrements of his new station: the hardened leather armor, chain mail, helmet, whip, and longsword he now bore, and especially the crossed-swords badge adorning his right arm—the symbol of the Department of the Army.
Repeated, rigorous blockades and investigations had made this emblem known throughout the city, along with the power and authority it represented.
I never expected this badge to serve me so well on its final day, Hot Pie mused silently.
The Department of the Army's insignia would soon no longer belong to him.
Beginning tomorrow, he would wear the more terrifying "All-Seeing Eye" badge of the Security Bureau, under Minister Alyn Lantell of the Security Bureau.
This transition explained his unusual freedom to wander the city today.
Fortunately, he had received formal notice that he was henceforth relieved from the recruit training regimen, and would report officially to the Security Bureau tomorrow alongside ninety-nine fellow selectees.
The other nine hundred newcomers to the Security Bureau would continue to endure the instructors' rigorous methods until the Bureau claimed them as well.
This signified that he had placed among the top hundred out of a thousand candidates.
Beyond his natural excitement at this recognition lay persistent questions: why had he, specifically, been chosen? Good performance in assigned missions? Lack of unauthorized personal possessions? Perfect attendance? Superior performance in training exercises?
Gendry had suggested a simpler explanation: You've grown quieter lately.
The observation struck Hot Pie with sudden clarity.
Yes—when did I become like this?
He had no precise answer to offer.
Perhaps it stemmed from a particular look he had witnessed during some investigation, some sentence overheard, or the metallic scent of blood that had filled his nostrils.
Perhaps it arose from his deepening understanding of the Security Bureau's true nature.
Perhaps it originated with a golden dragon coin, a badge, the cold gleam of steel, or the arcane power of dragon crystals.
Perhaps the divine grace light curtain bestowed upon him had wrought the change.
Gazing at the dreamlike light curtain, then back at his surroundings in the bakery, Hot Pie perceived with unprecedented clarity the vast gulf separating these two worlds.
His past ten years or more seemed so gray and indistinct, scarcely worth remembering.
By comparison, how monumental had been the impact of this single month upon him, transforming him utterly into another person—a person worthy of the old baker's respect.
Hot Pie calmed his agitated thoughts and earnestly advised his friends to respond immediately to any recruitment orders issued by the Iron Throne. Such service would not only fulfill the divine will and royal command, he explained, but also represented the best possible path forward for individuals of their station.
Then he stepped through the bakery door and moved forward without a backward glance, toward a brighter future, toward the Security Bureau.
And now.
He sat within the surveillance hall of the Security Bureau, observing through enchanted screens the high lords and bloody conflicts he had never before witnessed—safely, securely, and with undeniable excitement.
War, ah.
The screen directly before Hot Pie displayed the Hand of the King's squad confronting stubborn commoners who refused to yield their properties.
This was war of one kind.
The adjacent screen showed the Mud Gate beside the Blackwater Rush, where ragged, hollow-faced refugees formed a line extending beyond sight, enduring the gold cloaks' rigorous registration and inspection procedures.
This, too, was war of another sort.
Hot Pie's assigned task was to watch in silence, record all he observed, and report any anomalies, no matter how seemingly insignificant.
"Look!"
"There's movement at the gate!"
At these urgent cries, Hot Pie turned his head. The main screen dominating the center of the hall displayed the massive gates.
Countless mounted warriors bearing the crowned stag banner poured through the castle's entrance, their numbers seeming without end.
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