A Book of Ice and Fire / Game of Thrones : Magic Network

The blood had scarcely dried at Wendwater Bridge when word reached the capital. A fortnight had passed since the massacre, and Joffrey's web of spies had reported every gruesome detail of the tragedy that had unfolded there.

Today's petition before the Iron Throne was not the beginning of this matter, but rather its final culmination. Even so, before pronouncing his decision, Joffrey wished to hear his ministers' counsel one final time.

"Tyrion," he said, his voice echoing through the cavernous throne room, "what do you think?"

Within the pristine whiteness of the virtual space, Joffrey regarded his uncle, who appeared at normal height in this magical realm—freed at last from the prison of his dwarfism. Here, in this otherworldly council chamber conjured by sorcery, one could control projections with mere thought, commanding them to perform various actions while maintaining full consciousness in the material world. In essence, it granted one two bodies that functioned independently, unbound by mortal constraints.

Tyrion, having been called upon directly, felt the familiar weight of speaking when the king had likely already fixed upon a course of action. Nevertheless, he guided his projection to speak:

"Wendwater Bridge and Massey's Hook are not essential grounds to contest," he began carefully. "Renly, casting aside his reputation for benevolence, has ordered his men to commit unspeakable brutalities. This suggests he harbors designs far beyond these mere atrocities."

In the physical realm, Joffrey stared down upon the assembled petitioners from atop the Iron Throne, his face a mask of cold contemplation.

Indeed, until now, most had believed Renly would strike directly at King's Landing. Lord Massey and Lord Mallister had likely never imagined their holdings would be so thoroughly put to the torch.

Tyrion continued, "Renly's move appears designed to lure our army southward. His fleet is weak, and the Blackwater Rush presents an insurmountable obstacle for his forces. Once battle is joined in the south, the advantage will undoubtedly favor the rebels with their vast numbers of foot and horse."

The other ministers nodded, acknowledging the soundness of this reasoning.

Tyrion manipulated the light screen before him, conjuring a three-dimensional map of exquisite detail onto the floor of the white space.

"Observe, my lords," he said, gesturing toward the projection. "Should our army venture south to relieve Massey's Hook, we would face myriad perils. Not only would we need to traverse the vast Kingswood—ground ripe for ambush—but Renly's forces stationed at Bronzegate and Haystack Hall could reach Wendwater Bridge within a day, severing our retreat."

His finger traced a path to Bitterbridge in the west. "A force of cavalry riding at full gallop could reach the Kingswood from Bitterbridge in merely four or five days. Elite infantry would require a sennight, and levied peasant soldiers perhaps a fortnight."

"If our army becomes entangled at Massey's Hook, and the rebel host from Bitterbridge arrives to seal off Wendwater Bridge and the Kingswood, we would find ourselves encircled. Wendwater Bridge, Haystack Hall, Harvest Hall, and Blackwater Bay would form a noose around our forces—a noose that would tighten with each passing day. Why should we willingly place our necks within it?"

"Even if we were to retreat to King's Landing before the rebel army from Bitterbridge arrived, our men's spirits would be dampened by such a withdrawal. We would have expended valuable strength to no purpose."

Moreover, Wendwater Bridge was already naught but smoking ruins. Even if they dispatched relief to Massey's Hook immediately, they would arrive too late to accomplish anything of value. At best, they would gain hundreds of thousands of hungry mouths to feed—and these would not need to be taken by force. Renly would gladly drive them to the city gates himself.

Tyrion drew a circle around the Kingswood on the map. "Renly can only wreak havoc within this region."

"Wendwater Bridge and Massey's Hook are beyond salvation. The Kingswood is sparsely populated, and the remainder of the Crownlands shelters beneath the protective shadow of King's Landing. The rebels cannot repeat their tactics elsewhere."

Tyrion summarized his assessment with finality: "This is plainly a trap, and we shall suffer no further losses of consequence by refusing to spring it. We should not recklessly march southward. Our wisest course is to defend King's Landing itself. Can the rebels linger in the south indefinitely?"

As for the lords who had brought this petition, they would receive compensation after victory was secured, according to their own stated wishes.

At the Small Council's table in the throne room, Tyrion offered words of admiration toward the petitioners: "Lord Mallister, Lord Massey, you are exemplars of nobility, willing to sacrifice personal interests for the realm's greater welfare. I commend your selflessness."

In both the white space and the throne room, Joffrey remained silent, his thoughts hidden behind a face carved from stone.

Ser Jaime Lannister, his objection within the virtual council: "Renly burns and pillages within the Crownlands with impunity. How can we simply turn a blind eye to such provocations?"

"True, the rebels boast impressive numbers," Jaime acknowledged, "but that is the extent of their advantage."

The Kingslayer harbored immense faith in King's Landing's newfound power. "Massey's Hook might prove perilous for ordinary armies, but the Holy Warriors blessed by Divine Grace are no ordinary troops. The balance of war has shifted entirely!"

In recent days, Jaime had witnessed firsthand the capabilities bestowed by Divine Grace.

"A mere few thousand Holy Warriors would scatter Renly's host like chaff before the wind—a second Field of Fire to rival Aegon's conquest!" His certainty was absolute.

In truth, Tyrion shared his brother's assessment of magical power's potential.

Magic had spread with bewildering speed throughout the capital, its capabilities seeming limitless, inspiring only awe in those who beheld its wonders.

Yet the fundamental question remained: to what extent could this power truly reshape warfare? How did it compare to Aegon's dragons of old?

Tyrion had chosen the most cautious answer available.

If magic's effect proved indeed unparalleled, then defending King's Landing would not hinder their eventual victory in the slightest.

And if its effect fell short of expectations, defending King's Landing would still represent the least damaging decision.

The Hound spoke with unwavering conviction regarding magic's potency: "Renly's swords count for nothing against such power. Grant me five hundred Holy Warriors, and I swear not one of those bastards at Massey's Hook shall live to see another dawn! Even the Stormland rebels would prove powerless to halt our advance!"

Hanna raised a pragmatic concern:

"What shall we do with the flood of refugees entering King's Landing? Our current food stores can sustain perhaps five to six hundred thousand souls. If this influx continues unabated, we shall be forced to open the Red Keep's granaries."

As overseer of the Logistics Bureau, Hanna had become the minister most preoccupied with matters of sustenance.

Alyn offered a suggestion: "Perhaps we might enforce stricter controls at the city gates? Direct refugees beyond our walls northward to seek their livelihoods elsewhere, while finding employment for those already admitted. Does the Engineering Bureau not require additional laborers?"

Tyrion dismissed this notion with a wave of his hand. "No, the Engineering Bureau has reached its capacity. They've already taken on twenty thousand workers—more than sufficient for their needs."

Joffrey finally broke his silence with a pointed question: "Has the eastern half of the city not yet been cleared?"

Today marked the tenth day of August, and the second phase of King's Landing's purification had concluded several days prior, rooting out many more suspicious persons and properties. Yet this had not sufficed to claim half the city as planned.

The burdensome task had worn heavily on Tyrion, nearly driving him to resignation—a thought he dared entertain only in the privacy of his own mind.

"Your Grace, additional time will be required," Tyrion admitted reluctantly.

"War may erupt at any moment, and the gold dragons in our treasury cannot be spent frivolously. I can only attempt to acquire properties through exchanges of industry and promises, but this approach clearly does not persuade everyone."

Tyrion could well understand their reluctance.

To abandon businesses that had sustained families for generations, to relinquish ancestral homes—even shining gold might not prove sufficient inducement, let alone the offer of unfamiliar dwellings or empty promises of future reward.

But would the willful young king tolerate such resistance?

Joffrey pondered in silence.

Tyrion had counseled caution, Alyn and Hanna had spoken to their duties, Jaime and the Hound advocated for an aggressive response, and Pycelle had maintained his characteristic silence. Meanwhile, the matter of the eastern half of the city remained unresolved.

At last, Joffrey rose from the Iron Throne.

The throne room fell instantly silent, all eyes fixed upon the king.

Joffrey turned toward the courtiers on his left. "Lord Beric Dondarrion, I grant you two hundred Holy Warriors. You shall depart on the morrow for Massey's Hook, there to punish these brigands, enforce the king's justice, and spread the light of divine law."

Then Joffrey faced right. "Thoros of Myr, you shall assist him in this endeavor."

Thoros of Myr, the red priest of the Lord of Light, and Lord Dondarrion of Blackhaven—the same unlikely partnership, though in vastly different circumstances. Would the power of the Lord of Light to resurrect the dead manifest itself once more?

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