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.
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