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 The other half were strange, withdrawn youths draped in white cloth, summoned from gods-knew-where.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.
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