Morning sunlight streamed through the high windows of the royal chambers, casting long fingers of gold across the polished stone floor. On the windowsill, two small sparrows quarreled over scattered grains of rice, their sharp chirping punctuating the otherwise tranquil air.
Within, the bed was draped in soft velvet the color of midnight. Joffrey reclined comfortably, his golden head resting upon a maiden's lap as he savored half a plump blueberry plucked delicately from her fair fingertips.
A peaceful and beautiful morning.
"Your Grace," Hannah whispered, her voice scarcely disturbing the serenity of the chamber, "everyone has arrived and awaits your pleasure outside."
A busy morning, after all.
The time had come. Joffrey swallowed the remaining half of the blueberry, rolled gracefully from his position of repose, and sat upright upon the edge of the bed. "Bid them enter," he commanded.
He slipped on an outer robe of crimson silk embroidered with golden stags as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed from the corridor beyond.
"What glorious sunlight greets us today, Your Grace." Tyrion Lannister, shortest among the councillors, nonetheless insisted on leading the procession into the royal chambers. "It must surely please you."
The clever dwarf had chosen the least Lannister-like garments from his wardrobe—a doublet and breeches in subdued tones of brown, black, and smoky gray, notably absent of the gold and crimson that proclaimed his house.
Beside him, the Kingslayer carried himself with characteristic arrogance. His white armor gleamed in the morning light, his gilded longsword catching the sun with every movement.
"Indeed, the sun shines favorably," Joffrey replied, the faintest of smiles playing at the corners of his mouth.
Tyrion glanced about the chamber before approaching a long table surrounded by carefully arranged chairs. "Your Grace is most considerate, having prepared a seat so perfectly suited to a man of my stature. I find myself genuinely touched by the gesture."
Joffrey seated himself in the high-backed chair positioned at the head of the long table. "Be seated, all of you. Henceforth, all small council meetings shall convene here."
A true king could, of course, summon his council to any location of his choosing, at any hour he deemed necessary.
"I see. My thanks for this thoughtful accommodation, Your Grace." Tyrion took his place to the king's right.
The other ministers studied the long table with curious eyes. Though similar in form to the council table they had known before, each seat bore unique markings that distinguished it from its fellows.
The first chair to the king's left was engraved with a radiating eye. Alyn, the new Master of Whisperers, recognized his place immediately.
The second chair to the right gleamed pure white, unmistakably reserved for Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Barristan the Bold.
The second chair to the left was adorned with crossed swords, clearly intended for the Lord Commander of the army, Jaime Lannister.
The third on the right belonged to the Commander of the City Watch, Sandor Clegane, known throughout the realm as "The Hound."
Grand Maester Pycelle tottered to the third position on the left, lowering himself with exaggerated care into a seat whose backrest featured an open book crafted in ornate relief, complete with padded cushions for his aged bones.
A smaller chair had been placed directly beside the king, and Lord Steward Hannah had already claimed it, her movements so practiced and silent that none had marked her passing.
All eyes turned expectantly toward the king, who occupied the only true seat of power at the table. Without question, today's gathering featured but a single protagonist—His Grace himself.
"My lords," Joffrey began, his tone measured and calm, "following Lord Tywin's departure, Lord Eddard has likewise quit King's Landing as of yesterday, bound northward to discharge his more difficult duties beyond the Neck."
Eddard's departure was already common knowledge throughout the capital.
Some celebrated in secret, believing the dour northman's absence would usher in a new era of prosperity. Others lamented that the realm had lost its last true hope for just governance. Still others suspected that King's Landing stood poised upon the threshold of tremendous, perhaps terrible, change.
"Undoubtedly, those of us gathered here must now bear the responsibility for maintaining the realm's proper functioning."
With both Regent Tywin and Hand Eddard absent from the capital, and even Queen Regent Cersei conspicuously missing from this meeting, it was abundantly clear that the collective "we" upon the young king's lips referred primarily to himself.
"Renly's rebellion has stirred clouds of dust into the air," Joffrey continued, "and we must now sweep them clean."
He brushed the surface of the table with one pale hand, as if removing invisible motes of dust. "My lords, would you not agree that King's Landing has grown altogether too filthy and disordered of late?"
Tyrion's mismatched eyes flickered, betraying the rapid calculations occurring behind them.
"Filthy and disordered?" Grand Maester Pycelle echoed, seemingly bewildered by the king's implication.
"Your Grace, King's Landing labors under the burden of excessive population. The Citadel has conducted extensive research on this matter over many years. Given the existing circumstances, there exists no superior method for managing the city's waste and miasma. Furthermore—"
"The Grand Maester grows forgetful in his advancing years," Alyn interrupted smoothly. "His Grace is a holy king blessed by the gods themselves. How might he be compared to ordinary scholars from the Citadel?"
Tyrion's mouth curved into an ironic smile. "May the gods grant King's Landing relief from its perpetual stench, that our city might enjoy air as sweet as that of the Kingswood."
Joffrey's gaze slid toward his uncle. "This is precisely where I shall require your particular talents, Lord Tyrion."
Tyrion felt a sudden foreboding, like the first cold breath of winter against his neck.
Hannah approached with a rolled parchment, which she spread carefully across the long table. "These are construction plans for a comprehensive sewer system, drafted according to His Grace's personal specifications. Upon its successful completion, I believe Lord Tyrion's prayer shall be granted in full measure."
Tyrion adopted an expression of theatrical suffering. "Surely another might better serve. I can count copper stars and silver stags by candlelight until dawn, and my appetite for books is legendary—but sewers, Your Grace? Sewers lie well beyond my area of expertise."
Joffrey turned to Jaime, whose golden armor caught the light with blinding intensity. The king's gaze seemed to waver, as if considering whether another might better serve this purpose.
Sensing imminent danger, Jaime betrayed his brother without hesitation. "Good brother, you do yourself a disservice. Was not the remarkable cleanliness of Casterly Rock largely your achievement? Do not decline so hastily—this task belongs rightfully to you alone."
Tyrion shot Jaime a withering glare of disbelief before reluctantly acquiescing to the inevitable.
"I pray the good people of King's Landing might summon a modicum of gratitude and refrain from bestowing yet more colorful epithets upon me," he remarked dryly.
Joffrey leaned forward, hands clasped before him. "But is this measure sufficient to truly cleanse our city?"
The Grand Maester wisely held his tongue.
"It may render the surface clean enough," Alyn observed with practiced gravity, "but though I have served as Master of Whisperers for merely a fortnight, I have glimpsed depravity in men's hearts that far exceeds the foulness of a hundred thousand sewers."
Hannah nodded in solemn agreement. "These individuals require a more thorough cleansing."
The Hound grunted his concurrence. "Renly's forces may yet fail to reach our walls, but the rats scurrying within the city could easily infiltrate the Red Keep itself."
The king remained silent, his green eyes moving deliberately from one councillor to the next.
Tyrion raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I concur. The sewers address merely the most superficial filth. If we intend to cleanse our city, let us do so thoroughly and completely."
Ser Barristan saluted the king with perfect courtesy. "So long as Your Grace requires our service, the Kingsguard shall shrink from no duty, however onerous."
The smile illuminating Jaime's handsome face never wavered. "I too am Kingsguard, after all."
The king and all his ministers turned as one to regard the Grand Maester, who alone had not declared himself. Pycelle's luxuriant beard began to tremble visibly.
"Your Grace," he stammered, "should you require the counsel of a maester in this endeavor, you need only command, and I shall provide whatever wisdom lies within my power."
Pycelle's words emerged with unexpected clarity and fluency, infused with apparent sincerity.
"Excellent!" Joffrey exclaimed, as if reaching a sudden decision. "Since all are so firmly resolved, I naturally shall offer no objection."
Tyrion observed the king in silence as orders began to flow.
"Alyn, Hannah, Pycelle—you shall oversee the registration of every soul within the city and the Red Keep, categorizing them with the utmost precision."
"Lord Tyrion, you shall inventory all properties throughout the city, determining rightful ownership of each."
"The Department of the Army and the City Watch shall provide necessary support while maintaining order and preventing any disturbance."
"Five days hence, at dawn's first light, seal the city gates and commence simultaneous operations throughout King's Landing."
"All vagrant, suspicious, or potentially dangerous individuals shall be detained for assignment to construction projects or delivered to the Research Department. All properties of uncertain, unclaimed, or strategic value shall be confiscated and allocated to the army."
"Remember," the king concluded, his expression one of pious devotion, "the gods watch over us all."
"Yes, Your Grace," the assembled ministers responded with perfect respect.
Tyrion found himself unable to discern the true thoughts behind his colleagues' carefully composed expressions, yet questions multiplied within his own mind like rabbits in spring:
How might this possibly be accomplished?
All, everything, every single one—such sweeping terms could not be transmuted into reality through mere declaration, no matter how royal the voice that uttered them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Support me at [email protected]/goldengaruda and check out more chapter of this or more early access chapter of my other fanfic translation.
New fanfic :
Marvel : The God Of Punishment System
I Am Raditz
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~