Within the King's private study, shadows played across the walls as afternoon light filtered through tall windows. Alyn Lantell, Chief of Intelligence and newly appointed Director of the Security Bureau, stood before his sovereign, delivering his report with practiced precision.
"Thanks to Your Grace's divine favor," he began, "the number of Little Birds nesting throughout King's Landing has exceeded five thousand, of which more than two hundred have proven themselves shrewd and capable enough to be transferred to the Security Bureau as trainee officers."
He paused, savoring the moment. "Adding the newly selected one thousand Security Bureau D-level personnel, we have sufficient numbers to watch over ten thousand of the God-Blessed. We await only your command, and the Security Bureau shall rise from the ground like a tower of strength."
With no other souls present, the exaggerated smile on Alyn's face never faltered, as if the expression had been carved there by some skilled sculptor's chisel.
Joffrey sighed and pointed to the glass screen resting upon the table. "Did I not tell you? If you have matters to report, contact me directly through the 'God-Given Light Screen.' There's no need to waste precious time with these formalities."
After much refinement, the instructions set within the God-Given Core had grown increasingly diverse. Users with sufficient permissions could now input edited text or images into the core, and this information would be transmitted to the "Central Hub" before Joffrey, achieving more convenient two-way communication than ravens or runners could ever provide.
The King harbored great expectations for what was to come. Why sit when one could recline? The convenience of ruling from afar held undeniable appeal.
Alyn squeezed out two glistening tears, his voice thick with emotion. "I am simply accustomed to the old ways, Your Grace. You cannot know how, during my exile in Pentos, I yearned daily to see you again. Now that I've finally returned home, Alyn desires nothing more than to remain by your side at all times."
"Enough," Joffrey commanded, cutting off the man's performance with a sharp gesture. "Spare me your theatrics. Even if you were to shower me with ten thousand honeyed words, should you fail in your duties, I will show no mercy."
"Yes, Your Grace." Alyn composed his features, though the smile never truly faded.
"I must also inquire—where shall the Security Bureau establish its headquarters? Many locations within the city are... not inexpensive to acquire."
Ever since learning of the new "Security Bureau" two days prior, Alyn had turned this question over in his mind like a copper penny. The gold dragons left behind by Varys were few, and the Minister of Finance, Tyrion, had in a mere fortnight earned himself the epithet "the stingy dwarf." From what coffers would the Security Bureau draw its funds?
"Is that all?" Joffrey shook his head, the ghost of a smile playing upon his lips. "Tell me again, how many God-Blessed are your people sufficient to watch over?"
Watch over. Alyn's gaze flicked involuntarily to the transparent glass upon His Grace's table. Though now blank, the scene from two days past seemed to hover before his eyes like a specter.
On that day, the glass had revealed the figure of Loras Tyrell, clear as if Alyn had been standing at the knight's shoulder, while Loras himself remained blissfully unaware of being observed.
Such was the power of God's grace.
Alyn had witnessed it all, clear as daylight. Ser Loras had been writing letters—one filled with longing and love for Renly, the other bearing his family's exhortations and warnings. A common servant had then carried Ser Loras's missives from the Red Keep.
Afterward, Alyn had personally guided that same servant to the comforts of the Black Cells.
With such artifacts at one's disposal, what need had they for Little Birds or scouts? The Security Bureau would become the brightest eye of the Iron Throne, missing nothing, forgetting nothing.
"Tens of thousands," Alyn repeated firmly, his voice carrying unshakable conviction.
Joffrey sighed once more, this time more softly. "Let me ask you again—how many God-Given have been bestowed thus far?"
Alyn hesitated, uncertain. "Hundreds, perhaps?"
Joffrey nodded. This represented the limit at their current stage of development.
The rune energy accumulated over these long months had eventually created more than two hundred mages and dozens of magical props attached with information rune mirrors. Through practice, each prop could produce ten units of magical energy per day in an environment with sufficient source energy, enough to power perhaps a dozen or a score of God-Given Cores.
Because of these limitations, there were only a few hundred God-Blessed in all of King's Landing at present.
Understanding dawned in Alyn's eyes as he grasped the King's meaning.
Joffrey clapped a hand upon Alyn's shoulder. "So, what manner of grandiose headquarters do you truly require?"
"Those thousand D-level personnel shall live directly in the barracks, training rigorously. At year's end, we shall screen them thoroughly and transfer the worthy few—perhaps dozens—into the Security Bureau proper. That should suffice to watch over hundreds or thousands of people. Would you not agree?"
Alyn felt the glorious Security Bureau he had envisioned in his heart drift away like smoke on the wind. "Your Grace is most wise," he managed.
"Do not be discouraged. Everything has only just begun." Joffrey gestured toward a wooden box nestled in the corner of the chamber. "There rest the eyes of the Security Bureau. Take them and grow familiar with their workings. Train those you deem capable."
Alyn approached the box and lifted its lid. Within lay dozens of transparent glass orbs, each the size of a man's head, stacked carefully atop one another.
"The eye at the bottom is yours alone," Joffrey continued. "Inscribe within it the names of Security Bureau personnel, and it shall grant you vision of them."
His voice dropped lower, the words carrying a weight of warning. "Alyn, place your complete trust in no man."
Alyn withdrew the bottommost glass sphere—this one was black as pitch. Who can escape these eyes? he thought. No one at all.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Clutching the box to his chest, Alyn departed the study in silence, descending the stone steps of Maegor's Holdfast and crossing the heavily guarded dry moat with measured strides.
Only upon returning to what had once been Varys's humble quarters—now Alyn's own—did he finally allow himself to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat.
His Grace had changed.
Half a year past, Alyn had thought Joffrey merely an arrogant prince, and himself a servant and playmate. Though often beaten, scolded, and mocked, he had found contentment in his place.
During his struggles in Pentos, Alyn had believed Joffrey a wise crown prince, with himself as the royal arms and legs, driving forward the prince's ambitions without regret.
Now, Alyn knew only that His Grace was an unfathomable true king, a messenger of gods beyond mortal understanding.
What was his own role in this grand design? Perhaps nothing more than a chess piece upon His Grace's board, to be moved at will, requiring only obedience.
Alyn dared not contemplate disobedience.
With careful hands, he removed the glass "eyes" from the box one by one, placing them upon the stone table in his dimly lit chamber.
After a moment's hesitation, he extended a finger and tapped one of the eyes twice.
A cloud of white light burst forth suddenly, flashing without pause.
Alyn stared, transfixed, for what felt an eternity.
He knew that behind the white light lay the true eye. They would inspect the world for the gods and His Grace, burning away all darkness and filth, uncovering all secrets and shame.
And it would all begin with his own hands.
Alyn gripped his trembling right hand with his left, forcing steadiness as he inscribed upon the eye's surface: "Eternal Light."
"Ding~"
The white light shattered, and the eye transformed into something akin to the God-Given Light Screen—rectangular, with a black background adorned with white characters and colored patterns.
The royal standard—the crowned stag and roaring golden lion—hung prominently at the top of the display.
On the left appeared eight well-known emblems: the lords of the Seven Kingdoms and the Greyjoys of the Iron Islands. When Alyn's finger brushed the Icefield Wolf, the history of House Stark and the heraldry of the North's major houses immediately leapt to the screen.
On the right clustered densely packed names. Among them, the names of hundreds of God-Blessed shone with inner light, while countless more remained dim as distant stars.
The time at the bottom ticked steadily forward—July 15th, followed by numbers Alyn did not yet understand.
Finally, his gaze settled upon the middle of the display.
There lay a blank parchment. With a hesitant hand, he wrote: "Loras Tyrell."
The parchment rolled itself tight, then unfurled once more. Upon its surface, Loras Tyrell appeared as if conjured by some unseen artist's hand.
The handsome knight stood alone, inhaling the fragrance of a deep red rose.
What a melancholy figure you cut, Alyn thought. Knight of Flowers, do your thoughts still turn to Renly?
A pity, indeed. Renly shall know only defeat.
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