Chapter 73: King's Landing

June in King's Landing had proven extraordinary indeed.

First, King Robert had died, his passing marked by the doleful tolling of bells throughout the city. Only yesterday had His Grace's coffin been conveyed to the Great Sept of Baelor, and today the harbor welcomed a mighty fleet. The smallfolk breathed easier when they spied the crowned stag emblazoned upon those billowing sails.

Curious throngs gathered along the riverfront, their eyes fixed upon the harbor.

The largest berth had been cleared for the royal arrival. Gold cloaks stood at attention on either side, still as statues, while between them gathered lords and ladies of wealth and consequence. Even the servants and handmaidens who attended them seemed beings from another world to the common folk who watched.

The people knew what this meant, and they stared openly as the great warship eased into its mooring.

First to appear was a valiant young man wearing a golden crown, and beside him a sweet-faced little girl who seemed quite ordinary at first glance.

His Grace, the King, had returned to his loyal city of King's Landing.

"Long live His Majesty!" the crowd called out.

Joffrey moved with enthusiasm to raise Lord Eddard Stark from his bow. "Lord Eddard, there's no need for such ceremony between us. We are family now—such formalities can be set aside."

He asked immediately: "My father has been laid to rest in the Sept?"

The Hand of the King nodded silently.

Joffrey's face was the very picture of regret. "If not for Uncle Renly's troubling actions, I would never have needed to journey to Dragonstone, and might have looked upon my father's face one final time!"

Was it truly Renly? Eddard tilted his head slightly in doubt, but the little girl standing before him immediately captured his attention.

"Your Grace, is this Shireen?" he asked hesitantly.

Though he had never met Stannis's daughter, he had heard tell of her tragic affliction. The deadly greyscale had spared her life, but the fearsome gray-black patches of dead skin had—by all accounts—permanently claimed half the poor child's face. Yet he saw no trace of it now. Had the stories been mere rumors?

Shireen lifted the corner of her skirt with practiced grace and offered a perfect curtsy. "Lord Stark, Shireen bids you welcome."

She fixed earnest eyes upon him. "The greyscale was a heavy burden to bear, but tales of your honor and my father's deeds often helped me to forget the pain. I must also thank His Grace for my treatment. The suffering is behind me now."

Shireen offered a bright, unblemished smile.

Eddard looked to Joffrey, question plain upon his solemn face.

Joffrey merely smiled without speaking and beckoned for the procession to continue into the city.

Shireen's case was relatively mild, he thought to himself. At least the affliction hadn't turned her entire body to stone nor driven her to madness. The treatment had proved less challenging than expected.

He had administered a sedative potion to Shireen, excised the tissues ravaged by greyscale, and his recovered magical energies had successfully generated new, healthy flesh.

Only one aspect troubled him deeply.

Joffrey recalled the moment during the treatment when he had come to a disturbing realization: greyscale was far more than a mere disease.

The familiar strains of violins and trumpets reached his ears, pulling him from his thoughts.

Joffrey paused, momentarily startled.

Tyrion approached and bowed with surprising grace for one of his stature. "Your Grace named this melody 'King's Landing.' King Robert cherished it deeply. How could we fail to play it as you enter the city today?"

Joffrey smiled, his expression touched with genuine emotion. "Indeed. Since my father loved it so, I shall certainly honor its tradition."

Continuity is good, thought the courtiers who observed the exchange. Continuity suggests stability.

The assembled lords and ladies seemed to hear in the king's words an unspoken promise, and immediately praised His Grace's filial devotion. Yet all present had forgotten one crucial truth.

What Robert Baratheon had loved most was not music, but war.

Rain padded forward. Joffrey touched the lion's massive head, then climbed upon its back to make his entrance through the city gate.

The spirited music continued to echo through the streets.

The people watched as their young king and the giant lion galloped toward the Red Keep that loomed upon Aegon's High Hill. In that moment, it struck many that King's Landing had truly welcomed a new sovereign, and that the old era had ended completely.

A New King's Landing indeed.

The evening sky blazed crimson and gold as the sun sank toward the horizon.

The Hound entered the king's study bearing two heavy wooden boxes for His Grace.

Joffrey sat at his ease, leafing through a mountain of outdated reports.

Some bemoaned empty coffers, others lamented shortages of manpower, and still more offered tortured explanations for tasks left incomplete. Reports of good tidings were few and far between.

Looking at these documents alone, who would believe the royal household had sustained itself in such a state for more than a decade? That the realm appeared, on its surface, to function normally seemed nothing short of miraculous.

Joffrey glanced at the slightly trembling wooden box beside the Hound's massive hand.

A miracle wrought by men, he thought grimly.

"Sandor, why do you tarry? The realm faces crisis—announce the arrival of our two distinguished lords without delay," he said with mocking levity.

The Hound stared at the wooden box.

Though days had passed since he had first beheld its contents, each time the half-man-high container shuddered, his own heart quailed in sympathy. Once, he had believed that burning by fire was the greatest torment imaginable. Now he knew there existed methods of purgatory undreamt of in his darkest nightmares.

Truly, those who played the game of thrones possessed no hearts.

The Hound's mouth twisted into what might have been a grin as he lifted the front panel of the wooden box, revealing two familiar faces within.

Joffrey cast aside the report in his hand.

"Lord Varys, Lord Baelish—why do you weep? Could it be that you, too, mourn my father's passing?"

Tyrion sighed and looked away. "The world has finally produced men shorter than myself."

The two half-bodied men—amputated at their shoulders and the roots of their thighs—thrashed their non-existent limbs within the wooden containers, managing only to make the boxes tremble slightly.

How could they not weep?

Littlefinger reacted more violently than the eunuch. Once, he had commanded so many hidden advantages, cultivated countless schemes, harbored ambitions so lofty he had devoted his life to their pursuit.

Now, all of it lay buried in the soil alongside his hands, feet, and lower body—become a feast for worms and beetles.

And I have sired no heir!

The architect of his fate sat before him. Littlefinger struggled to compose himself and opened his mouth. "Joffrey, you—"

The Hound kicked over the wooden box, and Littlefinger nearly bit through his own tongue.

Varys managed to squeeze out a simpering smile. "Your Grace, I was already an incomplete man. My hands and feet were my final comforts. I beg you, restore them to me."

Joffrey chuckled. "I might even make you whole again, Lord Varys. But what would you offer in exchange?"

"Would you sacrifice your false Aegon? Could you bear to part with him? Would you dare?"

What?!

Varys shook his head and wailed in genuine dismay. How could the king know of Aegon? Have all my secrets been laid bare?

Joffrey approached the wooden box and crouched before it. "Call him false or true—even if he were a genuine Targaryen prince, what of it? Let him come. War will only add glory to my throne."

Varys could detect no trace of weakness or hesitation in those green eyes—only endless, consuming flames.

Tyrion handed a parchment to the Spider. "Here are the secret passages of the Red Keep that we have uncovered. Tell me, Lord Varys, have we missed any?"

Not one had been overlooked. Varys closed his eyes in defeat.

Joffrey motioned for the Hound to right Littlefinger's box.

"Varys, Petyr—be grateful that you are men of rare intellect. Beginning tomorrow, I shall place you on either side of the Iron Throne, and I shall look forward to your sage counsel."

"Apply yourselves diligently. One hundred useful pieces of advice will earn back a hand or foot. Two hundred shall restore a man's... dignity."

Varys and Petyr could not help but calculate how many years such redemption might require.

Joffrey waved his hand.

The half-bodied men in their boxes immediately dissolved into terror and supplications.

The Hound showed no mercy as he sealed the wooden containers and carried them back to their dark, silent storage chambers in some distant corner of the keep.

Joffrey returned to his seat and sipped thoughtfully at his wine.

Tyrion spoke with bitter disgust. "Littlefinger has earned his fate tenfold. What has he wrought upon the royal treasury? How will any Master of Coin repair such damage?"

The situation had proven worse than anticipated.

The crown's foreign debt had reached the staggering sum of six and a half million gold dragons. Annual expenditures exceeded one million gold dragons, while actual yearly revenues amounted to barely one million three hundred thousand. Taxes across the realm stood in arrears to varying degrees.

Littlefinger bore much of the blame, certainly, but the courtiers and great lords had played their part in the catastrophe as well—even those of the Westerlands and the North. How might such a tangle be unraveled?

The hideous, sharp-edged Iron Throne was not easily sat upon, in every sense of the phrase.

Joffrey mentally traced the invisible runes he had discovered. One, two... a total of twenty.

The time had come to change the manner in which one sat upon the throne.

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