Ding~
A notification chimed softly in the stillness of the royal tent.
Joffrey illuminated the screen of his arcane device. Theon had made his choice at last: "Lord Regent of the Iron Islands" and "Commander-in-Chief of the Sunset Sea Fleet under the Royal Fleet."
A smile of satisfaction played across Joffrey's lips. Whether Theon had divined the true purpose behind the appointments or arrived at his decision through his own designs, it proved the ironborn was still of use to the crown.
Speaking of which...
Did anyone truly believe they could simply choose at random and prosper?
The two letters of appointment were never a choice freely given. They were a test—one path leading to success, the other to ruin. One right, one wrong.
"Warden of the Sunset Sea" was the wrong answer, a fool's choice.
"Duke Greyjoy" was a more insidious trap. To select this would be to embrace failure and elimination as surely as taking poison from a cup offered by a smiling enemy.
Joffrey sought to suppress the power of separatist lords. Why would he willingly create a new dukedom when it served against his interests?
In truth, within his greater design, the traditional titles of Duke and Warden were mere baubles to placate the old guard. Let them bask in preferential treatment, grow fat on luxury, and remain distracted from the matters of true governance.
In the world Joffrey envisioned, the men of genuine worth would be those who held non-hereditary positions—Lord Regents and Commanders, the architects of a new order. The power and status of these officials would not be shielded by centuries of noble lineage. The only fountain from which their authority flowed was Joffrey himself, the king who bestowed their office upon them.
Moreover, the privileges obtained by this nascent class of power brokers would be carved directly from the old nobility's flesh. Regardless of whether these officials personally wrought injustice or committed atrocities, they would inevitably earn the hatred and resentment of the entire noble class. The highborn would seek to suppress and retaliate against them, threatening both their newfound positions and their very lives.
Thus, whether for self-preservation or the pursuit of greater influence, these officials could rely solely upon the king. They must bend to his will, dancing like puppets to the subtle movements of his fingers.
Officials and nobles would check and balance each other, their conflicts and alliances weaving together like the threads of a tapestry.
Joffrey's empire would be built upon this skeleton, its flesh growing around the frame until it towered over the realm like a colossus.
He opened Theon's personal interface on his device.
The "chameleon" Theon had now become an integral part of this skeleton, his ability to change colors proving a singular advantage.
A chameleon indeed. To conquer the Iron Islands, one needed precisely such a malleable instrument.
Joffrey worked his magic, transforming a passage in his mind into a thread of invisible information, which flowed into the device and then across vast distances to its recipient.
"Bran," he called out languidly, stretching like a well-fed lion.
The young Stark, who had been rolling his eyes in what appeared to be distant concentration, immediately snapped to attention. It wasn't Joffrey's voice that recalled him, but rather the omnipresent grace light curtain that enveloped the tent, commanding the boy's spirit to return.
"Your Grace," Bran replied, his voice tinged with regret. "I still could not glimpse within Storm's End."
During the two days of siege, Bran had wandered the surrounding countryside through the eyes of beasts and birds. There was little to capture his interest save the formidable castle itself, its ancient stones promising secrets beyond imagining.
A pity.
Bran had entered the minds of countless birds, attempting to explore Storm's End from the sky. But without exception, each time a bird approached the castle walls, he found himself violently expelled from its consciousness.
Joffrey's lips curled in a knowing smile. "That is because you neither flew high enough nor delved deep enough. On your next attempt, seek a falcon's eyes, or perhaps burrow beneath the earth within some crawling thing."
Bran shuddered involuntarily. One horrifying experience with insects had been quite sufficient. He would choose the falcon.
"Let us speak no more of this," Joffrey beckoned Bran closer, gesturing for him to sit. "I have something of greater import—a matter both thrilling and momentous, one worthy of legend."
Bran's eyes lit with anticipation. "I await your command, Your Grace."
Joffrey sent a message to Osha instructing her to prepare the necessary elements, while reaching out to touch a finger to Bran's forehead. "Pyke on the Iron Islands—a most interesting spectacle awaits us there today. Shall we pay a visit?"
Bran felt an extraordinary power flowing from that single finger, unlike any magic he had previously encountered.
"Your Grace's voice is most soothing," Joffrey murmured. "Relax, just as when you enter a beast's mind. Surrender yourself..."
Bran closed his eyes, his vision fading to darkness.
In that moment, the wondrous magic began to take hold. It enveloped him completely, wrapping around Bran's form before pulling with inexorable force, as though extracting his very soul from its mortal vessel.
Bran felt himself spinning through the void, flying faster than any bird, plunging deeper than any sea creature, falling into an abyss without end...
He could not say how much time passed.
Eventually, the world stabilized around him. Strange sensations played across his skin—warmth, heaviness, and a peculiar brightness that he felt rather than saw through his still-closed eyes.
Cautiously, Bran opened his eyes.
The scene before him had transformed entirely. The bright, elegant confines of the king's pavilion had vanished, replaced by a chamber of cold stone and shadows.
Whirr~ Whirr~
Beyond the gloomy walls of this ancient fortress came a constant sound—more rapid than war drums, more enduring than horns.
Bran realized with a start: it was the sea!
"Welcome, Your Grace!"
A score of figures knelt in perfect unison, their voices soft with reverence as they greeted their sovereign.
Bran glanced to his side.
The monarch beside him appeared unchanged from the man he had stood with moments before in the tent outside Storm's End. Yet somehow Bran sensed this was not the same person—or rather, not the same body.
Indeed.
How could the same flesh traverse the immense distance from Storm's End to Pyke in the span of a heartbeat?
Bran extended his hands, examining them with fascination, enthralled by the perfect artifice of this magical form. How had they fashioned something so flawless? The very whorls upon his fingertips matched exactly!
One of the warlocks under Osha's command stepped forward and conjured a water mirror of remarkable clarity.
In its reflective surface, Joffrey's golden hair caught the light, his delicately sculpted features bearing the same expression of languid arrogance, his slender frame draped in the same opulent garments he had worn in the royal tent.
Joffrey regarded the efficacy of "God Descends" with unmistakable satisfaction.
"God Descends" was a novel enchantment created under Joffrey's direction, with the assistance of the Research Institute and the Logistics Bureau—a magic that allowed one to project their will across vast distances and interact with the physical world in real time.
Naturally, it had been developed primarily for Joffrey's personal use.
The process began with specific synthetic materials crafted into what they called the "God Descending Body."
Then, basic components such as light runes, sound runes, information runes, and spiritual runes were embedded within, enabling the "God Descending Body" to perform the fundamental activities of human existence.
Additional elements—fire runes, shaping runes, firmness runes, and recovery runes—could be incorporated to enhance the vessel's capabilities beyond mortal limitation.
Finally, and most crucial to the enchantment's success, was the identifying rune.
The identifying rune.
This mystical sigil had been discovered in the abandoned fortress along the Wall, specifically within the black gate buried beneath the Nightfort.
When used to establish certain conditions, it served as a key of sorts—explaining why the black gate would open only for sworn brothers of the Night's Watch.
But its power extended further still.
When the identifying magic was integrated into matter or other runes and specific conditions were established, these elements would respond as though possessed of thought and intent, reacting to precise stimuli with uncanny intelligence.
It was precisely this arcane property that allowed the "God Descending Body"—otherwise an inanimate shell—to receive the commands of a human spirit and respond accordingly, mimicking a living form in every aspect.
"Bran."
Joffrey's face and attire shifted suddenly, assuming the appearance of one of the soldiers present in the chamber.
This "soldier" pointed toward a huddled form upon the floor. "Adopt his likeness."
Bran followed the gesture. There lay a ragged boy, bound tightly and deep in slumber, no more than three-and-ten years of age. Gradually, Bran felt an unseen force reshaping the vessel that contained him.
"The preparations grow loud without," Joffrey said, taking up the soldier's sword. "Best not to alarm them prematurely."
His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Surprises should always be saved for the final act."
"Come," he commanded. "Let us behold the ironborn of Pyke and render our judgment upon them."
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