A Book of Ice and Fire / Game of Thrones : Magic Network

A dazzling edict flashed to life on the Divine Grace Light Screen, its words pulsing with gentle but insistent light:

"His Grace summons you to the Throne Room. —Secretariat"

The two lines of text blinked ceaselessly in the center of Loras's vision, demanding attention with a persistence that could not be denied. With reluctance, he set aside the gold-dusted brush, returning it to the small lacquered box that rested upon his table.

This was his private chamber within the Red Keep, a place where, for brief moments, he might still be himself.

He had been sitting alone before a polished silver mirror, meticulously tracing the golden rose of House Tyrell onto a shield-shaped badge. The outline was complete, yet only half had been filled with gleaming gilt—the remainder still cold, silvery-white, awaiting his careful attention.

How he longed to complete his work in a single sitting, to see the golden rose bloom in its full glory, to offer a silent prayer for the success of the Southern Alliance.

But the edict continued to pulse before his eyes, its demand for attention brooking no delay.

With a soft sigh, Loras set down the unfinished badge. The Divine Grace Light Screen did not permit one to ignore its dictates—especially when the command originated from the Secretariat. Though this institution existed only within the mysterious realm of the Light Screen, all understood it to be the vessel through which the king's will was made manifest.

Loras rose and caught his reflection in the mirror. The summer air hung hot and damp in his chamber, and he wore only a thin linen shirt—hardly suitable attire for moving through the castle, let alone an audience with the king.

He summoned a servant with a single bell pull, and soon found himself encased in layer upon layer of rich fabric—garments both exquisite and formal, heavy with significance. Not unlike his position in the Red Keep, these clothes concealed his inner pain and passion beneath a veneer of courtly propriety.

Studying his reflection once more, Loras noted that while his military uniform appeared suitably imposing, something essential was lacking.

Ah. The daily instruction provided by the Divine Grace Light Screen had been quite specific on matters of proper attire for formal occasions. This would not suffice.

From a polished wooden box, Loras withdrew several badges of varying shapes and significance.

A bronze six-pointed star, symbol of the Seven Gods' grace and emblem of the Holy War Army—this he affixed to his left breast, directly over his heart.

A silver-cast all-seeing eye set within a triangle that radiated beams of light, representing the omnipresent divine illumination and marking him as a member of the Order of Light—this he suspended from a chain around his neck.

A circular badge engraved with an intricate swastika pattern, symbolizing the summoning of the Divine Envoy and identifying him as one favored by Divine Grace—this he fastened to his left arm.

Was there more?

Loras hesitated, mentally cataloging his manifold identities. Holy War Army soldier. Member of the Order of Light. One favored by Divine Grace. Loras of House Tyrell. Knight of Flowers.

Renly's lover.

No—His Grace Renly was betrothed to Loras's sister Margaery. At best, Loras could claim to be Renly's sworn knight, nothing more.

After long deliberation, Loras left the golden rose emblem behind. Instead, he fastened about his shoulders a cloak bearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon—for the king who held his heart, if not his oath.

He quit his chamber and proceeded directly toward the Throne Room along corridors grown familiar through endless walking.

As he moved with practiced swiftness, exchanging brief pleasantries with the courtiers and ladies who crossed his path, Loras pondered the reason for the king's summons.

Today was Tuesday, so it could not pertain to the submission of Divine Grace creations.

Since receiving Divine Grace, Loras and the others had discovered that this intangible power could be cultivated, drawn forth, and channeled into ordinary objects, thereby imbuing them with miraculous properties.

The Light Screen termed these "Divine Grace creations" and imposed a weekly obligation: eleven such items, to be surrendered every Sunday.

Eleven was precisely calculated—slightly less than the Divine Grace power one accumulated in a sennight. The surplus from two weeks would suffice to craft an additional creation. The Light Screen offered fair compensation for these items, though one might also retain them for personal use if desired.

Loras himself had kept a flame dagger wrought from dragon crystal, having learned that such material showed particular affinity for Divine Grace.

Merely two days past, he had submitted his required quota, fulfilling the Light Screen's demands. The deadline for this week's surrender remained distant, falling on Sunday—thus, this could not explain his summons.

Perhaps the king sought to assign tasks to the Holy War Army? After all, they had grown restless with inactivity.

Loras felt this acutely.

In recent days, beyond the regular obligations imposed by the Light Screen, he seemed to have vanished entirely from the notice of both the Red Keep and the broader sweep of King's Landing. No additional duties had been laid upon him.

This should have been cause for relief. His primary function in the Red Keep was as hostage to ensure House Tyrell's continued good behavior. He ought to have been grateful for this benign neglect.

Yet as days became weeks, Loras had watched the Red Keep transform again and again, had witnessed King's Landing altered beyond recognition, had seen the Gold Cloaks reborn as Divine Grace-favored Guards, and had observed the fresh-faced recruits under Ser Jaime's command harden into what appeared a battle-tested elite force.

Each day brought some new wonder that shattered Loras's understanding of what was possible, and with each such revelation, his confidence in the Southern Alliance's ultimate victory diminished by another fraction.

This growing helplessness proved an agony too keen to bear. Loras preferred to lose himself in the Light Screen's appointed tasks, to spend his strength and energy in prescribed exertion, thereby banishing all weighty and troublesome thoughts.

The Light Screen demanded ten thousand paces each morning? Very well—Loras not only led the pack but doubled the requirement through sheer determination.

Training in swordsmanship, spearmanship, horsemanship, and the application of flame and healing? Loras threw himself into these disciplines with complete abandon, wringing every drop of effort from his body and every spark of God-given flame from his soul, claiming the foremost position on the Light Screen's leaderboard day after day.

Study of documents, histories, and tactics? Loras committed the Light Screen's knowledge to memory and secretly supplemented this learning with additional texts.

In the weekly examinations, only Samwell Tarly's marks surpassed his own.

Even so, the hours of each day stretched interminably long. The Light Screen's tasks consumed perhaps half his waking time at most—what of the remainder?

Loras desperately required new goals, fresh labors, anything to forestall meaningless melancholy and dangerous reverie.

It must pertain to the Holy War Army. The more Loras considered this, the more convinced he became.

The content accessible through the Divine Grace Light Screen proved remarkably comprehensive. Detailed descriptions of the various departments beneath the Iron Throne, brief registries of the noble houses of the Seven Kingdoms with their territories, titles, and members, as well as those blessed with Divine Grace and enrolled in the Holy War Army—all lay open to his perusal.

Loras noted with growing unease that each week, the Holy War Army doubled in strength, while those favored by Divine Grace increased by hundreds, even thousands.

As of this day, the Holy War Army comprised one thousand soldiers, and those touched by Divine Grace numbered more than five thousand.

One thousand Holy War Army soldiers. Though the powers of flame and healing remained finite, slow to replenish, and not to be squandered heedlessly, they constituted divine might nonetheless. Even amidst the chaos of battle, such a force might well halt an army of ten thousand.

And these numbers represented not the limit but merely the beginning. Another month or two...

Evidently the king had not forgotten this tremendous resource. Loras began to speculate on what His Grace might require of him. Surely he would not be ordered to take up arms against his own blood?

Loras entered the Throne Room with trepidation weighing heavy upon his shoulders.

Two rows of Guards—no longer merely Gold Cloaks—stood in solemn vigil along the length of the hall.

The king stood before the Iron Throne, withdrawing his blazing, light-infused sword "Dragonflame" from the shoulder of a kneeling figure of uncommon height.

"Rise. Kingsguard, Brienne of Tarth."

The name caused Loras to falter in mid-stride, his eyes fixed upon the tall figure's broad back, which struck a chord of vague familiarity.

The newly appointed Kingsguard rose to her full height and turned to face the hall.

It was her!

Loras felt certainty settle cold within his chest. That face could not be mistaken for any other—"Beauty" Brienne, as cruel men named her behind her back.

Was she not a sworn admirer of Renly? What twisted fate had brought her to King's Landing, let alone to a place among Joffrey's Kingsguard?

The king beckoned with one pale hand. "Loras, approach."

The king had summoned. There could be no hesitation now.

Loras advanced step by measured step, a terrible suspicion taking shape within his mind.

"You know, Uncle Renly is destined for defeat," the king observed, his tone light as summer breeze. "Blood remains thicker than water, after all. I might yet spare his life—if two Kingsguard were to counsel mercy."

In that moment, Loras understood everything.

For the king who held his heart.

He lowered his head, knelt upon one knee, and offered up his sword.

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