While his men carried out their duties with brisk efficiency, Tyrion eyed the white steel sphere in Jon Snow's hand with undisguised curiosity.
"Jon, what manner of treasure is this?" he asked, cocking his head.
The morning's revelations had expanded Tyrion's understanding of what might be possible in this world. He had never imagined that magic—no, divine grace, as it must now be called—could manifest in such varied and practical ways.
Jon stared intently at the warning sphere nestled in his palm. Only when he confirmed that the device showed no signs of disturbance did the tension in his shoulders ease somewhat.
"Lord Tyrion, they call it the Eye of Vigilance," he explained. "A recent creation from the Research Department. Once activated, it can perceive the entire boundary of our assigned grid. Should anything cross that boundary, the Eye will alert us and capture an image of the intruder."
Jon ran his thumb over the sphere's smooth surface. "Most often, that intruder will be a person—our quarry."
Though this was the Eye's first deployment in the field, and Jon had possessed it for a mere two days, he and his men had drilled repeatedly in its use. They had simulated responses to the Eye's warnings, practiced apprehending suspects, all to ensure that nothing would go awry during this crucial operation.
Despite such thorough preparation, Jon fervently hoped that the day would pass in tranquility, and that steel would remain sheathed throughout.
"What a marvel," Tyrion exclaimed with genuine admiration. "Qyburn is more capable than I suspected. He's been at his work but a short while, and already he's produced such wonders. The man bears watching."
Tyrion couldn't help but think that this Eye of Vigilance might serve purposes far beyond mere perimeter defense.
Jon chuckled softly. "Indeed. The Research Department's reputation has spread throughout King's Landing. Mothers now frighten disobedient children with tales of it."
Having escorted numerous prisoners to Qyburn's domain, Jon had acquired a passing familiarity with the Research Department.
He knew that while the Department did conduct many experiments requiring human subjects, most were quite harmless and rarely resulted in any lasting harm.
Yet somehow, the whispers in the streets had grown ever more lurid. Some swore that Qyburn consumed human hearts daily, using the flesh of infants and the matter of men's brains to concoct elixirs that extended his life and curried favor with the highborn.
Despite such dark rumors—or perhaps because of them—King's Landing had grown more peaceful of late, making Jon's patrols less onerous.
Under the shadow of Qyburn's fearsome reputation, even habitual criminals hesitated to ply their trades, dreading that a second capture would send them not to the dungeons, but to the Research Department, where torments beyond imagining surely awaited.
Jon could only envy such influence.
He was but a junior officer of no particular renown, while Qyburn—a man cast out by the Citadel—now governed a domain of his own, enjoyed the king's deepest trust, and created wonders that would have been dismissed as madmen's ravings a year prior.
Without question, Qyburn's name would find its place in histories yet unwritten.
Renly's rebellion. Jon knew this conflict represented his finest opportunity to distinguish himself in battle, to perform deeds that might reach Robb's ears, even in distant Winterfell.
Winterfell. Jon could scarcely recall its grey walls and towers now. Yet his father's solemn face remained clear in his mind's eye.
Lord Eddard had returned north to face the wildling threat and the increasingly active Others beyond the Wall. That too must be a hard campaign, fraught with peril but rich in glory. Jon prayed silently for the safety of all who stood against the gathering dark.
Though he missed the North and its people with an ache that never truly subsided, Jon harbored no regrets. The die had been cast; his place was here, in the south, serving a different kind of duty.
"Jon, it seems we find ourselves falling behind," Tyrion sighed, glancing at the glowing screen of divine grace he carried.
Jon consulted his own screen. Grid six hundred and one, in the southern quarter of the city, had already turned white. Inspection complete. How swift they move!
Surveying the broader map of the city, Jon observed that the other six teams appeared to be progressing at roughly the same pace as his own, still engaged with their first assigned grids. Thankfully, no warning signals had yet appeared.
Jon knew that the Hound—Sandor Clegane, his current commander—led the sixth team, which had completed its first inspection with such remarkable speed.
Tyrion affected nonchalance. "Your Commander Sandor displays his customary impatience. One wonders if his inspection was as thorough as it might have been."
Each team bore responsibility for a full hundred grids, ensuring that the day would be long and arduous for all.
"No matter," Tyrion said, setting the matter aside. "Let us proceed with our own inspection, Jon, lest we earn the distinction of being the most dilatory team." He set his short legs in motion, waddling into the luxurious establishment that stood before them.
This marked the final checkpoint in grid two hundred and one.
Mercifully, the Second Purge Team under Tyrion's command had thus far encountered no significant resistance or opposition. Their work proceeded as smoothly as fine Arbor gold poured from a flagon.
The initial planning had been meticulous in its detail.
Squads tasked with securing the grid perimeter and intelligence officers within the team gathered information about every person dwelling or working within their assigned area.
Simultaneously, the team inspected shops, workshops, land holdings, contracts of affiliation, and valuables, clarifying ownership and tracing possessions to their earliest verifiable source to determine legitimacy and legality.
The final judgment in all such matters fell, of course, to Tyrion himself.
This fine establishment proved no exception to the routine, with all planned procedures unfolding within its walls according to design.
Unfortunately, the proprietor of the hotel was absent, leaving several servants and stewards to speak on his behalf. These unfortunates now faced rigorous questioning from the king's scribes, who demanded that they repeat everything they knew again and again.
Meanwhile, soldiers methodically breached each room, searching for documents, correspondence, and personal effects. They required on-site declarations and explanations for each item's provenance; anything inadequately accounted for would be treated as unclaimed property.
To most, this felt indistinguishable from common robbery.
Yet these peculiar thieves showed a modicum of conscience, offering each person an opportunity to reclaim their possessions. With appropriate justification and sufficient evidence, one might hope to recover what was rightfully theirs.
Stranger still, many septons and septas moved among the soldiers, proclaiming that this upheaval served to cleanse the filth from men's hearts, to root out Renly's assassins from King's Landing, and to restore purity and peace to the holy city.
After recovering their belongings—those fortunate enough to do so—people silently accepted this explanation.
The gods had manifested their power for all to see, yet tragedy had still befallen the Great Sept of Baelor. Small wonder, then, that such disruption followed.
After all, they reasoned, if it serves the gods, a bit of inconvenience is a small price to pay.
Eventually, however, one man chose to resist. His motivation was simple: his wealth had not been returned to him. The onlookers regarded him with a mixture of sympathy and wariness, content to observe from a safe distance.
"What commotion is this? Who raises his voice?" A sharp demand cut through the murmurs of the crowd.
The throng parted before the speaker. Tyrion Lannister approached unhurriedly, appraising the white-haired man who stood before him with defiance etched into the lines of his face.
"What do you intend by this display?" Tyrion asked, his expression suggesting genuine bewilderment.
The white-haired man trembled with barely contained fury. "My lord, I have abided by every law of the Seven Kingdoms. By what right do you withhold the gold dragons found in my chambers?"
Tyrion glanced toward his subordinates. A scribe immediately leaned close to whisper in his ear.
The white-haired man grew more agitated. "Those coins are held in trust for my clients. Let me remind you, my lord, my clients are men of substance and standing—prominent figures in King's Landing!"
Tyrion surveyed the room, taking in its opulent furnishings and elegant appointments. "You are a moneylender, then?"
The white-haired man nodded, his bearing suggesting righteousness and wounded dignity.
Tyrion's laugh was soft and brief. "Seize him."
Before the white-haired man could react, two gold cloaks stepped forward and pinned his arms behind his back with practiced efficiency.
Tyrion addressed the assembled crowd, his voice carrying clearly to all corners of the room. "His Grace has issued an unambiguous decree that any private lending or gathering of funds is henceforth deemed unlawful."
He fixed the white-haired man with a pointed stare. "I ask you: have you obtained royal dispensation for your activities?"
Decree? When did any such proclamation...? The white-haired man attempted to voice his objection, but the gold cloaks twisted his arms sharply. The sudden pain forced an inarticulate cry from his lips instead of coherent words.
"Regardless of who may claim ownership of these funds," Tyrion continued, "they now constitute illicit gains and will naturally be collected as evidence of criminal enterprise."
He cocked his head, as though genuinely curious. "Unless you have some further justification to offer?"
The entire episode had transpired in the span of minutes. Tyrion waved a hand dismissively, signaling its conclusion. "Remove him. The rest of you are dismissed."
The inspection of the grid was complete. Everything had proceeded exactly as planned.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~