Chapter Thirty

The Eden diplomats stood in the carriage, their elegant figures stiff against the relentless jostling of the wheels on King's Landing's grimy streets. Their fine silk robes, each embroidered with intricate silver and gold threads, shimmered faintly in the early morning light, an almost otherworldly contrast to the filth-laden alleys they rolled through. The stench of the city assaulted their senses; a foul mix of human waste, rotting garbage, and the unwashed bodies of the city's impoverished masses. Even the thick walls of the carriage could not fully block out the putrid smell. One of the diplomats, a slender man with perfectly sculpted features, swallowed hard, trying to suppress his gag reflex.

"How do they live like this?" he muttered, speaking in Edenite, a language foreign to Westeros. His words dripped with disgust as he cast a glance out the window at the squalid streets.

Another diplomat, a tall woman with sharp, chiseled cheekbones and skin that seemed untouched by any imperfection, wrinkled her nose in distaste. "The prisons of Eden are cleaner than this... this cesspool. I swear, even our waste disposal facilities are more dignified than their homes."

It was not just the filth that repulsed them; it was the sheer disorder. King's Landing, the supposed capital of one of the largest kingdoms in the world, was a chaotic sprawl of deteriorating buildings, beggars, and street vendors hawking dubious wares. The people seemed utterly defeated, dressed in rags, their faces hollowed by hunger and desperation. As the diplomats passed, some of the more curious onlookers approached the carriage to catch a glimpse of the strange, beautiful visitors from across the sea. The diplomats' ship, now docked in Blackwater Bay, had caused quite the stir upon its arrival. Its sleek design and immense size dwarfed the traditional Westerosi vessels. While the people gawked at it in awe, the diplomats were simply accustomed to such grandeur. In New Qarth, Eden's trading outpost, it was an ordinary ship.

One diplomat, an impeccably dressed man with long, flowing hair, glanced out the window and made a face of mild disgust as he saw a group of children playing in the dirt. "This is their capital? These people are... animals."

The woman beside him, equally refined, nodded grimly. "They are nothing compared to the citizens of Eden. These people—how do they even survive? It's like they've never seen civilization."

As the carriage rattled on, the diplomats tried to ignore the oppressive filth of King's Landing, but it was difficult. Eden was the epitome of order and cleanliness, where not a blade of grass was out of place, and every street was polished to perfection. Even the poorest citizen of Eden was a model of health and beauty, thanks to the advances in medical technology and societal norms that encouraged perfection. The diplomats had been briefed about the conditions of Westeros, but nothing had truly prepared them for this. It was a far cry from the gleaming towers of Eden, where the air always carried a faint scent of lavender or strawberries, and where beauty, order, and harmony reigned supreme.

"What a shame," one of the diplomats murmured, "that the Supreme Leader's light hasn't yet touched this place."

"Perhaps," replied another, "but our mission will change that. For now, we must endure. The Lantrun family depends on us."

In the back of their minds, the faint hum of a voice guided them, giving them purpose and direction. It was Indra, the creation of the Supreme Leader, a sophisticated artificial intelligence embedded in their neural systems. Indra whispered to them in moments of uncertainty, providing instructions and advice that kept them on the right path. The Supreme Leader had tasked them with an important mission, and they would not fail.

As the carriage made its way up the winding roads toward the Red Keep, the grand castle of the Westerosi kings came into view, perched atop Aegon's Hill. The Red Keep was a massive fortress of red stone, towering above the rest of the city. It was an imposing sight, but to the diplomats, it looked crude and ancient, a relic of a bygone age. In Eden, the architecture was elegant and modern, with soaring glass towers that stretched toward the sky, their surfaces gleaming in the sunlight. The Red Keep, in contrast, was solid and oppressive, built for war rather than beauty.

The carriage came to a stop at the gates of the keep, and the diplomats disembarked, greeted by a contingent of guards and officials. The smell was no better here; if anything, it was worse. The diplomats exchanged glances but said nothing as they followed their escorts inside. They had a mission, and they would see it through, no matter how distasteful the circumstances.

As they walked through the sprawling halls of the Red Keep, their boots clicked sharply against the stone floors. The keep's interior, while grand by Westerosi standards, felt drab and utilitarian to the diplomats. The tapestries and banners hanging from the walls were old and faded, and the air inside was stale, a far cry from the pristine and carefully regulated environment of Eden's government buildings.

Once they were led to their chambers, the diplomats were finally able to relax, if only for a brief moment. One of them, a man with golden hair and piercing blue eyes, immediately activated a small communication device hidden in his sleeve. A faint blue light flickered, and within moments, the encrypted connection to Eden was established.

"Situation report," he muttered into the device, his voice low and calm. "The Iron Throne is weak. Their debts to the Iron Bank of Braavos are staggering. The king is... easily manipulated."

There was a pause as the information was transmitted back to Eden. Then, a faint voice responded in his ear—Indra, relaying the message from Eden's administration.

"Understood. The Supreme Leader has instructed that Braavos will intervene. The Iron Bank will lower the crown's interest rates. The status quo must be maintained. The king's reign must continue for now."

The diplomat nodded and deactivated the device. His orders were clear: ensure that the current regime in Westeros remained stable, at least until the Supreme Leader's plans came to fruition.

The next day, the diplomats met with the Iron Bank's representatives in King's Landing. The negotiations were swift and efficient. The Iron Bank, long indebted to Eden for its own survival, agreed to lower the interest rates on the Iron Throne's loans, easing the crown's financial burdens. The members of the small council, particularly Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, expressed their gratitude to the Edenite diplomats. But the diplomats remained stoic, their expressions unreadable. They were not here for thanks; they were here to serve the Supreme Leader's will.

As they exited the council chambers, one of the diplomats caught sight of a man lingering in the shadows, his eyes sharp and calculating. It was Varys, the Master of Whisperers. He smiled politely at the diplomats, but they could sense the unease behind his gaze.

"He knows something," one of the diplomats whispered as they walked down the hallway.

"Let him know," the woman replied coolly. "It makes no difference. The Light of Lantrun shines brightest in the dark."

As the diplomats returned to their quarters, they knew their mission was far from over. Their presence in Westeros was only the beginning. Eden's influence would grow, and soon enough, the people of this backward land would see the truth—the Supreme Leader's vision was the only path forward, and Eden would bring perfection to their broken world.

The diplomats exchanged silent glances, each one filled with purpose. The Supreme Leader's light would reach even the darkest corners of Westeros, and nothing could stop it.