June 15

"They appear rather heavy with 'sers' and light on 'lords'," the Blackfish observed, as the galley provided to Renly approached Lord Steffon's anchorage in the middle of the murky waters of the Blackwater Rush. For diplomacy's sake, that warship was chosen for the parley over the Fury for she bore the name of the brother's father. The Lord Steffon had come out first, the High Septon its lone passenger. The King's party had come out later on a river galley captained by Lord Davos.

"And several of those lords are feather light," Ardrian Celtigar sneered, then venomously croaked out the names, "Shermer, Dunn, and Peasebody."

"All seven of the so called Rainbow Guard," Nestor Royce harrumphed.

Yohn Royce grunted unhappily in response to his cousin, for one of those was his son Robar.

"My uncle too attends the traitor," the queen announced with a mixture of disgust and spite.

Sean spied a tall sixtyish appearing man sporting a red gold fox on the cloak wrapped about his form; the emblem of House Florent. And beside him stood a much older and more stooped lord in green looking like a geriatric turtle.

"And my grandfather, Lord Gunther. Renly rubs my nose in mine own family's willing sedition for him," Stannis growled menacingly, teeth instantly beginning to grind as soon as he spat the words out.

"Calmly, your Grace," not Ned advised quietly. "He means to provoke you so that he might shine the brighter."

"Did I not just say that, Lord … Eddard," the stubborn mule started to snap before controlling his temper, and using the actor's "first" name to prove it.

"Of course, Robert would have just clobbered Renly over the head with his warhammer as soon as the wretch stepped on deck," the actor reacted, trying to lighten the mood.

"Ha!" the Crowned Stag barked with some amusement. "He would do no such thing, Eddard. T'would be knightly dishonor to break the parley. But as elder brother, Robert might claim right to kick Renly's miserable childish arse till it bled," he snorted. The observation drew sniggers from all present, each, unlike Sean, having to varying degrees dealt with not Mark.

Conversation remained rather subdued and desultory as Renly and his chosen fourteen slowly approached. Lancel Lannister spoke mostly with Ser Adamm Marbrand, who was almost as charismatic appearing as the Kingslayer, and Lord Quenten Banefort. Edmure and the nearly insufferable Jonos Bracken exchanged pleasantries with arrogant Monford Velaryon. And Sean talked with his son, who rocked back and forth uncomfortably on his crutches. He had denied the lad any milk of the poppy or dreamwine for his badly broken leg that morning in order to keep his mind clear. The maesters tending Robb generally agreed he would always have a significant limp, but should be able to ride again once healed; at least until middle age caught up with him.

Though the king's brother had agreed in theory to meet two days ago, the whole previous day had been spent sending emissaries back and forth across the Rush negotiating a mutually agreeable size to the 'council' that each claimant could bring. Sean couldn't care less whose knob was bigger in that negotiating pissing match. The twice the holy Seven for both parties seemed as fortuitous a number as any to the actor.

Not Ned was more worried about whether he knew what he was doing. If George was going to force his written events to occur in one shape or another, as mysteriously seemed the case to the actor; then the wily old man from Sheffield would twist it to his own damned advantage. He hoped.

"Is everything in ready?" the Lord of Winterfell asked, as Renly's galley began to scrap sides with the Lord Steffon. All eleven other men surreptitiously padded pockets with their left hands, while keeping sword hands on the hilts of their blades. They would not be taken unawares if the others chose to betray the sanctity of the parley. With the High Septon present to officiate, Sean doubted it likely; but this was fucking Westeros after all, where guest rights didn't mean shit when the stakes were high enough.

Selyse, the only one without a weapon, not counting the Fat One, slid up a hand to check the belly padding hid under her gown and smiled for once at the actor. He nodded politely in acknowledgement back at her. "A clever ruse, Lord Eddard. Your Sansa has assisted me well," she declared softly, hand dropping back to her side. "But after his Grace's victory today, such mummer's tricks will no longer be needed. He shall place a child in me."

Sean would rather gouge his eyes out than think of that image. "As we all pray for, your Grace," he murmured back courteously.

"Welcome, Renly Baratheon, son of Steffon," the Fat One's voice boomed. "May the Seven's peace fill you with grace as you meet with your brother, Stannis Baratheon."

"Grace, certainly, I already have and am one, Holy Ser," a cheerful voice called out. Renly Baratheon, clad splendidly in a green velvet doublet and satin cloak trimmed in ermine, hopped easily across the gap between the two ships. The crown of gold roses sitting above his brow didn't wiggle as he landed lightly and boldly strode to the middle of the deck, not waiting at all for his retainers.

This was a Baratheon. He looked nothing like Gethin or Mark. Sean was impressed. Even George should be pleased with the result of his work. No wonder men flocked to him, scorning tradition and his less appealing older brother. Despite the tugging he felt at his sympathies, the old man from Sheffield knew that to survive, the youngest Baratheon must be broken, or worse.

"Can that truly be you, Stannis?" the far handsomer of the two brothers asked in amused wonder.

Stannis' eyes narrowed. "Who else should it be?"

Renly raised both big, powerful hands, palms open. "Look at you, brother. You look almost regal," he declared with a charming smile.

The king did in fact appear royal. Robert's crown, thick gold crusted with rubies and black diamonds, girded his temples. Instead of green, Stannis snug-fitting, medieval style buttoned jacket was gold with a black antlered stag emblazoned boldly across the chest: Baratheon colors, Baratheon sigil. More gold and jewels studded his attire from boots to belt to the chain about his thick, strong neck.

"And have you done your duty? Truly? Selyse you must be … satisfied?" he snickered. "Look my lords, I believe this is why my brother insisted you come. He wished to show proof he might quicken his wife once every ten years." Most of entourage now stood in an arc behind him as they laughed appropriately at his jape.

'Fuck!' Sean thought, seeing the initiative lost already to Renly's quick, breezy appeal.

"By right, until a son is born me, you are still my heir, Renly," Stannis growled; using the deceptive wording, not a lie, that not Ned had coached him to say.

"By right?" Renly scoffed. "A word you love dearer than your wife, as the whole of the realm knows, brother."

"By right? And where is any child of yours, Renly? Have you even lain with your wife?" Stannis retorted hotly.

"My wife looks nothing like yours, praise the Seven. I expect I'll get a son on sweet Margaery within the year," he proclaimed confidently.

"My … my … lords!" the High Septon half shouted and half stuttered, taking a hesitant step forward between the two brothers. "Remember your noble selves, and do not blaspheme, I beg you. The realm needs peace. Not more war or … or kinslaying," he spluttered, jowls wobbling. Both men drew back slightly at the reprimand, neither looking pleased about having received it.

"Neither does the realm desire a new god, this Lord of Light that my brother and his wife are so enamored with. I hear they've allowed these foreign Red Priests a temple," Renly stated with too obvious distaste, clearly playing to the Fat One and any pious who were present. "Margaery and I were married in a sept, Holy One," he added proudly.

Sean had argued tooth and nail for Selyse to wear no symbol of her bloody God of Flame and Shadow. She had consented, relinquishing at last her red gold crown of red flames on the dock; leaving only a ruby pendant around her neck. "His Grace worships not this Lord of Light," not Ned declared icily, at last speaking up. "And would you despised me, Lord Renly, for my worship of the Old Gods?" he challenged.

"They are at least of Westeros, Lord Eddard. A pleasure to see you again, if you are truly the man Robert knew. I notice you've aged significantly since last I lay eyes upon you," the smug prick counter challenged.

Not Ned revealed a wolfish smile. "Would I took your offer on the bridge over Maegor's moat that night as Robert lay dying, Lord Renly. I was still addled with milk of the poppy and a tad naïve not to take your counsel. What was it?"

"I fear I no longer remember," Renly replied lazily, like a fat cat having licked up all the milk.

"Oh, I think I do. 'Strike! Now, while the castle sleeps. We must get Joffrey away from his mother and take him in hand. Protector or no, the man who holds the king holds the kingdom. We should seize Myrcella and Tommen as well. Once we have her children, Cersei will not dare oppose us. The council will confirm you as Lord Protector and make Joffrey your ward.'" 'Never fuck with an actor,' he thought, knowing he had established his bonafides with the armchair king. "Instead, I trusted Littlefinger. And with the blessings of the Old Gods, here we stand, with much unnecessary bloodshed and war behind us."

"With all three of the Whore Queen's get confirmed vile incest spawn, and myself as Robert's true heir," Stannis inserted. Another barrier bent, Stannis referring to Cersei as a whore, though she never gave away her favors for coin.

"Why the eldest and not the best-fitted?" Renly retorted. "The crown suits me as it never will suit you, Stannis. I have it in me to be a great king, strong yet generous, clever, just, diligent, loyal to my friends and terrible to my enemies, yet capable of forgiveness, patient …"

"Humble?" Not Ned supplied with palpable irony. Inside, Sean was ecstatic. As he had hoped, the vainglorious man who would be king was quoting verbatim from the scene.

Renly laughed. "My lords must allow a king some flaws. Here, I'll prove my generosity. I have no wish to slay you, Stannis. You were never the most cherished of brothers, I confess, but you are my own blood. As Robert once gave it to me, I grant you Storm's End."

"It is your right, Renly. As king, I do not deny a lord of the realm from exercising his privileges. But I did not know you and your bride wished to reside in Highgarden. Would you miss the presence of pretty Ser Loras so greatly?"

Not Ned led a round of snide laughter from their side of the deck.

"I will not be mocked to my face. I will not!" shouted Loras, hand grabbing at his sword. Before the blade could completely leave its sheath, Renly quickly grabbed on to his lover's arm to keep the peace of the parley. Several of the lords and knights of the Reach and Stormlands looked uncomfortable at the implication, but stayed mum.

"You cannot seem to keep your hands off your goodbrother, Renly," Stannis chided. "Will Lady Margaery receive such affectionate treatment, I wonder?"

Hatred blazed in those green eyes, like wildfire. They scanned the deck, as if marking each of those standing in support of Stannis. A cruel smile slipped on to lips far thicker than his brother's. "Stannis, we agreed to fourteen lords and sers. You appear one short, brother. Have you forgotten how to count?"

Sean coughed. Robb whistled. Grey Wind came bounding across from the galley Davos had piloted next to the Lord Steffon. Now the swords guarding Renly's back did leap from their scabbards. The direwolf paid them no mind, coming to heel beside his two-legged brother; miraculously stopping an inch short of knocking into his crutches. He then promptly yawned, licking his chops.

"My royal husband's fourteenth pays little heed to those he does not respect," Selyse's sharp voice whipped unexpectedly into the stunned silence. Then she extended her hand and Grey Wolf walked over to lick it.

Sean tried not to blink in shock, he had not expected that! No one had. Robb's eyes shown with as much surprise as the rest of them.

"You stated great lords and knights, Lord Stannis," a man, who could only be Mathis Rowan by his golden tree sigil, protested forcefully. "This is an insult!"

"Then pray you tell Grey Wind, my lord, that he is not the Lord of the Wood," Robb answered; though Sean suspected the opposing lord meant both the direwolf and the queen.

"Nay, I shall not, young lord!" Rowan stated indignantly

"I watched him slay Jaime Lannister and a dozen other knights. What's more he captured Heartsbane from Lord Randyll. Which of you Knights of Summer can claim to have done even half so much," the Blackfish responded boldly.

"Enough. I will not gainsay the beast's 'right' to be here. My brother prefers hairy things, after all," Renly said with biting irony. "This has been all very droll, Stannis, but I grow weary of your little mummer's show. Why did you so desperately seek a parley with me? Did you foolishly hope I would agree to bend the knee?"

Stannis snorted. "I would gladly accept if you did; and reconfirm your right to Storm's End; but you are too much the spoiled child to so readily give up a toy you desire. No, Lord Eddard urged it upon me. I value wise counsel, like his. And as such, I thought you should hear who I have chosen to be the Hand of the King.

"This wolf? A snark? Or is it a grumkin? Surely something fantastical, Stannis; who else would agree to such madness as serving you? Do you see all those banners behind me? All the chivalry of the South rides with me, and that is the least part of my power. Our Grandfather rides with me. Your wife's brothers and uncles ride with me. We shall find a way across the Rush, and when we do, you and your so called Hand of the King shall be destroyed."

"A pity for your wife's family. For Ser Loras. I've chosen Ser Garlan Tyrell, Lord of Harrenhal, as my Hand. I think their lord father will be quite wroth to find him destroyed."

Renly looked stunned. Ser Loras, Lord Mathis, and a Fossoway by the Red Apple sigil in particular looked stunned as well. More stunned than Sean thought they had a right to be. He'd expected another bout of japes on their part.

"No clever words, brother," Stannis taunted.

Then the smirk began to return. "You play the Game of Thrones better than before you fled King's Landing, brother. I'll give you that. It must be Lord Eddard's sage advice; though I wonder how he stomachs giving it to you. Yes, stomachs." Renly's hand slid inside his satin cloak.

Beside him, Stannis tensed but made no overt move. 'Do it, you bastard' Sean mentally goaded both George and Renly; author and his character.

And like before, or what would have been, Renly produced a peach. "Would you like one brother?" Renly asked smiling. "From Highgarden. You've never tasted anything so sweet, I promise you." He took a bite. Juice ran from the corner of his mouth.

"Aye, a peach is sweet on the palate," Stannis agreed, smiling back dangerously.

'Yes!'

"A man should never refuse to taste a peach." Another part of it disappeared into his glib, cocksure mouth. "He may never get the chance again. Life is short, Stannis." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'm sorry I didn't bring enough to share with you all, my lords," he apologized with a superior grin.

"Yes. And I'm sure my lords of the Reach know just how very easily a peach bruises," the king added scornfully. With those words, Stannis Baratheon reached into his own cloak and pulled out an apple.

"And quickly spoils," added the Blackfish, holding a loft a plum.

"In the Vale we prefer fruit that lasts," interjected Bronze Yohn, showing a palm full of cherries before plucking one into his mouth.

"As does the North," not Ned agreed, retrieving an apricot from his pocket.

Lancel cleared his throat nervously.

'Don't blow your line, boy' Sean pleaded to the Old Gods.

"The Westerlands is rocky soil. We require hardier stock," the youth announced and then took a sizeable taste out of a pear. His bite was quickly emulated by ones from Lord Quenten and Ser Adamm.

The rest of the king's part followed suit, except Grey Wind; the king, his wife and his lords chomping into fruit to the amazement of the Southron lords and knights. Each seemingly smacked their lips with relish one last time before throwing down their pit or core or stone onto the slowly tilting deck of the Lord Steffon. "Life is short, Renly" Stannis agreed. "And like that apple, I find sitting the Iron Throne quite satisfying."

Renly flushed hot, dropping his peach's stone to join the other refuse. "Arm your host with fruit then, brother. See what good it does you," he spat. "Tyrell swords will win me the throne. Rowan and Oakheart and Hightower will raise me high, with axe and mace and warhammer. Estermont arrows and Florent lances, Fossoway, Cuy, Penrose, Mullendore, Selmy, Morrigen, Caron, Crane, Caswell, Blackbar, Caron, Beesbury, Shermer, Dunn, Tarth, and Footly … they will set me on the Iron Throne instead of you. I do not care how seasoned a warrior you think you are Stannis, your host won't survive grappling with mine."

Again, nearly word for word Renly had recited parts of the script. Westeros couldn't seem to help repeating itself. Sean just needed to keep playing the stronger themes in the plot over the weaker ones.

"We've survived your best efforts so far; or have you forgotten who now holds Greatsbane, Renly. Your childish threats do not worry me," Stannis answered calmly, as if chiding the little boy he had once shielded at Storm's End.

"When I make a threat, you'll know it, brother," Renly snapped in irritation. Then he turned to address not Ned. "Tell him, Lord Eddard. I still have the larger army; three stout men-at-arms to every one of yours. Give him your wise counsel. Unborn children know it in their mother's womb. Old men say it with their death rattles. They know it in Dorne. They know it on the Wall. I shall be king. Tell them," he appealed.

"I will speak, Lord Renly, as I spoke to Robert. As I spoke to you and to the Small Council, when all but Barristan the Bold agreed to assassinate a young girl for fear she might one day threaten Westeros. I will speak truth with honor," he accused.

"You treat me unfair …"

Sean blazed right past him, pitching his voice to drown out the chatterers in the front row, the rings of the mobiles. He was an actor, godsdamnit, and he would say the lines he had carefully crafted himself. "I ask you fine sers and most great lords of the Seven Kingdoms, what unforgivable disservice has been wrought upon thee that cause such hatred to fester on good Stannis' head? What vile deed of his goes unsaid that such a harvest of bad blood lies upon hope barren fields between thee?"

He had their attention, except for Renly whose face was puckering as if he'd just eaten a lemon instead of a peach.

"Though many ungentle words could be said of the son born after the first and before the third, lest judgment be muddied and rapid, one river of truth does flow beneath this ship named after the father of all three; and that, for all his seen and unseen faults, Stannis Baratheon has never failed by word or deed anyone in this whole realm."

Like a scolding father, he shot a warning glare and hand at Renly, right as the spoiled child went to open his mouth to dispute the notion.

"What sin has this just man cast on ye, Lord Caron, that you would have him not be a hero but shackle him forth to the chains of villains to forever hold him trapped in the dungeon of your conceit?"

"For holding the walls of Storm's End against your siege, Lord Mathis? For keeping faith with his elder brother and securing the body of the younger from harm, you now deny his rights by all tradition and custom?"

"Did Estermont ships of the fleet sink against the Ironborn and never return to their shores?"

"What slings and arrow of outrageous fortune has he cast upon the Houses of Cuy, Crane, Morrigen, or Fossoway?"

"What evil plague ever walked to the gates of House Peasebody or Dunn or Shermer from his lips or hands or shadow? Name them. Before the Seven, name them. Lift the fog off the eyes of the Westerlands, the Vale, the Riverlands, and the North so that we may see this fiend as he truly appears."

Silence and shame greeted his soliloquy.

"No, I thought not. He is the elder son. That is his only sin." Not Ned thrust his chest forward to proclaim, "let any who gainsay me draw his sword in challenge; I shall allow you to swing the first blow."

King Renly snorted and looked from side to side at his banners. "You speak wondrously for a dead man, Lord Eddard. I doubt you ever uttered such eloquent words for my brother, Robert. Yours was a legendary friendship. So now, to find you love Stannis more; t'is impossible. Aye, you seem the very image, if aged, of the Lord of Winterfell. Yes, the eyes of the Seven Kingdoms are fogged. So I shall call you for what you are. Your too clever words betray you, Lord Mummer. And such you are," he spat.

Sean took a deep breath. "And I call you what you are, Lord Renly, a craven; lacking the bravery to live as the Seven ordained you to, as the younger brother."

Rage filled those eyes, setting them a fire. "Take back your words, Lord Mummer. Or fear my wrath," he hissed.

Not Ned yanked out his sole glove from where it hung folded over on his belt and flung it full in Renly's face. "This to your wrath," he snarled.

The much bigger man's handsome face grew dark with fury as once more swords leapt into the hands of his indignant Rainbow Guard; this time to defend their gallant liege's honor.

"I will take the gage, your Grace," Ser Guyard cried.

"As would I, if it please the king," Lord Bryce shouted.

The rest quickly echoed the first two.

Renly's lips pinched together reminiscent of Stannis. "No, I would not have it said I slew a cripple," he ground out.

"Is it the justice of your cause you doubt, my lord?" the actor sneered. "Then let us name champions, right here, right now; and the loser shall pledge himself to the other's cause." His stomach lurched, he was irrevocably playing for it all: victory or dishonor and the Wall.

Renly's head tilted slightly, calculation starting to seep back into his blazing green eyes. "The Lord of Winterfell would bend the knee to me?"

"If your champion won, I would, yes."

Around him his allies gasped. "Lord Eddard, no!" many cried out in despair and anger. Robb convincingly added his own distraught sounding plea to the mix.

"Silence!" roared the Crowned Stag. Even Renly's minions ceased prattling. Stannis' dark blue eyes pierced one last time into Sean's oddly grey-green ones. "When has Eddard Stark led me down the wrong path? The Old Gods returned him to make me king. They will not desert him now," his Grace proclaimed.

"Then you too would bend your knee at Ser Loras victory, brother?"

"Ha!" Stannis single short bark answered that question. He might have some little faith in Gods, but he still believed in himself first.

"Along with your brother, my word, my debt, carries no weight with the Vale, Westerlands, or Riverlands," Sean stated firmly.

"Of course," Renly agreed with a greedy smile, eyes skipping to the Blackfish, Bronze Yohn, and Adamm Marbrand; two renowned but old warriors and the only one who appeared deserving by appearances in his own Rainbow Guard. "Right here? Right now?" he repeated.

Not Ned nodded confirmation, face it's iciest to hide the fear within; the pain raging in his belly.

"The offer is unbalanced," Renly said.

Sean shrugged, he couldn't commit further. He was as far out on George's limb as he dared tread.

"I accept."

His Rainbow Guard instantly began clamoring hotly again; for the honor of striking the war winning blow for their king.

"Your Grace, I beg the honor," said Brienne of Tarth.

"Beg all you like," Ser Parmen cried. "I am the finest with the blade."

"And I the strongest arm," disputed Ser Emmon.

"Enough, gallant sers," cried Renly, raising a hand to still their voices. "The greatest glory by rights belongs to the greatest knight. Ser Loras shall be my champion."

The Knight of Flowers knelt before his king. "With a glad heart, your Grace."

Renly looked over his lover's head at not Ned, smiling cruelly. "I heard no voices seeking your favor, Lord Eddard. Do you have a champion?" It was true. Despite Stannis' words of assurance on not Ned's behalf, none had sought the privilege.

"Grey Wind," not Ned replied coldly.

And the direwolf stepped forward to the middle of the deck.

The arguing raged several minutes. Not Ned being accused of both mockery and false chivalry to claim a direwolf as his champion. Again Lord Brynden reminded them of Grey Wind's proven battle prowess at the Whispering Wood, the Battle of the Camps, the taking of King's Landing, the duel with the Kingslayer, and lastly against Renly's own Lord Tarly on the God's Eye River. While Ser Adamm Marbrand scoffed at Ser Loras being only a tourney knight, words that almost set off another demand for satisfaction. Monford Velaryon even pointed out that they sang songs of the beast from the towers of the Red Keep to the depths of Flea Bottom.

Renly's allies' opinion began to shift when Lord Mathis spoke up. "Think of it your Grace. T'will be like a battle from the Age of Heroes. Or the Dawn of Days, when the First Men fought the giants, the shadowcats, and the great lions of the West sent against them by the Children of the Forest. Such glory for Ser Loras to win!"

Cooler heads then began to exert themselves and the complaints turned more towards the more mundane.

"Ser Loras wears only a modicum of mail and bears no helm," Lord Bryce complained.

"And Grey Wind carries none either," laughed Edmure. "Nor a sword."

"How large a space on the deck shall they be permitted?" old Gunther asked.

"And will that mindless brute now to stay within the boundaries?" Ser Jon Fossoway queried.

"He shall, Ser, my word on it," Robb promised.

And then another ten minutes were spent debating the size of the deck to be given over to the combat; Renly arguing for a smaller space and not Ned demanding a larger one. Finally, when Sean spied Robb give a brief nod to the arrogant prick's latest counter-proposal, he agreed.

Paint or chalk was called for from the ship's crew, and the line was put down.

Renly and the other Rainbow Guard attended Ser Loras; rubbing down his muscles and offering suggestions as to how best slay the murderous animal.

Sean stepped over towards Robb, but that only spooked the damned wolf as usual when he came to close; causing the fickle beast to back away. The actor retreated. Brynden, Edmure, and surprisingly the Queen then approached. Grey Wind allowed their touch.

Not Ned felt a strong hand on his shoulder. "Mathis Rowan had it right, that one is from another Age," said Bronze Yohn. "He smells the Old Gods favor upon you, Lord Eddard."

"Yes, but do the Old Gods favor him?" 'And does George?' he wondered.

"We shall see," the Lord of Runestone stated baldly. Then in a whisper, "You planned this challenge to Renly's honor, just like the fruit?"

"Aye," he replied quietly.

"Well then." The craggy face split wide. "A thousand Dragons that Grey Wind prevails!" he bellowed.

'Christ!' Sean thought. "This isn't a fucking match to be gambling fivers on!'

More time was spent lining up bets; though only Edmure and the Queen backed the direwolf. At least old Alestar and the ancienter Gunther refrained from wagering.

At last pretty Loras, long brown hair flowing in the breeze stepped into the circle set about the Lord Steffon's mast. He swept his long sword back and forth a few times; and then flexed his knees several times before assuming a basic defensive pose. Grey Wind simply took a few steps over the line and sat back on his haunches to yawn yet again.

No trumpets blew a fanfare. No crowds chanted encouragement. Even the nobles of both sides grew quiet in anticipation. Only the thumping sound of the High Septon lumbering forward in his tall crystal crown added any noise above that of the sea and wind and gulls. The Father and the Warrior were prayed to for justice and strength.

If Sean weren't so worried about losing Catelyn, about never seeing his son born, he would have been amused at the Fat One being forced to moderate his holy words to include a wolf. And the prayer was done. The High Septon withdrew.

"Do I salute?" Ser Loras japed, waggling his sword about.

"Kill the wretched beast," Renly commanded.

Sean saw his son's eye lose focus, glazing over.

The hackles rose on Grey Wind's back and death leapt snarling at the Knight of Flowers.

Bright steel catching the sun dropped low, and the streak of fur snarled and spun to the side. The wolf had killed too many men to fear them, but he remembered the painful sting of a blade.

Loras shifted and turned to keep Grey Wind in front of him. Sean was impressed with the knight's balance and low center of gravity. Speedy too, no heavy armor weighing him down; tiring him.

After several complete circuits, taking the measure of his foe's speed, the Knight of Flowers began to chase death. Grey Wind spun and wove, allowing Loras to get close, then scampering off or dodging behind the mast.

First blood went to the knight. Creeping backwards in front of Loras methodical attempts to cut off the edges of the circle and corner the weaponless beast, Grey Wind exploded forward in a burst of lightning, lunging for a boot. The leg was snatched awkwardly and the steel slashed along the wolf's side, coming away splattered with crimson.

Grey Wind sprinted past, not giving the opportunity for a second strike. The dance continued. Lying on the floor of the Throne Room, handless, Sean hadn't seen how the direwolf had defeated the Kingslayer. He now started to fret that without the distraction of a battle around him, Grey Wind's fangs were at a disadvantage against the long reach of cold steel.

"Stand and fight, cur!" Brienne of Tarth was the first to cry.

"Faithless beast!" and worse, others of the Rainbow Guard started cursing.

Grey Wind paid no heed, allowing the dance to turn into more of a chase. Then just as suddenly the direwolf doubled back to launch another assault. The results were no better. Ser Loras sidestepped and the wolf yelped as the man's blade sank into the meaty part of a hind leg.

Now his son's brother moved slower, more cautiously, favoring the leg. Loras came closer. His sword would cut out and the direwolf would evade at the last moment.

"You have him now, Loras!" shouted Renly gleefully.

Sweat was on Robb's brow and the game, injured lad wobbled some on his crutches.

Sean felt bile building at the back of his throat. If Grey Wind lost, he knew he'd spew his meager breakfast just as not Peter had at the Red Viper's crushing death from the Mountain's hands.

The direwolf dodged, darted, and weaved aside time and again. Muzzle snarling to show fearsome teeth, even as his speed slowly dropped notch after notch.

Loras' blade flashed again, and the tip of one ear fell to the oak deck as Grey Wind didn't duck quite fast enough. The beast turned tail and sprang behind the wide mast yet another time.

The Knight of Flowers leapt after his retreating were-foe, boot landing atop something hard and slippery; a peach stone. Loras skidded, wobbling, balance upset. Grey Wind spun around and pounced out from behind his shield faster than the eye could follow. The treacherous boot in his powerful mouth, the wolf crunched audibly down; the sound of bone breaking filling the air. And then he tugged mightily. Winter had come and the Knight of Summer toppled over.

In a flash, Sean's champion released his hold and snapped at Ser Loras' unprotected face. Another horrible crunching, wet, grinding sound rent the air; the wolf pulling the knight's body up off of the deck by his face.

"LORASSSSSSSSSS!" screamed Renly, throwing himself towards the fray.

"Grey Wind," Robb barked, eyes no longer unfocused, though body reeling from the mental exertion. The direwolf released his bloody teeth and the Knight of Flowers flopped to the deck, face all shining in crimson.

The weird symmetry of the books had struck again, this time doubling down upon itself.

Life was short. Sean had won by a nose, for Loras had lost his; along with much more of his pretty visage. The arrogant, love struck boy would never taste anything as sweet as a peach again.

The Southron lords stood utterly shocked, watching their weeping king cradle the Knight of Flowers' head with one strong hand while the other with his satin cloak tried to staunch the blood vomiting forth from the brave ser's mutilated face. "Loras," Renly crooned. "My love. My love." The object of his affection could only gurgle back in agony through a face split gruesomely open.

"My lords and sers, do your duty," Stannis Bartheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm commanded in a royal voice.

Mathis Rowan knelt first, proclaiming, "The King."

Alester Florent and Gunther Estermont submitted next, quickly followed by Robin Peasebury, Pyrch Dunn, and Aemon Shermer. "The King," they chanted one after the other.

Robar Royce was the first of the Rainbow Guard to kneel and Brienne of Tarth the last. The final one to yield to Stannis Baratheon's will was Ser Jon Fossoway, Mace Tyrell's goodbrother and Ser Loras' gooduncle.

A sole king now truly reigned over a united Westeros.

(Author's Note: My thanks to my friends at AlternateHistory for helping out with this chapter. First, Duras1989 for providing Sean's Shakespearean inspired soliloquy. And second, to Rinasoir and Sbiper for lending their vast talents in beta reviewing this chapter.)