It is a beautiful day on the Narrow Sea. The Cinnamon Wind slowly rolls over soft waves on its south-eastern course. Young Edward Stark sits, reclining in the warm sunshine, leaning back against his sleeping direwolf, scribbling away at the parchment in his lap with a brightly-colored feather quill. Each new day at sea seems easier than the next, the sickly green tint to his face fading away and the wobble being shaken from his step. He has even slowly found himself able to stomach the burning spices Old Jezra dumped over their meals, casting the food in a dozen strange new powdered hues.

He squints under the bright morning sun, scratching out the shaky black outlines of the crumbling towers of Harrenhal looming high on a plane behind a humble plowman. His head tilts as he finishes the final line, shading in ominous corners. Setting aside the quill, he holds the drawing out from his body to take in a better view.

"What do you think, Tessarion?" he asks. The wolf snorts in his sleep, unbothered. Edward frowns. "I suppose you're right. I did make it look awfully unpleasant. Lyman won't want his sigil to make his keep look so unhappy." With a sigh, he lets the parchment slip to the deck, staring out over the endless horizon to the vanished western shore far beyond. Four times now he's tried his hand at drawing a proper sigil for House Darry of Harrenhal, his final promise to his old friend before everything had gone so horribly wrong.

Where is he now? Edward wonders, thinking back to his long days in the yard training with Lyman. He's the king's squire, he has to be safe. Right? But there is part of him that cannot help but fear, as he counts the waves carrying him further and further away, that the Curse of Harrenhal may have struck before its newly bequeathed lord stepped foot in its haunted halls.

Far off on that phantom shore, in the cramped servant's quarters beneath Maegor's Holdfast, Lyman lies naked, pressed tight against the cold stone wall, his back scratched and reddened from loose straw tearing through holes in Eliza's moth-eaten mattress. His eyes groggily flutter open to a blank slate of dirty grey stone. His mouth is dry and cottony. Turning with a grimace, he reaches for the rough woolen blanket that isn't there. Slowly sitting up, his contorted back groaning as it unfurls, he sees Eliza has wrapped herself in it in the night, leaving only her head exposed. As he carefully climbs over her, flinching as bare feet touch the cold, grimy floor, he brushes aside her tangled raven hair to reveal her pale face, blissfully asleep. He smiles then coughs as sticky night gunk catches in his throat.

Not wanting to spit, he swallows the phlegm back down and yawns, slowly stretching each limb; the brittle snaps of joints popping back into place sound deafening in the quiet bowels of the Holdfast, though he can hear, muffled through the thick walls, the sounds of the castle coming to life. Slowly, quietly, he begins to dress himself. As he pulls his shirt back on over his head, he feels a small, soap-scarred hand pulling at his waist.

"Don't wear that filthy thing again," Eliza murmurs through a half-awake haze. He turns to her as she sits up, the blanket falling away to reveal herself in full. Even in the dim lamplight, the curve of her pregnant stomach is more unignorable every day. Soon the other servants will all know, Lyman thinks. And then they'll ask who the father is.

"It's the only one I have," he shrugs, batting away those worries for another day. "I don't have any clothes in the holdfast."

"Wear something of the servants, then," Eliza sighs, rising gingerly from the bed and pulling the shirt back off of him. She wraps it up in her hands, pausing to kiss his chest. "Pate's maybe. He's about your size."

"Which one?" There has to be a dozen Pates scurrying about down here.

"Any of them," she laughs – coarse and rough, though it had grown to be sweeter than birdsong to Lyman's ear. "You'll find something. Just not this." She takes a sniff of the wadded garment and recoils at the smell. "I'll wash it myself. Give it the lordly treatment." She tosses it into the corner and leans in to kiss him again. This time he meets her, wrapping his hands, still scabbed from battle, over her shoulders to pull her close. Her mouth tastes like old straw, but he doesn't mind, until the feel of her body tight against his reminds him of the life growing within. He nervously pulls away.

"I have to go. The king awaits."

"Is something wrong?" she asks, bending over to pull on one of her plain brown dresses as he makes for the door. "I mean, more than before? Last night you seemed… different."

He looks back as her disheveled head pokes through the collar of the dress with a crooked smile. There are a million answers for that question, none he particularly wants to give – The child, of course. But also the regret of his failure to protect King Robert. The memories haunting him of Robert laying secret plans to disinherit the boy he half-thought a friend, who he now served as king. The feeling that he is in horribly over his head. The fear for friends whose fates he does not know. That. That he could share.

"It's just Edward. I saw him in a dream last night. I don't know what that means. I just wish I knew where he was. And the others, too. Too many questions. And no one has answers."

"And that is why you're at the king's table," Eliza gives him a final embrace, hovering for just a moment longer in the doorway. "To help find the answers."

But, Lyman can't shake the thought, do I really want to know them?

The muffled sounds of troubled sleep rumble with the royal bedchambers. Outside, The Hound stands on unyielding watch while his companion guard shifts nervously, dwarfed by the imposing frame of the man in the dog-helm beside him.

"No! It isn't true!" Joffrey's garbled voice comes faintly through the thick oaken doors.

"Should we…" the short guard begins to speak the first words of his watch.

"No," Clegane cuts him off. "Only night terrors. He will not be seen like this."

"But he sounds…"

"If you think his grace sounds upset now, just wait 'til you barge in on him, embarrassing him."

"I would never mean to…"

"I expect he'll have me throw you down on the spikes m'self," Clegane chuckles under his helm. "I think I'd enjoy that."

The short guard does not offer another word.

A few moments longer and the hazy shouting stops, ended by the sharp thud of the young king crashing out of bed and onto the floor. With a sigh, Clegane turns to open the door. The short guard remains frozen in place.

"Don't just fucking stand there," he growls. "Go tell the servants his grace is awake!"

Chuckling as the guard rushes clattering down the hall, he heaves the doors open to find Joffrey, still wearing his rumpled clothes from the day before, standing dazed and aimless in the middle of the room. He seems lost, his breathing uneven, eyes still hazy from sleep, agitatedly brushing his disheveled hair back on top of his head. His crown, seemingly left on the foot of the bed, has been kicked off onto the floor, lying discarded in the corner. At last, he finally seems to notice Clegane standing in the doorway. Looking up with an emerald glare, he scowls.

"What did you hear, dog?"

"My ears hear only what your grace wishes."

"Were there other guards?"

"We have a shit lot. Would be best to cut their tongues out now and save the trouble later."

Joffrey grimaces. "If you hear any ill whispers of me amongst them, I want their heads on spikes. From now on, only you will guard my chambers."

"It will be done."

"And send the maester. I need medicine to quiet my nights."

Bright rays of early morning sun beam through the open room of Joffrey's former bedchamber, where it falls on the face of Maris Hightower, lying beneath the sheets of the prince's old bed. Squirming unpleasantly, she yanks the blankets over the top of her head to block out the light. Her brother, Peremore, already dressed and ready for the day, smirks at her discomfort from his seat in the corner before returning to his reading, a thick dusty tome from the royal solar. As he flips to the next page, a familiar raven swoops down onto the windowsill with a welcoming caw.

"Damnnit!" Maris shouts, flinging off the blankets. The startled bird flies off at once, leaving trace feathers in its wake, but she immediately regrets yelling. Face contorted in pain, she grabs her head, running fingers through her ruined braid, and shakily leans over to step out of the bed.

"I had the servants bring fresh water," Peremore announces softly, without looking up from his book. "Be sure to drink plenty of it. You spilled wine on your dress, so I had it sent down to be washed." Maris looks down, seeing the dark red stain seeped through onto her shift. "All of Myrcella's things are much too small for you, and Cersei's too big, so I asked them to bring the most presentable gown from the servants' wardrobe."

"Ugh. I couldn't bear wearing that wretched thing another day anyway," Maris grunts, shakily adjusting her balance. She steadies herself against the bedpost. "I feel like I'm going to die."

"Well, that's to be expected. You really ought to be more careful with your drink."

"I can assure you I won't become mother, if that's what you mean," Maris scowls, finally making her way to the water, taking a long drink. "You're altogether too harsh. If you had fun once in a while you would be much more interesting."

"I have no desire to be interesting. Those in high places are far more likely to trust a bore."

"As you will," Maris shrugs, walking carefully to the window with her overflowing cup. She squints painfully out at the clear blue sky and notes the ravens overhead. "I plan to enjoy myself regardless. Did I miss anything while I slept?"

"As far as I can tell, the castle still sleeps," Peremore finally sets down his book, rising to stand beside his sister. "Except for the servants, of course. I spoke to the ones assigned to us. They seem trustworthy. I aim to have their ears at our disposal."

"Any word from across the moat?"

"Nothing. I hate the silence. Anything could have happened out there and we're none the wiser. You'll have to send the birds."

Maris shakes her head slowly. "I certainly can't go in their minds now. Just thinking in my own head feels like a kick from a mule."

"We need to know!" Peremore glares at her, but with a shrug, she closes the window and wavers back to bed, taking another long drink of water before crawling back under the covers.

"You'll have to wait until the afternoon, I'm afraid, unless you plan to grow wings and fly out there yourself. If I have nothing to wear, I might as well go back to sleep. Wake me when they find something suitable."

With that, she pulls the blankets over her head. Glowering in silence, Peremore heaves the window back open, letting light flood the room once more. Ignoring Maris' grumbles from under the covers, he returns to his book but stops when the first sound of the unmistakable tolling bell rolls in with the sunshine. He turns back to the window as the bell tolls on. The Sept of Baelor. It can only mean one thing. Maris sits back up in bed, suddenly alert.

"They know."

"May the Other take him!" Renly Baratheon bellows, hurling a cistern out the open window of his bedchamber with a thunderous shout of fury. "Not even a day! The insufferable bastard could not wait even one damned day to tell them!"

"Renly, please, calm down," Loras Tyrell rushes to console him, gently flattening out the wrinkles formed in Renly's tight green doublet from the outburst. "The High Septon had to know eventually. We could only hide it for so long…"

"They will demand to enter, they will demand to have the body and they will bring Stannis with them!" He shoves Loras aside to pace the room, looking for other things to throw. "We're not ready! Your father was supposed to speak to them first, to ensure they would take our side! Already Stannis' words will be turning them against us!"

"If Stannis leaves negotiations to himself, his words will be what digs his grave," Loras laughs, slowly pulling Renly back to him. He holds him gently, feeling taught muscles slowly relax beneath the soft fabric. He places a slight kiss on his lover's cheek. "It will all go according to plan. Now calm down. Let's go out before the bastards eat away all our food."

Reluctantly, Renly takes a deep breath and flings open the doors to the solar. There he finds his nephews and niece already eagerly consuming a high-piled morning meal. Here, in the soft morning light, they look all of a kind – the same short, curled black hair, strong jaws, piercing blue eyes. Undeniably Baratheon, Renly thinks. The stain of their low birth has been nearly washed off. Well, almost. Gendry and Mya still eat as if the fine food is about to pulled away from them at any minute; Gendry scraping porridge from a delicate porcelain bowl, Mya nearly choking on a greasy sausage while already reaching to stab another. But Edric… Edric Storm sits poised between the two, with all the manners a lifetime of proper education in Storm's End could afford. He looks noble. Perhaps too noble.

"Good morn', my lord," Edric declares, rising as soon as his eye's register Renly and Loras. Gendry and Mya rush clumsily to follow.

"Sit, sit," Renly protests the reverence, putting on an amicable face as he takes his seat. "Don't let me interrupt." But he finds himself watching Edric's face carefully, the boy being shown in a new suspicious light. He's every bit the image of me at his age. But that makes him the image of Robert, too... But for now, he seems disinterested, unchallenging, thoughtlessly returning to his meal the same as before.

"You need to eat," Loras insists, hastily, picking together a plate from the wide spread – eggs, fruit, sausage and ham, pastries and porridge. But the rage buried in Renly's stomach makes it all seem untenable. Idly cutting a thin slice from a pear, he looks up to the door, where Ser Guyard Morrigan, in his own fresh Kingsguard armor, stands guard.

"Ser Guyard, go and summon the Hightower ladies. I require their audience. In the throne room."

Loras casts him a disapproving glance as the knight wordlessly exits. "It's still very early…"

"We don't have time to waste," Renly sternly cuts him off, rising as swiftly as he had reclined. Dropping the knife to the table, he takes a bite of the pear, juice splattering in his beard, and makes for the door without another word. Loras looks down at his his own plate mournfully before following, pastry in hand. "And send for your father! I mean to remind the Hightowers to whom they bend the knee!"

The door to the throne room swings open slowly, casting a long frame of light onto the floor, silhouetting the two women standing on the threshold. The great hall stands silent and empty, the great absence making it feel even larger before, the walk between them and the throne seemingly infinite. Alysanne and Leyla Hightower stand in their finest gowns, but match only in the colors of their House – orange and grey. Alysanne's dress is loose and flowing with deep sleeves that drown her hands. Leyla's, in contrast, is tight and intricately decorated with elaborate patterns, the taut stitching exposing much of her ample, dusky cleavage and barely holding over the expanse of her ample gut. But while dramatically distinct in body and fashion, they move as one, in long confident strides down the length of the hall.

At the foot of the throne, Renly waits, seated in an imposing chair. Ser Loras and Ser Guyard hover like ghosts in the corners while Lord Mace Tyrell sits at the head of the council's table, with Lords Florent and Caswell by his side. The blinding morning light from the windows behind the throne casts their face in shadow, but the wide grins on their face are unmistakable. Nor is the fact that Renly and Mace are clad in matching green. The sisters share a knowing glance.

"We thank you for your summons, my lords," they speak in unison, curtsying as they reach the end of the long, echoing walk.

"The past days have been long and trying," Renly offers a softer smile than the leering Reach lords. "We apologize for any worry that it may have caused. Of what have you been informed?"

"We know his grace King Robert is dead," Alysanne answers solemnly.

"May The Mother bless his soul," Leyla chimes in.

"We have heard fragments of stories from the servants. The Lannister attack. The king's death. The flight of the queen and prince. And that the gates remain sealed. But we have heard naught of our cousins or brother. Tell us, what have you heard of Gunthor and Hela?"

Renly glances towards Ser Loras before answering. "Your brother was escorting young Hela and Edward Stark to their ship when the Lannisters attacked the castle. We have not heard from them since. With The Mother's mercy, they have found shelter in the city."

"And what of Peremore and Maris?" Alysanne asks. "Their mother worries deeply for them."

"They have not been seen. But they were close in company to the queen and her children. It stands to reason they, too, are sealed within the Holdfast."

"Whatever crimes the Lannisters may have committed, I can assure you our cousin's children are innocent. Their safety must be paramount in any negotiations."

"Of course," Renly answers with calm assurance. "We all hold the loyalty of House Hightower in high esteem. They will be protected."

"Your words are balm to worried ears," Alysanne glances to her sister, then back to Renly. "Now, how may we serve your lordship? There is no need to dally with pleasantries any longer. We would not be here now if you did not require something of us."

Mace snorts indignantly at her bluntness, but Renly raises a silencing hand before turning back to the sisters with a smile, his strategy shifting. "You are correct. As you have no doubt devised, our situation remains precarious. We would request you send word to your Lord Father in Oldtown, to convene the archmaesters and Most Devout in the wishes of ensuring a peaceful transition."

"You mean to disinherit Lord Stannis as well as Prince Joffrey," Leyla blurts out.

"Lady Hightower!" Mace bellows.

"Lord Tyrell!" Renly shouts over him. "Your moderation is not required! We have no secrets with our friends in Oldtown." At that, the conquering smiles of the Reach lords vanish. He turns back to the sisters. "As perceptive as ever, Lady Leyla. Your reputation does not disappoint. It is true. My dear brother was prepared to disinherit Cersei's bastards himself before the Lannisters murdered him. As for Stannis, well, it pains me to say this, but I have no doubt you have already heard the whispers of the Red Woman yourselves. And I fear to admit they are true. As the devout defenders of The Faith, certainly House Hightower must see that an apostate can never sit the Iron Throne."

Alysanne and Leyla glance at each other. Leyla's round mouth begins to open, but Alysanne speaks first. "If these allegations are true, then Oldtown will dutifully follow the High Septon's just rulings."

"I do not take these actions lightly. But I must serve the good of the realm, despite my love for my brother. Stannis practically raised me after our parents died. It tears me in two to see him fall. He would have once made a great king. Alas…"

"Of course," Alysanne nods. "And we share in your grief. We will send word to The Hightower at once. And we shall pray for your strength in these trying times."

"Your kindness is tenderly felt, my lady," Renly touches his heart, gently, the glisten of what could almost be a tear forming in the corner of his eye. "Go in peace. I look forward to hearing from your Lord Father."

At that, Alysanne turns to leave, but Leyla lingers a moment longer. "And as counsel, my lord, his High Holiness would be like to look more fairly upon your cause if due reverence is paid to the body of our great king. Do not let this feud bring disrespect upon the sacred rites. Send the body to the Sept of Baelor. Before, well… he starts to stink up the place."

With a smirk, she turns to follow her sister out, her wobbling gait struggling to catch up. Renly allows a small chuckle to himself as he watches them go before turning to the lords. "That is all I will hear today."

"My lord, if you will, Lord Varys has again sent a new petition for audience from his cell," Mace adds, but Renly shakes his head.

"I have no need of that spider. Now go! Leave me in peace!"

Mace scowls, but follows as Ser Guyard leads them to exit. The low drone of shuffling feet lingers as the line of attendants slowly makes their way out of the hall. At last, with a muffled toll, the door slams shut, leaving Renly and Loras alone again. The slightest hint of mirth creeps onto Renly's face as he turns and lifts off Loras' helm. But a scowl is waiting on the elegant face underneath.

"What is the matter? At last, good news to balance the bad!" Renly kisses him, but his lips are cold. He pulls away. "Were not just this morn' you the one telling me not to worry?"

"You embarrassed my father. He had promised to deliver the word of The Faith himself."

"The Faith has always first heeded the word of The Hightower. Why risk offending them when they openly promise allegiance?"

"House Tyrell is Paramount in The Reach!" Loras protests. "The Hightowers have held sway over the Citadel and the Faith for far too long! My father…"

"Will have what he wants once I have a crown on my head and your sister in my bed. For now, can we not celebrate?" Renly tugs at the laces of his breaches, pressure growing with his excitement. But Loras resists.

"As you said, we have no time to waste." He puts his helm back on. "What do you require of your Lord Commander?"

Renly scowls, his face tightened by denied release. But, eventually, the darkness fades. "Send a messenger to Stannis at Lord Manning's manse. Let him know the body will be handed over for delivery to the Sept of Baelor. And set the date for our parlay in five days. Then tell the septons to prepare the body for internment." He stops, looking down at the green and gold fabric he is wearing. "And have them prepare my own colors for the ceremony. They must see me as I am. The next Baratheon king."

"Why do you look poor?"

Joffrey scowls, sitting at the head of his council table in the royal solar, glaring at Lyman and Maris in their seats by his side, clad in clean but plain servants' clothes.

"Your grace, we have no clothes in the Holdfast," Lyman answers quickly. "Only what we wore the day of the attack."

"Well, this will not do," Joffrey scoffs. "Ser Desmond, go through our wardrobes and find something suitable for them to wear. I will not have my counsellors dressed as smallfolk."

"Of course, your grace," the nervous steward nods quickly.

"What other news do you have for me?" Joffrey glances around the table to each of his counsellors. "What are my uncles doing out there?"

"We have had no new word since yesterday, your grace," Ser Barristan answers, calm and slow. "There are men posted by the bridge day and night in the event Lord Renly attempts to make contact. But there have been no signs of men, nor ravens."

"Then why are we here?" Joffrey stands in a huff. "If you don't have anything to tell, me, why waste my time?" With an exasperated grunt, he stomps out of the room, leaving the table of councilors awkwardly twisting in their seats.

"It would appear this council is concluded," Barristan is the first to break the silence, with a sigh. "Unless there are matters you require to air?" Desmond, Maester Gaheris, Lyman, Peremore and Maris all shake their heads in turn. Slowly, one by one, they rise to leave. Eventually, only Barristan and Gaheris are left. Barristan reaches out to grab the maester's shoulder as he moves to leave. "You've heard nothing from your fellows still in the keep?"

"No, ser," Gaheris shakes free. His pale blue eyes burn briefly with an intense glare. "I assure you, if they do, I will not hesitate to tell his grace. We live to serve him."

"And have you no means to contact them?"

"No, not without ravens. Unless the tunnels…"

"They will remain closed," Barristan insists. With that, he marches out with Gaheris slowly following, chains rattling around his neck.

The sound of the closing solar doors can be heard softly within Princess Myrcella's bedchambers, where the young princess lies in feverish sleep. Sitting at her bedside, like a pale-faced vulture, is Joffrey, watching her slow breaths raise and lower the blankets covering her, a bottle of wine cradled in his lap.

"You need to wake up," Joffrey mutters. "It's stupid getting sick like this. No one else did. And I'm the one that killed her." He sighs and takes a drink. Myrcella does not move. "Don't look at me like that! She deserved it! She was a traitor!" He looks away, staring across the room to a large tapestry of a dancing lion. His face darkens. "I told them to take those all down!"

Rising in a huff, he storms across the room, tearing the tapestry from the wall with a violent tug, bringing it down on top of him with a crash. With a curse, he untangles himself, throwing the heavy fabric to the floor. But still Myrcella does not stir.

"You know what she told me?" He half-whispers as he draws back to his sleeping sister, crouching by her side. "Before she died? She told me that it was true. Those lies that Uncle Renly said about us. She called us bastards. You see now, I had to do it. I had to kill her. She would have destroyed us. The lying bitch." He sinks lower to the floor, knees pressed up against his chin. "But it's not true. You know that. I know it. Father was the king. And now I'm the king. I killed the white stag." He stares across the room at the crumpled Lannister tapestry, lying almost like a body. "It's not true. I'm a Baratheon. I'm the king."

In the royal sept, the remnant of King Robert's court stands gathered beneath the towering alters of The Seven as somber harps play a dirge to the fallen king. In the center of the room rests the royal casket – polished black ebony embellished with gold. The lid, set aside for now, crossed with a dozen golden antlers. For now it lies empty. The crowd parts – Lord Renly is the last to arrive. He enters in his finest black velvet doublet, studded with glistening onyx, a golden belt around his waist matching the gold-cloth cape draped over his shoulders. He stares straight ahead, past the casket and up to the watchful marble faces of the gods; his hair and beard freshly cropped – the same style his brother will wear to the grave.

As he takes his place at the head of the mourners, the low gong tolls and the doors to the septon's chambers swing open. The silent sisters enter first, hooded and shawled in their grey robes, holding steaming thuribles burning overwhelming incense. Next, the septon enters, a small man with a booming voice delving out blessings in the old Andal tongue. Behind him come the pall-bearers and on their shoulders – Robert himself, clad in his finest, glistening from gold and gems, wrapped in delicate ferns and flowers.

Renly watches as they slowly lower the body into the casket, straining not to gag on the bitter incense as it burns his nostrils and rushes tears to his cold, unblinking blue eyes. He glances, for a moment, to Loras, on guard at his father's side, but he is unyielding, invisible beneath his helm – he could be any faceless knight. He lets the unwanted tears roll down his cheeks, unwilling to move as Robert's face becomes visible, dropping into the casket with a solemn thunk.

The septon begins to speak Common now, sure to be a long, tedious sermon singing the dead king's praise and extolling the mercy of the gods and their guidance in troubled days. It is all noise to Renly. He stares at Robert's corpse – pale and puffy yet somehow still carrying his royal aura. He remembers the day he had stood by and watched them place the crown upon his brother's head. You never said a word to me, the whole day, Renly remembers, bitterly. But they loved you. I was just the spare. Even as you grew old and fat and drunk, I could never be you. Only in death. But I will never become what you became.

He looks up to see the bastards standing opposite him. Their faces are twisted into confused emotions, as if reaching for grief that isn't there. Of course it isn't. You didn't know him. But if you had, would it have made you love him more? He thinks of Joffrey and scowls, before quickly returning his face to stony grief. He notices a flash of color on Edric's chest – a new coat of arms; the Baratheon stag quartered with his mother's Florent fox. The morning's gnawing feeling of suspicion begins to creep its way back up his spine. You don't know how close you were to being heir, he thinks, as Edric steps forward to pay his final respects. Or do you?

Renly looks up to the cold marble face of The Father, watching all beneath him with unwavering judgement. The septon drones on. And then it is his turn. He steps forward to the casket, staring down at the body. Now, up close, the aura is gone. Only the cold spell of lifelessness. He sees his face reflected in the polished sapphire ovals covering Robert's eyes. And in that moment, Renly's first true tear drops down to land between his brother's eyes, soaked up by the clammy skin. As it vanishes, the septon's dry voice bequeaths his final blessing –

"May The Father judge him justly."

A/N: Thank you for reading! This was a bit of a long one, I had a lot of set-up in the capital to get through before I can go back to Edward's journey, but I hope you've enjoyed the scheming so far! Renly and Joffrey are very fun characters to right for! The good news is, I wrap up Finals next week, so this summer I'll have much more time to write this, and hope to deliver new chapters close-to-weekly in the next few months!

As always, all feedback is greatly appreciated! Leave any comments, questions or criticisms below!