The great bells of the Sept of Baelor toll solemnly once more as King Robert Baratheon's tomb is sealed at last. It is a small ceremony. The gates of the great temple remain closed, keeping the confused and panicked masses locked on the outside, unsure of what has become of their great king and who now sits upon the Iron Throne. But the thick walls of stone muffle their shouts, and so they do not intrude upon the thoughts of the lone man standing final vigil over the slain king – his brother, Lord Stannis Baratheon, teeth gritted and fists clenched as he watches the gilded seal of the tomb slide into place.
After everything, this is how it ends… he thinks. After every insult, every disrespect, every abandoned responsibility. But it could only have ended this way. You died as you lived, sowing chaos and leaving us to pick up the pieces.
With a sigh, Stannis turns away from the tomb, noticing the High Septon watching him. As he moves to exit, he stops by the door, dipping to kneel before the seven candles burning their final blessings over his brother's body, pantomiming the old prayers he had not said in faith for far too long to remember. Such hollow posturing rankles his pride, but he has felt the High Septon's eyes boring into the back of his head since he first stepped into the hallowed halls. Whether by Renly's doing or merely the mouths of idle sailors, whispers spread of his apostasy and the dark magics of the red witch, Melisandre. They were not wholly false. His fealty to the Seven had sank to the bottom of Shipbreaker Bay when he watched his parents drown, only fourteen years old. He never again had use for prayers of any kind. But in times like these, he could not suffer the suspicions of the Faith.
Assured that his supplication will satisfy the watchful eyes, Stannis rises, bidding a final, penitent farewell to the High Septon before following his waiting knights back out into the bright morning light outdoors. A slight breeze raises the stench up to greet him as he stops at the top of the steps, surveying the capital awaiting below, the aggressive sun already baking it into a frenzy.
"The maesters say autumn is nearly upon us," Ser Justin Massey mutters by his side. "Would that it would start to feel it. I miss Dragonstone already."
Autumn is coming soon enough, Stannis scowls, and winter after it. That is the only thing worth any faith in this world. The only question is – will we be strong enough to face it?
Beneath the shadow of the Sept atop Visenya's Hill, in the heart of the city, sits the commandeered manse of Lord Alberic Manning. There, Ser Gunthor Hightower reclines with his niece Heleana, sipping on a jewel-crusted goblet of wine and nibbling away at a noontide spread of cheese, fruit and sweetmeats. Across them sits Ser Davos Seaworth, picking at a pickled herring that has been staring up cross-eyed from his plate long enough to turn sour. The weathered man has perplexed Gunthor from the day they met – slight but strong with thinning hair and a greying beard. A quiet man, who took up little space in the room. He had heard Lord Stannis' men call him the Onion Knight, though he'd noted no foul smell about him. In fact, he's noticed scarcely anything at all. The man seems unremarkable, looking and acting half-peasant, yet Stannis trusted him above all others.
"You know, if you wait any longer it's liable to sprout wings and fly away," Gunthor finally breaks the silence. "That's why little girls and old men oughtn't play with their food."
"Oh," Davos is startled back to reality. "I'm sorry, ser, I was lost in thought. There is so much to do before the parlay."
"Of course," Gunthor shrugs taking another sip of wine. "I'm sure Lord Manning has plenty of herring to go around." There is much to do, that much at least is certain, Gunthor thinks. A battle between brothers for the throne. And then there was the matter of Joffrey… But if this man is all Stannis has… Perhaps there will be room at his side for a proper knight. But before Gunthor can drift into fantasies of decorating the Tower of the Hand for himself, Heleana shakes him back to the matters at hand.
"Nuncle, has there been any news of Edward?" she asks, turning a block of mottled cheese over in her tiny hands. The girl had scarce thought of anyone but her betrothed ever since the day of the attack on the dock. But no one had seen the Stark boy or his wolf since.
"I don't know, mayhaps Ser Davos has heard word from his men on patrol?" Gunthor quickly deflects the persistent question to the older man.
"I've entrusted our every man with a description of your friend," Davos assures Hela, his voice calm and direct. So he's a parent, then, Gunthor notes, recognizing the familiar tone of a patient father. "A scarred boy with a giant wolf cannot be easy to hide. If young master Stark remains in the city, our men will find him."
"Perhaps I can help," a soft, exotic voice drifts in from behind them. The three turn to see the Lady Melisandre glide quietly into the room in her crimson robes, carefully combed copper hair perfectly framing her pale face. All thoughts of deciphering Davos vanish from Gunthor's mind as he is drawn back to her, his attention at once commanded by her dark red eyes. "The Lord of Light brought me to young Heleana. Perhaps he will show us the way to your lost lordling."
"Could you do that?" Heleana asks, eagerly.
But the Onion Knight is unmoved. "Lord Manning has forbidden any such…"
"Ah, Ser Davos," the lady cuts off his protest. "Do not be so rash. I only want to help the girl." She walks to the Hightowers' side with steps so soft she may as well be hovering above the ground. "Can't you see how she worries, so?" She places one hand on Heleana's head, the other on Gunthor's shoulder. He feels the air grow warmer in her presence, though it could only be the pounding of his own heart. "The city is a dangerous place for a boy alone."
"And our knights will find him," Davos insists. "Your parlor tricks are of no help to anyone. You found the girl by luck, that is all."
"How long will you persist in doubting the flames?" Melisandre sighs, disappointed. "Our Lord reveals many things to me. I can tell you that herring will give you indigestion. And I can tell you that our Lord Stannis will call upon the gate in…" She pauses, her eyes looking up to the ceiling as if waiting upon a celestial signal. A moment passes, then two, until the sound of a horn blows from atop the wall outside.
"Lord Stannis has returned!" the muffled shout of the guards follow shortly.
With a victorious smile, Melisandre strides out of the room without another word, off to meet the returning lord. Gunthor hurries to follow, leaving Davos alone to pick at his herring. As he goes, his mind races in tune with his pulse as plans begin to fall into place - how to make himself indispensable to Stannis, how to retrieve his niece's missing betrothed, how to make his way into the bed of the red witch… but no thoughts to spare for his sisters still locked away within the Red Keep…
In the Maester's Chambers of the Red Keep, Leyla and Alysanne Hightower rummage about, opening cupboards and turning over crates as they search the premises for the personal collection of Maester Gaheris – secretly a Hightower by birth, and now trapped within Maegor's Holdfast with their cousins and Prince Joffrey. Leyla, the older, larger and louder of the two, catches the hem of her dress on a chair, nearly toppling forward to the ground. She lets out a curse as she stumbles, too loud for her sister's comfort.
"They're going to catch us," Alysanne hisses.
"Then we'll come up with a story, just like old times."
"We don't even know which office is his!" Alysanne hisses as Leyla's stomach knocks a heavy urn to the ground with a thud. "And there's no reason to believe he had a glass candle in the first place! And even if he did, you'd never know how to use it!"
"How do you know that?" Leyla stops, turning around with a hurt look on her face.
"You're not a sorcerer, Ley," Alysanne shakes her head. "You learned a few parlor tricks from a travelling magician, that's all. Every maester in a thousand years has tried to light the glass candles. And every one has failed."
"Well maybe the Citadel should have let us in. We have to find a way to speak to Father and the others without the Tyrells peering over our shoulder."
Seeing there will be no dissuading her sister, Alysanne throws her hands up with a sigh and joins the search, passing over the line of shelves with disinterest. "It's not going to be in here. This is all too… common to be Gaheris' office." Her eyes drift to a door in the far back corner. Creaking it open, careful not to make too much noise, she peers into the dim office. There, carved into the oaken desk in the center of the room, she spies a sigil – a flame wrapped in a chain.
"It's here!" she whispers back at Leyla, but as she turns to beckon her in, the door into the maesters' chambers swings open, revealing the confused face of old Maester Varman, his face more wrinkles than anything else, tiny eyes squinting incredulously at the two women.
"What are you doing in here?"
"Looking for the ravens," Leyla blurts out. "We have to send word to our Lord Father in Oldtown, at Lord Renly's command."
Varman pauses for a moment, looking the sisters up and down, deciding whether to accept this explanation. Finally, his ancient mouth creaks open. "Then you are in quite the wrong place. Follow me." He motions to them to follow, and reluctantly, they do, back through the maze of chambers and offices until they reach the ravenry, its caged birds watching inquisitively and eerily quiet as they enter.
"Thank you kindly, Maester Varman," Alysanne bows respectfully. She reaches for a quill and scroll, but the old man does not move.
"Lord Renly has been very clear, no missives are to leave our walls without his knowledge. I shall inspect your message, and send it myself."
With an irritated sigh, Alysanne beckons him closer and begins to write. As he squints over the younger woman's shoulder, Leyla turns to watch the birds, struggling to contain her temper. They'll have us under watch, now, she thinks. The old fool will tell Renly we were sneaking about. Fuming, she wonders out onto the balcony, jutting out from the tower and covered with stone ravens keeping a watchful eye for their returning winged brothers. And there, perched on the railing, staring directly at her, one bird waits, paper clutched in its claw.
With a nervous glance back to ensure the maester is still occupied, Leyla shuffles forward, careful with each step not to frighten off the raven, but it does not move. Already, thick beads of sweat begin to grow on her dusky brow, the late summer sun showing no favor. As she wipes it away, she finally notices – there is something wrong with this bird. It's eyes – not black, but white, rolled back in its head. She knows that look. Maris.
Moving quickly, she snatches the paper from its loose talons and slips it up her sleeve. The bird gives a knowing nod, before bursting into an explosion of feathers, taking flight back up over the towers and out of sight. Leyla turns to see Alysanne handing off her letter to Varman. The glass candle may be out of their reach. But for now, they have something better.
Within Maegor's Holdfast, Joffrey quivers impatiently, arms stretched out, as the seamstress, Eliza, carefully takes his measurement. As she takes notes, one by one, she shares quick glances with Lyman Darry, reclining in the corner, watching her every move with barely concealed adoration. He remembers he had met her just like this – her dark brown hair tied tightly back to not get in the way as she took his measurements for the fine new clothes King Robert had gifted him upon making him his squire. The baggy dress struggling to conceal her pregnant belly did little to hide her beauty, at least to him. Not that Joffrey noticed.
"Are you done yet?" the young king whines as Eliza steps back to admire her work.
"Yes, your grace."
"Finally!" Joffrey snaps his arms back down to his side. He was the last to be measured for the new clothes he had demanded for him and his young councilors. Peremore and Maris had gone first when he was late to arrive after sleeping in. And Eliza was well-enough aware of the intimacies of Lyman's body to fashion new clothes for her lover. Which left them waiting on Joffrey to hold still long enough to complete the task, something that grew harder as each day of isolation further wore down his patience.
"I'll see you in the yard!" The door slams behind him as he goes. Before the echo of the king's exit has ceased to reverberate in the room, Lyman makes a dash to the seamstress' side, lifting her into a passionate kiss. He stumbles slightly as he hoists her up, heavier than before, and she impulsively bites down hard on his lip as their mouths meet. With a grimace, the couple falls back apart.
"Are you hurt?" Eliza gasps as his hand shoots to his mouth, hastily wiping away blood. "I'm so sorry, I didn't…"
"No, no!" Lyman protests, curling his lip down to show the tiny wound. "It's nothing!" But as he swears, another drop of blood slips out, falling the long way to the floor.
"Here, I'll make it better." She pulls him back close, wrapping her arms around him as she leans up, sucking on his lip until the pain disappears. He holds her, not wanting to let go again, not moving, feeling her body breathe beneath the unseasonably thick dress. But it cannot last forever. She releases him with a wet smack and a red-tinted smile. "How was that?"
"Much better," he offers a lop-sided grin in return.
"Here, look," she moves back to her work station, the sway of her hips taking on more of a waddle with each new day of growth. "See what I'm making for the king." She holds up a beautifully delicate drawing of a fantastic doublet – black silk with golden cuffs and stripes down the side, leading to a flare at the top of the boots. Lyman lifts up the paper, letting it take his breath away. They'll never doubt he's a Baratheon in this.
"You're brilliant." He squints closer at the design, recognizing tiny dots of green across the chest. "What are those?"
"These!" Eliza eagerly snatches up a small pouch, pulling it open to dump a pile of dazzling emeralds into her calloused palm.
"What!?" Lyman pulls back in shock, then leans forward in disbelief, taking up one of the tiny gemstones and turning it between his fingers. "How?"
"An old lion's-head goblet of the queen's," her smile widens. "I can't imagine his grace will be keeping any of that around anymore."
"No," Lyman's blood suddenly turns cold as he hands the emerald back, remembering Cersei falling to the ground, her blood staining the floor and Joffrey's blade. "No, I don't think he will."
"Is something wrong?" Eliza hastily puts the pouch back as Lyman moves to the door. "By the gods, tell me he didn't want it! He said to destroy anything from the Lannisters!"
"No, no, you did nothing wrong," he shakes his head, stopping in the doorway as she catches up with him. "It's just… that was a hard day, when the queen died. For all of us."
"I'm so sorry." Her voice softer, now, she embraces him once more. He rests his head atop hers, breathing in the familiar smell of her hair. "I can't imagine…"
"It was the past." Lyman straightens back up, summoning back his composure and pushing the doubts back down again. "It's a new day."
"Yes," she takes his hands, placing them on her belly. "And we're the future." With a final kiss on his cheek, she opens the door and they step into the hall together. "The other girls and the old women are all jealous of me, you know, that I get to design new clothes for the king and his council. It's all they talk about."
"Maybe it was a bad idea. They could be suspicious."
"Oh, I'm sure they all think I'm whored out to one of you. It could be anyone. Even his grace. Even Ser Barristan."
Lyman can't help but laugh at the image of noble old Barristan aghast. "He'd be more likely to drop dead on the spot!"
"See, there is nothing to fear," Eliza smirks "We can laugh, if no one else will. His grace is certainly in a foul mood today."
"No doubt of that," Lyman sighs as the weariness of trying to guide the unpredictable young king returns. "He starts training again today. Peremore and Barristan think it will help clear his mind, and make him ready to face whatever comes next."
"What does come next?" Eliza looks up at him, leaning so close to him now their arms jostle each other as they walk, yearning to touch but knowing they cannot. Not in public. Not yet.
"I don't know." They stop at the balcony overlooking the Holdfast's small plaza. Below them, Peremore hands Joffrey a sword as he takes position opposite Ser Arys in his Kingsguard armor. "But don't worry." He slides his hand closer to hers as they linger for a moment, their pinky fingers curling into an unnoticeable embrace. "Whatever happens, I'll be here for you."
Opposite them, Maester Gaheris watches the training approvingly, sipping on cool, bitter lemon water as the ringing of steel begins to rise from below. He turns at the sound of slight approaching feet. Maris, eyes blood-shot from skin-changing, props herself up on the railing beside him with a loud sigh.
"Did they get the message?" he asks.
"Yes," she answers, her throat still dry and raspy. She takes his cup without asking, her nose curling up at the acidic taste. "Leyla took it. I don't know how you drink that."
"We must all keep a clear mind," Gaheris nods coldly, looking down at Joffrey as he circles Arys, sword reflecting sunlight back up into the watchers' eyes. "His grace grows restless. I fear his training will not be enough. You may have to tell him."
Maris turns, her eyes suddenly shaken clear by a nervous rush. "Father told me never to tell anyone who wasn't blood."
"This is so much bigger than your father now, girl, you must realize that. His grace will never admit it, but he knows we are losing this fight. We put the crown upon his head. If we mean to keep it there, we must give him a power that Renly Baratheon does not have."
The crown is a glorious thing, sitting upon a pillow of black satin in an ebony box. Thin plates of gold delicately hammered into a lattice-work of curved antlers, numbering seven, and fused to an iron band, in laden with glistening onyx and carved with the words of House Baratheon – "Ours Is The Fury." The craftmanship is impeccably smooth, the lines invisible to the discerning eye. No radical departure from King Robert's crown – but newer, finer, more glistening.
"You've done excellent work, Ser Aron," Renly Baratheon looks up from examining the piece to see the Dornish Master-of-Arms beaming down at him, his expectant grin glistening brighter than his bejeweled earrings. "But you must hide this away."
Aron's smile disappears. "Your grace, I don't understand…"
"I cannot lay claim to the throne until Joffrey and Stannis are set aside by The Faith," Renly explains, gently closing the lid of the box to hide the crown from sight. "If I am seen wearing this before then, they will call me usurper in the streets. I will not abide that."
"Of course," Ser Aron nods affirmingly, if disappointed, sliding the box back across the table to him. He glances to Mace Tyrell, sitting silently by Renly's side. "I have also designed a crown for our future queen, if you would like to see them, my lord."
"Later!" Mace cuts him off, his foul mood written plainly on his furrowed brow. "There are far more pressing matters at hand. We have yet to receive word from your liege in Sunspear."
"It is a long flight for the ravens," Aron holds up his hands apologetically. "And our Prince, in his wisdom, is a methodical man, who weighs every decision carefully."
"You mean he is a dawdler," Mace snorts derisively. "He sits on his hands and calls it wisdom."
"I swear he will see the reason of your cause," Aron ignores the Hand's comment, turning back to Renly. "No one in the Seven Kingdoms despises the Lannisters so greatly as House Martell. No Lannister bastard will sit the throne so long as men still breathe in Dorne."
"Very good," Renly answers before Mace can speak again. "Nonetheless, I will want you at our table for the parlay today. Stannis should know that Dorne stands with us."
"Of course, your grace," Aron answers without hesitation.
"Then you may leave us," Renly dismisses him. The Dornish knight exits quickly, his precious cargo held reverently in his hands. "You may leave as well, Ser Guyard." Renly waves off the Kingsguard by the door, who follows Aron out, leaving the self-named king alone with Lord Tyrell and Ser Loras.
"That man speaks of prizes he cannot deliver," Mace blurts out before the door has swung back shut, only to stop when he sees the cold glare forming on Renly's face.
"I cannot have your petty grievances interfere with our alliances," he states, the rising irritation in his throat shifting his voice to an ominous growl. "First the Hightowers, now the Martells?"
"These people cannot be trusted."
"Then tell me, Mace, who do you believe I can trust? Besides you? I cannot build a claim on Highgarden alone. I need Dorne and I need Oldtown."
"I rule Oldtown!" Mace finally snaps, slapping his hand down at the table. He launches halfway out of his chair, knees still bent as Renly lurches to his feet, towering over the shorter man, his annoyed glare transformed into a stare of blue fury. But for once, Mace does not shy away, slowly straightening to his full height, unyielding. "I will not have my authority stolen out from under me by those conniving wenches. That family must be reminded of who they answer to."
"They are your kin," Renly growls through gritted teeth. "Deal with them or I will."
"Do not forget who has paved your path to the throne. Robert never did."
"Do not speak to me of Robert!"
"Father!" Loras shouts, breaking his silence and freezing Renly in a flash, his fist clenched and ready to strike the lord.
"Loras!" Both men shout back, turning to him at once. But he wavers, taking a step back, unsure of whom to answer.
"We… we must prepare for the parlay," he finally stammers, slamming his white visor shut to hide the panic and trepidation on his face. "Stannis will not take kindly to waiting."
"No," Renly agrees firmly, reasserting his composure. He turns away from Mace, the stout older lord still huffing, face red as a turnip. "Maester Varman reported to me earlier that the Hightower women have sent word to their father, as I commanded. If Lord Leyton's answer is unsatisfactory, then you know what to do." He marches towards the door, stopping by Loras on his way. The knight almost speaks, but thinks better of it. "Bring me the strongest horse in the stables. I will not be crowned at this parlay. But I mean to show my brother which of us is fit to be king."
The sun only grows hotter as the day drags on, baring down harshly on Lord Manning's manse, baking in their armor the small crowd of knights that stand like a steel wall behind Stannis as he sits, coolly unbothered by the heat, at the long dining table, drug into the yard. To his right sit Davos and Justin Massey; to his left, Lord Manning and Lady Melisandre. And in front of him, straining the mahogany boards with its legendary weight, is Robert's warhammer. It sits like a dull, ominous sleeping beast, refusing to glisten even in the blinding afternoon light; a wall of silence between the two brothers, for across from Stannis waits Renly, in his freshly shined green armor, flanked by Lords Tyrell and Caswell to his right, Lord Florent and Ser Aron to his left.
Neither Baratheon has yet to speak, as Gunthor strains his neck to watch the parlay over the shoulders of the knights from Dragonstone, keeping him far from a seat of influence. Only for now, he assures himself, grateful in the moment that he has chosen a light orange doublet for this heat, rather than the unbearable steel plate of his fellow knights. For now, he is content to listen. And at last, Renly breaks the silence.
"I see you've scavenged yourself a new home, like some manner of crab. Will you not at least spare us some wine? I am sure Lord Manning keeps quite the cellar."
Stannis scowls. "You speak boldly for one standing in defiance of the laws of gods and men."
"Come now!" Renly forces a smile. "Can we not be cordial?"
"I will not waste pleasantries upon treacherous terms. Speak plainly. Do you mean to name yourself king?"
"Those are your words, not mine, brother."
"You come here with his hammer, his knights, with your own man sitting in the office he promised me. Your actions name you a usurper, no matter what you call yourself."
Renly runs his hands over the length of the hammer, as if drawing power from it. "With this, I defended the Keep from Lannister traitors, spilling the blood of our enemies as his grace once did. And these are not his knights, they are mine." He gestures to Ser Loras and Ser Guyard, at attention in the Kingsguard armor. "The former Kingsguard were old, weak and treacherous. And now they are dead. These men are strong, and will defend the throne with their lives. As for Lord Tyrell, you were not here, dear brother. The realm needed a strong Hand to face this tragedy, while the throne sits empty."
"His grace had an heir. Where is the boy?"
"Come now, Stannis. You and I both know the truth of that."
"Whatever accusations you have made have met no verdict. Until the matter of succession is decided at trial, as the elder brother, it is my right by birth to preside over the court. Yet your gates remain barred. As I said before, your actions speak of treason."
Slowly, Renly draws his hands back across the table, slowly crossing his arms across his chest, all attempts at pleasantries slowly draining from his face as it twists into a scowl. At his sides, the lords of the Reach glance at each other nervously, but he remains undeterred. When he speaks again, his voice rings as cold as Stannis.'
"You know my heart, brother. It holds nothing but love for you and your family. I only wish to protect you," he slowly turns to face Melisandre. "Surely you must know the sorts of things they have been saying about you."
"Careful how you speak, Lord Renly!" Justin Massey nearly rises in protest, but Stannis raises a sharp hand to silence him.
"Let me make myself clear," Renly looks back to his brother. "You and your men may enter the Red Keep only upon swearing allegiance to my authority as regent and forsaking any claim to the line of succession. If you do so, I will extend my grace to you. If not, you may sit on your heels at my gates while my army vanquishes the Western rebels. When the war is over, all traitors to the crown will be tried for their crimes, and you will be counted among their number."
"You have no place upon the throne," Stannis responds, unmoved by the threat. "The fools you've propped up at this table will not carry you there alone."
"Don't delude yourself. I am loved by the people. I have the Reach, the Stormlands and Dorne, and once I return Cersei and the Starks to their families, I will have the West, the Riverlands and the North as well. I am giving you a chance. Go back to your rock and live out your days in peace. Or else you will find a place beside Lord Tywin on the spikes."
"That's not true!" A voice shouts from behind Stannis. The lords, overladen with tension, turn as the knights part to reveal Gunthor. "Edward Stark was with me the day the king died! Your men tried to seize him, but he escaped!"
"Hightower!" Mace Tyrell nearly spits at the sight of the revealed knight.
"My knights recovered the boy," Renly answers without hesitation. "He is safe in the Tower of the Hand with his sisters."
"It's a lie." Lady Melisandre speaks at last, slowly rising to her feet. Quickly, every shocked eye at the table turns to her, all save Stannis, who still looks dead ahead, watching the nerves on his brother's face begin to fray with each softly sinister word that passes from the mysterious woman's dark lips. "You've lost all your little wolves, Lord Renly. And the gem of the west is dead while her golden prince eludes you within your own walls. You bring nothing to bargain but words, and those will not save you from your pride. The crown you have made for yourself will be your doom, seven golden antlers strangling your throat. You offer mercy, but it is you who should beg your life from the anointed one, while you still have breath in your lungs."
Silence falls over the courtyard. A lone cloud drifts across the sun, casting the parlay into shadow, but the respite from its relentless rays receives no praise, for the red witch has eclipsed all else. Loras and Guyard's hands nervously drift to their swords, unsure of what will happen next, the scrapings of their armor like deafening thunder against the deathly quiet. Finally, Renly breaks free from the trance, knocking his chair into the dirt as he springs to his feet.
"We leave, now!" he commands, and the lords quickly obey, rushing back to their waiting horses. He lifts the hammer from the table with a grunt, leveling it at Stannis' unflinching face, leaving it to dangle in midair as their eyes lock for one last time; dueling sapphires. "I gave you your chance. And you've made your choice. May the Father condemn you for it. When we next meet, there will be steel at your neck."
As he turns to stride back to his mount, the knights behind Stannis move to stop him, but again the Lord of Dragonstone's hand rises to stop them. The cloud lingers over the sun, and Renly and his men ride forth in shadow, up the long and winding road back to the Red Keep. As the gates close behind them, a withered brown leaf floats down to rest upon the table where the hammer had lain. Stannis nods approvingly. Autumn has come indeed.