The Iron Throne sits cold, lonely and accusing in the dead of night. Before it, Renly Baratheon, for all his size, is dwarfed by its dark silhouette, staring up at the countless swords as the empty seat above him hangs tauntingly out of reach, waiting upon his next move. Renly pulls his robe tighter around his broad shoulders, shivering as a chill passes through the air.
This whole damned castle is overfull with ghosts, he curses under his breath. It always feels like someone's watching. Only in this case, very alive eyes were following him. The pale shape of a Kingsguard lingers by the door at the far end of the hall. He was beginning to understand why Robert had grown to hate the ever-present white shadows that never left him in peace, always hovering in the corner of his vision. Up until the moment that he needed them most, when the knives came. And now he's joined the ghosts.
Whether it was the cold stare of his dead brother or the fiery gaze of the red witch serving Stannis, sleep had denied him after retiring to his room after the failed parlay. In his chambers – locked, sealed – he could not escape the feeling of being watched, of invisible eyes burning into the back of his skull. How could she know? As he had tossed beneath the covers, that one question burned in his mind. She was just some charlatan brought from across the sea to appease the ill temper of Lady Selyse. Yet she had sat there and exposed every secret he had fought so hard to conceal as if she was recalling her latest meal.
Spies, it had to be. The bastards, perhaps? Or the Dornish? Or the Hightowers? The security of his place upon the throne rested in the loyalty of his allies, and as each suspect appeared in his weary mind, that security faded a little bit more. And when he found himself reaching to the far side of the bed, there was only an empty imprint to offer scarce comfort. And so he had walked, barely thinking, down the long dark halls to come here, the end of all his plans. But the Iron Throne cannot give him what he needs.
There had been others, before Loras. And others after. Some were stronger, some exotic, others more skilled in bed. But standing here now in the dim shadows of the throne room, quivering as the cold rises up through his bare feet to wrap around his heart, Renly knows that at some point, the one mistake he had always sworn never to make has overcome him. To live the lot the gods had seen fit to cast upon him, he knew early on that true love would only ever be an enemy. A man of his persuasion could never grow too fond of a paramour. The moment they became indispensable, they became a liability, a weapon for enemies to wield.
But now, even as Loras sided with his father against him, questioned his authority, defied his commands… He wanted him back. Mace Tyrell's pride threatened to doom them all, yet for every reason he gave to be pushed away, Renly knows there is no way to lose the father without losing the son. And for all his hardened conviction, that is a sacrifice he cannot abide. Looking up at the throne, its twisted blades sparkling as the moon passes behind it, he pictures himself, crowned, in the seat where he belongs, Loras standing guard at the foot of the stair, bright eyes gleaming beneath his white helm.
As a cloud covers the moon, plunging the throne into darkness once more, Renly knows without a doubt that picture will never be without the Tyrells. They have to see I'm strong enough to lead. To lead the Seven Kingdoms. But most importantly of all, to lead them. I have to show them I can stand on my own. And to do that means beating the witch at her own game.
"Ser Guyard!" He at last acknowledges the watchful specter tracing his steps. "Send a man to the Black Cells. It is time I have a talk with The Spider."
On the other side of the castle walls, the fires of Lord Manning's manse burn late into the night as Stannis' council drags on within their host's solar. Ser Gunthor Hightower sits outside by the fire, nursing the last drops of a sweet flagon of Arbor Red, blinking earnestly to stay awake. He can hear muffled arguments from time to time, rumbling within like a distant storm. A storm he bitterly wants to join.
I should be in there. I'm the one who knew Renly was lying about the Stark boy. If it wasn't for me, it would just be the witch's word against Renly's. Stannis would understand, if I could only speak to him! But the Lord of Dragonstone's men saw matters differently. The brute Suggs and his men had barred him from the chambers once again. Who do they think they are? Gunthor glares at the closed door. A bunch of half-witted knights with delusions of grandeur. Their lord will never see the throne without a council of men of proper standing. Draining the last bit of wine, he forces down a yawn. Surely they can't last much longer…
"Your mind is troubled, ser." Lady Melisandre's soft voice from behind immediately snaps him back to attention. "Here, share a drink with me." She glides into view, slipping silently into the seat beside him with a fresh flagon in one hand and two cups in the other, grasped weightlessly in her thin, nimble fingers. Gunthor can feel the temperature rise as she pours, thoughts of sleep vanquished, though thoughts of other nocturnal activities are beginning to creep in.
"The look on Renly's face today was worth a thousand gold dragons." He flashes a quick smile as he eagerly accepts the fresh wine. "He truly thought he had the upper hand."
"I have no need of flattery, ser," Melisandre stops him before he can go further. "I have no power save what the Lord of Light has blessed me with to serve his chosen son."
Gunthor's eyes nervously flit from the witch's plunging neckline to the crackling fire. Red Priests had made their way to Oldtown before, proclaiming the virtues of their foreign god in the streets before the Most Devout had convinced his brother to chase them away, but he had paid them little heed. "So you mean to say… everything you said to Renly, all those secrets… You talked to... the fire? And it told you all that?"
"All the secrets of the known world can be found in the flames," she whispers, leaning close to his ear. "And many more, from further beyond."
Davos is right, she really is mad, he thinks. But she's good. He turns back to look at her pale face hovering close to his, unblinking red-tinged eyes watching him carefully as he takes a long drink of wine. Very good.
"But I don't need the flames to see the truth in you, Gunthor Hightower." Taking a drink from her own goblet, she sets it aside, placing both her hands on his knees and leaning even closer. He can smell her now. Wine and warm spices and ash. His pulse rises to a rampant pace. "You are a man of great ambition. And great power. But these knights do not welcome you."
"Well, they don't much care for you, either!" Gunthor chokes down the rest of his wine indignantly. "You should hear the things that Seaworth says about you!"
"Then we have that much in common." Melisandre's voice at once dissuades any offense, her soft tone more intoxicating than the wine as his attention sinks back into the wells of her eyes. "Yes, I think that you and I should stay close, Ser Hightower. Together, we could serve the Lord of Light very well." Her lips are nearly touching his face now, looming there, consuming all his vision, until at last they twitch - a whisper of a kiss, the slightest brush of air upon his cheek. He reaches out, his hand gracing the crimson pendant around her neck – impossibly hot to the touch – then drifting lower as he leans in for more.
But she pulls back, leaving him to nearly topple forward out of the chair. He looks up, confusion dashed across his face as she stands, her eyes drifting out of reach.
"Lord Stannis is a man of unwavering standards," she shakes her head. "He will never trust you if he knew you to be unfaithful to your lady wife."
How does she know? Gunthor slumps back into the chair with a disappointed grunt, turning back to the fire. Has she been to Oldtown before coming to Dragonstone? No. He would remember a woman like that. He looks back, but she's gone, leaving being the wine for him to finish alone, as the drone of arguing knights behind closed doors drags on and on.
The night rolls on, until only the loneliest watchmen still keeps a waking vigil, but a fire still burns in Renly's chambers. The door creaks open and Ser Guyard drags in a hunched prisoner, wrapped head-to-toe in dark robes, and shoves him down in a creaking wooden chair opposite his lord before the fireplace. Renly watches carefully as the man slowly peels the shroud off his head, revealing in the flickering light the face of Varys, The Spider, Master of Whisperers to King Robert and King Aerys before him, and now prisoner of the Black Cells, though his time away from the sun has yet to make a mark upon the eunuch's soft, round face, still smiling despite his circumstances.
"It's the hour of the wolf, my lord. What troubles you at such a miserable time to drag me here so roughly?"
"I can't imagine you were sleeping pleasantly," Renly scoffs.
"In my life I have known all manner of accommodations, some even more inhumane than the Black Cells. A man makes what he can with what he is given."
"Believe me when I promise you I can arrange for you a cell far worse than any torture you've yet endured. I've brought you here to shake loose the secrets from your bald skull, not prattle about your sleep."
"I take it then that Stannis has arrived," Varys' settles into his seat with comfortable confidence.
Of course he knows, Renly thinks with a scowl. "He's brought that red witch of his wife's with him. She knows things she shouldn't know, dangerous things. It destroyed our first parlay. He has an advantage now that I don't understand, and I need it off the board."
"Why not simply let him in? He is your brother, is he not? An ally against the Lannisters?" Renly's face darkens beneath the wash of the firelight. That was a mistake, he knows at once, watching a look of unsurprised realization take shape on Varys' face. "You mean to take the throne for yourself."
"No!" He blurts out on instinct, but knows there is no use lying to the eunuch. "I will not have the Lannister bastards steal Robert's crown. Whoever is the true king will be decided by the High Septon, once all matters are considered."
"There is one thing I can assure you, whatever you are planning, you will never achieve it alone. No matter what you may want the Tyrells to think. Is that why I'm here in secret?"
"Lord Tyrell would have had your head on a spike the day my brother was murdered."
"And you've been blessed with the good sense not to execute witnesses. You fear men will blame you for the death of the king." Varys' eyes squint inquisitively. Whatever reaction he discerns on Renly's face is enough to provide him assurance. "You have nothing to fear from me. I have only ever worked for the good of the realm, my lord. I have seen the evils done in the name of this supposed Lord of Light. If Stannis is now under this witch's sway, then he is lost. If you set me free, I will ensure that a proper heir is placed upon the Iron Throne."
"I cannot promise you your old titles. You've failed two too many kings."
"I need only that you dull the blades of the roses enough to ensure my safe passage from the city once this siege is through."
"Very well," Renly agrees without a second thought. "I will have Ser Guyard return you to your quarters. They have not been touched. But you must earn them first. I cannot waste time, I fear too much ground is already lost. Tell me, where do we begin?"
At last, night passes and, as the rising sun begins to dry up the lingering dew, the sound of steel rises up from the yard within Maegor's Holdfast to answer the calls of the morning birds. In the small plaza, circled by columns and balconies, Joffrey Baratheon faces Ser Arys Oakheart. Peremore Hightower carefully tracks each of the young king's movements, calling out reminders of his father's training at each misstep or sign of weakness. Gritting his teeth to hold back bitter retorts at each correction, Joffrey focuses on his sparring partner instead, already breaking a sweat as he swings, parries and jabs, growing in strength with each hit. Watching with silent, reluctant approval, Ser Barristan Selmy stands at a distance, beneath the shade of a balcony, sipping a cool wooden cup of water. He hears the approaching rattle of chains approach as Maester Gaheris steps forward from behind him.
"His grace's skills with the sword are growing," the maester observes. "Though I must admit, as Lord Commander I would expect you to lead his training."
Barristan's wrinkled brow furrows with irritation. Gaheris has seemed to make a hobby of antagonizing him, but he refuses to let it show. "His grace resisted instruction from an early age. He chafed at the firm hand required to train a proper knight. I can only thank the gods he found a teacher he is willing to follow. All that matters is that he learns."
"Have you given any thoughts to refilling the ranks of the Kingsguard? It seems the last few you chose all wound up dead. Or traitors."
Another insult. Barristan grits his teeth, his patience depleted. "That is no concern of yours, maester." Before Gaheris can respond, he pivots his focus. "How fares the princess?"
"Her symptoms are improving. She eats more, and walks around her room. She often still calls for her mother, and becomes inconsolable when she remembers the truth of it. But otherwise, she is stronger each day."
"Very good," Barristan nods curtly. "We will all need our full strength to stand firm in the coming days. Return to her, maester, in case her condition has improved even more in your absence." He cuts off his command with enough authority to dissuade any argument, and Gaheris reluctantly leaves him in peace without further prying. As the rattling maester's chains fade into the distance, he relaxes, surveying the yard to find his next point of concern – Lyman Darry, relaxing in the sun across from him, the seamstress Eliza by his side.
Without notice of Barristan's gaze, Lyman slices through the side of a dark red apple, juice spraying out as he cuts off a thick slice, passing the rest to Eliza, seated beside him.
"Oh, no," she resists as he presses the fruit into her hand. "I can't take it all."
"You need it more than me," Lyman insists, biting into his crisp slice and savoring the taste. "This is the last of the fruit. Gaunt's dried and canned all the rest to make it last."
"How long do you think it will be?" Her hand nervously rubs her swollen stomach, feeling for movement within as she takes small bites of the apple, the juice pooling on her upper lip.
"Renly can't keep the game up forever. He has to let Stannis in eventually," Lyman assures himself as much as her, discreetly taking her hand in his as he watches Joffrey move out of the path of Arys' latest strike, landing a victorious hit on the knight's back. And then we can only hope we've backed the right rider.
"They say Stormlanders are the stubbornest men in the world," Eliza squeezes his hand. "Let's hope they've softened up a bit in their time away." Keeping his doubts to himself, Lyman responds with a squeeze back. They sit together, watching the training go one in silence, no sound but the striking steel until, from the far hallway, a thumping clattering of armor approaches. With no pause for ceremony, The Hound stomps into the yard.
"Your grace!" His gruff voice, booming from beneath his helm, immediately halted all action, demanding the attention of every eye and ear in sight. A chill instantly runs down Lyman's spine. Something's wrong, he knows. A feeling he can feel sinking in across the yard in the lingering silence that follows, waiting upon the report.
"Well, dog, spit it out!" Joffrey loses patience quickly, jabbing his sword in his guard's direction. "What is it?"
"Lord Renly is at the moat, your grace. He demands parlay."
The sun is high in the sky, beating down harshly on the backs of Renly and his entourage on the far side of the moat by the time the residents of Maegor's Holdfast have assembled to meet him. He stands in a slick black studded outfit, draped with a silky cape of green and gold. In his hands, shaking ever so slightly as he strains to hold it waist-high, rests Robert's warhammer. Behind him, in their finest regalia, await Ser Aron Santagar with Lords Florent, Caswell and Tyrell. Behind them, three Kingsguard knights in unblemished white armor, with another three lines of guards behind them at ready.
The party that rises to great them lacks in matching grandeur, but instead broils in barely restrained agitation. His new suits unfinished, Joffrey stands in an ill-fitted, frayed Baratheon doublet dug from the depths of Robert's wardrobe; a poor match to the crown upon his head. He stands flanked by Lyman to his left, Peremore and Maris to his right, with Barristan and Arys guarding the ends. Behind him towers the Hound, casting a dark shadow over his liege, with a crowd of guards tightly packed behind him to disguise their sparse number.
From across the deadly chasm, Lyman watches closely to read the expressions on Renly's face – First surprise at seeing his brother's crown on Joffrey's head, then confusion as he scans the crowd. Looking for Cersei, no doubt, Lyman thinks. Finally, the opposing lord returns to a stoic glower as he steps forward to speak, his voice booming over the divide, not at all unlike Robert's had once shouted down from the throne.
"Where is Cersei and her king-slaying brother? I did not come here to speak with children!"
"Traitors have no place at the parlay of a king!" Peremore answers back, his own voice striving for authority but unable to mask his youth. "They await justice, once his grace King Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name, is installed in his proper seat upon the Iron Throne! Bend the knee and we will lower the gate and accept your supplication."
"Ha!" Renly lets slip a single, sharp laugh. "Are you the brat's Hand, Hightower? You're scarce older than he, and you want me to kneel? To that Lannister abomination?"
At that, Joffrey nearly lunges forward, veins flushing red on his forehead, but Maris places a calming hand in the small of his back. "Peace, your grace, he's baiting you," she whispers as Renly continues.
"He is no blood of my brother's, nor of mine. Just look at him! Does that look like a Baratheon to you?" He turns back to the Reach lords, all dutifully chuckling and shaking their heads. "This boy who had his sword stolen by the little Stark girl, before he was mauled by her dog? That is what thinks to sit on the Iron Throne wearing a blood-stained crown? The war is over! It is time to give up this mummer's farce!" The hammer slips as he lets go with one hand to point an accusing finger across the moat square at Joffrey's face. "If you wish to spare your true family, Joffrey Lannister, confess to your parents' blasphemous crimes and recant your claim. Or else watch every man, woman and child bought by Lannister gold die, one by one!"
He motions behind him and the attendant lords part to allow two Tyrell knights to drag forth the limp form of a prisoner, dropping him at Renly's feet with a dull thud. Even through the scabbed blood and bruises, the face of the broken man is clear – Ser Ilyn Payne. Softly, Renly lowers the heavy head of the hammer to brush the top of the mute headsman's skull before slowly raising it up into the air, hovering at the precipice of a deadly arc.
"Ser Ilyn served Castlery Rock well, boy! Have you nothing to say in his defense? In case you've forgotten, he can't beg for his life himself!"
Lyman nervously looks to Joffrey, then to Barristan, then back across the moat to Renly. No answer comes.
"So be it." With a rush of wind, the hammer drops, landing true to its target with a sickening crunch. Lyman gags, turning away from the gore. On the far side, Lord Caswell retches over the ledge as Lord Tyrell begins to sway. Just as it appears the Lord of Highgarden is about to spew his morning meal onto his liege's back, Renly kicks the body – shattered skull and all – down onto the spikes below, leaving only a smear of blood and brains on the stone at his feet. He looks across the moat in defiance, but instead of terror, he sees a sneer slowly twisting on Joffrey's lips.
"If you wanted to be my headsman, n'uncle, you needed only ask!" he calls across the moat, his voice taking on a mocking tone.
"There will be a dozen heads like it, and a dozen more!" Renly bellows, the voice rumbling across the moat not at all unlike Robert's. "I will build you a mountain from the skulls of loyal Lannister lackeys until you see reason and surrender the Holdfast!"
"All servants of House Lannister are traitors, just like you!" Joffrey shouts back.
"Your grace…" Maris tries again to steady him, but he shakes off her hand, a reckless fury sparking to flame behind his green eyes.
"It was the Lannisters who tried to kill my father in the woods! It was the Lannisters who attacked me here, in my own Keep! They stole my brother and killed my guards! It was Ser Jaime and Ser Kevan and my lying mother! But she's dead, and soon you'll be joining her in the Seven Hells! Kinslayer!"
"Gods be good…" Barristan murmurs. For a moment, no one speaks. The veins in Joffrey's face are bulging red as he leans out over the barricade, waist pressed tight against the stone, as if daring a stiff breeze to toss him down upon the spikes as he awaits a response.
Even at a distance, the surprise on Renly's face is clear. But he does not hesitate long. "You say the queen is dead?" he asks, each word methodically delivered.
"She was no queen! My father renounced her as a liar and she died a traitor! Just like you will!"
"Whoever told you I murdered King Robert is a liar, boy!"
Joffrey steps back from the ledge. "You mean…" he speaks, softly at first, but raising his voice to be heard below. "You mean to tell me that my father is not dead?"
"No," Renly answers plainly. "The king, my brother, has been slain most foully. But I swear by the Father, and may he judge me ever-harshly if I lie, I had naught to do with it."
Whatever softness had breached Joffrey's voice disappears as quickly as it came, washed away by the returning anger and disdain. "If that is true, then kneel. My father is with the gods now, I am the king."
Renly chuckles. "You are a bastard. Whether or not you were party to the Lannister schemes against my family changes nothing!"
"You dare!" Joffrey's jaw drops as he rushes back to the edge, ready to order down death upon the waiting men, but Peremore and Lyman rush to hold him back.
"Let me go!" he hisses.
"You're stronger than him!" Peremore whispers back. "Show him you're in control."
"You will show due respect to whom you speak, Lord Renly!" Barristan demands, stepping into the stand-off.
"What greater respect than to tell the truth?" Renly shrugs.
"You are the ones who ought to kneel, Ser Barristan!" Mace Tyrell pipes up behind him, the shorter man's voice squeaking far higher than Renly's. "Let not your storied career end like this. Surrender peaceably and his grace will let you live. He may even allow you and your sworn brother to keep your white cloaks in his own Kingsguard."
"So that's what this is then?" Barristan growls. "You would usurp your brother's line so easily, Renly? Even if his grace, may the Mother bless his soul, had disinherited his children, even then you would be no king! Lord Stannis is older than you by far! Or will he too meet with a treacherous end?"
"Stannis is an apostate and Joffrey a bastard," Renly answers. "Their ends will be decided by the Faith. But to every man and woman in the Holdfast, know that you will choose your own fate. Lower the gate, deliver the bastards, and kneel to your true king and you will be spared. You have seven days. After that, my mercy runs out."
With that, Renly turns and stomps back through the doors into the outer Keep, his dutiful party following one by one. With an exasperated yell, Joffrey shoves his way through the guards in a furious rush back within the Holdfast walls, his own allies swiftly following. Lyman is the last to leave, feet dragging as his mind wonders, thinking of Eliza, and their child, and the blood on Renly's warhammer.
"Oh, Lyman Darry?"
Lyman halts in the threshold, catching the doors as they swing shut. He nervously turns back to see Ser Aron left alone, standing at the edge of the moat, carefully distant from the remains of Ilyn Payne's skull. With a graceful swing of his arm, he tosses a brick across, landing with a crack at Lyman's feet.
"A message came for you. From Castle Wendwater. You may want to consider it as you choose your side."
Lyman quickly bends down to pick up the brick, tearing away the missive tied to it with loose twine. He recognizes the broken Wendwater seal – it conjures memories of his nights there, wounds healing, and one night in particular – the one he had tried to forget. Cassanda, coming to his room, the feel of her body, the touch of her lips as she kissed his bruises. He realizes his hands are shaking as he unrolls the scroll, the message within slowly dawning on him before he even reads it…
'Young master Darry…' Lord Wendwater's bloviating text begins. His eyes scan down through the following paragraphs, looking for the dreaded confirmation. And there it is. She's pregnant.