(King's Landing: 4/26/299) Renly III
"Ugh," he groaned, tugging at his damp collar as he marched towards the Red Keep just before passing beneath the raised portcullis nestled impeccably in-between two guard towers sporting the original banners of House Baratheon.
The standard of the dancing lion and stag, which had once been pervasive within the capital, were now naught but ash and a bad memory. Heaps of them, along with cushions and furniture bearing the Lannister colors and its fearsome lion sigil had been thrown in to burn in front of the Red Keep in great pyres. Now, only the crowned black stag remained, proudly rearing itself upon a golden field. The very same image that decorated his cloaks and the majority of his attire. He realized a change of sigil was on the horizon for him, lest the court be inundated with whispers he was sure his goodsister would take offense to. At his back marched four men from the Stormlands, his own personal guard, all clad in chain mail, greaves of polished steel, and black gloves. A fitted surcoat with his house colors and embroidered with the aforementioned rearing stag completed the ensemble. The entire day had been unusually warm and had done nothing but aggravate his nerves. As beads of sweat traced down along the contours of his near perfectly smooth face, he could not help but cast his doubts as to the supposed threat of the Others.
"The coldest winter of the age, my arse," Renly told himself, his observations having judged the weather to be as chaotic and unpredictable a mess as a 'Trial by Seven' held between rapers and thieves. Some days would see the city inundated with water, others would be as scorching hot as Dorne, and yet some could be as cold as the northern parts of the Riverlands. Part of him wondered what the Citadel thought of the strange climate, as they were still bereft of a Grand Maester, though rumors had begun making the rounds that the 'Acting Hand' had some bastard son of a hedge knight in mind for the position.
"A maester named Erreck," he recalled the name from several of his informants.
Though in truth, Renly could scarcely believe even them, for the glamours of the red priestesses had left him with more than a little unease when addressing his spies. He would more oft than not, examine them for jewelry of any kind that held rubies. Thankfully, he had found none, but he knew Azula to be creative and always kept a vigilant eye on new developments no matter how small.
Even as these dark thoughts weighed on him, Renly Baratheon had to give his goodsister credit where credit was due. For Azula Baratheon had a dangerously sharp mind for handling multiple projects and weaving intricate schemes as easily as one would break their fast over the missives of the day. As he spied the masses within the city, he found the streets had become more and more orderly as time progressed. Gone were the throngs of people getting in each other's way, replaced instead by gold cloaks directing them along set paths to lessen the congestion of the crowds under the pain of imprisonment. As a result, the crowds had begun getting smaller but had slowly begun being replaced with individuals clad in red robes and sashes bearing shadowed looks.
"Thirty, for every one of them…" he counted in his mind, making note of all those who wore standard clothing without an overabundance of crimson.
Turning from the sight, he continued on his reflections of his goodsister. Despite the tribulations mounting all around them, he begrudgingly came to appreciate Azula's stubborn nature and her calm fury. Once her golden eyes had perceived an evil, a transgression, or even a simple annoyance transpiring before them, the amount of effort she put forth to see it purged would have seemed almost righteous to any who did not know her. However, he did, and as if on cue he could hear the sounds of hammers, assorted shouts, and Dragonstone machinery starting up near the Dragonpit. Renly turned to the sound, observing as numerous slivers of black smoke rose from Flea Bottom, and found himself frowning. As respectful of her as he was, he had long ago convinced himself that whatever short-term benefits ridding the gold cloaks, cisterns, and drains of years of neglect and backed-up shit gave the King, in the end, it would give her far more. He blinked with narrowed eyes, his thoughts having been disturbed by a single bead of sweat tracing down over his brow, before coming to rest upon his lash. Instinctively, he rubbed it away and then heard a man speak.
"Do you require a handkerchief, my lord?" one of his guards asked, likely noticing the sweaty sheen upon the back of his neck.
"Why yes," he turned to face the man who spoke and held out his hand. The man retrieved and unfolded a bit of cloth from a small satchel at his side and presented it to him. It was clean, he saw and it had smelt lightly of rosewater. "Thank you, Lormys. I will repay you for this kindness. The sun, and the sweat that follows its heat, cares not who is noble. I must admit to my absentmindedness in being unprepared for it. I would be remiss in not offering you compensation."
"Think nothing of it, my lord," the man bowed his head. "It was my honor as your sworn sword."
"You drive a hard bargain, good ser. A gold dragon it is," he smiled, ignoring the man's protests as he reached into his coin purse and withdrew the aforementioned piece of shiny metal. Flicking it to him, the stunned knight almost missed the catch. "Try not to spend it all in one place, Ser Lormys."
"You are too kind, my lord." The man, youthful and exuberant and so recently knighted by Lord Whitehead, had stumbled upon his words like a child learning to speak.
"Perhaps," Renly snorted in good humor, before turning his thoughts back to the indomitable woman currently roosting in the Red Keep. "Say what you will of her," he added, tilting his head to his men as he spoke, "but my goodsister certainly does a wondrous job at keeping the smell of shit at bay."
The men in his retinue laughed heartily, and he laughed along with them, though the gaiety was far from his mind. He mused at his words and the laughing faces, before dabbing at the sweat upon his brow and neck with the square bit of cloth given to him by the man from Weeping Town. As they marched up the steep path towards the main entrance of the Red Keep, a light breeze wisped up from the outer yard ahead and rippled through his hair. The breeze swept through the length of his cloak, blowing over the band of black and gold upon his shoulders and flapping against the ornate buttons of his tunic. The jumble of colors brought back fond memories of his old life, the days before Azula. Simpler days he barely remembered yet yearned for just the same. Despite his admittedly hard heart, those had been happier times, or so he told himself.
"Even the starvation had been better," he chuckled darkly at his own broken memories of the siege.
As he was about to enter the outer yard, he sensed a pair of eyes upon him and raised his gaze to the top of the steps of the massive walls leading to the Red Keep. A group of men stood there, clad in silky red cloaks and fitted black ringmail, swords at their sides, and at their center he found his goodsister's red priestess staring down at him.
"Tsk, tsk," she tutted with a frown. "Late, as usual, Lord Renly? It's unbecoming of a Master of Laws," the priestess inquired with thinly veiled sarcasm and even thinner lips. Her shapely figure hugged the contours of her crimson dress like a second skin. "I have been charged to wait for you since you left your quarters, and I have been waiting for quite some time," she said, her tone sharp and accusatory.
"Apologies," he raised his hands and chuckled lightly, causing her eyes to narrow. "The weather was so lovely today that I lost track of time enjoying the sea breeze before the coming storm. Truly it is a wonder I am not late more often," he smiled, ignoring the barbed comment. "Though I wonder, how did you know when I left my quarters, my lady?"
"The flames tell me many things. Even the mundane," the woman answered with a sly grin.
"Well," he clapped, after sensing she would speak no more on the subject, "since my goodsister provided me with such a lovely escort it would be rude to not make an appearance would it not?"
"Most certainly, my lord," she had made a pisspoor attempt at denying the effect of his words, but he could see the slight twitch of her eyes and he smiled.
For such a tone, Renly knew he could have had the priestess flogged in the streets, but he judged the instant reprisal of doing so to not be worth the headache. "This meeting should not take long, good sers," he turned to his loyal guards. "Take care not to drink too much, I would have you all back here within the hour," he added, before waving them off.
"As you wish, my lord," his men replied, their voices unsure. Looking at them, Renly spied Ser Lormys hesitate the longest before departing.
The priestess's gaze lingered on his men, before coming to rest upon him and offering her arm.
Climbing the remaining steps, he took her arm into his own and stepped forward into the outer yard, and began their short trek down along the cobblestone path toward the Small Council chambers. The crimson sleeve of her left arm bunched up as it entwined with his right, while the other draped down to her elbow and revealed the milky-white skin of her forearm as it played with the large ruby hanging down from a thin golden chain at her neck. Glancing to his left, he saw numerous men and women in red cloaks going to a fro the Spider's old quarters, each carrying letters and missives by the bunch.
"You have a question, my lord?" the priestess asked suddenly and without prompt after they had taken naught but seven steps.
"I do," he replied, unshaken by her unexpected query, as he had come to expect as such from those of the Red Faith. "What has given the Lady of Dragonstone such cause to worry that she places her acting Mistress of Whisperers to wait for me in person at the front gates of the keep?"
"Is it not enough for Azor Ahai to simply be concerned for your well-being?" she grinned, her eyes flashing with what he presumed to be an ulterior motive.
"It would be if her name and reputation were not as they are," he replied, his mind turning over the meaning of the woman's slippery words. "Robert cannot be dead, can he? No, that would be impossible! Even Azula could not stop the bells from tolling about such news," he tried to assure himself but found it lacking in commitment. "Neither are her children dead. Nor captured, for the priestess would not be so coy…" He eyed the woman because the first question had made his blood run cold. He was not ready to engage his goodsister in a fight for the Stormlands, and he knew that would be the result of such an outcome, should it happen. Though he knew in his bones, such an outcome was more likely than he'd like to admit. For he knew his brother's disposition for glory-seeking. "Damn you, Robert!" he thought, knowing that both of them bore no heirs. "No legitimate ones," he corrected himself for Robert's sake, knowing this made both of their positions weak. A weakness he was certain Azula would exploit, especially with the glory her children were reportedly busy earning on the battlefield. Should his brother's corpse return in a box, Renly was certain it would only be a matter of time before the knives came out from the shadows. "You better not be dead, brother," he said to himself, biting his lip as he did so and drawing blood. Renly clenched his fists, thinking of the Stark girl and how she had slipped through his fingers. "Azula," he muttered under his breath, cursing the annoyingly watchful eye she had placed upon the girl ever since Eddard Stark had given his daughter leave to remain in King's Landing under their protection. Ever since he had convinced the Lord of Winterfell to do so. His teeth began to grind in irritation, and upon hearing it, he immediately ceased with the mannerism his older brother had once constantly displayed.
"She merely believed you lost somewhere in the city, but now she can rest assured," the priestess insisted, seemingly oblivious to his consternation. "You are alive and well, and somehow none the worse for wear after your recent diversions upon the Street of Silk," she finished with a wicked smile.
He twitched, feigning surprise at her words, but continued with a grin. Inwardly, Renly grimaced, as his mind ran through the motions of disliking his goodsister's knack for undercutting the schemes of others before they were even acted upon by their creator. "Where would any of us be, if we held no secrets, Priestess?" he replied smoothly, the turmoil in his mind unable to shake his tone away from its usual tenor.
"Flying above the clouds, no doubt. The many you appear to hold, only serve to weigh you down, my lord," she smirked.
"Perhaps you should allow me the opportunity to unburden you? It is my duty to unravel secrets, after all. It would make you light. It would let you soar."
"And it would not do well to issue reports lacking in substance, to your lady, I take it?" he teased in false humor.
"A worry that wholly rests upon my own shoulders, I assure you," the priestess smiled her annoying smile.
"Hmph. You and your lady waste time with me," he said, trying to hide his growing unease. "The old twins trained me well. On that, you can thank her for me. Uncovering my secrets, such as they are, will be no easy feat. Not for you, not for your flames, and not for her. Therefore, I would suggest you take the time to put your little fires to some practical use and discern why there are certain others on the council who still happen to retain their seats. Others who share not the ties of family."
"I doubt you will be so fortunate as to escape the gaze of R'hllor's champion so easily, my lord," she tittered. "You worry of the Valeman, hmm? Rest assured, as wily as he is, he is a weak man," she admitted. "One whose purpose rests upon what he provides to the cause, and not who or what he knows."
"Don't let him hear you say that priestess or word may get that out that sees the Vale army return to their lands absent bloodied swords," he said, not out of concern for the woman, but for the spies he was sure Littlefinger had skulking around to report on the priestess' works. His goodsister may have cast a long shadow upon King's Landing and seemed like a giant to those upon the council, but Petyr Baelish somehow seemed to know how to escape the giant's burning gaze. He suspected the little man to have some escape plan in place, regardless of how entrenched his goodsister's network was within the city, and each day he refrained from using it stirred up even more questions within him. He dared not trust either of them, Azula or Baelish, but he did fan the flames whenever the opportunity presented itself. Whatever game they played with each other was acceptable, so long as their sights were affixed upon one another and not focused upon his person. "What was it about her you did not trust, Arryn?" Renly had once again found himself asking.
"We are certain he will not," Cyvia shot back in an affable tone. "We have the Vale under our heel, and he knows it," she said with a triumphant smirk. "He is too afraid of the fire's light and too concerned with his own personal ambitions to risk such action on mere gossip alone. He is a spineless coward that fancies himself bigger than he is. The flames speak to me on how he would rather grovel for mercy than remain defiant and die standing. Not like you, my lord. You have a backbone forged of iron. The Firelord sees it in you, as she does in your brothers," the priestess' fiery eyes twinkled in the sunlight. "This is why she watches you. Why she considers you to both be her biggest rival and closest ally."
"Why would you tell me these things? Is it some poor attempt at flattery?" He questioned, suspicious of the straightforwardness of the words, and unwilling to take them to heart. "Or is this another one of you and your savior's little games, witch?" he hissed, squeezing her arm tightly, as he struggled to maintain his gleaming smile for all others to see.
"It is no game, my lord," she answered simply and without a hint of discomfort. "She merely wished you to know."
"Then you should let her know that I am not someone she should find entertainment in mocking…" he warned, staring into her fiery crimson eyes with his own glimmering blue-green pools. As he spoke, he had taken in her words and could not help but recall the tales told of King Aerys' court before his full descent into madness. When the Mad King thought the same of Tywin Lannister. A dangerously powerful rival, but a frighteningly indispensable ally. Like Azula, the priestess was not a fool, and her words had held a certain ring to them, even if they did not add up to a pretty song. "Time will tell if you and your champion's predictions prove true."
The priestess smiled a shrewd smile, the kind that spoke of years of knowing what lurked in the shadows of men's minds. "Enough of the pleasantries, my lord. Our spirited conversation seems to have gotten away from us. The hour grows later than I am comfortable with. Later than she is comfortable with. Shall we attend the small council meeting, now?"
"Of course, my lady. We mustn't keep her waiting. Lead the way," he ground his teeth until he felt the false smile reform upon his lips. He would not allow the priestess to see his doubts, but he could not deny his suspicions. He could not deny the ill feelings he felt towards his fire-breathing goodsister.
Renly found himself in a state of heightened anticipation, as he entered the small council chambers. The meeting was in full swing when he and his red shadow arrived, and it was a full house. His brother, Stannis, stood glowering over a collection of maps detailing the kingdoms of Westeros, clad in functional, boorish attire. A simple dark brown tunic beneath a black vest with golden trim and crudely stitched black breeches with dusty black boots. His face was stern and unwavering, as always, but there was something about his stormy azure eyes that seemed almost unsure. Tired even. He made note of his brother's disposition, before shifting his gaze towards the whoremonger and his decidedly garish blue velvet tunic with puffed sleeves. The Fingerlord seemed to not notice his arrival, and he raised a brow, watching as the little man continued exchanging words with his goodsister.
"The Iron Bank will be sending representatives soon enough, my lady," the man said with a twinge of distress. Whether the tone had been true or false, he neither knew nor cared.
"Let me worry about them, Baelish," his brother's wife sighed in irritation. At his words, the annoyance plastered upon her pinched face soured even more and nearly made Renly laugh.
Settled as comfortably as a pregnant woman could be, upon the hard and poorly cushioned chairs of the Small Council, Azula rubbed at the engorged belly partially hidden beneath her sumptuous crimson dress with black and gold embroidery. The Hand's chain dangled imperiously upon his goodsister's smooth thin neck even as her hands continued with their soothingly circular motions upon her stomach. Wrapped around her right wrist was a small leather cord, upon which was tied an iron key. One of the four, he knew, originally entrusted to the keeper of the keys that had once overseen the locks of the royal armory. The other three had found themselves reassigned to men and women from Dragonstone. Chiefest amongst them being the former trade minister of Dragonstone, Nong. An old woman with a fiery temper, but a keenly astute mind when it came to numbers. The keepers had once been exclusively selected and managed by the Master of Coin, but the war had seen Azula take control of the office Baelish had once claimed as his own.
"Emergency measures," she had said.
It had been an overreach of responsibilities, they all knew, but he most certainly would not die to defend the Valeman's station for he could scarcely stomach the man. Glancing down, towards her left arm, he found the black mark had faded into a dark red, but to his eyes, it still seemed to pulse with life at every word that left Littlefinger's mouth. Her fiery eyes snapped to and were accompanied by a sharp smile as he emerged from the shadows and grew closer to the council table. Their eyes locked and Renly felt his inner stag rearing up in defense.
"Brother!" she exclaimed, promptly dismissing Baelish from her side with unfinished words as she rose cautiously from her seat and moved to embrace him. "Better late than never, I always say!" her razor-edged grin parted somewhat at the center showing a hint of pearly-white teeth. A far cry from the tight frown she had displayed mere moments before.
"You've never once said that" he smiled in turn, though both knew neither had been given in earnest. Renly broke away from the embrace to look upon her. "You look positively radiant, goodsister. Pregnancy and war seem to agree with you," he responded, though not with a lie. Azula Baratheon had always appeared as a painted portrait of beauty, the colors used upon her face and form were vivid and teemed with a certain energy, as if the painter had poured their very essence onto the canvas that had formed her body.
"Thank you, brother. I tend to agree," she responded with a little too much glee in her tone, swishing in her dress a bit, before each moved to sit upon their respective chairs. No sooner had Azula taken her seat, as Baelish continued with whatever hushed words he had been speaking.
"So, now that I am here," he said, uncaring of the discussion carried on between the mockingbird and the dragoness. "What other horrors have your plots awakened from their slumber, Azula?" he posited with an idle smirk.
"Haha, do you really think so ill of me, Lord Renly?" she answered in a mirthful tone. "I awaken nothing. I only reveal treachery," the woman added before casting a knowing look toward the Lord of the Fingers. "Take a seat, Lord Baelish," Azula motioned to the man's chair across the council table, earning her a slight bow and awkward smile.
"As you wish, my lady," he said, before straightening his tunic and returning to his seat.
"Now," Azula began, resting her hands on the table, her voice changing from playful to authoritative in an instant. "I trust you remember our plans for Silverhill?" her eyes narrowed, and her tone sharpened.
"Yes," he answered. "Either they are brought into the fold or destroyed," Renly recalled of the previous meetings with the Small Council. "What of it?" he perked up, not knowing where she was going with her words. Like her Red Priestess, Azula had not appeared in any way distressed or otherwise concerned and thus he could only assume nothing had gone awry with her plans.
"I have received word from my daughter's spiritwalker, detailing strange creatures having assailed them within the castle. After said creatures had apparently butchered or disappeared all those within, save for two mewling brats," the woman stated matter-of-factly, as if the notion of strange creatures was nothing new. "The get of Lord Serret, if I recall. The truth of which Lord Bolton and my daughter managed to so graciously encourage them into revealing. They weren't hurt, mind you, only very scared. We aren't in the business of hurting those loyal to our cause. And since we never received a formal declaration from Serret we can only assume he was loyal. Better to get off on the right foot with the new lord of Silverhill while he's still young and impressionable."
"And what of these creatures?" he asked somewhat guilty, as the fate of the children had not truly mattered to him, as he was still uncertain of the veracity of his goodsister's words. Her nonchalant nature at uttering them had him half-expecting some sort of jest to reveal itself at his expense, but when the silence passed and it did not, he pressed her on the subject. "Were they the Others?" was the only thing he could assume, though he knew there were several individuals present within the combined Northern and Narrow Sea army in the Westerlands, who had seen the one on Dragonstone and would have thus identified it as such.
"If the Others were fishmen," she answered tersely.
"Fishmen?!? You mean fishermen?!" he felt the confusion contorting his face and reared back, placing his palms upon his head, stunned at the revelation of yet another mythical beast poking out its head from the pages of forgotten history. "I was right! The disappearances in the Riverlands?!" he exclaimed after his astonishment had subsided. "You did awaken something from its slumber!"
"Oh please, it was not my doing," she waved off the accusation as if it had been a mere fly buzzing around her. "I had no inkling such things existed save for all those tall tales told by the Ironborn. It seems that these creatures had been waiting there for something. My daughter described a ritual of sorts having evidently been interrupted by their presence. Though what exactly its purpose was, remains a mystery."
"Your casual dismissal of creatures from legend always invites disaster, Azula!" he slammed his palms upon the table, causing it to rattle. "What next will you dismiss, hm? An alliance between the Others and these purported fishmen?!"
Azula lifted her head to gaze at him. "They aren't allies, Lord Renly," she replied, unshaken by his outburst.
"How would you even begin to know that?!" he hissed; her arrogance having chewed away at his last fiber of patience. He could maintain a pleasant demeanor with all and never break form, but with her, it was sheer torture, and he suspected she reveled in it when he finally broke.
"The Other that found itself adrift in the Summer Sea, upon a ship of Ironborn make? The one I had brought to Dragonstone? I had long wondered why my captain and his crewmates described encountering a half-sinking ship full of melted deadmen and a desiccated White Walker laying deep within its bowels. Surely, it could not have been the mere elements, could it? I suppose you could reason that the Others, having never been known to sail upon the open sea in recorded history, made their first attempt at doing so less than two years ago, but were somehow caught unawares by how much planning and how many tools are actually required to even begin to undertake such a monumental task. After all, you can't just hop on a boat without any kind of plan and suddenly find yourself at your destination. People who think that way are morons."
"Dead morons," he heard Stannis mutter under his breath as he continued flipping through the maps behind them.
"Can you truly expect such shortsightedness coming from beings that have been around since the first men? How much time before recorded history had they stalked the northern wastes of this continent? Hmm? They most assuredly must have tried at least once in their history, don't you think? Were they successful? Maybe. But if they were not, why, if you were them, would you even make a second attempt if you fall to pieces the moment you set out? What would be its ultimate purpose? To launch an attack on Dragonstone with twenty or thirty dead men and a single White Walker? Or Sunspear? Or King's Landing? Or even Baelish's little keep in the Fingers? If their intention had been to land anywhere within the Seven Kingdoms, they could have easily done so by now and been running amok. They would have been easily dealt with, of course, after the surprise of their existence had passed. Just as they were on Dragonstone, and with similar numbers I might add. And I doubt it could have been pirates who attacked them, for word would most assuredly have gotten out long before the tragedy at Dragonstone," her voice caught slightly with her last words but returned to their steely tone the instant after. "This leaves me with the only possible reason for finding them and their ship in such a state was that they had been attacked by a third player. A player who did not wish to be seen. Until now."
"Then where would the Others have been going, if not somewhere here?" he asked, his mind trying to play out the possible strategies mythical creatures could employ but quickly finding itself nearly overwhelmed with ideas. Some had been strange, others idiotic, while most had been downright nerve-wracking.
"Somewhere these fishmen did not want them," Azula answered cryptically with steepled fingers and shadowed eyes. "Fortunately for us," she sighed with the faintest of smiles and gestured to the door and the silent Flameguard standing beside it, "the nature of the fishmen is more readily accessible to us now, due to our new guest. The one discovered having smuggled herself onto a trading cog, near Dorne, by my own personal smuggler, Ser Davos, during his failed yet…" Azula paused and tilted her head with a smirk, "I suppose ultimately successful return trip from chasing down a ghost."
All present within the chamber turned towards the newcomer, with only Baelish having appeared somewhat nonplussed. A lean young woman with long legs and dark eyes was marched into the room by the silent Flameguard of Dragonstone. She was clothed in a pair of clean tan-colored breeches and a loose dark brown tunic. Her hair was black, scraggly, and cut short, and beneath its small shadow peeked out a gaunt face with wind-chafed skin. As he glanced down towards her neck, he spied a faded pink scar.
"As you can see, it appears I have completed my collection of Greyjoy heirs," Azula said sweetly, gesturing to the strange woman before the words finally hit him.
"Asha Greyjoy?" Baelish uttered before Renly could gather his breath to say the same, though both rose in the same instant and drew closer to the other Greyjoy heir for further inspection.
"Yes," his goodsister's words continued in their saccharine tone, out from behind them, but beneath them, Renly began to feel the faint rumblings of danger. He felt the room begin to warm. "And she will explain what exactly happened to Azula's Mercy," he heard the Hand's chair squeak behind him, "AND WHY I WILL ROAST THAT WRETCHED TWICE-DEAD KRAKEN FOR DARING TO STRIKE AGAINST ME!!!" He heard the table shatter to splinters behind them, as all the open flames from the torches and sconces flared bright blue before rising higher than he had thought them capable. He, Baelish, and the Greyjoy girl yelped at the outburst. He and Baelish spun on their heels, only to see the snarling visage of Azula Baratheon staring at them with closed fists burning with blue flames. Turning to his brother, Renly had seen no signs that Stannis had been surprised, for he had continued flipping through the maps as if nothing had happened.