Robb VIII
As Robb approached the outskirts of Bitterbridge, exhaustion weighed heavily on him. The journey from Harrenhal had taken nearly ten days of relentless hard riding, the unforgiving pace pressing on his every nerve and muscle. But it wasn't just the physical toll of this road that wore him down; it had been almost three moons since his father's arrest and the beginning of his campaign, and in all that time, Robb had barely paused for breath.
The longest reprieve he had known was the brief time spent in King's Landing—a handful of days that had done little to ease his fatigue. If anything, the political intrigue and constant maneuvering had left him more strained than before. There, he had been surrounded by enemies disguised as allies, every conversation a delicate dance, every glance a potential threat. The tension of his stay in the capital had been suffocating, offering no peace, no solace. Sleep had eluded him since the day he left Winterfell. Each night was a battle against his own mind, his thoughts too restless to allow him peace. But in recent weeks, rest had become even more elusive. Some nights he managed only an hour or two, fitful and broken. The absence of Roslin by his side only deepened his insomnia; without her warmth, her steady presence, his bed felt cold, unfamiliar. He hadn't realized just how much comfort he had drawn from her until it was gone, leaving him alone with the weight of his worries.
The road from Harrenhal to Bitterbridge had been a ceaseless blur of muddy tracks, cold nights, and bitter winds. The handful of men who were journeying with him were loyal but weary, and Robb could see the same fatigue in their eyes, the same longing for a moment of respite. Yet rest was a luxury none of them could afford. The war pressed on, and with Renly Baratheon's camp now so close, Robb knew that Bitterbridge would offer no sanctuary—only more negotiations, more deception, and the looming threat of betrayal.
Robb and his men arrived at Renly's camp as the sky blushed with the fading light of dusk. The sprawling encampment stretched before them like a vast, vivid tapestry, a stark contrast to the grim northern camps Robb was used to. Instead of the rugged simplicity of the North, Renly's army seemed to revel in extravagance. Tents of deep purples and rich blues dominated the landscape, their vibrant colors standing out against the twilight, each one more lavish than the last.
As nightfall deepened, the camp came alive with the flickering glow of countless torches, casting an almost magical light across the scene. It felt less like the heart of a military campaign and more like a grand festival—voices and laughter echoed through the air, and the scent of roasting meats wafted on the evening breeze. Music played in the distance, the cheerful strumming of lutes and drums a strange accompaniment to a war camp.
Robb couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. Beneath the façade of celebration, this was still a place of war. Yet Renly's camp seemed to ignore the brutal reality awaiting them all, as if believing themselves invincible through sheer display of wealth and power. His men exchanged uncertain glances, clearly as unsettled as he was by the almost surreal atmosphere. Robb had prepared himself for a hard, strategic meeting with an enemy —but this? This was something entirely different.
The Stark in him bristled at the extravagance, a reminder of just how different the southern lords were. Yet, somewhere deep down, a flicker of admiration stirred—this was a king who understood the power of spectacle, of appearances, in a way Robb could never have conceived.
For a brief moment, as he surveyed the scene, Robb allowed himself to wonder what kind of man Renly Baratheon truly was. A conqueror? A pretender? Or merely a dreamer, caught up in a game far bigger than himself?
As Robb and his men ventured deeper into Renly's camp, the sounds of merriment grew louder. Men dressed in fine silks and embroidered tunics walked through the pathways, some laughing heartily with tankards in hand, others engaged in quiet conversations under the torchlight. Robb's eyes scanned the unfamiliar faces, many of whom looked at him and his northern entourage with a mixture of curiosity and respect, though some held a hint of disdain for the rougher, more practical northern appearance.
One of Renly's guards, a tall man in gleaming armor emblazoned with the golden stag of House Baratheon, approached, bowing his head slightly in greeting.
"Lord Stark," the man said, his voice formal, "we've been expecting you. King Renly is eager to receive you in his pavilion."
Robb nodded, though he kept his expression carefully neutral. He had ridden hard for days, and part of him wished for nothing more than to rest. But there was no time for that.
The guard led Robb and his closest bannermen through the camp, passing more soldiers and banners, all carrying the unmistakable sigil of House Baratheon. The richness of the camp's decorations continued to unsettle him, the luxury a strange juxtaposition to the harsh reality of war. Finally, they reached Renly's pavilion—a massive structure, its fabric a deep royal blue, fluttering softly in the evening breeze. The entrance was flanked by two knights of Renly's Rainbow Guard, their cloaks as brilliantly colored as the tent itself.
"King Renly awaits inside," the guard announced, stepping aside to allow Robb and his men entry.
Robb squared his shoulders and exchanged a glance with his bannermen before stepping through the opening. Inside, the pavilion was just as grand as the exterior. Rich carpets lined the ground, and tapestries depicting the great houses of the realm hung from the walls. A long table sat at the center, laden with food and drink, though no one was partaking just yet. At the far end of the pavilion stood Renly Baratheon, resplendent in regal attire more suited for a ball than a battlefield. His armor gleamed under the soft glow of lanterns, polished to a sheen that spoke more of showmanship than utility. Beside him stood a striking young woman, draped in a flowing gown of rich green and gold, her beauty undeniable. An intricately crafted crown rested upon her head, the delicate jewels catching the light.
"Ah, the Young Wolf!" Renly exclaimed as he approached, his arms open wide in greeting. He wore an easy smile, his face warm and welcoming, though Robb could not tell if the warmth was genuine or merely part of the man's charm. "We meet at last. I must say, I've heard much of you."
Robb inclined his head politely but did not return the smile. "King Renly," he replied, keeping his tone measured. "You have built quite a camp here. One might mistake it for a feast, not a war council."
Renly let out a chuckle, the sound light and airy, echoing through the opulent tent as though it carried no weight of war. "A feast?" he repeated, his lips curling into a playful smile. "Why not? War, after all, is such a dreary affair, don't you think?" His eyes glinted with amusement, as if the brutal reality of the conflict surrounding them was little more than a passing inconvenience. "I've always believed that men fight best when reminded of what they're fighting for. And if that happens to be wine, women, and song, then who am I to deny them their pleasures?"
There was a careless grace to his words, a nonchalance that made the entire scene feel more like an extravagant gathering than the staging ground of a king's army. To Renly, this was a game—one he was determined to win, but a game nonetheless.
He turned, his hand gesturing toward the striking figure by his side. "May I introduce my wife, Queen Margaery," he said with a flourish. At his introduction, Margaery stepped forward with an elegance that matched the finery of her gown. She offered a warm, inviting smile—one that seemed designed to put anyone at ease, yet Robb couldn't help but notice the sharp intelligence behind her gaze.
"Lord Stark," she greeted him, her voice soft yet confident, "It's an honor to finally meet you." Her eyes lingered on Robb for a moment, her expression one of genuine interest. "I trust you will find our camp... hospitable, even if our methods are somewhat unorthodox."
Renly's arm rested casually on her shoulder, his demeanor as relaxed as ever. "You see, Robb," Renly continued with an amused smirk, "my queen here understands well the importance of keeping morale high. After all, a king's duty is not only to lead but to inspire." He glanced around the room, his gaze sweeping across the lively gathering of lords and knights. "Let them drink, let them laugh—so long as they fight when the time comes."
Robb's jaw tightened slightly, but he kept his composure. "And what do you fight for, King Renly?" he asked, his gaze steady. "What is it that drives you to claim the Iron Throne?"
Renly's smile softened, and for a moment, his eyes grew serious. "What do I fight for? Justice, perhaps. A better future for the realm. Or maybe, I fight because I believe I can be the king this realm deserves—a king of peace, not war." He gestured around him. "Look at them, Robb. My men. They follow me not because I am the oldest or the strongest, but because they believe in me. They believe I will bring something better than the chaos that is tearing Westeros apart."
Robb considered Renly's words carefully, though he could not shake the feeling that the man's vision was clouded by naïveté. A king of peace? In a time like this? Still, there was no denying that Renly had a charm that could sway hearts, and perhaps even win battles before swords were drawn.
Before Robb could respond, Renly clapped his hands together, breaking the tension. "But enough talk of heavy matters. You must be famished after your long ride. Come, eat, drink. There will be plenty of time for politics later."
Robb hesitated. He had no desire to indulge in Renly's lavish hospitality, not when so much was at stake. But he knew he needed to play the game, to understand Renly better before making any decisions. He glanced at his bannermen, who looked equally wary, then nodded.
"Very well," Robb said, moving toward the table. "But know that I did not come here for feasts or songs. I came for answers, and I hope you're ready to give them."
Renly smiled again, though this time there was a flicker of something else behind his eyes—something calculating. "Oh, I assure you, Robb Stark," he said, lifting a goblet of wine, "you'll have all the answers you seek."
As the two kings sat across from one another, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows over their faces, Robb couldn't help but wonder if Renly's easy confidence masked something more dangerous—something that, despite the laughter and feasts, would soon reveal itself.
As the night wore on, Robb found himself observing more than partaking in the revelry around him. The grand tent was filled with the sounds of laughter, clinking goblets, and the hum of conversation, all underscored by the flickering light of torches casting shadows across the faces of Renly's gathered lords and knights. Despite the weariness of his journey, Robb couldn't help but be drawn into the spectacle unfolding before him—though not by the revelry itself, but by Renly Baratheon and his queen.
Renly moved through the gathering with ease, his charisma almost effortless. He laughed with his lords, slapped their backs in camaraderie, and drank with them as if they were old friends rather than men bound to him by oaths. He told stories of his childhood at Storm's End, his voice booming with laughter as he recounted playful tales of his older brother, Robert, and shared jests made at the expense of their brother, Stannis. Though some of the tales seemed far-fetched—impossible to be true—no one questioned them. They were swept along in the charm of it all, as if Renly's very presence turned war into a distant memory, something they could afford to forget, even if just for a night.
But it wasn't just Renly that held the room. Margaery Tyrell, seated beside her king with the grace of a queen born to the role, was equally mesmerising. Robb listened as she spoke with quiet authority about her work in the Reach, her efforts to care for the smallfolk, and the initiatives she hoped to continue once they reached King's Landing. There was a sincerity in her voice that Robb couldn't deny, though he wasn't sure if it was meant for the lords or for Renly. She painted a picture of a queen who wasn't just ornamental, but one who would serve her people—a partner to the king in both governance and heart.
What struck Robb most was how the two of them, Renly and Margaery, fit so perfectly together. Throughout the night, Margaery's gaze rarely left Renly, her eyes full of admiration and warmth. She hung on his every word, laughed at his jokes, and even when she wasn't speaking, her presence was undeniable—a queen who seemed to embody the very ideal of love and loyalty. Renly, in turn, was rarely without physical contact with her. His hand rested casually on her thigh, his thumb occasionally brushing the fabric of her gown, a gesture so intimate yet so natural it was easy to forget they weren't alone. They acted as if they had stepped from the pages of one of Sansa's beloved storybooks, the perfect king and queen united not just by power but by love.
Yet, Robb couldn't shake the feeling that much of what he was witnessing was as much for show as it was genuine. Was Margaery's adoration of Renly real, or was it the well-rehearsed performance of a woman raised to be queen? And Renly—was his devotion to Margaery a reflection of true affection, or part of a carefully constructed image to win the loyalty of his lords? Robb wasn't sure, but the ease with which they carried themselves suggested that even if it was all an act, it was one they had perfected.
The lords around them clearly bought into the image. Renly was beloved—there was no question about that. They hung on his every word, laughing at his jests, toasting his health, and speaking of him with admiration when he wasn't listening. It was clear that they followed him not just because of his claim to the throne, but because they wanted to follow him. Renly had made them believe in him, in his vision of a brighter future where war was only a temporary distraction, and the real joy in life lay in feasts, laughter, and the promise of peace to come.
Robb felt a pang of doubt as he compared his own camp to Renly's. His men followed him, but it was out of necessity, loyalty to House Stark, and the deep, simmering rage they all carried for the wrongs done to their families. There was no laughter in Robb's camp, no songs or grand speeches of peace. His men were hardened by the North and by the war. They fought because they had to, not because they believed in the man leading them.
As the night went on, Robb found himself wondering—was that better? Was it easier to fight when you had something more to fight for than vengeance and survival? Could men fight for a dream as easily as they could for duty?
The festivities continued, but Robb's mind remained elsewhere. He watched Renly and Margaery, wondering just how much of this perfect image was real—and if, perhaps, it even mattered at all.
Robb pushed his chair back from the table, the weight of the night beginning to settle over him. The laughter and merriment continued around him, but he had seen and heard enough. "Thank you, your graces, for your hospitality," Robb said, rising to his feet. His voice was steady, though exhaustion tugged at the edges of it. "But I think I'm going to turn in for the night."
Renly, seated comfortably amidst the splendor of his court, raised a goblet in Robb's direction. His smile was warm, disarmingly so, the kind that could make a man forget there was a war at their heels. "Of course. You will always have a seat at my table, Lord Stark," Renly said, his voice carrying easily above the din of the feast.
Robb gave a respectful nod, grateful for the gesture but too weary to linger. Just as he turned to leave, Margaery Tyrell, gently touched her husband's arm. Her fingers lightly brushed Renly's sleeve, a gesture of such subtle grace that it commanded attention without effort.
"I think I will turn in as well, my love," Margaery said softly, her voice carrying a warmth that could soothe even the most battle-hardened heart. Her words were intimate but not so much that they excluded the others at the table, a perfect balance of wife and queen. "I will show Lord Stark to his tent."
Robb blinked in mild surprise, glancing between the queen and Renly, unsure whether to protest. It was not often a queen personally escorted a guest to their lodgings, but Margaery seemed entirely in command of the moment.
Renly, ever the gracious king, smiled indulgently at his wife. "Of course, my dear," he said, his hand covering hers in a practiced display of affection. He lifted her delicate fingers to his lips and placed a soft kiss on the back of her hand. "I will join you soon."
Margaery returned the smile with one of her own, a picture of serene devotion. Her eyes lingered on Renly for a moment before she turned her attention fully to Robb. "Shall we, Lord Stark?"
Robb nodded and followed the queen out of the tent. As they walked through Renly's camp, the torches flickering in the cool night air, Robb found himself struck by the contrast between this court and his own. The camp felt more like a traveling festival than a war encampment, the laughter and light-heartedness carrying through the night as though they were not on the brink of battle.
Margaery walked beside him in silence for a few moments, her steps graceful and unhurried. She carried herself with an ease that belied the tension that had hung in the air during the feast, the tension of a woman who knew exactly how to navigate a world filled with powerful men. Robb, tired as he was, couldn't help but admire the way she moved through the world, always one step ahead without appearing to make any effort at all.
"Lord Stark," Margaery began softly, breaking the silence between them, "I hope you found the evening pleasant, despite the... festivities." There was a lightness to her tone, but also a subtle hint that she was aware of the unspoken tension—the difference in how they approached this war.
"It was... different," Robb replied diplomatically, though there was no need to elaborate. Margaery surely knew what he meant.
Margaery chuckled softly, a melodic sound that seemed to dance on the night air. "Renly has always preferred to lead with charm rather than force," she said, casting a knowing glance at Robb. "It works well for him, but I understand it's not the way of the North."
Robb looked at her, surprised by her directness. "No," he admitted, "it isn't. My men fight because they have to, not because they find joy in it. I don't think they'd understand... this." He gestured vaguely at the camp, the feast that continued even as they walked away from it.
Margaery nodded, her expression thoughtful. "Different ways of ruling, different ways of fighting. But in the end, we all want the same thing, don't we? Peace, a place where our families can live without fear."
"Peace," Robb echoed, though the word felt distant to him now. After all the blood that had been spilled, after everything that had been taken from him and his family, peace seemed like a dream too far away to grasp.
They reached Robb's tent, and Margaery stopped just outside, turning to face him fully. In the soft light of the torches, her beauty was undeniable, but there was more to her than that. There was intelligence, a sharpness hidden beneath the polished exterior. "The North is strong, Lord Stark," she said quietly. "Your men, your people, they fight with a fierceness born of loyalty and love. Don't forget that, even in the face of all this." She gestured lightly back toward the colorful tents and revelry behind them.
Robb inclined his head in thanks, her words lingering with him longer than he had expected. "And you, my lady? What do you fight for?" he asked, his curiosity piqued by the depth beneath her poised exterior.
Margaery's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "I fight for my family, for the people who depend on us... and for a future that's worth living in." Her gaze lingered on him, her eyes bright with something unspoken, a quiet confidence that seemed to hint at her own ambitions. Then, she stepped back, just enough to draw a breath of distance between them.
"And Renly?" Robb questioned after a pause, his voice quieter. "Do you fight for him?"
Margaery tilted her head ever so slightly, considering his question with the same thoughtfulness she gave everything. "Renly is my husband," she began, her tone carefully measured, "he is kind, and he is beloved. He will rule with a level head and always pursue peace. What more should we ask for in a king?" Her words were diplomatic, yet there was a subtle layer beneath them, an acknowledgment of the practicalities of power.
Robb studied her for a moment, unsure whether she truly believed that or if it was simply the role she played. "Of course, my lady," he replied, the words feeling formal and distant after the more personal exchange they'd shared.
Margaery's smile deepened, and a glint of amusement sparkled in her eyes. "Your grace," she corrected lightly, her tone teasing as a smirk played at the corners of her lips. "Rest well, Lord Stark. The days ahead will be difficult, but you are strong—you will endure."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Robb responded with a slight smile of his own, this time making sure to use the proper title. There was a touch of mutual understanding between them now, a shared acknowledgment of the heavy burdens they each carried in their separate worlds.
He watched as she turned gracefully, her emerald gown shimmering in the torchlight, her figure slowly blending into the shadows of Renly's camp. As she disappeared into the night, Robb couldn't help but reflect on the queen's words and the poised strength she possessed beneath the surface. There was more to her than met the eye, of that much he was certain. But as with everything else in this war, time would reveal the truth.
As he entered his tent, Robb couldn't help but think about the strange court of Renly Baratheon, the perfect king and queen who led with charm and grace. He wondered how long that charm would last in the face of war, and if, in the end, it would be enough. But for now, he pushed those thoughts aside. Tomorrow would come soon enough, and with it, the harsh reality of the battles to come.
When morning broke, Robb made his way straight to King Renly's council tent. He wanted to get this whole performance over with, gather the information he needed, and return to his army. He was already weary of the festivities and the courtly distractions that clung to Renly's camp like an unwelcome fog. Robb needed action, not pleasantries.
As he entered the tent, he found Renly seated at the head of the table, surrounded by a group of advisors. Margaery was by his side, of course, but it was the presence of another woman that immediately caught Robb's eye. She was unlike anyone he had ever seen—a warrior dressed in the colors of Renly's rainbow guard. She was tall, taller than Robb by a full head, and more muscular than many of the men Robb had fought beside. Her stern expression, coupled with her formidable presence, made her a figure not easily forgotten.
"Ah, Lord Stark," Renly greeted warmly, his usual lighthearted smile firmly in place. "I hope you slept well."
"Yes, thank you, your grace," Robb responded, bowing his head slightly, though his eyes quickly flickered to the unfamiliar woman. There was something about her—an unspoken power in the way she stood—that piqued his curiosity.
Renly followed Robb's gaze and chuckled softly. "Let me introduce my council," he began, rising from his seat with the air of a man who loved the spectacle of leadership. "If you are to join us, you should know who we are."
He gestured first to himself, smiling as if the action was self-evident. "First, myself and Margaery attend every council session," he said with a flourish. He took Margaery's hand in his, their fingers entwining naturally. "I will not make the mistakes of my elder brother," Renly continued, his tone shifting to something more serious. "I will know what is happening in my own realm. And Margaery," he glanced fondly at her, "offers sage counsel that I wouldn't be without. A feeling I hear you share about your own lady-wife."
Robb stiffened slightly at the mention of Roslin, memories of her warmth and quiet strength flooding him for a moment. He nodded, his voice measured as he replied, "Roslin's counsel is always invaluable to me."
"This is Margaery's father, Lord Mace Tyrell," Renly announced, gesturing toward the large man seated to his left. Lord Mace was a figure of considerable girth, adorned in sumptuous garments that seemed to match the vibrancy of Renly's camp.
"He has kindly taken up the position of Hand of the King," Renly continued, his tone light but underscored by a sense of gravity. "Lord Tyrell is a man of great experience and wisdom, and I am grateful to have him at my side as we navigate these turbulent times."
"This is Margaery's brother—Loras," Renly continued, gesturing toward the strikingly handsome young man seated next to his sister. Loras Tyrell was a sight to behold. He carried himself with a grace that spoke of both noble upbringing and martial prowess. Dressed in the vivid colors of the Tyrell house, his armor gleamed under the lantern light, accentuating his muscular build and the strength that lay within.
"Loras is my oldest friend and the commander of my Rainbow Guard," Renly explained, pride evident in his voice. "A man of exceptional skill, both in the training yard and on the battlefield. One day, he will led my Kingsguard, a position befitting his talents and honor."
Loras inclined his head respectfully, his demeanor polite yet confident. "Lord Stark," he said, his voice smooth like honey, "it is an honor to finally meet you."
Renly smiled knowingly before gesturing to the woman in armor. "This is Brienne of Tarth, the newest member of my Kingsguard and the fiercest warrior in the Seven Kingdoms, man or woman."
Brienne gave Robb a short, respectful nod, but there was no warmth in her expression—only determination. Robb could tell immediately that she wasn't one for pleasantries, and he respected her more for it. A woman who carried herself with such skill and pride had no need for flowery words.
"She defeated Ser Loras in our melee yesterday," Renly added with a touch of pride, "and she is now sworn to protect both me and my queen."
Margaery looked over at Brienne with a gentle smile. "Her loyalty is unmatched," she said softly. "We are fortunate to have her."
Brienne, however, remained stoic, merely nodding again. Robb found himself more intrigued by her silence than by Renly's boisterous proclamations.
"And finally," Renly continued, sweeping his hand toward the two remaining figures at the table, "are my trusted advisors—men who have served me and my family with unwavering loyalty. This is Lord Mathis Rowan, a shrewd strategist and a man of great integrity, and beside him, Lord Randyll Tarly, known for his valor and wisdom on the battlefield."
Renly's gaze softened as he regarded his advisors. "I trust these men with my life," he declared, his voice steady and sincere. "They are not just advisors; they are my confidants, the pillars upon which I build my reign. Each decision we make is guided by their insights, and together, we shape the future of our realm."
Robb took a moment to survey the room, keenly observing the intricate dynamics at play. Renly's council was a fascinating mix of nobility, kinship, and seasoned warriors. Yet, beneath the surface camaraderie, he sensed an undercurrent of divided loyalties. While they gathered under the banner of House Baratheon, many among them were more firmly aligned with House Tyrell, their allegiance swaying like the leaves in the wind. Robb's instincts urged him to remain vigilant; he knew that true loyalty could be as elusive as a shadow in the night.
"I appreciate the introductions, your grace," Robb said after a pause, his tone diplomatic. "But I am eager to discuss what we've come here for. The matters of the war." His words were firm, signaling his intent to move past the pleasantries and focus on the pressing issues at hand.
Renly raised an eyebrow but didn't seem offended. "Ah, straight to business. I admire that about the Starks," he said, though his tone remained light. "Very well, Lord Stark. Let us discuss the war—and how we might win it together."
Loras leaned forward across the table, his sharp gaze locking onto Robb. There was a challenge in his eyes, one that carried the weight of courtly rumor and the sharp sting of suspicion.
"Yes, let's get to the heart of it, Stark," Loras said, his tone dripping with a mix of politeness and venom. "Because here's the thing—I thought you were aligned with the Lannisters. After all, your sister is betrothed to Joffrey, isn't she? And with the whispers we've been hearing... Well, let's just say there's talk that council isn't the only thing your wife has been offering the young king."
The accusation hung in the air like a dagger poised to strike. The other lords around the table shifted uncomfortably, but their eyes remained fixed on Robb, waiting to see how he would respond.
Loras didn't stop, his voice gaining a sharper edge. "So, forgive me if I'm skeptical about where your true loyalties lie. One minute, you're calling banners against the Lannisters, and the next, it seems like you're bound to them by marriage. How are we to trust you won't turn tail and run back to the Iron Throne when it suits you?"
The room grew tense, Renly's easy smile fading as the weight of Loras' words settled over the gathering. Margaery, sitting beside her brother, remained still, her face a mask of calm, though her eyes flickered between the two men.
Robb's jaw tightened, and he could feel the blood rush to his head. The insult to Roslin cut deeper than anything else. He knew the rumors were just that—vicious gossip designed to undermine his alliance and question his integrity. But Loras had laid them bare in front of Renly's entire council, daring Robb to deny them or show his hand.
"You speak boldly, Ser Loras," Robb began, fixing his gaze on the Knight of Flowers. "But boldness doesn't always come with wisdom. My sister's betrothal to Joffrey was arranged by my father with your brother King Robert, not with the Lannisters." His voice hardened as he continued. "When I arrived in King's Landing, I wanted nothing more than to break that betrothal, but I wasn't in a position to challenge the man who held my father's life in his hands at the time. So yes, Sansa is still promised to Joffrey—for now. But I'll make this clear: that wedding will only happen over my dead body."
Loras raised an eyebrow, his gaze unyielding, but Robb pressed on.
"And as for my wife," Robb's voice hardened, his knuckles white against the wood of the table, "she is no plaything for a boy king. She is a Stark of Winterfell and the Lady of my house. If any of you," he cast a cold glance around the table, eyes lingering on each of Renly's advisors, "doubt her loyalty or her honour, then you are doubting the honour of my house, and I won't tolerate it."
A heavy silence fell over the room. Renly shifted in his seat, exchanging a glance with Margaery, whose face remained unreadable. Lord Tarly folded his arms, clearly weighing Robb's words, while Lord Rowan remained still, eyes fixed on the table as if watching a storm brew.
"Bold words, Stark," Loras replied, though his earlier confidence seemed to waver. "But words don't make alliances. Loyalty does." He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. "So, tell us, where does your loyalty lie?"
Robb straightened, his posture firm and resolute. "My loyalty is to the North and the people who stand beside me—not out of fear or ambition, but because they believe in justice. I don't fight for the whims of a boy king or the greed of those who pretend to rule. I fight for peace, something I believe King Renly seeks as well." His voice was steady, yet laced with conviction, as he cast a meaningful glance toward Renly.
Renly's face softened as Robb spoke, and he nodded slightly, the glimmer of a smile returning. "Well said, Lord Stark. Well said."
Margaery's gaze finally broke from her mask of politeness, and she inclined her head slightly toward Robb. "It is no small thing to speak truth in a court full of ears eager for gossip," she said, her voice like silk but firm. "Your loyalty to your wife, and your sister, speaks highly of you. But war is not won by words alone."
Robb nodded thoughtfully, acknowledging Margaery's point with a measured seriousness. "No, Your Grace," he said, his voice calm but resolute. "But I cannot turn my back on House Lannister—not while Roslin and Sansa remain in King's Landing. If I pledge myself to your cause, if I openly oppose Joffrey, their lives will be forfeit."
He paused for a moment, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air. "The Lannisters don't forget a slight, and they certainly don't show mercy. My sister and my wife are hostages in all but name. As long as they remain in King's Landing, I must tread carefully. I can't risk their safety—not for any alliance, no matter how strong it may be."
"I understand your position, Lord Stark," Renly said, his voice surprisingly measured, though a hint of calculation lingered in his eyes. "But know this—my brother Stannis marches to parley. His forces are smaller, but should his men choose to turn to me, I will have the strength I need to take the capital." He paused, letting the gravity of the moment settle. "When that day comes, I will ensure the safety of your family—your wife, your sister, they will be protected under my banner."
Robb's brow furrowed slightly, his eyes narrowing as Renly continued.
"But," Renly added, his tone firm yet not without reason, "in return, House Stark must join our cause when the capital is secured. The North, with its strength and loyalty, will be vital in controlling the rest of the realm. We will need your swords, your bannermen, and your unwavering commitment to secure the rest of my kingdom."
He leaned forward slightly, the flicker of torchlight casting long shadows across his face. "This isn't merely about winning battles, Robb. This is about securing the peace that will follow. I will not be a king who rules over a fractured, war-torn realm. With House Stark at my side, we can unify the land—north and south—under one banner. But your allegiance will be required to make that vision a reality."
But Loras, though silent now, still looked unsatisfied, his jaw tight as he looked at Robb with suspicion. Robb could see that Loras's doubts ran deeper than words. Whether it was jealousy, rivalry, or something else entirely, Robb knew this would not be the last time Ser Loras Tyrell would question his loyalty.
As Renly turned the conversation toward strategy, discussing troop movements and supply lines, Robb's thoughts briefly drifted to Roslin. He wondered how she was faring in King's Landing, surrounded by enemies. He had to win this war—not just for his people, but for her. For their future.
"Meet Stannis with me, Lord Stark," Renly said, his voice steady yet persuasive. "Stand beside me on the field when we face him. See for yourself the strength of my men, the loyalty they bear to me, and the cause we fight for. Witness the power we hold, the alliances we've forged—not just with words, but with deeds. And then—only then—make your choice."
Robb reflected on the purpose that had brought him here—to uncover the Tyrells' true intentions in this war, to plant seeds of doubt, and to see if they could be swayed to align with the Lannisters. But now, as Renly's offer lingered in the air, Robb found his thoughts shifting. The possibility Renly presented wasn't just strategic; it was compelling.
He knew in his heart that the realm would be far safer under Renly's rule than beneath Joffrey. And more importantly, his family would stand a better chance of survival under a king like Renly, one who valued peace and stability.
Robb had come here with the intent to turn House Tyrell, to see if their ambitions could be used against them. But now, as he weighed the choice before him, he realised something unexpected—perhaps it wasn't the Tyrells who would be swayed.
Perhaps Renly had turned him.