"Your Grace, I bring greetings from Lord Monford Velaryon of Driftmark, dispatched from his vessel at sea." Ser Cortnay Penrose presented a sealed parchment with deference.
Renly took the letter, glanced over its contents, and tossed it onto his desk with a soft laugh.
"Young Lord Velaryon grows quite bold. He seems to believe forty warships will cow the proud lords of the Stormlands into submission."
Renly crossed to the window and gazed down at the sea, where dozens of ship silhouettes huddled together against the shoreline—a display both formidable and strangely insignificant from this height.
"Pay him no mind. It seems Velaryon has forgotten the very meaning behind Storm's End. Let the ancient stones and the gathering storms welcome his 'invincible' fleet on our behalf."
Every child in the Seven Kingdoms knew the legend of Storm's End.
The old songs told how Elenei, daughter of the sea god and the goddess of wind, fell deeply in love with the mortal Durran. She forsook her immortality to spend a brief but joyous life by his side.
Elenei's divine parents, however, were consumed with fury at this choice and sent a dreadful wedding gift of tempest and flood.
The gift proved too terrible to bear. Durran's castle crumbled beneath its force, and all his kin and wedding guests perished. Only Durran and Elenei survived, protected by her lingering divine grace, to witness the grim aftermath when calm finally returned.
Yet Durran and Elenei refused to surrender to despair.
They rebuilt the castle, and again the gods unleashed their wrath. New strongholds followed, each more formidable and towering than the last, only to fall in turn.
Until at last, with the aid of a mysterious figure—some said Brandon the Builder himself—a castle arose that withstood the fury of wind and wave alike.
This fortress was named "Storm's End," and Durran became the first Storm King, ruling over the vast territories that would come to be known as the Stormlands.
All this had transpired thousands of years ago, in the Age of Heroes.
And in all the long centuries since, Storm's End had never fallen.
Cortnay Penrose wore a puzzled expression. "Lord Velaryon commands from the deck of the 'Glory of Driftmark'—the pride of their fleet. Why does he trouble himself with such personal attendance?"
Renly returned to his seat, fingers drumming lightly against the oak. "Perhaps Lord Velaryon simply serves his king with genuine devotion. His dear Grace has not seen fit to restore Dragonstone to little Shireen, after all."
Renly harbored no illusions about the matter. Monford Velaryon must have calculated that Joffrey's victory was assured, else he would never have wagered so boldly.
After all, when the Velaryon fleet had set sail, Joffrey had not yet issued his preposterous decree.
Renly barely suppressed a smile. "Ser Cortnay, the Iron Throne's proclamation has been circulating for a sennight now. What sum does Storm's End supposedly owe in taxes?"
Cortnay Penrose shook his head, clicking his tongue in disbelief. "It defies imagination, Your Grace. If calculated from the Targaryen era, selling the entirety of the Stormlands would scarcely cover the debt. Even if reckoned only from King Robert's ascension, the arrears total one million, six hundred thousand gold dragons!"
Inwardly, Renly found himself cheering his opponent's folly.
If the situation in the Stormlands was already so dire, the other six kingdoms must face even graver circumstances.
And Joffrey had granted a mere three years for repayment. When that time elapsed, could the lords and dukes of the Seven Kingdoms possibly offer up such vast fortunes?
Which great lord would willingly drain his family's coffers to feed this bottomless pit? Should they attempt to extract these taxes from their subordinate bannermen, the resulting resentments would inevitably undermine their own authority and power—all cost with no reward.
Even if Eddard Stark and Tywin Lannister maintained their unwavering support for Joffrey, would their vassals obey the Iron Throne without reservation?
Renly knew the scales of victory had tilted dramatically in his favor. He need only wait for the final weight to fall, and the balance would shift irrevocably to his side. House Baratheon would reclaim the Iron Throne—though under a different branch than before.
Loras, I am sorry for your suffering. Soon we shall be reunited.
Renly struggled to conceal his mounting impatience. "Two weeks have passed. Has the Reach still offered no reply?"
Though he kept his voice level, Ser Cortnay sensed his lord's anxiety nonetheless. Renly had posed the same question thrice already this day alone.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A crisp rapping at the door interrupted them. Ser Cortnay moved to investigate, returning moments later with undisguised elation brightening his weathered features.
"Your Grace—a message bearing the seal of the rose."
Renly took it with barely concealed eagerness, examining the impression with care. Indeed, the exquisitely rendered golden rose in bloom was both familiar and unforgettable—the sigil of House Tyrell, Lords Paramount of the Reach, rulers of the most fertile lands in all the Seven Kingdoms.
Renly drew a steadying breath, broke the wax seal with deliberate movements, and unfolded the scroll to read in silence:
"To Duke Renly of Storm's End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Master of Laws, of House Baratheon:
The Tyrells and all loyal subjects of the Reach pledge to uphold the lawful succession of the Iron Throne.
If the bloodline of King Joffrey I stands in question, the lords of the Seven Kingdoms must not shrink from their duty to seek truth and justice, no matter the cost.
House Tyrell stands ready to lead this righteous cause.
—With all respect, Willas Tyrell."
Willas Tyrell—eldest son of Mace Tyrell and heir to Highgarden. Renly felt both satisfaction and a twinge of disappointment.
How much stronger his position would be if Lord Mace and the formidable "Queen of Thorns" had openly declared their support.
Yet he reconsidered almost immediately. No, if the Tyrell family were truly so reckless, they would hardly prove worthy allies. This measured commitment would suffice for now.
The decisive weight had been placed upon the scales.
Renly rose to his feet, mind racing with calculations.
The battlefield would lie south of King's Landing and Casterly Rock, north of Highgarden and Storm's End.
Three months—that was the longest this conflict could possibly last.
The North was the most distant kingdom and could muster perhaps twenty thousand men at most. The Riverlands and the Vale might each field between twenty and thirty thousand. The Westerlands could raise forty to fifty thousand seasoned troops. The Crownlands, being closest to King's Landing, might arm another ten to twenty thousand soldiers.
But with Joffrey's ruinous tax decree hanging over their heads, many lords would likely send only token forces as a gesture of nominal compliance.
Old Lord Hoster Tully of the Riverlands lay dying, while Lysa Arryn of the Vale had become a neurotic recluse. Both regions would likely choose only to defend their own borders.
Dorne and the Iron Islands harbored no love for House Lannister.
At best, Joffrey might command fifty thousand men.
The Stormlands alone could field twenty to thirty thousand troops. If the Reach contributed fifty thousand or more, this battle for the Iron Throne would prove devastating for the crown's forces. Indeed, many of the enemy might defect before the first arrow flew.
Renly could almost see the courtiers beneath the Iron Throne bending their knees to him in his mind's eye.
"Ser Cortnay, summon all the lords of the Stormlands. We shall gather our strength here at Storm's End and prepare for war. Also, dispatch this letter to every castle in the Seven Kingdoms—including the Red Keep itself."
Ser Cortnay accepted the parchment, which bore no seal. He glanced at its contents and froze in place.
"Your Grace, Joffrey, he..."
Renly smiled coldly. "Ser, I am His Grace now. Your eyes do not deceive you. Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella are all born of incest. By every law of gods and men, the Iron Throne passes rightfully to me!"
"Yes... Your Grace."
His sovereign's eyes burned with such fierce intensity that Ser Cortnay found himself looking away. His gaze fell upon the banner hanging on the wall.
Against its field of gold reared the arms inherited from the ancient Storm Kings—the symbol House Baratheon had borne for three centuries—a mighty stag crowned and wrathful.
A black stag.
Beneath the crowned stag banners of the Red Keep, Lady Hanna brought welcome tidings to King Joffrey.
"Hunters have discovered a pure white stag in the Kingswood, Your Grace. This surely portends divine favor for tomorrow's coronation."
Joffrey received the news with indifference. "A reward of one hundred gold dragons for the hunters. Rain grows ever more unruly—perhaps the time has come to change my mount."
War loomed on the horizon. The coronation ceremony presented an ideal opportunity. On the morrow, King's Landing would begin its rebirth, and Westeros would witness the foundation of a magical empire cloaked in the guise of faith.
Azor Ahai, the Hero King.
"Where is Melisandre, the red priestess of R'hllor from Asshai?" Joffrey inquired.
Hanna recalled the woman's whereabouts. "She lodges at an inn beside the Mud Gate, Your Grace. Shall I summon her to court?"
Joffrey merely smiled.
After tomorrow's events, Melisandre would seek his door of her own accord.
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