Chapter 208

The Iron Throne was far more uncomfortable than Renly Baratheon had imagined, but the feeling of being king was unparalleled. Back in his chamber, reclining in a soft chair, he let out a long breath. Yet, a tinge of regret lingered—beyond the Crownlands, only two of the Seven Kingdoms had recognized his rule. Compared to his late brother Robert, he was, at best, a “two-sevenths king.”

The Westerlands were devastated by the war, left with little strength to do anything but declare neutrality. Dorne remained aloof, its intentions unclear. And as for the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands—they had indeed come to King’s Landing, but not to swear fealty. Instead, they brought armies, determined to unseat him.

Currently, King’s Landing housed over 30,000 Reach and Stormlands troops, alongside 10,000 Crownlands soldiers and the city guard. On paper, their numbers matched or even slightly exceeded the besieging forces. But Renly had chosen to remain behind the city walls, refusing to engage. To many, it was an act of cowardice, yet Renly believed in pragmatism. Neither his command nor his troops could rival the battle-hardened Northern army led by Robb Stark, fresh from their victory in the Westerlands.

Let the critics talk. History favored survivors. Renly had no intention of joining the long list of kings who died for their pride.

...

“By the day after tomorrow at the latest, Lord Randyll Tarly’s army will reach King’s Landing,” Loras Tyrell declared confidently. “If the Northerners don’t retreat by then, we’ll crush them in a pincer attack. And if we can capture Robb Stark, this war will end before it truly begins.”

“I don’t know much about warfare, but it won’t be that simple,” Margaery Tyrell said, shaking her head. “I’ve observed the Northern camp from the walls. Their trenches are deep, their defenses high, and scouts are constantly coming and going. They’re fresh off a victory against Randyll Tarly, their morale is high, and yet they’re not overconfident. With seasoned commanders in charge, their strength is formidable. Even when Randyll arrives, our forces will only outnumber them by a little over two to one. And don’t forget—we still have to guard against Stannis landing in Blackwater Bay.”

“Has Eddard Stark softened his stance yet?” Renly asked.

“If he had, he would’ve done so long ago,” Margaery replied, frowning. “No matter what terms we offer, Eddard remains steadfast in his refusal to acknowledge you as king. He’s infuriatingly stubborn, impervious to both persuasion and threats. Honestly, I’m more concerned about his health than his loyalty.”

“Why?” Loras asked, puzzled. “It’s just a minor injury. How hasn’t he recovered yet?”

“Not only hasn’t he improved, but I’ve noticed something strange,” Margaery said uneasily. “Eddard Stark is starting to show the same symptoms Robert exhibited before his death—weakness, difficulty passing waste, and a faint stench that won’t go away, even after bathing.”

“The same symptoms as Robert? That’s impossible,” Loras scoffed. “Robert was mortally wounded in the heart and lungs. Eddard just fell off his horse and cut his leg. The two situations couldn’t be more different.”

“A leg injury shouldn’t cause symptoms like these. Unless…” Renly’s gaze sharpened as he locked eyes with Margaery. “Are you suggesting someone tampered with him, hoping to kill Eddard and destabilize my reign?”

“I suspect as much, but I have no proof,” Margaery admitted.

“It’s Pycelle’s doing,” Renly declared with sudden certainty. “That old Lannister dog is the only one who could access poison within the Red Keep.”

“Pycelle left the castle after you took the throne, Your Grace,” Margaery reminded him, smiling wryly.

Renly paused, momentarily thrown off. “Fine. Then have Varys investigate. Let’s find out where Pycelle has been and who he’s been meeting.”

“Your Grace, you’re too focused on Pycelle. If I were to name the most suspicious person in the Red Keep, it would be your spymaster,” Margaery said. “You’ve been planning to replace the entire Small Council, yet you’ve hesitated to dismiss the Spider. Who knows where his true loyalties lie? But since we lack evidence, it’s best not to act rashly. I’ve already replaced Eddard Stark’s guards and attendants with people from Highgarden. Let’s see if his condition improves.”

“We can’t afford for him to die in our hands,” Loras said, his concern growing. “If Eddard Stark dies here, his son will tear this city apart.”

“It’s not that simple,” Margaery replied sharply. “As long as Eddard is our prisoner, his son won’t dare storm the city. But if we release him back to his army… Eddard Stark is a living legend in the North, a revered general. If he takes command, with father and son united, we’ll face an even greater threat.”

“So, we can’t release him, but we can’t let him die either. What are we supposed to do?” Loras asked, exasperated. Politics and intrigue were far removed from the straightforward ideals of the young knight.

...

A breeze stirred the room, causing the large crystal chandelier—a wedding gift from the Chief Logistician—to spin slowly. Light refracted through the colorful crystals, casting a dreamlike glow across the chamber.

“Time is on our side,” Margaery said, glancing toward the window, where something seemed to move. But as the chandelier’s light flashed in her eyes, the shadow vanished. She blinked and saw nothing unusual. “The Starks brought over twenty thousand men—almost half the North’s fighting force. Winter is coming, and if they remain in the South much longer, they risk losing their harvest. Meanwhile, the Reach…”

“With time, the Reach can raise another eighty thousand troops,” Loras declared confidently. “If two-to-one odds aren’t enough, we’ll make it three-to-one, or four-to-one!”

Winter's chill seemed to creep into the room. Margaery rubbed her exposed arms and cast another wary glance at the window before continuing. “Sheer numbers won’t guarantee victory. The Reach can field vast armies, but untrained peasants are no match for seasoned Northern veterans. And the North isn’t our only concern—we must also watch Dragonstone, Dorne, and the Iron Islands. Until we’re certain of everyone’s loyalties, we can’t afford to expose our vulnerabilities.”

“Dorne is irrelevant,” Loras said dismissively. “A thousand men can hold the Boneway and the Prince’s Pass against any Dornish force. The real problem is the pirates and sellsails along the Narrow Sea. They’re growing bolder, even attacking my vassals’ castles. It’s causing unrest among the lords—many want to return home to defend their lands. I can’t raise more troops, and even Storm’s End’s fleet is tied up dealing with these threats.”

“Keep Storm’s End’s fleet where it is,” Margaery advised. “They’d be no match for Dragonstone’s ships or Stannis’s forces anyway. Storm’s End is your seat and your foundation, Your Grace. It must not be left undefended. Meanwhile, the Iron Islands… If we can secure their loyalty, they could harass the North or attack Dragonstone. At the very least, we could redeploy the fleets guarding the Shields and the Arbor to Blackwater Bay, giving us a decisive edge on land and sea.”

“Good idea,” Renly said, nodding thoughtfully. “I’ve neglected the Ironborn for too long—a mistake I won’t repeat. My queen, I entrust this matter to you. Negotiate with House Greyjoy. Offer them whatever they want, so long as it’s not excessive.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

...

Renly shivered, rubbing his arms. “Why is it so cold? It’s late, my dear—time for us to rest.”

...

It was indeed time for rest, though few would guess the truth: despite their recent marriage, the royal couple had yet to consummate their union. Instead, Margaery was routinely sent to a separate chamber to sleep, leaving her brother Loras to attend to Renly. The arrangement had not gone unnoticed by the servants of the Red Keep, fueling endless gossip.

Margaery’s unease grew daily. Yet, Renly had fulfilled his promise to make her queen, elevating House Tyrell to the center of power. For now, she chose to endure, keeping her frustrations hidden behind a serene smile.

A sudden gust of wind extinguished several candles, leaving only the crystal chandelier’s oil lamp flickering faintly. Margaery thought she saw a shadow dart across the room but dismissed it as her imagination. Bowing gracefully, she said, “Good night, Your Grace.”

Renly offered her a faint smile, silently apologizing for his inability to give her what she deserved. As she exited, he turned toward Loras, ready to speak—when Margaery’s scream shattered the air.

“Your Grace, behind you!”

Renly spun, only to see a figure materialize from the shadows—a face formed of dark smoke, unmistakably that of his brother Stannis Baratheon.

In the next instant, Renly knew no more.