"Long live King Renly, First of His Name!" The assembled lords and knights raised their goblets high, their voices rising in a thunderous chorus of acclamation that echoed off the ancient stone walls of Storm's End.
"To victory!" King Renly proclaimed, the golden stag crown resting upon his dark hair catching the torchlight as he raised his golden cup and drained it in a single swallow. His eyes sparkled with merriment as his smile encouraged the feasting nobles—the very image of Robert Baratheon in his prime.
Many of the older lords could still recall those heady days of rebellion with perfect clarity. Duke Robert, who had won three victories in a single day at Summerhall. How his booming laughter and bear-like embraces had won the hearts of the Storm Lords, carrying him onward to overthrow Aerys the Mad King and establish the Baratheon dynasty of the crowned stag.
Now, the Lord of Storm's End, Robert's only surviving brother, Renly Baratheon, had been formally crowned and anointed as the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.
As one, they emptied their cups to the last drop, wine spilling down beards and onto fine doublets, none caring for the stains.
"To victory!" The cry was taken up again, rolling through the hall like summer thunder.
King Renly observed the proceedings from his elevated seat upon the dais, satisfaction evident in the curve of his lips. The great hall of Storm's End, built to withstand both storm and siege, was spacious enough to accommodate all his bannermen and honored guests. In the center of the hall, jesters tumbled and capered, their antics drawing appreciative laughter. Musicians and singers positioned in the galleries above provided melodies both martial and merry, while servants wove between the trestle tables bearing platters of steaming food and flagons of the finest vintages.
Everywhere was laughter—for His Grace Renly, for the extravagant feast, and for the victory that all believed was soon to come.
Beside him, Lord Eldon Estermont, white-bearded and solemn, raised his cup in a private toast. "Congratulations, Your Grace. Your marriage to Lady Margaery will forge the strongest bond our alliance could hope for. If the Lannisters possess any wisdom at all, they should retreat to their stone castles in the Westerlands without delay and surrender the Iron Throne with what little dignity remains to them."
Renly acknowledged the toast with a nod and a smile.
The Lord of Greenstone had contributed eight hundred soldiers when he crossed the narrow strait from Estermont—not an overwhelming force, but Renly's deceased mother had been Eldon's sister, and so the old man could not be slighted, neither by reason nor by the bonds of blood.
"I think not," Lord Bryce Caron interjected, his voice carrying the rough edge of the marches. "The Lannisters will never surrender so easily."
Renly and the lords seated at the high table turned their attention to the Lord of Nightsong.
House Caron was powerful and proud, their ancestral lands guarding the Dornish Marches where the Stormlands bordered the harsh deserts of Dorne. They were a martial house, bred to war across generations.
For this campaign, Lord Bryce had brought two hundred knights under his personal command, while two thousand cavalry and three thousand infantry were even now gathering at his holdings, expected to reach Storm's End by the first week of August.
"We shall need to bloody the lions' noses in a few fierce battles before they will bend the knee!" Lord Caron declared, punctuating his words with a clenched fist.
At this feast, at least, the boy king Joffrey who sat the Iron Throne could only be regarded as a Lannister lion, regardless of the name he bore.
As for the truth of his parentage? Few could claim certainty, and fewer still truly cared. The Storm Lords heeded the call of their liege, as they had always done.
Lord Arstan Selmy, cousin to the famed knight Barristan the Bold, leaned forward. "Your Grace, perhaps there is no pressing need to shed blood. As all men know, half the bread that feeds King's Landing comes from the Reach. If Lord Tyrell were to withhold those shipments, hunger would topple the false king more swiftly than any army."
Renly regarded him with evident approval. "A sound strategy. For Lady Margaery's sake, I trust that Lady Olenna and Lord Mace will not refuse such a request."
Ser Cortnay Penrose, castellan of Storm's End and devoted to duty above all else, frowned. "The Riverlands in the north are also abundant in grain and livestock. King's Landing might be provisioned from those lands for some considerable time. I fear such measures alone may prove insufficient."
"That is the situation now," Lord Caron responded, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial level that nonetheless carried to every ear at the high table. "But what if the mouths to feed in King's Landing were suddenly to double?"
Eyes widened around the table. What could he mean?
Lord Caron elaborated, satisfaction evident in his tone. "We might dispatch agents into the Crownlands to quietly persuade the smallfolk in villages and towns to seek refuge within King's Landing. And then..."
His words hung in the air like smoke. Some lords appeared confused, while others immediately grasped the cruel cunning of the plan. A few curled their lips in contempt, while still others leaned forward eagerly, relishing the elegant simplicity of the strategy.
This, perhaps, would mark the first blood drawn in the war to come—not from knights and men-at-arms, but from the bellies of starving children.
Renly sighed almost imperceptibly. "See to it, then."
"I shall not disappoint Your Grace," Lord Caron declared, accepting the commission with evident enthusiasm. This was a task worthy of his talents.
Several lords fixed Lord Caron with pointed stares until he acknowledged each in turn with the slightest nod of his head, their gazes retreating only after receiving assurance of inclusion in the scheme.
At that moment, a servant approached bearing a golden-brown roasted suckling pig, its skin crackling and glistening with fat. The rich aroma wafted across the dais, causing more than one lord to unconsciously lick his lips in anticipation.
His Grace Renly took up knife and fork, piercing the crisp skin to carve away a succulent morsel of steaming meat. "Who else brings counsel? Speak now—the first cut shall be the reward for wisdom freely given."
In the heartbeat that followed, several voices rose simultaneously.
"The Riverlands and the Vale are worth contesting, Your Grace. Joffrey is not the true king—perhaps Lord Stark might be persuaded to abandon darkness and turn toward the light."
"The Greyjoys of the Iron Islands will never remain peacefully in their corners. Let them loose upon the Westerlands and the North. Lannisport could be reduced to smoking ruins, a blow even Tywin Lannister would struggle to bear."
"Mercenary companies from across the Narrow Sea could be recruited to bolster our numbers."
"Seek support from the Iron Bank of Braavos! We could repay any debt with gold from the Westerlands after our victory. Their coffers are bottomless!"
"Dorne harbors a hatred for the Lannisters that burns hotter than their desert sun."
"..."
Renly nodded and smiled at each suggestion in turn. Some he had already set in motion; others he judged impractical or ill-conceived.
Regardless of merit, willingness to speak marked these men as his own. He carved many more portions of the succulent pork, rewarding each lord who had offered counsel, their laughter rising anew with each gift of favor.
"Your Grace," came a hesitant voice, "should we not proceed with greater caution?"
Ser Donnel Swann, who had remained silent throughout the meal, seemed reluctant to continue. "Reports filtering back from King's Landing speak of... strange occurrences. Giants appearing at the coronation, divine grace bestowed upon the faithful, and other such marvels. These tales... they cannot possibly be true, can they?"
The table erupted in raucous laughter.
"You would credit such nonsense? Donnel, surely you jest!"
"These are fabrications a child might concoct! You dare trouble His Grace with such foolishness?"
Renly studied Ser Donnel from beneath hooded eyes.
This was the heir to Lord Gulian Swann, who lay ill and bedridden at Stonehelm. Behind Donnel stood three thousand fighting men whose loyalty might prove less than absolute.
Renly was also well aware that Balon Swann had accepted a white cloak from Joffrey, joining the Kingsguard. House Swann's allegiance was divided, their commitment suspect.
Donnel Swann offered a sheepish smile, passing a hand over his brow before lapsing into prudent silence.
"What matters truth or falsehood in such tales?" Ser Cortnay declared loudly. "My lords, victory on the battlefield shall decide all, rendering every other consideration trivial by comparison."
"The knights of the Stormlands and the Reach shall crush all who stand against the true king!"
None present dared challenge this assertion.
Every eye turned expectantly toward His Grace Renly, hungry for confirmation of what they already believed to be true.
Though the marriage ceremony had not yet been performed, the signed contract binding Renly to Lady Margaery Tyrell was proof enough of Highgarden's commitment. The alliance was forged, unbreakable by any force save death itself.
Within a fortnight, twenty thousand men would be gathered beneath Renly's banners in the Stormlands, joined by sixty thousand more from the fertile fields of the Reach.
By that time, King's Landing would likely command fewer than ten thousand defenders.
Though the Redwyne twins remained hostage in the Red Keep, preventing the Redwyne fleet from sailing against the capital, the overwhelming advantage on land seemed sufficient to ensure victory.
When would they march?
Renly rose from his seat, and in the space of a few heartbeats, the great hall fell utterly silent.
A sea of eyes fixed upon the King.
His Grace's voice rang clear and confident through the hushed chamber. "We break camp on the fifth day of August and make haste for Bitterbridge, there to join with the Highgarden host before September dawns. Then shall we strike directly for King's Landing and claim victory in a single decisive battle!"
The assembled lords surged to their feet, raising fists and cups alike. "To victory!"
A soldier in Baratheon livery entered through a side door and leaned close to whisper in His Grace Renly's ear.
His Grace's smile broadened. "My lords! Continue your revelry, for I bring glad tidings—the Velaryon fleet patrolling our eastern shores has withdrawn northward!"
"Long live Your Grace!"
The hall erupted in renewed celebration, the news taken as an auspicious sign. Surely the gods themselves favored Renly's cause.
Yet as Renly resumed his seat, he silently contemplated the second half of the report, which he had chosen to withhold.
The Velaryon ships had taken with them Brienne of Tarth, the only daughter and heir of Lord Selwyn Tarth of Evenfall Hall.
Tarth Island would not be sending troops to his cause.
In war, you win some and lose some, Renly reflected, reaching for his wine. But in the game of thrones, you win or you die.
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