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The one standing as Stannis's representative was Lord Monford Velaryon of Driftmark; a key figure among those who followed the Lord of Dragonstone.
The Velaryons, once upon a time, had been some of House Targaryen's staunchest and most trusted allies. For a long stretch of Westerosi history, the two families had been bound not only by shared purpose, but by marriage ties as well. Both hailed from the ancient blood of Valyria, their veins pulsing with the legacy of dragonlords.
To safeguard their own family's ability to tame dragons, the Targaryens had treated House Velaryon as a kind of backup… an auxiliary bloodline, a reserve of Valyrian purity that could be drawn upon if ever the main line grew thin.
But when the Dance of the Dragons erupted, a brutal, bloody civil war that tore through the Targaryen dynasty and altered the course of its history, the glory of House Velaryon began to fade. Slowly, their once-commanding power across the Narrow Sea diminished, their influence slipping through their fingers like water.
The bond between the two ancient houses, once unbreakable, grew weaker with every passing year. And in the end, when the Targaryen dynasty finally crumbled and fell, the Velaryons chose to betray them.
After Stannis was named Lord of Dragonstone, given command over all Westerosi military forces along the Narrow Sea, it was only natural that Driftmark came under his banner. And when he summoned his bannermen to rally on Dragonstone, Lord Monford Velaryon had been the very first to respond.
He had followed Stannis into every campaign since, marching at his side through every skirmish and battle. They hadn't lost a fight yet. And still, Monford Velaryon found himself growing more and more uneasy with each passing day.
The reason was painfully simple… they were running out of strength.
Their entire fighting force, when counted down to the last man, barely exceeded ten thousand. And that was it. That was all they had. No more reinforcements, no more reserves. Just this.
With such shallow reserves and limited war potential, the only reason they had managed to hold their ground so far was because Stannis hadn't lost. Not even once. But if he ever did, if he suffered a single defeat, then by now, they'd already be licking their wounds back on Dragonstone, instead of still clinging to the Iron Throne.
Monford had once advised Stannis to leave behind a portion of the fleet, stationed at Dragonstone as a safeguard. A precaution in case someone decided to strike at their home base while the bulk of their forces were here, locked in the capital.
But that was just wishful thinking. Stannis's stubbornness was legendary. And no amount of reasoning could ever hope to change that.
So Monford had no choice. He brought with him every last ship and every last soldier from Driftmark, throwing everything they had behind Stannis's desperate gamble. And now, here they were, trapped inside the Red Keep, surrounded by Renly's massive host.
And then, as if things weren't already bad enough, trouble finally struck Dragonstone.
As one of the highest-ranking lords under Stannis, the responsibility now fell squarely on Monford's shoulders to step forward and negotiate with Renly. He had no say in the matter and no room to refuse. He was the one burdened with a liege lord like this, and now he had to carry the weight that came with that choice.
Fortunately, the fighting on the front lines had died down. For all intents and purposes, the two sides had settled into an unofficial ceasefire. Thanks to that, Monford, accompanied by four other great lords sworn to Stannis, managed to safely enter the camp and secure an audience with Renly Baratheon inside the Great Sept of Baelor.
That, in itself, was not all that surprising. Most of the lords in this part of the realm had known one another for years. Monford Velaryon's face was like a well-worn seal of approval — his very presence acted as a kind of pass, a familiar figure from better days. Had they not ended up on opposite sides of the war, they might have been raising a toast together right now, wine in hand, laughing over old memories.
Inside the main hall of the Great Sept, sunlight poured through the stained glass windows, casting vibrant, jewel-toned patterns across the walls. The murals, faded but intricate, radiated a strange kind of beauty… something regal yet touched by time, a faded splendor that seemed to whisper of centuries gone by.
At the very center of it all, seated high upon the dais that had once been reserved for the High Septon, sat Renly Baratheon.
He wore a robe of deep forest green, the fabric rich and heavy, and atop his head rested a massive crown shaped like golden antlers, an unmistakable symbol of his claim to the throne.
He didn't move. He simply waited there in silence for the guests sent by his older brother to arrive.
The sunlight only half touched him, casting one side of his figure into brightness while the other was veiled in shadow. That half-light seemed to wrap around him like a shroud, making him appear calm and still, yet impossibly distant, as if his thoughts were drifting somewhere far beyond this great hall.
When Monford Velaryon finally stepped through the doors of the Sept and caught sight of the man seated high above, he instinctively slowed his steps.
He had seen Renly before. In fact, he had known him well. The Renly he remembered had been the Baratheon family's most charismatic figure… a man born to shine in courts and feasts, always surrounded by laughter, his smile a familiar comfort at every noble gathering. Monford and Renly had shared a rather warm personal relationship, back when things were simpler.
Back in those days, Renly had always struck him as carefree and cheerful, someone who never sweated the small stuff. He had the energy of spring's first green leaves; fresh, lively, unburdened.
But now, the man seated atop the dais was a stranger.
From where Monford stood, all he could feel was exhaustion, thick and heavy, almost suffocating in its weight. The play of sunlight and shadow across Renly's form added no grandeur, no sense of depth. If anything, it only made the silence feel deeper. The entire hall seemed to be holding its breath.
Then, after what felt like an age, Monford finally heard Renly speak. His voice was low, rougher than before, with a faint rasp to it.
"Well now, it's been a long time, hasn't it? Alas… Monford. So you've come on behalf of my dear brother. Tell me, what exactly is it that he wants to say to me?"
His tone was calm. Strangely calm. But that stillness only made Monford more uneasy. The calmer Renly sounded, the more off-balance Monford felt.
Not that he was particularly worried for Renly's well-being. At this point, both sides were like clay idols crossing a river, barely keeping themselves afloat, let alone able to care about anyone else's troubles.
Still, he needed to understand what had changed Renly into this version of himself. That knowledge might prove useful in the negotiations to come. The better he could read the man across the table, the better his chances of coming out of this intact.
And since they were already standing in Renly's stronghold, addressing him as "Lord Renly" would be not only unwise… it would be suicidal. Monford Velaryon, ever the flexible one when it came to navigating the fine lines of power, had already decided how he would phrase things.
"Your Grace, it truly has been a long time. If I recall correctly, the last time we met each other was at King Robert's grand tourney in King's Landing. Gods, that must have been… years ago now."
A faint smile surfaced on Renly's face, hidden deep within the shadow that cloaked half of it. A trace of wistful memory flickered across his features… only, Monford Velaryon couldn't see it from where he stood.
"Yes," Renly murmured. "But I really never thought that when we met again, it would be under circumstances like these. My brother has already returned to the arms of the gods. If he were still here, well… he'd probably beat me senseless."
For some reason, standing there in the sunlight, the Lord of Driftmark suddenly caught a flicker of something in Renly's voice. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but there it was… a weariness that didn't quite match the words themselves. Something hollow. Something tired. So faint that it might've been a trick of the light, or maybe just his own imagination.
But it wasn't…
Renly Baratheon, the youngest child of summer, born into warmth, raised in splendor, always surrounded by love and laughter, had, for the first time in his life, come up against something he couldn't quite handle.
He had been the youngest of the three Baratheon brothers, and also the most adored. Even though both of his older brothers had their flaws, neither of them had ever truly turned their backs on him. For all their roughness, they had protected him, looked out for him, wrapped him in the kind of affection only siblings could give.
As he grew older, Robert had led a rebellion, marched into battle, and won a kingdom. And because of that, the once-ordinary third son of House Baratheon had suddenly become the realm's third prince, no longer just a noble's child, but a noble of the realm, with lands and titles and power of his own.
He had been made Lord of Storm's End, gaining the allegiance of nearly every noble house in the Stormlands.
Later, he remained in King's Landing, appointed as Master of Laws on the Small Council. And through his effortless charm and bright presence, he had lived surrounded by admiration, bathed in praise and affection. People loved him. They always had.
And now, when war broke out, he barely had to lift a finger to raise the largest army in all of the Seven Kingdoms. They marched with him swiftly, and now they stood only a single step away from the Red Keep.
Everything had seemed perfect. He was one step from the throne.
But then, the Tyrells, his most important allies, began making quiet moves behind his back. And somehow, whether by design or cruel fate, those schemes succeeded in driving a deep and lasting wedge between him, the Tyrells, and the lords of the Stormlands.
What frustrated Renly the most was that no matter how he tried to handle it, no matter what approach he took, it always seemed to make things worse.
Stannis had lost his only heir. House Tarth had been tricked and lost their ancestral lands. And as for Renly himself… people began calling him cold-hearted or blind to what was happening under his nose.
In the end, everyone had lost something. Everyone had been hurt in one way or another.
And the only ones who had truly gained anything… were the Tyrells.
Renly saw that. He understood it. He could see the full shape of what had happened. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't prove it. He couldn't speak it aloud.
Because Renly Baratheon needed House Tyrell. He needed their loyalty, their oaths, their strength. And if they chose this moment to abandon him, if they betrayed him now, then it would be over. His march to the throne would come to a sudden, humiliating end.
And worse than that… he might not even survive it.
That was something Renly could not accept!
So he made his choice. He threw his weight behind House Tyrell, took the blame upon himself, and bore the weight of public scorn alone. But deep down, for someone like Renly, someone who had always seen himself as beloved, admired, and untouched by shadows, that decision left a wound he could not ignore.
The ambition that had once burned bright in his chest, the fantasy of storming into King's Landing and claiming the Iron Throne in one sweeping move, of restoring the realm to the grandeur it once knew, now felt dulled, distant… stripped of its glory by a lot.
Because now, Renly had come to understand something he hadn't wanted to see before: if things continued down this road, even if he did ascend the throne, he would do so not as a true king, but as a puppet of the Tyrells. A figurehead dressed in gold, wearing a crown that meant nothing. In the end, all he would be doing was handing his victory to someone else.
Renly didn't want this to happen.
But he didn't have a way out.
Part of him still longed to explain things to his brother Stannis, to look him in the eye and tell him that the thing with Shireen wasn't his doing.
It was a childish, hollow wish, and deep down, Renly knew it had no chance of ever coming true.
Because now, in Stannis's eyes, he was the one who had broken the rules first. The one who had crossed the line, the traitor, the enemy.
And if Shireen could not be found, then there would be no reconciliation. No forgiveness. Only blood. Only war. A fight that would not end until one of them lay dead.
"Your Grace, we have come here today as envoys of King Stannis, to seek an answer from you regarding the matter of Princess Shireen."
"It was the work of pirates. I believe King Renly has already made that very clear."
Renly didn't respond. The one who answered Monford's question was Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, who had been standing silently to one side until now.
He spoke quickly, almost as if he had been waiting for the moment, cutting in before Renly had the chance to speak. And after he finished, he glanced up toward the high seat where Renly sat, as if checking for approval… or perhaps reassurance.
Monford Velaryon had never harbored even the slightest fondness for the Tyrells. In truth, just the sight of them was enough to make his lip curl. He didn't hesitate to fire back with a sharp retort, his voice laced with open mockery.
"Oh really, Lord Puff Fish? So these so-called pirates, clever enough to wipe out several hundred men stationed at Dragonstone but somehow not all that interested in riches or loot, just happened to snatch Princess Shireen and sail off with nothing else? That's strange. I must have missed the news about this new breed of bandits prowling the Narrow Sea."
The insult landed like a slap.
To be called that name, Lord Puff Fish, a nickname Mace Tyrell had loathed with every fiber of his being, was more than the Highgarden duke could bear. His face flushed an angry shade of red, and his thick, carrot-shaped fingers trembled with rage as he pointed them straight at Monford Velaryon and bellowed furiously:
"When I say it was pirates, then it was pirates! Whether your precious Stannis chooses to believe it or not, that's his problem. Either way, his darling little daughter is gone for good, and there's nothing you lot can do about it!"
The words came out crude and careless, completely lacking the dignity one might expect from a man who wielded so much power, let alone a Lord of one of the most powerful houses in the realm.
It was just… embarrassingly lowbrow.
But then again, when you thought about the kind of stunts Lord Puff Fish had pulled before, it wasn't all that surprising.
Still, that kind of bare-faced shamelessness caught Monford Velaryon a little off guard. He blinked, hesitating for a moment. Because truthfully, he had no idea what the deeper story was behind all this.
Why were the Tyrells so eager, almost desperate, to shut this thing down, to seal the narrative with such finality?
From what they had originally discussed among the great lords, those who supported Stannis, the general consensus was that Renly had orchestrated the whole thing. And if that were true, then surely House Tyrell wouldn't be defending him. They'd be trying to distance themselves, to spread the story wide and loud, making sure the world knew where the blame lay… on Renly, not them.
They were all players in the same ruthless game. Not a single one of them had clean hands.
But watching Mace Tyrell now, it didn't feel like he was trying to protect his house. It felt like he was working overtime to make sure everyone believed Renly had done it. And all the while, Renly himself, perched high above on his throne, remained completely silent.
That silence was strange… too strange!
Monford had already spoken privately with a few members of the negotiation party before coming here. In confidence, he'd told them the truth: if he was being honest with himself, he didn't really believe Renly was capable of doing something like this.
After all, Renly was the kind of man who had grown up surrounded by roses and summer wine. He'd never had to shoulder the burdens of his house the way his brothers did. And in some twisted way, that made him the one most deeply poisoned by the illusion of knighthood; the shining ideals, the glory, the gallantry.
He might have seemed like a man without principles, always chasing his pleasures and bending the rules. But deep down, Renly Baratheon's sense of right and wrong ran deeper than most. He held tight to a moral line, even if no one else could see it.
Now, connecting Renly's eerie silence with Mace Tyrell's odd urgency, Monford Velaryon felt a new thought rising in his mind… one that he hadn't dared consider until now.
What if… Renly really didn't do it?
He turned toward the throne, where King Renly sat half-shrouded in shadow, the light filtering through the tall windows catching only the edge of his profile. With a measured step forward, Monford pressed a hand to his chest in salute and raised his voice so it rang through the still air of the Great Sept of Baelor:
"Your Grace Renly. As the messenger of King Stannis, I request a private audience with you. I would prefer, frankly, not to have certain people present. They're far too noisy."
The moment his voice faded, the entire hall fell into silence.
A hush so deep, you could've heard a pin drop.
Every pair of eyes turned to Renly Baratheon, the man who had yet to speak, who had yet to reveal his heart.
And then, after a long, breathless pause, a quiet voice drifted down from the shadows where the light could not quite reach him. Soft. Even. Almost weightless.
He said:
"All right."
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[Chapter End's]
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