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The word "All right"—light as it was, barely carrying any weight, struck the ears of everyone present like a cold iron bell.
A strange expression crept across the faces of Monford and the others, but it was Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and the infamous Lord Puff Fish, whose face twisted with undisguised displeasure.
Without hesitation, he whipped his head around and glared into the shadows, locking eyes with the vague figure who had just spoken. His voice boomed out, filled with fury and disbelief.
"Your Grace! Is this your will?"
What came back wasn't an answer, not really… just a soft snort from Renly.
"Oh, come now, my dearest Lord Mace Tyrell. I am the king. Do I truly need your permission to decide whom I meet with, or how I choose to meet them?"
Renly Baratheon's tone remained calm, utterly undisturbed, like still water untouched by wind. He continued, "Don't fret, House Tyrell. You've always been my staunchest supporters… of that I'm well aware. So rest assured, Lord Mace: once I enter the Red Keep, the position of Hand of the King will be yours. You have my word."
That single sentence made everything perfectly clear to Monford Velaryon. Whatever bond had once existed between Renly and the Tyrells, it was fraying fast, slipping toward imbalance. Something had clearly gone wrong between them. Something serious.
Lord Mace Tyrell stood there, momentarily stunned by Renly's pointed words… so blunt, yet laced with unmistakable ridicule. He had no idea how to respond.
But Renly had no intention of lingering to banter with someone he already considered useless. He rose from the throne with slow, deliberate grace, stepped forward, and let the full light fall on his figure, casting aside the shadows that had shrouded him.
"You may go now, Lord Tyrell. Feel free to spread word of my decision to anyone you like. I couldn't care less."
Mace Tyrell couldn't stay a moment longer. His face had turned crimson, and with his round, heavyset frame, he now looked rather like a pig that had been boiled just short of bursting.
He understood… he wasn't a fool. After what had just unfolded, whatever personal bond had once tied Renly to the Tyrells was gone. All that remained between them now was naked interest and cold calculation.
Still, he hadn't expected Renly to react so strongly. He hadn't imagined he would be cast out so publicly, so bluntly, discarded in front of everyone without the slightest regard for the fact that he was supposed to be Renly's close confidant, even his ostensible father-in-law.
Renly would rather exchange words with Stannis's messenger than allow him, a Tyrell, to remain in the room.
That, in itself, was not a good sign.
And while he might be slow-witted in many things, Mace Tyrell had spent too many years steeped in the world of noble politics not to recognize what this meant.
Sure, there didn't have to be any deep affection between Renly and House Tyrell. After all, once upon a time, the Baratheons hadn't exactly been close to the Lannisters either — not in any genuine sense — but they had still managed to get along peacefully for over a decade, hadn't they?
Even so, Renly shouldn't have acted so overtly. He had dragged their discord out into the open, laid it bare for all to see, without even trying to keep up appearances.
Once someone flips the table over, how's anyone supposed to keep playing the game?
What happens to the rules? Do they just stop mattering?
That was the real reason behind Mace Tyrell's rage.
Their house had no hope of ruling in their own name. The name Tyrell would never sit on the Iron Throne… not without a Baratheon to lean on.
And Renly… Renly wasn't without power. He wasn't ruling alone. He still commanded the loyalty of many powerful bannermen.
The move the Tyrells had made earlier, their little maneuver behind the scenes, had been crafted with a specific purpose in mind: to drive a permanent wedge between Renly and Stannis, to make any hope of reconciliation utterly impossible. The plan had been to weaken Renly's image, chip away at his standing, and, in time, strip away his authority without him realizing until it was too late.
But now?
Renly still held all the real power. His word was law. No one could challenge his command. And if he truly chose to sever ties with the Tyrells, if he wanted to drag this conflict into the daylight and pit himself against them openly, things could become very, very difficult.
Because Renly hadn't said he didn't need House Tyrell. Quite the opposite. He had just promised, publicly, that the office of Hand of the King would belong to Mace himself.
So what more could the Tyrells possibly ask for?
That was the cruel part. They couldn't ask for anything more. Which meant that, despite Renly's chilling behavior, Mace Tyrell had no choice but to swallow his anger. He couldn't do a damn thing.
"Hmmph!"
The Lord Puff Fish of Highgarden let out a rare sound of indignation. It was feeble and unconvincing, almost laughable in its weakness, but for him, it was an unusually aggressive display.
"Go now. There's no place for you here for the time being, my dear Duke."
Renly's voice was still calm, still measured. But this quiet detachment, this icy resolve, was unlike anything Mace Tyrell had ever seen from him.
He didn't understand what had changed. Didn't understand why Renly was treating him this way.
But one thing was clear…
This was not a good omen!
And so, with great effort, the bloated Lord of the Reach turned and waddled out of the grand hall of the Great Sept of Baelor. The colored beams of light that spilled through the stained-glass windows followed at his heels, chasing him like silent specters, as if even the sunlight itself were casting him out.
"All right," Renly murmured, watching him go, his voice warm with a hint of amusement. "Now there's no one else here."
A faint smile played across his lips, and the sharpness in his eyes seemed to ease.
He turned once more, slowly guiding his body back into the shadows, letting the darkness draw over his form until he was half-hidden once more.
A quiet pause followed, long enough to stretch awkwardly, and just before Monford Velaryon could no longer hold back the words on the tip of his tongue, Renly spoke… his voice low, distant, and strangely gentle.
"Do you see it, Monford? This magnificent, resplendent sept?" he murmured. "Once upon a time, Baelor the Blessed practiced his devotions right here. Do you feel it? The presence of the gods?"
The sunlight, diffused through the vibrant stained glass, shimmered across the floor in soft colors, falling in fractured patterns over the seven towering statues at the heart of the Sept of Baelor.
The Seven.
The Father, who represents justice and judgment.
The Mother, the embodiment of mercy, peace, fertility, and childbirth.
The Warrior, who symbolizes strength and courage in battle.
The Maiden, who stands for purity, innocence, love, and beauty.
The Smith, the patron of creation, craftsmanship, and labor.
The Crone, guardian of wisdom and foresight.
And finally, the Stranger, who represents death and the unknown.
Seven divine figures stood there in solemn silence, watching from the heart of the cathedral. They loomed high and still, gazing down wordlessly upon Monford Velaryon, their presence steady and implacable.
The Lord of Tides had never set foot in this place before. In principle, he was a follower of the Seven, just like any proper Westerosi noble. Yet in truth, he had never thought of the Sept of Baelor as a place he must visit… never considered it a destination of sacred pilgrimage.
As for the reason? He knew it well. And he knew others did too. It was no great mystery.
He lifted his gaze, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked toward the figure standing half-shrouded in shadow. In that dim light, he thought he caught the flicker of something unreadable, some odd gleam in Renly Baratheon's eyes.
Monford slowly shook his head and sighed.
"Your Grace… I'm afraid I don't feel anything," he said honestly. "No divine presence here, not for me. Perhaps my faith is not devout enough. Who's to say?"
Renly offered no reply. He simply continued speaking, his voice distant, as if he were lost in thought and talking more to himself than to anyone else.
"Did you know," he said quietly, "before I left this piss-soaked, filth-ridden city the last time, I used to come here more times than I can count. Over and over, I knelt beneath the feet of the Seven, right here in this very hall, and I prayed with all my heart for their blessings."
"There was a time I truly believed I was faithful enough. I really did. And the people around me, they praised me, said I was the most devoted follower of the Seven in the entire realm."
"But this time," he said softly, with a bitter smile tugging at his lips, "this time, coming back here, I finally realized… just how wrong I was. I was so, so wrong."
There was something hollow in his tone, an emptiness that lingered in the space between words. He was smiling, yes, but to Monford Velaryon, that smile felt cold. There was no warmth in it. No life. Only the ghost of something that had once been.
"I led my army here," Renly continued, "thinking I'd speak with the High Septon, thinking maybe we could talk… but I never expected this. I never imagined that the one chosen to speak for the gods, the one meant to walk in their stead among mortals, could be so ugly, so disgracefully small, when faced with the choice between his gold and his life."
Monford Velaryon opened his mouth, trying to form a reply, but no words came out. What could he say? He had long known the truth about the corruption in the Faith.
These men in their robes and rings weren't saints. They weren't holy. They were power-hungry, greedy, and often cruel. But their presence gave the realm a sense of order… something to hold onto. To the common folk suffering under the weight of life, the Faith of the Seven was sometimes the only reason they still got out of bed in the morning.
He had understood this for a long time. It was why he never thought too deeply about the hypocrisy at the heart of it all. Better not to look too closely. But to see that Renly Baratheon, this man who had once been so full of hope, so bright and good-natured, was only just now opening his eyes to that truth… That was heartbreaking.
"Your Grace," Monford said quietly, "the gods… You don't need to take it all so personally."
It was the only thing he could think to say.
And yet, as he said it, he realized how strange this entire conversation had become. He had come here today fully prepared to challenge Renly Baratheon; to press him, confront him, argue on equal footing. But from the very beginning, their talk had veered off course, spiraling into something entirely different.
"Is that so?" Renly said softly, almost to himself. "If even the gods can't be trusted, then maybe nothing in this world can be. Maybe no one is worth trusting anymore… including you, Lord Monford Velaryon."
The words hung in the air like a blade, quiet but sharp, and Monford froze where he stood, unable to respond.
Now he was sure… something was wrong with Renly Baratheon. Either this man wasn't truly him, or something had happened. Something deep and terrible had broken inside him, something that hadn't yet healed.
Look at the things he was saying. This was Renly… Renly, the charming one, the easygoing one, the man who laughed with everyone and made friends wherever he went. And now he was standing here, asking if everyone in the world was a liar, if even Monford himself couldn't be trusted.
If Monford hadn't seen Renly with his own eyes, he wouldn't have believed this voice came from the same man.
The Tyrells… What on the earth did you do to him?
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a suspicion began to take shape. A creeping certainty.
The disaster at Dragonstone, whatever it was, however it happened, it must have something to do with the Highgarden Roses.
In fact, the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that they had planned the whole thing.
Monford Velaryon was no fool. He'd been navigating noble politics long enough to see through the veils others liked to hide behind. With only a moment's thought, he could already imagine several ways the whole affair might have benefited House Tyrell. The pieces fit… mostly. But there was still one thing he couldn't figure out.
How in the name of the Seven had the Tyrells managed to get command of the Tarth forces?
Had Renly been drunk one night and handed it over without realizing it?
It sounded absurd… but also, given Renly's state now, not entirely impossible.
Monford didn't know. That question, in fact, was part of the reason he had come here today. He needed answers.
But Renly had asked him something, and he couldn't just stay silent. No matter how off-balance he felt, he had to answer.
So Monford took a breath, steeled himself, and forced the words out.
"Your Grace," he said, his voice firm but respectful, "you don't have to trust me completely. I wouldn't expect that. But at the very least… I hope that, in this conversation, I can speak to you sincerely. From the heart."
Renly gave a faint wave of his hand, a careless flick of the wrist that seemed to brush the moment aside entirely.
"See? Even you admit it. You're not someone to be trusted."
Monford Velaryon felt like his head was about to split open. He truly had no idea how to hold a proper conversation with this version of Renly… this stranger sitting in the king's seat.
Tyrells. What sort of mess have you dragged us into?
Renly didn't give him a chance to respond.
"Alright, enough of this," he said at last, his voice cooling into something more distant. "No point talking about it any further. You're here on my brother's behalf, aren't you? Come to ask about my niece, Shireen?"
The sudden shift in topic, away from all the madness and contradictions of their earlier exchange, was such a relief that Monford practically let out a sigh right there on the spot. Finally… finally, the conversation had returned to something solid. Something sane.
He seized the moment at once, clinging to the more stable ground with urgency.
"Yes, Your Grace!"
The words came out louder than intended, too sharp and sudden, and Renly frowned slightly, the crease between his brows deepening with irritation.
Still, he chose not to dwell on it. A small thing. He let it pass.
"In that case, let me tell you," Renly said, leaning back against the cold surface of his seat. His voice softened, growing quieter as he continued, almost as though the words cost him something. "You, and the lords behind you, should hear this clearly."
"This matter has nothing to do with me. I didn't kidnap my niece, and I've had no part in any scheme involving her. As for where she is now… I don't know."
His voice was low, tired, and rough around the edges — hoarse, as if the truth had to scrape its way out of him.
"I didn't even know anything about it until after it happened."
"Your Grace… that's…"
Monford didn't know how to respond. Even hearing Renly Baratheon admit it outright, admit he wasn't responsible, still left him feeling shaken.
A matter this serious, this far-reaching, and the king hadn't known a thing beforehand?
"I know what you're thinking," Renly murmured, cutting through the silence. "I have questions, too."
He slumped lazily against the back of the seat, head tilted slightly, as if he were seeing the memory play out before him again.
"It all started… with a lost token."
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[Chapter End's]
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