The color drained from his face in an instant, and his eyes—so often bright with easy laughter—filled instead with shock and a trace of anger.
"He's gone mad?! Why would I kill Jon Arryn? He was my brother's Hand—the man Robert trusted most!"
Littlefinger's voice remained calm, his tone light, the faintest smile curving his lips.
"Lord Eddard seems to have uncovered certain... clues about your grand design. The one involving His Grace and the idea of replacing the Queen with someone younger, more beautiful, more fitting as a symbol of spring and new life. Say... a certain rose from Highgarden, perhaps?"
Renly's pupils constricted sharply.
That was a secret buried in the deepest part of his heart—one he had shared only with a handful of his most trusted allies.
How could Eddard Stark possibly know?
A chill raced up his spine, smothering the oppressive heat of the tent in an instant.
If Eddard knew of the plan—and had the absurd notion to link Jon Arryn's death to him—what did that mean?
"How... how could he know?"
Renly's voice was dry, strained, his effort to stay composed betrayed by the whitened knuckles gripping his goblet. Then a sudden realization hit him—Eddard was at Robert's side. Fear surged through him like a breaking wave.
"Gods above! Has he told Robert? Has he already accused me to his face?!"
Robert's wrath was ruinous—he knew that better than anyone. Even a brother was not safe from it.
Renly's composure cracked, his voice trembling as dread shadowed his face.
Littlefinger lifted a hand, his tone smooth and reassuring. "Calm yourself, my lord. To my knowledge... not yet. At least, not for now. Lord Eddard Stark is the very picture of honor. He acts only on proof. He suspects you, yes—but he has no... conclusive evidence."
"Evidence?"
Renly leaned forward sharply. "If he has no proof, then what gives him cause to suspect me?"
"Well..."
Littlefinger hesitated, adopting an apologetic look. "The source is... complicated. He's holding onto certain vague accusations left behind by Lord Stannis before his departure from King's Landing."
"Stannis!"
Renly spat the name through clenched teeth, his eyes blazing with fury and contempt.
Of course. Him. That dour, envious brother—always brooding, always jealous of the favor Robert showed him.
So that was it. That explained why Eddard suspected him.
Stannis had once served as envoy alongside Eddard in Tyrosh. He must have whispered something.
The fear subsided, replaced by rapid calculation.
No evidence... not yet told Robert... but that could change at any moment.
Eddard Stark was like a direwolf—once he caught a scent, he never let go.
Renly knew well he hadn't killed Jon Arryn, but his plan to replace the Queen was very real.
If the plot was exposed before Margaery set foot in Robert's bedchamber, the Queen and her father would see to it that his ambitions were crushed.
Damn it.
And he'd even shown Eddard that portrait of Margaery himself.
Remembering the look Stark had given him at Castle Darry, Renly realized the man had likely begun to suspect him even then.
Damn Stannis—for feeding him those lies.
Renly no longer cared how Stannis had learned of his scheme. One thought filled his mind.
He had to act.
"He must be stopped," Renly said, his voice hardening with a dangerous edge. "Before he finds his so-called 'evidence,' or before his cursed sense of honor drives him to confess everything to Robert. I must—"
"Strike first?"
Littlefinger finished smoothly, the words slipping in like a whisper of silk, echoing the thought Renly dared not speak aloud.
He leaned forward slightly, his voice rich with persuasion. "A wise notion, my lord. But how? To move openly against the Hand of the King? To accuse him yourself? That would be most unwise—especially while your plans remain... delicate. It would only place you in greater peril."
Renly's eyes narrowed. "You have an idea, don't you, Petyr? Don't tell me you came all this way just to frighten me."
Littlefinger smiled—sharp, sly, and cunning as a fox.
"Of course I'm here to assist you, Lord Renly. We share... common interests. I too believe that Lord Eddard's presence in that seat is rather... uncomfortable for many."
"He's too upright, too rigid—he doesn't understand how the game is played in King's Landing. Since he suspects you, and you... well, do harbor grander ambitions, it stands to reason that if Lord Mace were to ascend to the position of Hand of the King, it would be to everyone's advantage, wouldn't it?"
Renly studied him for a long moment. House Tyrell and he were bound tightly together—Littlefinger was clearly angling to advance his own standing.
"And how, pray tell, do you intend to 'push' him aside? You do realize that Lord Eddard was personally invited by my royal brother to serve as Hand of the King," Renly said evenly, his tone cool and composed.
Littlefinger smiled mysteriously and gave a small shrug. "There are many ways, my lord. For instance, we could sow discord between Lord Eddard and the Queen's family—or magnify the rift between him and the King over how to deal with the Targaryen siblings. The key lies in our cooperation. I'll pull the strings from the shadows of King's Landing, while you maintain composure and keep the alliance between the Stormlands and the Reach strong—Highgarden especially. Your support will be vital."
"Then tell me, Lord Littlefinger—what is it you want from me?"
Renly's gaze hardened. Alarm bells rang in his mind.
Littlefinger's motives were as slippery as oil. The man could betray Eddard Stark today and Renly himself tomorrow. Behind his talk of "shared interests," Renly could sense layers of calculation.
He even began to suspect that Eddard's so-called "information" about him hadn't come from Stannis at all—but from Littlefinger's own whispering.
Still, he had no choice.
Eddard's suspicions hung over him like a sword. He needed Littlefinger's reach in the shadows of King's Landing to defuse the crisis—and to buy himself time.
Littlefinger answered bluntly, "I ask only for a fief and a title, Lord Renly."
He had originally intended to stake his bet on the Lannisters, but once he discovered Renly's ambitions, his plans shifted immediately. He wouldn't put all his eggs in one basket.
In that instant, Littlefinger decided he would back Renly as well—if Renly triumphed, he would share in the spoils.
Renly understood. Born the son of a minor noble from the Fingers, Littlefinger had long hungered to climb into the upper ranks of the nobility.
It was a simple motive, and a convincing one—at least for now.
A smile returned to Renly's face. He raised his goblet toward Littlefinger.
"An interesting proposition, Lord Petyr. To a brighter tomorrow?"
Littlefinger lifted his cup, his smile sharp and shining. "To tomorrow, my lord."
Their goblets met with a soft, clear chime.
And just like that, a quiet alliance—each side concealing its own designs—was sealed in the shadows.