The clang of hammer on steel was a prayer in the sweltering air of the smithy. Renly Baratheon watched as the master armorer, Tobho Mott, quenched a newly forged breastplate, the sizzle of hot metal meeting water a sharp counterpoint to the prince's turbulent thoughts. The encounter with Gendry had left a strange residue in his mind—a reminder of Robert's sprawling, unacknowledged legacy and the fragile threads of loyalty that bound the realm.
Ding! The path to becoming a revered sovereign is paved with difficult choices.
The system's voice was unwelcome, a cold splash of reality. Renly grimaced. "Your timing is, as ever, impeccable."
Observation: The subject, Daenerys Targaryen, represents a nascent threat. Probability of continental instability upon her return: 78%. Your current course of passive observation carries significant risk.
"She's a girl across the sea," Renly muttered under his breath, turning away from the forge as if to walk away from the thought itself. "She has no army, no ships. Only a brother who is his own worst enemy."
Analysis: Threats are organic. They grow. A single spark can start a wildfire. The directive is clear: ensure the spark is extinguished before it can catch.
A cold knot tightened in Renly's stomach. He had always known this moment would come, the moment where the abstract concept of ruling met the bloody reality of it. He thought of Jon Snow, her fierce loyalty, and the strange, unspoken understanding between them. He thought of the earnest young men training in the yard with Ser Barristan, their faith in a prince who promised a better future. Could he build that future on the foundation of a murdered girl's corpse?
"There must be another way," he argued, not to the system, but to himself. "Containment. Diplomacy. Anything but a knife in the dark."
Proposal: A warning, not an execution. A demonstration of power that secures compliance without martyrdom. But know this: mercy is a currency your enemies will not spend on you.
The system fell silent, leaving him with the ghost of its pragmatism. It was right, in its cold, mechanical way. But Renly was not a machine. He was a man trying to be a king, and a king needed to be more than a mere strategist; he needed to be a symbol.
He found Sandor Clegane leaning against a wall outside, his massive arms crossed. "Done watching the metal get hot?" the Hound grunted.
"For now," Renly said. "I have a different task for you. Find me a captain—a discreet man, with a fast ship and a loose tongue that can be tightened by gold."
Sandor's eyes, perpetually unimpressed, narrowed slightly. "Bound for?"
"Pentos. He is to seek out the Magister Illyrio Mopatis. No hidden daggers, no poisoned words. He carries only a message from the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms to the Targaryen girl."
"And what's this message that's worth a ship and a sack of gold?" Sandor asked, his voice a low rumble.
Renly's gaze was steady. "A choice. She can chase a dead dynasty's dream and bring fire and blood down upon herself and every soul who follows her. Or, she can accept a pardon, a tract of land in the Free Cities purchased by the Iron Throne, and a life of peace. But if she sets sail for Westeros, she will be met with the full fury of the Baratheon reign. There will be no mercy then."
It was a gamble. It could be seen as a sign of weakness. It could even spur her to action. But it was a choice, a thread of humanity offered in a game that so often demanded its abandonment.
Sandor gave a curt nod. "A message. Simpler than murder, I suppose." He pushed off the wall and lumbered away without another word.
As Renly made his way back to the Red Keep, the weight of the crown he did not yet wear felt heavier than any suit of plate armor. He was playing a dangerous game, balancing his innate desire for a just rule against the brutal necessities of power.
He was intercepted in a corridor by Maester Pycelle, who shuffled forward, a sealed scroll in his trembling hand. "Your Highness… a raven, from Winterfell. From Lord Robb Stark."
Renly took the scroll, his heart giving an unaccountable lurch. He broke the seal and read Robb's precise, earnest script. It spoke of dragonglass, of inventories being taken, of the strange, pervasive chill that even the summer suns could not dispel. It was a letter from a loyal bannerman, but between the lines, Renly read the trust Robb placed in him—a trust that felt both gratifying and like a brand.
And at the end, a single, personal line, added almost as an afterthought: Jon has departed. She asked me to thank you again for your gifts. She said to tell you she will not waste the chance you have given her.
Renly rolled the scroll carefully, the parchment crisp in his hand. Jon was in Pentos, armed with a sword he had given her and a purpose of her own. And he had just sent a message that could determine whether she would be forced to choose between her friend and her blood.
He looked out a narrow window, toward the sea. The pieces were all in motion now, across the Narrow Sea and in the frozen North. He had set some in motion himself. All he could do now was wait and hope that when the storm he felt brewing finally broke, he had built something strong enough to withstand it.