Almost a year had passed since Renly's ship pulled into King's Landing's stinking harbor—and in that time, he'd learned to walk the line between child and man with the care of a tightrope walker. He was a noble boy, after all—raised to stand straight, speak clearly, and know his place. So he sat quietly in corners, his small hands folded in his lap, asking simple, innocent questions when the moment felt right. Is that a real dragon skull? Did you fight in the Battle of the Trident? It was enough to seem like a curious 8-year-old, not a man trapped in a child's body—and that was all he needed. The last thing he wanted was to seem strange, to make anyone look at him twice and wonder what was different about the little Baratheon lord.
In those quiet moments, though, his eyes were sharp. He'd watched the marriage of Robert and Cersei with a heavy heart he couldn't show—not out of sympathy for either of them, but because he knew what this union would bring. This was the marriage that would rot the crown from the inside out, that would turn the Seven Kingdoms into a battlefield of lies and blood.
Cersei with her golden hair like spun sunlight and eyes the color of emeralds—just as the stories said, beautiful enough to stop a man's breath. But her smile was always forced, her hands clenched in the folds of her red gown when she thought no one was looking. Robert, on the other hand, looked like a man walking to his own execution. There was sadness in his eyes whenever he spoke of Lyanna—my wolf girl, gone too soon—and anger that burned so hot it made the court flinch. Why did they make me marry her? he'd growled one night, slamming a cup down. Lyanna should be here. Not some Lannister girl.
Renly had seen other things too: the way Tywin Lannister's eyes seemed to see through every lie, cold and calculating as a snake. It made his skin prickle—fear, deep in his bones, of the man who'd sacked King's Landing and bent the realm to his will. He'd watched Tywin rage about Jaime staying in the Kingsguard—he was supposed to inherit Casterly Rock, not wear a white cloak and serve another man!—and how it was Jon Arryn, not Tywin, who'd talked Robert into pardoning Jaime and letting him keep his post. A sword at your side is better than a sword at your back, the Hand had said—and Robert, ever easy to sway when it came to battle, had agreed. Most of all, he'd seen Jon Arryn work like a dog to hold the realm together, talking Robert down from his wildest impulses—like the time the king had wanted to sail to Dragonstone himself, to hunt down the Targaryen children and finish what he had started. Your Grace, the realm needs its king here, the Hand had said, his voice steady. Let Stannis handle the sea. You handle the throne.
It was Jon Arryn who'd named Renly Robert's cupbearer, too—a small duty for a small lord, to keep him close—and it was the perfect position. He got to be in every important room, pouring wine with steady hands, listening to every word.
But on this grey morning, he stood by his usual pillar in the throne room, his cup resting on a small table beside him, watching the court go about its usual business. Then the great doors opened, and Varys glided in—his soft shoes making no sound, his face split into that unsettling smile.
"Your Grace," the Spider said, bowing low to Robert, who was slouching on the Iron Throne, his crown askew. "I bring word from Dragonstone."
Robert sat up straight, his eyes narrowing with anticipation. "Stannis has taken it?"
"Indeed he has," Varys said, his voice like silk. "But there is… a complication. The Targaryen children—Viserys and the newborn Daenerys—have escaped. Rhaella Targaryen died in childbirth, as we'd feared, but her loyalists slipped the two heirs onto a ship bound for Essos before Stannis's men could storm the castle."
"Escaped?" Robert roared, leaping to his feet. His face went red with rage, and he slammed a fist on the throne. "Stannis had one job—one fucking job—to take Dragonstone and finish the Targaryens!"
It came to no surprise to Renly. It was just like in the books. Rhaella Targaryen was dead, having died giving birth to the baby girl they'd named Daenerys—Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the future "Mother of Dragons" he'd read about. And she and her older brother Viserys, the last of the Targaryen line, had slipped away on a hidden ship as Stannis's fleet closed in, sailing toward the free cities of Essos to live in exile.
The small council fell silent instantly—all seemed to refrain from stirring the king's fury. Renly's jaw tightened. Here it comes, he thought. For hours, Robert paced the tiny room, snapping orders, growling about Stannis's failure. Jon Arryn tried to calm him—Your Grace, Stannis took the castle. The rest is just bad luck—but it did little good.
Then, as the afternoon sun began to sink low in the sky, a guard burst through the doors. "Your Grace! Sails on the horizon—Stannis's fleet is returning!"
Renly looked out the high windows of the throne room and caught a glimpse of smoke in the distance, dark against the orange sky. He felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He hadn't had a chance to play his hand. He took a small step forward, his posture straight, his face bright with what he hoped looked like genuine curiosity.
"Good! Summon him to the throne room," Robert snarled, slamming a fist on the Iron Throne. "He can explain himself. And then—" He paused, his eyes scanning the room, and landed on Renly. A flicker of softness touched his face, but it was gone in a second. "And then, we'll settle who gets what. Storm's End is yours, little brother."
Renly felt a knot tighten in his stomach. Too soon, he thought, his mind racing. Stannis wasn't here yet. He hadn't had a chance to play his hand. He took a small step forward, his posture straight, his face bright with what he hoped looked like genuine surprise. "Really, brother? Storm's End is mine?"
Robert grinned, running a hand through his dark hair—still ruffled from hours of pacing. "Aye, little stag. You've been good company in this stuffy room, pouring wine and not asking half as many questions as most kids your age. You deserve a castle to call your own."
Renly's smile—strained, stayed put, but inside he was scrambling. He's making the call before Stannis even walks through the door. He glanced at Jon Arryn, who was frowning—no doubt thinking the same thing: that rewarding Renly before hearing Stannis's side was a mistake.
Before anyone could speak, the door swung open again. This time, it wasn't a guard—it was Stannis himself. His cloak was still damp with sea spray, his grey eyes hard as flint. He stopped just inside the chamber, his gaze sweeping over the Small Council before landing on Robert.
"Your Grace," he said, his voice flat as stone. He knelt there and then, covered in salt and grime, looking like he'd sailed straight from battle. "Dragonstone is yours. I apologize for the Targaryens' escape—they slipped away in the night, on a ship we couldn't track in the storm."
Robert stared down at him, then at Renly. The court fell silent—so quiet you could hear wind whistling through windows. Renly held his breath. This is it, he thought. The crack between their bond. Now or never.
He climbed onto the steps leading towards the throne slowly, and when he reached just beside Robert, he tugged gently on his cloak. His voice was sweet but clear, only for the king to hear.
"Robert," he said, tilting his head like a confused child. "Do you remember when I told you about the siege?
Robert grunted, still scowling at the sight of Stannis. "Aye, you said it was scary. No food, no fire."
"Stannis shared his bread with me—even when there wasn't enough," Renly went on, his voice soft but steady. "He sat by the walls every night, watching for enemies. Said he'd never let anything happen to us. He held Storm's End for a year and then he took Dragonstone. That's two castles he won for you. What did I do? Did he not do what you asked? He took Dragonstone, didn't he? The Targaryens just… ran away."
Robert's jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He looked down at Renly—small, earnest, his eyes wide with that innocent curiosity but there was a hint of anxiety there too that made Robert's chest feel tight—then glanced out the throne room's high windows.
"He took the castle," he admitted, his voice dropping until it was barely more than a rumble. Soft, like he didn't want the whole court to hear him give an inch. "But he let the last of them get away. That's… that's a failure, Renly."
Renly took a tiny step closer, his hand still resting lightly on Robert's cloak. His voice was barely a whisper, just enough to be heard between the two of them. "Is it? Or is it that he held Storm's End for a whole year—with nothing to eat but rats and rock soup—and then sailed off and took Dragonstone too?"
For a long moment, Robert said nothing. He just stared down at Stannis—kneeling in the dirt, sea salt crusted in his beard, eyes as empty as the stormy sea he'd sailed across. The muscle in his jaw twitched so hard Renly could see it from where he stood. Then he clenched his fists, so tight his knuckles went white, and Renly thought for sure he was going to roar again.
But instead, he let out a long breath that sounded like it was being torn from his chest—a sigh mixed with a groan, heavy with every year of war and loss. He leaned down just a little, and for the first time, Renly could see tears pricking at the corners of his eyes—tears he was fighting with every ounce of his strength to hold back.
"Get up, Stannis," he said, his voice rough as gravel. It didn't waver—he was still the king, after all—but there was a edge of weariness to it that wasn't there before. "You're not a dog, for fuck's sake. Never were." He finally looked away from Stannis, like he couldn't bear to look at his brother while he said it."I just… I wanted it done. We won. We took their castle, we killed their king. Lyanna… we might have made them pay for it, but she's still gone. And when you let those two brats slip away… it feels like it's not over. Like the war's still hanging over my head, and I can't just… breathe."
Stannis stood slowly, his eyes never leaving the table's head. He didn't look at Renly—but his gaze flickered toward him for just a second, and in that moment, Renly saw it: a flicker of raw confusion. What did he whisper to him? the look said. What changed Robert's mood so fast?
He wasn't the only one wondering. A murmur rippled through the Small Council—some even exchanging sideways glances, their faces tight with curiosity. Everyone had seen Renly tug on the king's cloak, heard the soft hush of his voice. No one knew what had been said.
Everyone except Ser Barristan Selmy. The old Kingsguard stood close enough to the dais to catch a few words—bread, siege, two castles. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. He'd served three kings, seen countless children of the court grow up greedy or cruel. But this boy—barely ten name days old—had just spoken up for his brother, not for himself. An odd warmth spread through Barristan's chest, mixed with a quiet admiration. Honorable and intelligent, this little Baratheon. Rare qualities, even in men twice his age.
"Storm's End belongs to the man who defended it," Robert said, and a wave of approval rippled through the Small Council chamber. "To you, Stannis."
Stannis just nodded—his jaw still tight, but a flicker of something like relief in his eyes. Then Robert turned to Renly, grinning as he leaned down to ruffle his hair.
"And as for you, little stag—you deserve a castle of your own too," he said. "Dragonstone is yours. Let you hold the narrow sea, keep an eye out for those Targaryen brats. You've been a good cupbearer—you'll learn the ropes young."
That's when Jon Arryn stepped forward, his face creased with worry.
"Your Grace —Dragonstone has always been the heir's seat," the Hand said carefully. "To grant it to Renly… what message will that send to the realm?"
The murmur in the throne room turned to quiet commotion. "Is Renly the heir now?" one asked, leaning forward. "Stannis is the elder—shouldn't Dragonstone be his with no prince yet?"
Robert's smile vanished. He slammed a fist on the table so hard the ink pots jumped. "Enough!" he roared, and the room fell silent. "I have no children yet—but when I do, they'll be first in line. Until then, succession follows the old way: Stannis first, then Renly. Dragonstone is just stone and rock—I'm not changing a damn thing about the line of succession. Clear?"
A chorus of "Yes, Your Grace" rippled through the room. Jon Arryn relaxed a little, nodding in agreement.
Stannis stood there, his jaw clenched—but this time, it wasn't from anger. It was from effort, from holding back the emotion he'd never been good at showing. Renly could see it in his eyes—surprise, relief, maybe even a flicker of gratitude. Storm's End. The great castle he'd fought to keep, the richest, strongest seat in the stormlands. Dragonstone was a bleak, volcanic rock by comparison—he'd never wanted it anyway.
Robert's scowl softened into a grin—broad, boisterous, the one that had won men's hearts in the war. He slammed his hand on the table again, this time in joy rather than anger.
"And that's that!" he said, his voice booming through the chamber. "We've taken Dragonstone, driven the last of that dragon filth to Essos—this calls for a celebration! A feast, tonight, in the Great Hall! Wine for everyone, meat enough to feed an army, and songs to honor Stannis's victory. Let the whole city know the war is truly over!"
A cheer went up from the lords—even Stannis's lips twitched for just a second, though he quickly schooled his face back into its usual sternness. Renly smiled to himself: Robert could always be counted on to follow tension with revelry. It was one of the things that made people love him—and one of the things that would let Renly slip into the background, letting the feast distract everyone from the little role he'd played.
Renly let a real smile spread across his face. Perfect, he thought first—then the rest of it followed, sharp and calculated as always. No resentment from Stannis, no confusion about the line of succession. Stannis had what he'd earned: Storm's End, the impregnable fortress he'd always wanted.
But it was his own prize that made his chest feel light with relief—safety. Dragonstone was out of the way, perched on its volcanic rock in the narrow sea. Not like Storm's End, right in the heart of the stormlands, a target for every would-be rebel or rival. The bad news? It was bleak, isolated, short on supplies, with a people still loyal to the Targaryens. The potential? It was a watchtower over the narrow sea—close enough to keep an eye on the shipping lanes between Westeros and Essos. With the right spies in the free cities, he'd hear word if the Targaryen brats ever tried to rally support or set sail for home. He could build alliances there, train men quietly, stay under the radar while the rest of the realm got caught up in Robert's feasts and Cersei's schemes.
This is how I survive, he thought, his eyes drifting to the window where Stannis's fleet still bobbed in the harbor. Not by being the biggest or the strongest—but by being the one no one sees coming. By turning a rocky outpost into a shield. The future is still dark, still full of swords—but at least now I have a place to hide while I wait for the right moment to act.
He slipped away from the dais to fetch Robert's wine—his duty as cupbearer giving him the perfect excuse to leave—while lords moved to congratulate Stannis, who just nodded stiffly at each one. No hugs, no cheers. Just Baratheon practicality. But Renly didn't care. He'd slipped through the crack. He'd rewritten the tune of his song.
Outside, the wind had died down, and the sun was breaking through the grey clouds. King's Landing still smelled of shit and blood—but for the first time since he'd arrived, Renly could almost pretend it smelled like something else. Like peace. Like a life he'd carved out for himself, far from the swords he'd worked so hard to avoid.