Three months to the day since he sailed out of King's Landing, and Renly was pretty sure Dragonstone was trying to freeze his balls off. Today, though? Today he turned nine. A year farther from being some schmuck who just read about this mess in a book, and a year closer to making sure it doesn't end with him getting a sword through the heart. Even if he still can't reach the top shelf to get his own bread.
He stood in his room, leaning against the window that looked out at the narrow sea, staring at the two crates that had just come in on the supply ship. Maester Phelan was already there, hovering at his elbow and adjusting the bronze link on his chain—he'd been at Dragonstone for twenty years, long before the Baratheons took it, and he knew every creak and draft in the castle better than anyone. Old, with bushy white eyebrows that made him look like a surprised owl and a habit of muttering to his ravens like they were old friends, he was more than just a maester to Renly: he advised him, taught him the ways of ruling. He was the first person Renly had truly trusted here, as much as he truly could that is.
"Long one's from the King, I'd wager," Phelan said, squinting at the crates. "Smells like steel and a shit load of expensive wax. The man couldn't just send a sword, had to get the whole crate polished till it shines. 'For my favorite brother's nameday,' I bet it says."
Renly grinned. He was right: inside the long, heavy one was a new sword from Robert. Too big for him now, but sharp as hell—he'd grow into it, or end up at least using it as a very dangerous walking stick. The small wooden one was from Stannis, packed with preserved plums from the old orchards at Storm's End. His favorite, and probably the only sweet thing that man has ever touched.
"Think the King knows I can barely lift that thing?" Renly asked.
Phelan snorted. "The King thinks everyone can lift everything. It's why he's always breaking furniture."
"Now, my lord, shall we get to today's lesson? I'd planned to go over the lineages of the Dornish houses, if that suits."
Renly paused. Three months of lessons here, and he'd already blown through everything Phelan usually taught to kids twice his age. Maps, history, even basic anatomy and more. He'd always told himself it was just because the topics were easy, but deep down he knew the truth: it wasn't just about absorbing what Phelan taught him. He drew from it, taking each topic and extending it with his own logic, asking questions that led to little discoveries the old maester hadn't thought of himself. Sure, his past life gave him a head start on seeing patterns, but this was different. In his past life, he'd been smart enough. Memorized stuff, applied knowledge. But this? This was something else. This mind was sharp and fast in a way his old one never was. Quick to connect, bold to question, hungry to build new things from what he learned. The past life gave him a head start on patterns, sure—but this sharpness? It was like this new mind had been born to question, to learn, and to make.
Sometimes he caught Phelan staring at him like he'd just solved a riddle that'd stumped the Citadel for years. He was almost drained the old man dry of what was appropriate to teach a child.
"Sure," he said, nodding. "Let's go."
As they walked down the cold, stone corridor toward the study chamber, their footsteps echoing off the walls, Renly's mind drifted to Phelan's words: Dornish houses. And just like that, he was back in King's Landing, three months ago, the night before he left. The feast that had almost gone up in flames over Dorne.
The Great Hall was so loud you could barely hear yourself think. Robert was roaring along to some song about the Trident, Stannis was picking at his meat like it'd offended him, and Renly was just trying to sneak extra cake when Varys glided over, so quiet no one else noticed. He slipped between Robert and Jon Arryn, leaned in, and his voice was a whisper that only the two men except Renly, whom was hiding behind a pillar could hear.
"Your Grace," he said, that unsettling smile completely gone. "Dorne is stirring. Oberyn Martell is rallying the lords. He says the crown owes blood for Elia and her children, lost to the Lannisters."
Robert's face went red as a beet. He jumped up so fast his chair crashed to the floor, the noise silencing the entire hall. "DORNE? BLOOD?" he roared, snatching his war hammer from where it leaned against the table in one swift motion. "I offered them peace! I offered them a seat on the council! Let the damn bastard come. I'll cave his chest in just like I did with the others!"
But Jon Arryn was already on his feet, his hand closing tight around Robert's arm. "Your Grace," he said, his voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the roar—everyone in the hall could hear it now. "That would not be so wise. Dorne is still bitter, still sharp as a viper's tooth, and the Red Mountains are no place for an army to march." He paused, his gaze steady and hard as stone. "War got us here and this is how it stays, with old wounds that never close. Dorne has bled much for the crown once already. Do you want to make it bleed again?"
"Let me go to Sunspear," he added, softer now but no less firm.
Stannis finally spoke up, his voice flat. "He'll get himself killed."
Jon Arryn just shook his head. "I'll take Ser Lewyn's remains home, that's a sign of respect they can't ignore. And I'll talk to Doran, make him see reason."
Two weeks later, Jon Arryn was back. He'd stopped the rebellion, but his face was tight as a drum. "Dorne won't fight," he told the council. "But it will also never forget." That was the deal—paper promises tying Dorne to the crown, but bitterness thick enough to choke on.
Three days after that, Renly was on a ship heading for Dragonstone. First look at it: black volcanic rock, smoking peaks, towers that jutted from the cliffside like dragon teeth. He'd expected to hate it—but the moment he saw the castle, his mouth dropped open. He was amazed by the structure itself, and even more so by the fact that the Valyrians had built it a hundred years ago, using nothing but dragonfire to melt and shape the stone into place. The way the towers curved and twisted, as if grown from the rock rather than carved—there was nothing like it at Storm's End.
Only one thing bothered him: it sat right on top of the volcano. The air smelled like sulfur and sea salt, the ground rumbled faintly under his feet sometimes, and wisps of smoke curled up from cracks in the courtyard. It was cold and drafty too, the atmosphere was heavy and dull, and servants still whispered when he walked by, as if the Baratheons being here was something they'd never get used tonothing like the sweet grass and warm halls of home. But even so, he couldn't stop staring at the dragon-forged walls that first night, forgetting all about wanting to cry.
And now, back to the present: them walking to the study chamber.
"Lost in thought, my lord?"
Renly jumped—he'd been staring at the dragon-forged stones of the corridor walls as they walked, so caught up in the memory of that first day that he hadn't heard Phelan speak. The old maester gave a questioning look, his bushy white eyebrows furrowed.
"Just thinking about these walls," Renly said, running a finger along a smooth, twisted section of black rock. "Isn't it amazing? Kinda scary too, that dragons existed just a few hundred years ago, and they walked on this very land. This castle… it is proof, is it not?Such incredible creatures, frightening to everyone else, of course, but look what happened to them. Perished because of human nature. A family feud. All just over a throne?"
Phelan fell quiet for a moment, his eyes fixed on the same twisted rock. Then he sighed, a sound like wind through stone. "Aye, my lord. That's the thing about history—the greatest wonders of the world usually end up broken by the smallest human squabbles. The Valyrians tamed fire and stone with those beasts… but they couldn't tame their own greed. A throne, a grudge, a piece of land—doesn't matter what it is. Men will always find a reason to burn what they can't understand."
He paused, adjusting his chain again. "Though… not all of them perished in the battle. The old texts say four lived through it. Some disappeared into the east, never to be seen again. Others lingered here, in Dragonstone's depths… but they died eventually, locked away and forgotten."
Renly's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. His hand stilled on the black rock, then curled into a loose fist. He didn't look at Phelan—instead, his gaze drifted down the corridor, toward the dark, winding staircase that led down into the castle's lower levels. For a long beat, he said nothing. The only movement was the faint flicker of torchlight catching the glint in his eye—something sharp, and hungry, and just a little bit dangerous.
Then Phelan cleared his throat, and the spell broke. "Come on, then," the old maester said, nodding toward the study door at the end of the corridor. "We've got Dornish lineages to map out before the sun sets. Can't have you getting distracted by old stones and older stories."
Renly blinked, his face smoothing back into the look of a curious nine-year-old. He uncurled his fist and fell into step beside Phelan, but every so often his eyes would dart back toward that dark staircase. Even as they pushed open the study door—filled with shelves of dusty books and rolls of parchment—the image of Dragonstone's depths stayed with him, tucked away in some quiet corner of his mind.
—A week later. The study is bright with morning light, and the Dornish lineage parchment lies rolled up on the table, mostly finished. Renly is standing by the window, the stag-hilted sword now strapped to his hip, bouncing slightly as he shifts his weight.—
"You've got a good head for names, my lord," Phelan said, tucking his quill into his belt. "Doran's children, Oberyn's daughters, the Sand Snakes—you've got them all memorized."
Renly didn't turn around. He was staring at the training yard below, where a few guards were swinging their swords at wooden dummies. "Names are useful," he said, his voice quiet. "But what good are they if you can't defend yourself?"
He turned then, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The glint in his eye was still there—sharp, hungry—but now there was something else in it too: determination. "Phelan," he said, and this time his question was firmer than before. "When do you think I can start learning the sword? Really learning it. Not just swinging it at air."
Phelan looked at him for a long moment, then at the sword on his hip, too big for a child of nine, even one as tall as Renly. "Tomorrow," he said finally. "The captain of the guard, Ser Borin, trains them in the yard at dawn. I'll talk to him, tell him to go easy on you at first. But don't think this means you get to skip your reading. Swords win battles, but knowledge wins wars."
Renly's face broke into a small, sharp smile—the first real one Phelan had seen since they'd arrived at Dragonstone. "Wouldn't have it any other way" he said, giving the hilt a tight squeeze. He turned back to the window, watching the guards below. As one of them swung his sword in a wide arc, catching the morning light, Renly's mind drifted again.
Maybe, he thought, if he was strong enough with a sword, he'd be brave enough to go looking for the things that were hidden away. To find the proof that stories could be real.