Dawn. The training yard is still dark, mist curling around the black stone walls. The air smells of sulfur and wet earth, and a faint orange glow from the volcano tints the sky.
Renly stood in the middle of the yard, shivering in his thin tunic, a wooden training word resting on the ground beside him. Ser Borin, broad-shouldered, scar cutting across his jaw—stepped close, his eyes already on Renly's feet. Behind them, three guards had paused their own drills, leaning on their blades to watch. There was a quiet hum of expectation in the air—tied to the stag on his tunic, to the name Baratheon, to the Demon of the Trident. No one expected a kid to be good. But they expected something, this is the brother afterall.
"Good morrow, my lord," he said, his breath forming a white cloud in the cold air. "You're early. I like that."
Renly nodded back, trying not to look as shifty as he felt. "Good morrow, Ser Borin."
"First thing," Ser Borin said, his voice rough but patient, "is not the swing. It's the ground you stand on. Stance is everything, without it, you're just holding a stick."
He moved behind Renly, gently kicking his feet wider. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Left foot forward, just a little. Heel down, toes out. Right foot back, knee bent, like you're about to push off a wall. Keep your hips square. Shoulders relaxed, not hunched up to your ears."
Renly adjusted as Borin spoke, his mind soaking in every detail. Feet wide. Left forward. Hips square. The movements felt stiff at first, unnatural even, like his body didn't know how to bend that way. But then, just as fast, it clicked into place, like memorizing a line of poetry, quick, natural, no effort needed. When he was done, Borin stepped back and nodded.
"Better. Now, grip the hilt, with both hands, fingers wrapped tight but not too tight, make sure you're muscles are hard be relaxed. Elbows in, close to your body. Blade pointed up, tip at eye level. This is your guard. Hold it."
Renly lifted the sword, settling into the guard. For five minutes, Borin had him hold it—walking around, tweaking his posture, muttering "keep those elbows in" and "don't let that blade drop." Every so often, he'd reach out and push gently on the flat of the sword, testing if Renly's guard would hold. The guards kept watching, their eyes steady, amused, and expectant all at the same time. Renly just held on, feeling his muscles find their rhythm as the weight of the steel started to feel less like a burden and more like an extension of his arm.
"Good," Borin said finally. "Now, when you swing, only when I say. You push with your back foot, twist your hips, and let the blade fall in a straight arc. Don't use just your arms. Let your body do the work."
He pointed to a small notch on the wooden dummy. "Hit that spot. Ready?"
Renly took a breath, feeling the stance hold him firm. Push back foot. Twist hips. Let it fall.
"Now."
First swing: a little stiff, missed the notch by an inch. Borin nodded—no judgment, just observation. "Twist more. Your hips are holding you back."
Second swing: better. Missed the notch by half an inch this time, but the arc was straighter, the twist in his hips more natural. The guards murmured softly, one of them raising an eyebrow.
"Again," Borin said, nodding. "Put a little more weight into that back foot."
Third swing: closer but just a hair off. Fourth: almost. By the sixth swing, he'd got it, the blade sang through the air and snicked exactly in the notch.
"Good," Borin said, and this time he added, "now bring it back up to guard fast. Don't leave yourself open."
Seventh swing: hit the notch, but his recovery was slow, leaving him exposed for a beat. Eighth: faster. Ninth: smoother. By the tenth swing, Renly was moving like a well-oiled machine. Swing, hit, snap back to guard, all in one fluid motion. It just, clicked?
Borin just stared at him for a beat, then shook his head and let out a low whistle, quiet enough only Renly could hear. "Holy Seven. Two swings to get that twist down. And that recovery…" He trailed off, a small, lopsided smile touching the corner of his mouth under the scar. "I just might have a prodigy in my hands, eh? Joke's on me if I do."
He clapped a hand on Renly's shoulder, his grip solid with respect. Glancing toward the guards, who were now watching with a look of quiet awe, he nodded. "Figured you'd be fumbling around like any kid, any first-timer for that matter. Aye, you're the brother of the Demon of the Trident alright."
Renly held the sword steady, wiggling his fingers a little, just the slightest burn in his arms, like he'd been climbing trees too long. He'd always picked up books fast, sure. But this? He looked down at the stag hilt, then back at the dummy's notch, and felt a small, lopsided smile tug at his lips. Huh. It just… worked. Like his body had been waiting for someone to tell it what to do, and once they did, it just knew.
After that, for another five minutes, Borin had him work on side swings, teaching him to slice instead of hack. Again, Renly picked it up in minutes. By the time the sun was fully up and gold light was flooding the yard, he was moving through a simple sequence: forward swing, side slice, back to guard, repeat. Clean, sharp, confident.
Another 10 minutes passed when Ser Borin called out, "Alright, that's enough for today," Borin said, holding up a hand. "Don't want to wear you out on the first day. Come back tomorrow at dawn, we'll work on footwork."
Renly nodded, letting the sword lower to his side and giving it a little shake to loosen his wrist. "Thank you, Ser Borin."
The knight gave a short nod back. "Get some breakfast, my lord. You've earned it."
As Renly turned to head for the castle entrance, he spotted Phelan leaning against the stone archway, a cup of something steaming in his hands. The mist was gone now, and the black stone walls glowed like polished obsidian in the full sun. He walked over, and Phelan held out the cup.
"Hot cider," the maester said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Watched the last few swings from here. Now I'm no expert but from what I have seen? Simply impressive, my lord."
Renly took a sip, the cinnamon and warmth flooding his throat. It made him think vaguely, of darker, richer things: hot chocolate thick enough to spoon, coffee bitter and sharp that woke you up faster than any shout. He blinked, and felt a little pang of longing for it
No coffee in this world, he thought, a small, silly smile touching his lips. Would be nice to invent it someday if possible. Cold mornings like this could use it.
"It just… worked," he said out loud to Phelan. "Ser Borin said he might have a prodigy on his hands. Jokingly, of course."
Phelan snorted. "I don't think he was joking that much. Now, cider first, then porridge. And before you even ask, yes, we're still going over the Red Mountains defenses after. Steel's good, but knowing where to stand with it is better."
Renly took another sip, watching the sun glint off the training yard's stone. He thought about the way the sword had moved in his hands, it felt strange at first but then it became smooth, easy, in just a few tries, like it belonged there. Tomorrow, they'd work on footwork. The day after that, maybe something more. And he found himself wondering, if someday, he really could be someone who was good with it. Someone people looked at and thought, now there's a knight.
He ran a finger along the stag hilt, then followed Phelan inside the castle. The guards nodded at him as he passed, their eyes no longer just expectant, they were impressed. As he stepped into the castle's cool interior, a feeling slowly took root in his chest. It was confidence, he thought. Or maybe it was just hope?
For now, though, he was just hungry. And pretty sure Phelan had breakfast waiting.
Phelan led him through the great hall for a quick breakfast—honey cakes and porridge, eaten fast while servants bustled around them. An hour later, they were in the maester's study, a large map of the Stormlands and southern Dorne spread out on the table. Tiny names of passes, forts, and rivers dotted the parchment.
Phelan pointed to a narrow, winding line that cut through the Red Mountains like a scar. "This is the Prince's Pass," he said, tapping it with a quill. "The main route between Dorne and the Stormlands. Doran Martell keeps men posted on his side, but our line of defense sits right here."
He moved the quill north, to a spot above the pass. "Blackhaven. Oldest fort in the marches, built to hold that pass for a hundred years, if need be. See how the pass bends there?"
Renly leaned in, squinting at the inked line. It curved sharply around a cluster of hills, so tight you could barely fit more than a few men abreast. Suddenly, he thought of the training yard—of Borin telling him to keep his elbows in, to use the space he had. This is just like that, he realized. Using the land to your advantage, not fighting against it.
"That's a choke point," he said, before he could stop himself. "You'd hold the high ground there. Make them come at you one by one, no room to spread out, no way to flank you."
Phelan raised an eyebrow, a small smile spreading across his face. "Well, well. Someone's been paying attention to more than just swinging steel. Aye, that's exactly what the marcher lords have done for generations. Doran's patience keeps war at bay for now, but it never hurts to know where the next threat might come from."
Renly traced the pass with his finger, then pushed back his chair and stood up. He walked to the window at the end of the table, and through the glass, he could see Dragonstone's courtyard below—people moving about their days: a blacksmith hammering steel, a cook hanging laundry, a few guards patrolling the walls. Beyond them, the grey cliffs dropped to the churning sea. The thought hit him then, sharp and clear: Blackhaven has its pass to guard. What do I have?
Poor land, he thought, watching the people below. No gold, no rich fields—just stone and smoke and the ghosts of old kings. He leaned his forehead against the glass, and suddenly he was back in his old life: cramped apartment, long shifts, counting every coin to make rent. Now look at him. Lord of Dragonstone. A Baratheon. Power at his fingertips—even if it didn't feel like it, with half the staff looking at him like he was just a kid who got lucky.
His mind drifted to the future he knew was coming. The War of Five Kings. Bloodshed that would tear the realm apart. He'd told himself once he'd stay out of it, let the plot play out. But why? Even if he stayed loyal to Stannis, who's to say he wouldn't end up with a sword in his gut? The smart thing, the selfish thing, the survival thing, would be to stop it before it started. So he did, he prevented the tension between his brothers. To keep the blood from flowing, if only so his own didn't.
He pulled away from the window, his gaze hardening. He was Lord of this place now. Lord of these people, their problems, this cold stone castle. He couldn't just hide away, waiting for war to find him. He didn't want to spend his second life stuck here with no one's respect.
No. He had to rule. He had to act.
He turned around, facing Phelan, and his voice was steadier than he'd expected. "Tell me everything. The real state of Dragonstone, our ports, our economy, who our vassals are and if they even care about this rock. I need to know it all."
Phelan blinked, setting down his quill. "My lord, that's… a lot for a boy your age to take in. We can start with the basics—"
"I'm not just a boy," Renly cut in, his jaw tight. "I'm a lord. And whether it's now or later, I'll have to start acting like one. So tell me. Everything."