Atop the highest tower in Lormouth, Renly Baratheon stood alone by the battlements, his gaze fixed upon the distant south.
Bright sunlight bathed the world in golden radiance, revealing a seemingly endless expanse of forest that unfurled before him like a verdant tapestry. The canopy presented a thousand shades of green, each distinct and fascinating in its own right, forming a harmonious vista rather than a chaotic jumble.
Some trees bore the translucent jade of tender saplings, delicate and full of promise, like children taking their first steps into the world.
Others displayed the vibrant apple green of new growth, luscious and vital, sweet yet sharp, reminiscent of willful youth.
Many stood clothed in the steadfast olive green of maturity, neither showy nor retiring, capable of evoking both comfort and resilience, like men and women in the prime of their lives.
And scattered throughout were the deep, dark greens of ancient sentinels, simple and elegant in their weathered dignity, like elders who had witnessed the turning of countless seasons.
A forest is a world unto itself, Renly mused.
As his gaze traveled farther still, at the very edge of his vision, a faint line of crimson emerged where the sky met the earth. This splash of color both contrasted with and complemented the green forest, a testament to the wonder of creation.
One could not help but marvel at such beauty.
And yet.
Renly could not see what he truly sought.
Storm's End.
He conjured the image of the magnificent castle in his mind—where waves crashed ceaselessly against unyielding stone and storms were frequent, unwelcome guests. He turned over memories like treasured possessions: the massive walls, the impregnable gates, the deadly hidden mechanisms.
Did they truly believe they could breach such a fortress while it remained in the capable hands of Ser Cortnay Penrose? With just a few thousand men?
Renly wanted to burst into laughter, to mock Joffrey's foolishness and arrogance. But after all he had learned in recent days, he dared not be careless.
Even an axe wielded by a fool could prove as deadly as one in the hands of a wise man.
Unfortunately, Joffrey held just such an axe, and it was growing rapidly, becoming sharper with each passing day.
The first tidings had arrived from King's Landing.
Spies had been dispatched to observe the harbor, relaying intelligence through a chain that stretched from the Kingswood to Goldengrove, or along the Kingsroad to Bronzegate.
The ravens of various castles completed the final leg of the journey.
Thus, Renly was able to learn of events in King's Landing, albeit with a delay of some five days.
Sometimes, however, he almost wished he remained ignorant.
Within the span of three days, King's Landing had yielded four pieces of intelligence, each more shocking than the last.
Great quantities of lumber had been stockpiled at the docks of King's Landing, and then, in the space of a single day, the Royal Fleet had doubled in size, growing to three hundred warships!
Overnight, steel had been transformed into sleek vessels, successfully launched and capable of movement without sails!
Following a hasty ceremony, the city's troops had boarded the Royal Fleet, and all three hundred warships had set sail for the open sea, with Joffrey himself aboard the flagship!
A day later, when the stockpiled lumber should have been exhausted, nearly three hundred brand new warships had somehow been birthed in King's Landing's harbor!
Each message arrived more terrifying than the last, each fraught with greater danger.
Renly could scarcely credit what he heard.
Yet all the spies and letters told the same tale, and some informants had even traveled to Lormouth in person to recount what they had witnessed, providing detailed accounts and tangible evidence.
One had brought a piece of wood with impossibly chaotic grain, as if formed by randomly mixing several colors.
Renly chose to believe.
He knew such intelligence could not be concealed, so he had swiftly called a council to discuss how best to respond.
The lords and generals had initially raised near-identical questions, and after confirming the truth of these reports, had reacted in diverse ways: some fell silent, some grew animated with emotion, some muttered despairing words to themselves, and others seemed stunned into bewilderment, their movements sluggish as men walking through water.
Renly had displayed the calm and composure expected of a king, merely instructing his generals to intensify training while dispatching letters to the castles along the coast.
But the ravens from Rain House had arrived at Lormouth merely half a day later, announcing that the Royal Fleet had indeed made landfall.
That moment had marked the darkest hour for Lormouth.
The lords and knights assembled there grew disheartened, harboring little hope for the defense of the southern castles.
Those whose territories lay along the coast of Cape Wrath conveyed their expectations to Renly with eloquent glances. Some subtly—others with naked excitement—proposed an immediate return to defend the Stormlands, setting the field of battle at Cape Wrath, and striking the enemy with blood and fire.
Old Lord Estermont of Greenstone had even approached Renly privately, begging him to save Estermont Island at all costs.
The crowd grew increasingly agitated, slowly finding a single voice.
But how could Renly agree to chase after a fleet with cavalry and infantry?
Moreover, these warships could apparently be constructed by the hundreds in a single day, and even if skilled sailors remained a limiting factor, there seemed no cause to worry about damage to the vessels. They were, for all intents and purposes, an unsinkable armada.
And although there appeared to be only one ironclad warship among them, it was by all accounts a true floating fortress, impossible to breach by conventional means.
To fight such an enemy at sea? Madness.
Renly grew even more determined to implement his plan to cross the Blackwater Rush upstream.
The Blackwater grew shallow as one traveled inland, making it impassable for deep-draft warships. Even a few strategically sunken vessels would render it difficult for light craft to approach.
Then, capturing King's Landing from the landward side should remain a viable prospect.
Renly had already abandoned any notion of certain victory.
The power that Joffrey possessed was not merely strange but filled with unknowable potential, shrouded in mist.
Who could say what limits, if any, constrained this power?
Renly could not help but contemplate the worst possible outcome: his hundred thousand troops easily destroyed by Joffrey's arcane tricks, as easily as a child might sweep playing pieces from a cyvasse board.
However, after the darkest hour, dawn had begun to break.
The second letter from Rain House had brought smiles to every face present in the council chamber.
Rain House had held!
The enemy's mysterious and bizarre advantages—warships, lights, thunderous noises—had proved to be mere theater, sound and fury signifying nothing!
Renly, too, had breathed a sigh of relief.
Judging from this turn of events, at least the chances of victory on land remained high.
Provided, of course, that the second letter was genuine.
Perhaps the good news had arrived too suddenly; Renly found himself harboring subconscious doubts, plagued by inexplicable unease.
But subsequently, ravens had arrived in quick succession from Amberly, Greenstone, Storm's End, Weeping Town, and Griffin's Roost. All told similar tales: first warning of the enemy's approach and requesting assistance, then reporting that they remained secure, and finally detailing the enemy's movements as they withdrew.
These events had all transpired within the span of a day or two.
The massive Royal Fleet now resembled nothing so much as a band of pirates, moving with surprising speed, searching for weak prey at every turn, never directly engaging more formidable strongholds.
More significant still, the fleet employed its strange light and sound capabilities in very limited fashion!
Did this suggest that Joffrey's various peculiar abilities were similarly constrained, difficult to maintain for any length of time, and perhaps not as terrifying as initially feared?
Renly suppressed the excitement that threatened to overtake his caution, refusing to fully embrace this hopeful conjecture.
The situation had improved dramatically, and unexpectedly.
So how should his forces proceed?
The lords and generals argued without cease: some advocated continuing westward to join with the Reach army, others pleaded to march south to protect their threatened territories, while still others shouted that they should advance directly north to test the mettle of this Blackwater Rush fleet.
What ultimately drove Renly to make his decision was the raven from Storm's End.
Ser Cortnay Penrose had reported in his own distinctive hand: Joffrey had landed with five thousand men to besiege the castle, while most of the accompanying fleet had sailed northward, effectively cutting off their retreat.
Renly secretly rejoiced that the one holding such a dangerous axe was Joffrey, a fool at heart.
"Your Grace, a letter from Tumbleton."
The maester climbed the winding stairs behind him, clutching a roll of parchment sealed with wax.
Breaking the seal—which bore the crossed quill pattern of Tumbleton—Renly found the contents matched his expectations: Joffrey had indeed sent his fleet northward to plunder helpless villages and towns.
With this, the last of Renly's concerns dissolved like morning mist.
He gazed southward once more, toward where Storm's End stood proud and defiant beyond the horizon.
The Royal Fleet ravaged coastal settlements, while Joffrey himself led a meager force of a few thousand to posture impotently outside the walls of Storm's End.
The defensive strength of King's Landing remained unknown.
Then let the war reach its conclusion outside Storm's End.
He need not try to destroy the axe itself.
While the axe had not yet grown to its full potential, while the fool had momentarily let it slip from his grasp...one strike would suffice.
A stab to the heart.