"Stabbed in the heart?"
Inside the golden pavilion, the priestess danced with movements as sinuous and unpredictable as flames. Joffrey chuckled softly and shook his head, murmuring the words to himself with quiet amusement.
Would that not result in a terrible loss of blood?
Too wasteful by far.
What Joffrey saw before him was not an enemy, but a feast laid out upon a platter.
To his mind, the rebel forces led by Renly were a vast and unsuspecting behemoth, its flesh succulent and its marrow precious beyond measure.
Land, population, power, prestige, wealth.
This was a gluttonous feast indeed.
The throne and kingdom had long been famished and parched, eagerly awaiting nourishment to fuel their growth and strength. How could one so carelessly waste such bounty?
Every inch of the prey's body held value.
The hunter clasped a sharp blade in his hand, poised to deliver a fatal stroke, yet the knife was not quite long enough to reach the heart in a single thrust.
How best to hunt such quarry?
The answer had crystallized with perfect clarity: lure the ignorant and restless behemoth to attack, then drive the blade directly into its skull, crushing its brain and thus preserving the choicest morsels to the greatest extent possible.
But how to lure the behemoth into striking?
This had required the various carefully orchestrated actions set in motion beforehand.
The commotion in King's Landing had been far too great to conceal, so they had simply made it public, creating a vast fleet that could not be easily neutralized, presenting the behemoth with a powerful stimulus.
Thus, King's Landing had demonstrated both clear power and unknown potential.
The awakened behemoth was filled with fear and disquiet, every part of its body yearning for the warm safety of its nest, yet only the brain remained stubborn, compelling the body to continue westward, intent on reclaiming its powerful wings that had fallen at Bitterbridge.
At this crucial moment, the fleet had struck the coast of the Stormlands—the behemoth's very nest.
The desire of each part of the great beast to return home grew stronger and more determined, and the brain struggled to maintain control, forcing the body to adhere to its original plan.
Yet the situation had begun to shift.
Even as the brain that dominated the behemoth's actions, it could not help but be influenced and swayed by the will of each subordinate part, at times even forced to advance or retreat against its better judgment.
The behemoth's stride was no longer as firm and powerful as it had been at the outset.
The fleet had then released false signals, revealing apparent limitations to its power and shortsightedness in its thinking, displaying greed, timidity, and ignorance in equal measure.
How could the behemoth not be emboldened by such displays?
Finally, there was the behemoth's most coveted delicacy, Joffrey himself, dangled as bait.
The behemoth faced a choice.
One path led westward, choosing a protracted campaign of mutual attrition, during which King's Landing's power would clearly wax stronger with each passing day.
A second option was to dispatch two armies directly to King's Landing to confront both the new fleet of unknown capability and the city's defenders.
The third choice presented the isolated five thousand infantry and the fleet that wandered aimlessly outside Storm's End. Were these forces to be vanquished, the war could be considered more than half won, perhaps even concluded.
The first two options were bitter and dry, difficult to swallow, while the last one was sweet and yielding to the touch.
The behemoth had taken the bait, just as planned.
Joffrey felt satisfaction, but not surprise.
The tactic of surrounding an enemy on three sides while leaving the fourth open was classic and time-worn. Nearly everyone knew of it, so why did it never lose its efficacy?
The reason was elegantly simple: because the three enclosed sides presented insurmountable obstacles. To choose any of these three paths meant choosing certain failure and death.
The single gap might well conceal a trap, but it already represented the least unfavorable choice.
Renly's situation mirrored this predicament precisely.
Renly would inevitably fail; the difference between the various plans lay merely in how much chaos and death would result, what negative consequences would follow, and what positive benefits might be gleaned.
Surrounding three sides while leaving one open was a strategy to minimize losses from a powerful assault, and Joffrey's trap served the same purpose.
Had he not wished to avoid the expansion or prolongation of the war, he would not have troubled himself with such elaborate planning, but would instead have shattered the stalemate through sheer violence, ending matters once and for all.
Fortunately, his efforts had borne fruit.
Renly had commanded the Stormlands army to halt its westward advance and instead gather at Stonebridge.
Simultaneously, Renly had dispatched messages to the Highgarden forces at Bitterbridge, requesting that they divide their strength and send thirty thousand troops to approach Tumbleton, monitor the direction of King's Landing, and protect the rear of Stonebridge.
The remaining thirty thousand were ordered to march toward Stonebridge with all possible haste, disregarding fatigue, and to rest only upon reaching their destination.
The posture of one preparing for a decisive engagement.
It must be acknowledged that Renly's arrangement displayed considerable caution.
Yet this also betrayed his determination and confidence in launching a surprise attack here.
Joffrey understood that he need only continue his leisurely display outside Storm's End for a few more days, and Renly would bring his rebel lords to "greet" him personally.
And Renly would never suspect that Joffrey had anticipated his every move.
After all, from Renly's perspective, the castles of the Reach and the Stormlands remained under his control, and the few fence-sitting lords were nowhere near the army's line of march.
Which was to say:
Joffrey, encamped outside the walls of Storm's End, could not possibly obtain information through the ravens that flew between distant castles.
Any scouts would require considerable time to convey such intelligence to a castle equipped with ravens, or to traverse the long distance to Joffrey's position outside Storm's End.
This delay would be substantial, sufficient for the army at Bitterbridge to reach Stonebridge and launch a southward assault with the element of surprise firmly in hand.
By that juncture:
Even if Joffrey's scouts proved effective and discovered traces of the approaching army thirty or fifty miles distant, and successfully returned to the camp outside Storm's End with their warning—
Everything would already be too late.
The fleet currently engaged in raids elsewhere would be difficult to contact, and Joffrey's five thousand infantry would have no avenue of retreat, forced to fight at a desperate disadvantage.
The outcome would be obvious to even the most untrained eye.
Renly had expressed precisely this certainty at yesterday's council.
And had issued a series of explicit orders.
Each unit was to maintain strict secrecy, block all roads, detain any suspicious individuals, and simultaneously continue to display signs of westward movement to confuse enemy intelligence, in the event that the blockade proved less than perfect.
The spirits of Renly's generals had markedly improved; they could be described as brimming with martial ardor and displaying great energy in their preparations.
Stonebridge had begun to transform in subtle ways.
The number of patrolling soldiers on roads, paths, and within forests had gradually increased. The camps outside the city emptied and filled again in mysterious rhythm. Troops rushed to Stonebridge from the east, then appeared to advance westward, but ultimately took up positions in the depths of concealing forests.
Clearly, Renly and his subordinates had invested their hopes of victory in this surprise assault, planning with meticulous care and making comprehensive preparations to ensure success in a single, decisive stroke.
Unfortunately, Joffrey reflected with a slight, pitying smile, against the power of magic, Renly's actions were as transparent as glass.
This war was drawing to its inevitable close.
Through magic.
Joffrey's gaze settled on the dancing, leaping figure in red robes—Melisandre, priestess of the Lord of Light.
"Melisandre," Joffrey called to her softly.
The red-robed woman ceased her dance, breathing heavily as she approached Joffrey with measured steps and knelt before him, settling across his lap with practiced ease.
Joffrey stroked her fiery red hair, his fingers playing through the strands as if they were actual flames. "Perhaps the Lord of Light sent you here for this very day, to use your body to birth a shadow illuminated by his divine radiance."
Of course, this was merely a benevolent falsehood.
Such acts served only the twin purposes of research and pleasure.
Though each instance consumed considerable mental energy, it caused Joffrey neither pain nor discomfort, and seemed trivial compared to the complex magical patterns he could summon into existence from nothingness.
The red-robed woman removed her scarlet garment with deliberate slowness.
Joffrey wrapped his arms around her neck from behind, applying just enough pressure to bring her to the threshold of breathlessness.
Tighter still.
Joffrey moved with mingled satisfaction and dissatisfaction, launching his conquest with calculated precision.
After Renly was dealt with, who would be next to fall beneath his gaze?
The sea monsters of the Iron Islands? Oldtown and its precious Citadel? Or perhaps stubborn Dorne with its deadly scorpions?
The Iron Fleet...