I truly never suspected it—Renly is a gambler to his very bones. Joffrey sighed inwardly.
Even after learning so many bitter truths, the man still harbored delusions of mounting a comeback. He placed deep faith in Ser Cortnay Penrose's words, believing utterly in that supposed plan of his.
How wonderfully naive.
Now that Renly knew of magical power's existence, had he never considered that Ser Cortnay himself might be influenced—or controlled—by similar forces?
In truth, that was precisely the case.
Joffrey had swayed Ser Cortnay Penrose in a single night, relying not merely upon threats and promises. To accomplish everything through words alone? Such arrogance would have been folly.
Magic was far more reliable and reassuring.
So long as Ser Cortnay's heart harbored the smallest doubt, magic could seize upon those whispers and amplify them, directing all his thoughts down a single path until they overwhelmed his other loyalties and made his choices for him.
This was the natural order of things.
How else could Ser Cortnay Penrose—who in another world had fought to the bitter end, refusing to yield Storm's End even after Renly's death—be willing to deceive his rightful lord?
It was nigh impossible to force a man unafraid of death to act against his nature.
Perhaps it was because Joffrey understood Ser Cortnay's character that Renly trusted him so completely.
Or perhaps desperation had driven Renly beyond reason. Faced with his sole glimmer of hope for victory, he had no choice but to believe, to cling fiercely to that last thread of possibility.
A drowning man has no leisure to distinguish whether he grasps a rope or a noose.
Renly was drowning in just such fashion.
Joffrey could say with certainty that Renly clutched a noose—one that tightened with each passing hour.
When the moment ripened fully, that noose would close tight.
The prey Joffrey awaited so patiently would step into his trap at last, and then he would destroy them all in one fell swoop—simply and cleanly done.
"Sandor," he called to the Hound. "These next few days, keep your men concealed. Use no artillery, leave but one company to defend the walls, and keep the rest within the castle. Let none be seen beyond our gates."
The Hound's scarred face split in a grin. "Don't worry, Your Grace. I understand perfectly—it's all theater, and the lads know their parts well enough."
The Hound struck his chest with a mailed fist. "I swear those rebels won't glimpse our true strength. Even should they assault the walls for days, we'll defend with naught but common steel and strong arms. No magic shall they witness!"
Joffrey nodded approvingly. "Also, remember to release ravens each day—but ensure the rebels shoot them down."
The Hound's brow furrowed. "What of the letters' contents..."
Joffrey waved dismissively. "Must I teach you everything? You know the plan well enough. Nothing but intelligence about weak defenses, exhausted strength, Storm's End's ancient magics failing, desperate pleas for ships to carry us away."
Joffrey rose and walked to the window. "In short, give my dear uncle Renly every reason to believe victory within his grasp."
Give a man reasons, and he will gladly deceive himself.
Joffrey gazed outward.
The sea stretched azure and pristine beneath the morning sun, crowned with white-capped waves that rolled endlessly toward the horizon.
Not a single sail marred that perfect emptiness.
Ser Cortnay had already provided Renly with an explanation both reasonable and awkward:
"Joffrey seeks to project an image of complete confidence, thereby restraining the coalition forces beyond our walls. He prevents them from advancing or retreating, keeping them hesitant about safe withdrawal, too uncertain to assault the castle directly.
Thus he can divide his strength to capture the northern Stormlands, surrounding the Allied forces completely around Bitterbridge.
Therefore, Joffrey has sent away all his ships, cutting off his own retreat to demonstrate his supreme confidence."
Renly had probably believed every word.
Those lords and generals accepted it at face value, at the very least.
How the tables turn.
None questioned Ser Cortnay's plan further. After all, Renly himself had given approval—what more was there for others to say?
The scheme proceeded flawlessly.
Ravens accompanying the army had been released to wing homeward, and by the morrow Bitterbridge would receive the news.
Joffrey could hardly contain his anticipation.
Lord Mace Tyrell and more than thirty thousand troops were stationed at Bitterbridge, along with many lords and knights from both the Reach and the Stormlands.
Once Renly's commands arrived, at least half would march for Storm's End.
Hundreds of noble houses, representing a third of the Seven Kingdoms.
Storm's End would be surrounded, the goal being to capture Joffrey the King and seize the Iron Throne.
A battle for life and death itself.
When that moment came, he would be able to claim rightful and complete victory.
Who could complain that the king's methods were unkind?
After this battle, the Reach and Stormlands would become the royal family's foundation, and the Seven Kingdoms' fate would be sealed forever.
Joffrey found himself contemplating a pleasant problem: seventy-seven Kingsguard would soon prove insufficient. Should he expand their number to seven hundred and seventy-seven?
More than thirty vacancies awaited filling, and the Reach alone could provide the full quota with many worthy candidates remaining.
It truly was the most fertile land in all the Seven Kingdoms.
Highgarden.
"What a busy day this shall be—a day of paramount importance for the Seven Kingdoms," he murmured with indefinable emotion.
The Hound listened beside him, not grasping the full meaning but sensing it boded well.
Joffrey settled back upon the throne.
"I have business elsewhere. Guard my body well and let none disturb me."
"Aye, Your Grace."
The Hound closed doors and windows with practiced efficiency, posting guards with familiar routine.
This was far from the first such occasion.
The so-called "proxy body" served admirably in all respects, save that it made multitasking difficult. The Hound had witnessed Joffrey attempting to control two forms simultaneously—though barely possible, his energy was clearly diminished.
Therefore, unless emergency demanded it, Joffrey focused his attention upon the most crucial location.
Now, that place was Highgarden.
When consciousness returned, Joffrey found himself within a swaying carriage, the air rich with the fresh scent of growing things and delicate floral fragrances.
He drew back the curtains.
As far as the eye could see stretched verdant fields and rolling hills, dotted with roses of red, gold, purple, and white—a tapestry of vibrant beauty.
The long column of Kingsguard troops marching through the midst of it all rather spoiled the pastoral scene.
Nature and violence, stark in their contrast.
Joffrey stepped from the carriage. "Gentlemen, let us show proper courtesy and concentrate upon the road ahead. What manner of charm does beautiful Highgarden possess? I confess myself quite eager to discover it."
Ser Barristan the Bold and Ser Loras rose silently from their own mounts.
Joffrey gazed westward into the distance.
The white and majestic castle claimed an entire hill, with carriages and horses traveling constantly along the two connected avenues, while the broad river below flowed slowly, nourishing the vast green lands.
The castle boasted three white circular walls.
The lowest encompassed the entire mountain's base.
The space between it and the second wall was filled with greenery—a carefully arranged plant maze designed to entertain guests and provide amusement. Of course, enemies would also lose themselves within that maze and fall prey to its hidden traps.
The final wall stood highest and thickest of all.
Slender and elegant round towers rose between the three circuits of stone.
This was Highgarden.
It was indeed beautiful, possessed of a quiet and serene elegance.
Unfortunately, it now rang with the harsh blare of war-horns, and a disturbing host was pouring forth from its gates.