"Certainly," Renly replied with a smile, feeling as if he had just glimpsed a ray of sun in the frigid North. It was a rarity to find an ally who stood on the same ground as he.
Jon Snow shrugged, only to realize her direwolf had dashed outside. She hastily donned her coat and ventured into the snow to search for it. Renly accompanied her, and they eventually found the creature, Ling, in the training yard. It had a scroll of parchment clenched in its jaws, and upon seeing Renly approach, it dropped the item with a playful leap.
It was a letter, sent in Joffrey's name from Casterly Rock and addressed to Cersei Lannister. Its contents, translated from the boy's whining prose, conveyed a simple plea: Mother, I am out of funds. I need 50,000 gold dragons.
Renly raised an eyebrow in grim admiration. Impressive. He feigned ignorance towards the raven—now reduced to mere bones by the wolf—and nonchalantly kicked the remains into a nearby thicket. Sending money to Joffrey was the last thing he would ever consider.
The Hound observed Renly's every move with contemplative eyes. Was the disparity between the two brothers truly so vast? From what he understood, there were few kings like Robert, who would delegate so much authority to a son like Renly.
Subsequently, under the watchful eyes of Ser Rodrik, Renly engaged in another sword duel with Robb. Neither achieved a decisive victory, though Renly held a slight advantage.
"You fought admirably," Ser Rodrik acknowledged with a nod.
The Hound, however, was blunt. "It was merely luck. Had the Stark boy not faltered with his sword that one time, he would have likely been carried back to King's Landing."
Had Joffrey been present, Sandor would not have spoken so candidly. But Renly was known for his good-natured demeanor, a reputation well-established across the Seven Kingdoms, and over time, the Hound had become more forthright with him.
"What do you think should be done?" Renly asked, his expression open.
The Hound snorted, delivering a scathing critique of Renly's form while equally chastising Robb, whom he spared no mercy. He informed the Stark heir directly that the quality of his steel was woefully inadequate. In a true battle, it would prove a significant liability.
Ser Rodrik's face flushed crimson, yet he found himself unable to retort, having long advocated that boys should not wield live steel.
Renly promptly stepped in to mediate. "Winterfell, situated in the North, indeed faces certain hardships. Should a war arise, Robb cannot possibly take to the battlefield, wielding a practice sword, can he? Thus, I shall gift you a new one. There is a master blacksmith in King's Landing with whom I maintain a cordial relationship."
At this, Robb recalled his father's lesson: that a lord's foremost necessity is the loyalty of his bannermen. Renly's words were exceedingly clear. As long as Robb remained loyal to him, the prince could provide any material support desired. Over the past few days, the rapport between the two had grown quite amicable, prompting Robb to nod earnestly.
"I am profoundly thankful, Your Highness."
Despite being a mere boy of fourteen, still youthful and untested, this assurance was a tangible promise to Robb Stark.
"That is splendid," Renly replied with a smile before continuing. "I shall soon return to King's Landing with my father. Once the sword is completed, I will dispatch a trusted man to deliver it to Winterfell." He paused, then added casually, "Should Bran and Arya wish to accompany me south, I would be delighted. Arya may also train with Ser Barristan to hone her martial skills."
At that moment, Arya and Bran had unknowingly approached. Arya displayed no dissent, exclaiming with enthusiasm, "That is wonderful!"
Bran shared her joy; he aspired to become a knight, the most formidable in all the Seven Kingdoms.
Observing their excitement, Renly found himself reluctant to voice his subsequent thought. In truth, his intention to bring Arya and Bran south was not solely to refine their skills. There was an underlying motive of holding them as honored guests—hostages, in all but name. It was a necessary precaution.
Cersei Lannister rested in a chamber high within Winterfell, her eyes closed. Despite the crackling fire in the hearth, she sensed that something was amiss.
"A woman younger and more beautiful than I…" Cersei muttered to herself.
Such moments of agitation were rare for her. She was acutely aware of House Tyrell's propensity for climbing the social ladder. Their lineage was not particularly noble—in fact, they were of lesser standing than House Tully of Riverrun among the Great Houses. Would that little rose, Margaery, truly fulfill the prophecy by seizing everything from her, ascending to the throne as queen, and ultimately turning her own son against her?
"No," she whispered into the silence. "That is utterly impossible."
"What are you mumbling about?" Robert slurred as he stumbled into the room, reeking of wine.
Cersei swiftly concealed her unease, casting a cold glare at her husband. "What do you think? You arranged Renly's marriage without my consent—to a girl from Highgarden, no less."
Robert raised an eyebrow, bemused. "What is so objectionable? Lancel showed me her portrait. She is as radiant as the dawn, and she is of a similar age to the boy." He waved a dismissive hand. "Ah, do you even know her?"
"I have no desire for my son to wed a promiscuous rose," Cersei replied, her lips pursed tightly.
"Surely that is preferable to your own chaste disposition," Robert instinctively retorted.
Cersei was momentarily taken aback, unsure whether he was insulting her or mocking her. She chose not to dwell on the topic, raising her striking green eyes with an air of arrogance.
"Regardless, should I ever discover any indecorous behavior from this Margaery," she said, lacing the name with venom, "I shall resolutely prevent her from marrying Renly."
With her selfish inclinations, Cersei had always been ambivalent toward her children. Yet, when she bore her first son, a twisted maternal instinct had taken precedence. Although she struggled to suppress her disdain and frustration toward the boy who was not Jaime's, her indulgence of Renly was nearly boundless. It was only in his instruction that she adhered to Tywin's demands. Through a series of calculated events, Renly had become what he was today: undoubtedly Cersei's most exquisite creation. Yet the blood coursing through his veins was not that of her beloved Jaime, but rather that of the loathsome Robert.
Robert grunted once more. "Do as you please."
With that, he extinguished the candle, plunging the room into a darkness broken only by the sounds of their breathing.