Chapter 208: The Two-Sevenths King
The Iron Throne was more uncomfortable to sit upon than he had imagined, but the feeling of being King was unparalleled. Returning to his bedchamber and sinking into a comfortable armchair, Renly Baratheon exhaled a long breath... feeling a slight touch of regret. Aside from the Crownlands, only two of the Seven Kingdoms currently recognized his status. Compared to his elder brother, he could only be considered a Two-Sevenths King.
The Westerlands, battered into exhaustion by the armies of five kingdoms, were determined to remain neutral. Dorne, meanwhile, had yet to declare for anyone, maintaining an ambiguous and inscrutable stance. As for the remaining three—the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands—they had indeed come to King's Landing, but not to pay homage or swear fealty. Instead, they led a murderous host, intent on dragging him off his throne.
King's Landing currently held over thirty thousand Reach and Stormland troops, plus ten thousand Crownlanders and the City Watch—the defenders were equal to, if not slightly more numerous than, the besiegers. Under such circumstances, huddling behind walls and refusing to give battle was undoubtedly a sign of military weakness. However, Renly prided himself on his self-awareness: in terms of both command ability and martial prowess, neither he nor the Storm-Reach lords loyal to him could match the Northern coalition led by Robb Stark, fresh off their great victory in the West.
Let those who called him a coward speak; the one who laughed last was the winner. History books were filled with far too many tales of those who lost their thrones or their lives in an attempt to prove their courage. Renly had no intention of becoming one of them.
...
"At the latest by the day after tomorrow, the army led by Randyll Tarly will arrive at King's Landing. If the Northmen haven't the sense to retreat by then, we shall strike from within and without to crush them utterly!" Loras Tyrell spoke with supreme confidence. "If we can capture Robb Stark as well, then this war... can end prematurely."
"I know little of war, but I fear it won't be so easy," Margaery said, shaking her head. "I've spent the last two days observing from the walls. The Northern camp is heavily fortified with deep trenches and high earthworks, and their scouts flow in and out incessantly—they look prepared for any eventuality. They just defeated Randyll Tarly in the West; their morale is high, yet they show no sign of underestimating us. Led by so many veteran commanders, their combat strength is formidable. Even when Lord Randyll arrives, our forces will only barely double theirs, not to mention we must remain ever-vigilant for Stannis landing from Blackwater Bay..."
"Does Lord Eddard Stark still refuse to yield?"
"If he were going to yield, he would have done so long ago." Margaery frowned in frustration. No matter what terms were offered, that rigid man insisted Renly was no king. Even for her, a man who feared neither death nor persuasion was impossible to manipulate. "Rather than wasting effort trying to convince a man who won't be moved, I am more concerned with how to heal him."
Loras turned his head in confusion. "A minor injury—how can it not have healed by now?"
"Not only has it not healed, but I've discovered a very eerie situation." Margaery grew uneasy. "Lord Eddard is beginning to show the same symptoms King Robert had before he died—physical weakness, difficulty with his bowels, and a faint, foul odor emanating from his body that doesn't disappear even after bathing..."
"The same symptoms as Robert? How is that possible?" Loras was skeptical. "Robert was wounded in the heart and lungs by a tusk; it was a miracle he lived as long as he did. But Lord Eddard merely fell from his horse during his arrest and suffered a large gash on his leg. They aren't the same thing at all!"
"A leg wound shouldn't cause the same symptoms as internal organ damage. Wait..." Renly did not miss Margaery's implication. He narrowed his eyes at her. "You mean to say—someone is interfering? Someone wants Eddard dead to ensure my throne remains unstable and to prevent peace from returning to the realm?"
"I suspect as much, but there is no evidence."
"It's that old wretch Pycelle," Renly declared, settling on a suspect without any hesitation. "Within the Red Keep, only he has access to such poisons."
Margaery gave a wry smile. "Your Grace, you forget that Pycelle left the Red Keep shortly after you took the city."
"Ah..." Renly remembered that was indeed the case. After a moment of confusion, he still couldn't help but suspect the Lannister lapdog. "Have Varys investigate what Pycelle has been doing lately and whom he has met."
"Your Grace, you suspect Pycelle, but I suspect your Master of Whisperers. You intended to replace the entire Small Council—why have you yet to find someone to replace the Spider? He is the most suspicious person in the Red Keep. Heaven knows which side that eunuch of unknown origin truly serves!" Margaery shook her head. "But I am merely guessing. Since there is no evidence, the best course is to move against no one for now. I have replaced Lord Eddard's healers and guards with men I brought from Highgarden. Let's see if his condition improves."
Loras grew anxious. Anyone with a brain knew what would happen if Eddard died in their custody. "If he can't be cured, return him to his son immediately. Whatever happens, he cannot die within the Red Keep."
"It's not that simple. As long as we have Eddard, his son won't dare storm the city. If we release that stubborn man back to his camp..." Margaery gave Loras a look. "Eddard Stark's prestige in the North far exceeds that of a king, and he is a renowned commander throughout the Seven Kingdoms. The moment he returns to the Northern camp and takes command, with father and son fighting together, our troubles will truly begin."
"Returning him is no good, keeping him is no good... what are we to do then?" Loras became agitated. Schemes and statecraft were far too tedious for the young and handsome Rainbow Guard.
...
A gust of wind blew the curtains into the room, causing the massive colored lamp hanging from the ceiling—a wedding gift from the Chief Logistics Officer—to spin slowly. The multicolored light, filtered through tinted crystals, swept over every corner of the room, making the interior feel dreamlike and surreal.
"Do not panic; time is on our side." Margaery thought she saw something slip in through the window, but the light from the lamp flashed in her eyes. When she looked again, she saw nothing. "The Starks brought over twenty thousand men... that is nearly half the able-bodied men of the North. It is the last autumn harvest before winter; if they continue to waste time in the south, they won't even be able to get their crops into the barns. Whereas we in the Reach..."
"Give us time, and the Reach can raise another eighty thousand," Loras said confidently. "If we aren't a match for those Northern barbarians at two-to-one, then we'll make it three-to-one, or four-to-one!"
Winter truly is coming; since when did King's Landing get so cold? Margaery rubbed her bare arms and glanced puzzledly at the window. Turning back, she continued: "Don't think only of crushing them with numbers. The Reach can indeed provide over a hundred thousand men, but what difference is there between untrained peasants and straw targets when facing the battle-hardened veterans of the North? The threat comes not only from the Northern army, but also from Dragonstone, the uncertain Dornish, and the Iron Islands... Before we know everyone's stance, we must not exhaust our resources and leave our backs exposed."
"Dorne's attitude is irrelevant. We only need a thousand men to hold the Prince's Pass and the Boneway; they couldn't break out regardless of their skill. What is annoying are the pirates and sellswords in the Narrow Sea. They've become increasingly brazen lately, even attacking the castles of my minor bannermen. My lords are getting restless, each wanting to return home to defend their own lands... I cannot call for more troops to King's Landing, and I have to divert men to protect those lords. The Storm's End fleet is tied down because of it."
"Keep the Storm's End fleet in the Stormlands then. Even if they came here, they would be no match for the Dragonstone fleet and Stannis. Furthermore, Your Grace must never move the garrison of Storm's End elsewhere—that is your seat, the place where you rose to power. Its significance is paramount; it cannot be lost." Margaery thought for a moment. "Actually, the most critical factor right now is the attitude of the Iron Islands, whom we have always looked down upon. If the Ironborn acknowledge you as King and follow orders, we could use them to harass the North or attack Dragonstone. In defense, they could lead their fleet to repel the Narrow Sea pirates... Moreover, once we are certain the Ironborn are not enemies, the Arbor and Shield Islands fleets currently guarding against them can be moved to the Blackwater. Then, we would have the advantage on both land and sea, ensuring total victory."
"An excellent idea. I have ignored the power of the Iron Islands for too long—a grave mistake. I shall leave this to my dear Queen's people to handle. I trust you... whatever terms House Greyjoy has, as long as they are not too outrageous, agree to them."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Why is it so cold?" Renly blinked in confusion, shrugging his shoulders as he stood from his chair. "It is late. Let's go to rest, my dear."
It was indeed time for rest, but an ordinary person would find it hard to imagine: although the wedding had passed days ago and the royal couple should have been in their honeymoon period, they had never actually shared a bed. With two men and one woman in the room, when it came time for sleep, Margaery, the wife, was the one invited to go to another chamber. Though the one remaining to serve the King was also a Tyrell... what would the servants of the Red Keep think of such a thing?
Margaery's confusion and unease grew daily. Yet Renly had fulfilled his promise and made her a true Queen, and House Tyrell had achieved its wish of becoming royalty by marriage, entering the center of power and establishing influence in King's Landing and the Red Keep. The houses claiming descent from Garth Greenhand, who used to ignore the Tyrells, were suddenly very courteous.
Truthfully, a lack of a marital life wasn't a tragedy; there was little to complain about...
A gust of wind blew out several candles in the room. Only the oil lamp inside the colored crystal chandelier remained unaffected. Its rotation slowed to a stop. Margaery felt a dark shadow flash before her eyes again. She looked up, only to see the shadow Renly cast on the floor as he stood. She looked around in confusion but found nothing out of the ordinary. She curtseyed: "Very well—Your Grace should also rest early."
Renly heard the grievance in his wife's tone. He understood well enough the importance of a political marriage producing an heir quickly. But he was only twenty-one, healthy and in his prime; he truly did not want to force himself so soon—to act against his nature and couple with a woman. Especially when his true love was right beside him.
With an apologetic look, Renly watched Margaery walk toward the door. The wind from the window continued to blow into the room, making the candlelight flicker. The colored light from the crystal lamp slowly swept across the room once more, and the shadows of everyone present shifted with it... Accompanied by the sound of rushing air, the Flower of Highgarden suddenly spun around, her eyes widening in horror as she looked behind her husband, and screamed: "Your Grace, look out!"
"Stop!"
The sharp ring of Loras drawing his sword echoed. Renly saw the terrified looks on the faces of the Tyrell siblings and turned around in confusion. He saw a dark... face made of shadow and smoke. Upon closer inspection, he recognized it: it was the face of his brother, Stannis Baratheon.
In the next second, he lost all sensation.
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