At the Baratheon-Tyrell main camp, near Storm’s End…
Inside his own personal tent, the rival King Renly Baratheon was not having a good day.
He had filled his cup yet again with more wine, his cheeks red from possibly having drunk too much of the Arbor gold.
‘Why?!’ he thought rather frustrated.
‘I’VE got the superior numbers, I’VE got the backing of the Tyrells, and yet somehow I’m losing?!
Damn you, Daveth!’
Renly had clearly underestimated his nephew’s tactical prowess and strategic decision making.
When the Oathkeeper formulated his battle plans, his ranking generals carried them out effectively and improvised to ensure they inflicted serious damage.
Even after amassing an army of 100,000, Renly’s forces were getting harassed left and right by Daveth Baratheon’s troops.
Tywin Lannister was already marching towards him, Jaime Lannister and the Riverland forces were laying siege to Highgarden and its surrounding areas.
Word soon arrived that Robb Stark was leading a Northern vanguard of 20,000 men down the Neck and was stationed near the Trident outside the Twins.
If things continue at this pace, he’ll end up being surrounded on all sides and the war will be over before it has a chance of reaching its peak.
What’s more, even some of his own bannermen, both Stormlander and Reachmen, had begun to question Renly.
‘I’m their king!
How dare they turn their backs on me!’
Reports were pouring in detailing a number of defections in his ranks, making his once vastly superior army slowly dwindle when word of Daveth’s many victories reached his ears.
The once popular Renly Baratheon was finding himself losing support among the smallfolk, denouncing him as a power hungry madman and proclaiming Daveth the true King before they fled to the gates of King’s Landing with the intent to surrender.
Renly appeared to have placed his final gambit on the Redwyne Fleet as it made its way around the Summer Sea to the island of Tarth in the Narrow Sea where he would rendezvous with his 40,000 men.
From there they would sail to the Blackwater Bay and lay siege to King’s Landing, hoping to overwhelm the capital’s much smaller forces.
King Renly had hoped to spend more time with his lover Ser Loras, but the Knight of the Flowers still felt humiliated by being defeated by Brienne of Tarth in the melee as well as his opposition to Renly’s decision to appoint Brienne to his Kingsguard.
“A member of the Kingsguard?
As if I wasn’t humiliated enough already,” was what Loras told Renly in the King’s bedchamber before Loras stormed out, no longer in the mood.
Loras, in his defiance, told Renly he was going to Tarth and lead the assembled garrison to wait for Lord Redwyne’s fleet to arrive.
He intended to lead the assault on King’s Landing personally.
Brienne of Tarth would stand watch over Renly in Loras’s absence.
“I’m sorry, Loras…” Renly said quietly, feeling dizzy from the wine.
“But I need every skilled warrior I can muster.
I’ll find a way to make it up to you, I promise.”
As he set the cup down, the flap of his tent opened and Margaery entered.
Renly turned to face her.
One of the most beautiful maidens in the Seven Kingdoms, thousands of men had desired her but Margaery was promised to Renly.
The outfit Margaery wore was a green, U shaped gown cut at the chest so only her breasts were half covered.
Any other man wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off her.
“I should warn you.
I’ve had quite a bit of wine.”
“As is your right.
You are a King,” Margaery replied sweetly.
The two stared at each other for a while.
“You look very beautiful,” Renly finally said.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“It’s a lovely gown.”
“You think so?
I can’t decide how I like it better,” she stepped closer as she untied the front of her gown.
“This way, or… this way.” Opening it up, she let it fall to the ground, exposing her bare chest.
Renly studied his wife up and down, examining her breasts and her smile.
“You certainly don’t need it.”
Margaery placed both hands on Renly’s shoulders and leaned forward to kiss him.
In between kisses Renly tried to speak.
“Although… some say the… beauty… most desired… is the beauty concealed…”
She placed a finger on his lips to silence him, and kissed him even longer now.
Renly could feel her breasts pressing against his chest; Margaery reached a hand down Renly’s breeches.
“It must be the wine…”
“Here.
Let me.”
Margaery’s kisses became more fierce and passionate, but Renly pulled away.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized as he walked over to the bed.
Margaery rolled her eyes.
“Do you want my brother to come in and help?” she asked.
“What?”
“He could get you started.
I know he wouldn’t mind.
Or can I turn over and you can pretend I’m him.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“There’s no need for us to play games.
Save your lies for court.
You’re going to need a lot of them.
Your nephew Daveth and the rest of your enemies aren’t happy about us.
My father took a great risk to make this possible for you.
And the best way to stop your enemies is to put your baby in my belly.”
“You obviously don’t know my nephew that well,” Renly shook his head.
“Whenever he makes a promise… or a threat, really, he doesn’t renege on his word.
How do you think Daveth got the name ‘Oathkeeper’?”
“I know plenty enough about him.
I know how dangerous he is, what he’s done.
But does it matter?” Margaery said to placate Renly as she sat beside him.
Renly shook his head.
“We can try again later,” he changed the subject.
“Producing an heir, that is.”
Margaery was quick to notice.
“You can decide how you want to do it.
With me, with me and Loras, however else you like.
Whatever you need to do.
You are a King.”
Renly merely stared off into the distance, doubts beginning to manifest and linger.
If the attack on King’s Landing failed, then all was lost.
Should he fail, Daveth would show him and his followers no mercy, that much Renly understood.
Whether it was through negotiating and compromising, or war and assassinations… Daveth always seemed to get the results he wanted in a short span of time; and the antagonism between the two Baratheon factions continued to worsen by the day.
King Renly needed to hurry, and fast.
At the Red Keep…
King Daveth I stood in his chambers reviewing the gathered documents assembled by his contacts; reports suggesting that a collective group or someone within the city was conspiring against him.
Earlier this morning he had followed leads and used both his and Varys’s spies to trace the lines that connected those amongst his inner circle and those who were loyal to Queen Mother Cersei Lannister, but in the end Daveth found out who it was that told his mother of his plan to marry Myrcella off to Prince Trystane Martell.
ooOoo
“Your Grace!
Please, please, no!” Grand Maester Pycelle pleaded.
The old man had already begun taking liberties with a fair maiden only mere moments before King Daveth kicked open the front door, scaring the young woman as Ser Boros Blount and Ser Meryn Trant entered the room.
Pycelle had been caught in the act.
“You disappoint me, Grand Maester,” Daveth said plainly.
“Thought I would be too gullible to even notice what you were doing?”
“B-but Your Grace, I-I’m your loyal servant!”
“And yet you betrayed me.
Varys and Littlefinger aren’t the only ones with eyes and ears everywhere.
It was rather simple, to be honest.
No one in the entire city knew of my plans to send Myrcella to Dorne, except for me and my sister.”
“You don’t suppose—”
“Don’t even think about going there, old man.
If you think Myrcella would betray my trust like that, then you’re sadly mistaken.”
“No!
Never!
It’s a falsehood.
I swear it.
It wasn’t me,” the Grand Maester continued to deny the accusations.
“Ah, Varys.
It was Varys the Spider.”
“The Master of Whisperers is one of many things, but even he knows it’d be a very foolish mistake to cross me.
He knows his place.
You, on the other hand, well…”
Pycelle began stuttering.
“No, no, Your Grace!
“ENOUGH!”
The room fell silent.
Grand Maester Pycelle looked like he was about to soil himself when Daveth spoke calmly and in control of the situation.
“Am I the only one here to see through this whole façade?” said Daveth.
“Is it possible that so many could be so stupid for so long?”
The look on Pycelle’s face changed.
No longer cowering, but rather choosing to reveal his true colors instead now that the Grand Maester had been exposed.
“You really are your grandfather’s protégé,” said Pycelle calmly, chuckling to himself as he got up from his bed, standing tall instead of hunched forward as he always projected.
“There are times when I have trouble believing it myself, Your Grace.”
“Then why did you turn on me?”
“So many flowers, child.
Each of them either wants to grow the tallest, bloom the brightest… and one by one, sooner or later, they all get plucked if the gardener decides he doesn’t like them anymore.
I don’t want to be the tallest or the brightest.
I only want to remain in the garden, until my time comes to return to the dirt.”
“Well aren’t we rather poetic this morning?” Daveth rolled his eyes in sarcasm.
“And yet you still didn’t answer my question.”
It was obvious the Young Stag was not going to let this matter slide.
Pycelle figured he might as well confess since the person standing before him wasn’t so easily fooled.
“Since I convinced the Mad King to open the city gates to your grandfather, I have served the interests of the House of Lannister unfailingly.”
“And you know full well that I myself have Lannister blood as I do Baratheon, yet you still misplaced my trust.”
“I only did what I did because I thought you were acting against Lannister interests.”
Daveth was not amused.
“I can have you return to the dirt in the afternoon if you’d like,” he threatened.
Even that had to have made Pycelle concerned.
The King was young, but he already had a fierce reputation and didn’t take backstabbing and other treacherous actions lightly.
“In the near future,” he continued, “you will remember your place.
But until that time, consider yourself placed in strict solitary confinement.”
Daveth turned to Ser Meryn and Ser Boros.
“Have men posted outside the Grand Maester’s room.
He doesn’t get out and nobody gets in, not even mother.
Be sure to regularly change cloaks so they don’t get influenced.”
“At once, Your Grace,” they bowed.
ooOoo
Daveth had already apprehended one culprit and sentenced others such as Allar Deem and Ser Ruban Glovelyn to live out the rest of their days at the Wall in permanent exile, forcing them to join the Night’s Watch.
In response to the swift crackdowns, any whispers were silenced out of fear for their safety.
Daveth had neither the time nor the patience for such idle distractions, but he couldn’t govern the realm when plots were being made behind his back, especially since he was fighting a war.
Another piece of paper was unveiled, with it faintly showing the sigil of a white falcon on a blue field.
But before he looked at it, there was a knock on his door.
*KNOCK, KNOCK!*
“Come in,” called Daveth.
The door opened and Sansa Stark entered, wearing a blue dress of fine embroidery, her long hair smooth as silk had been let down and parted on one side leaving a portion of her neck exposed.
Sansa’s blue eyes sparkled and every day she looked more beautiful than the last.
But Sansa had a concerned look about her; she had heard of the war and at least some of the decisions Daveth had to make.
“Your Grace,” she curtsied.
“Ah, Sansa.
I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Am I interrupting?”
“No,” he replied.
“I have time if you’d like to talk.
In fact, I could use a distraction.”
Daveth put the papers down and stood up, pouring some wine into his goblet and one into a small cup.
He handed her the small one, and Sansa accepted it.
“Is it true?” she asked.
“Robb’s on his way here?”
“It is.
He’s marching south with his men to aid us in our bid to end my foolish uncle’s rebellion.
Some 20,000 strong, I’ve been told.
He’s trying to convince Lord Walder Frey to grant the Northern army’s crossing.”
A brief, awkward silence fell over.
“But your uncle…” Sansa said finally.
“Have you… tried to negotiate a peace with him, and—”
“Don’t you think we’ve tried that already?” Daveth retorted.
“I gave Renly one last chance to lay down his arms, and in his moment of sheer stupidity he arrogantly refused.”
Sansa was taken aback in surprise.
“Treason is treason, Sansa.
And Renly will be punished accordingly.
Stannis will carry out the sentence instead of Ser Ilyn Payne.”
“I-I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she apologized.
“Of course it is.
I shouldn’t have pried.”
Daveth sighed wearily.
“No, it’s fine.
You were only asking.”
Sansa put her cup down and placed her hand on Daveth’s shoulder, giving a small rub.
“What’s bothering you?” she beseeched.
“It’s nothing.”
Sansa wasn’t buying it.
“Your Grace, please don’t shut me out.
Let me help you.
Please, I beg you in the name of the Mother.”
Daveth took her hand off his shoulder.
“I said it’s nothing,” he irritatingly repeated.
He moved over to the bed and sat down on the edge and looked rather lost in thought, with Sansa looking at him worriedly.
Daveth never acted this way towards her before.
She wanted to help, but he wouldn’t let her.
Her instincts told her that something was definitely bothering her betrothed.
Silence filled the room again.
“You ever heard of the Greyjoy Rebellion?” Daveth asked.
Sansa looked puzzled.
“It was started by Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands and Lord Reaper of Pyke, when he tried to declare independence from the Seven Kingdoms.
Theon became my father’s ward when it was over.”
Daveth didn’t look at Sansa, but he did note she at least knew some parts of it.
“And did you ever wonder why I’ve had to do these things?
How and why I came to be known as the kind of man I am today?”
Sansa shook her head.
After a long moment, Daveth spoke again.
“I was at Lannisport when the Ironborn raided the town ten years ago,” he confessed.
Sansa felt her eyes open wide in shock.
“That’s how they sustain themselves, don’t they?” he continued as he began to feel lightheaded, lost in memory.
“By raiding, plundering and pillaging villages and small towns along the western coasts, raping everyone they get their hands on.
‘We take what is ours; we pay no price but the iron price,’ is how they address it.
Before all of that happened, I was but a boy, eight years of age, playing around the harbors with some friends of mine during our family’s visit to Casterly Rock.
Sons of my father’s and grandfather’s bannermen, stable boys, squires… Each of us pretended to be sailors, knights, kings.
It didn’t matter to the rest of us what others thought about us, we were children simply having fun.”
Sansa listened as Daveth retold the story.
“But everything changed that day, when the Ironborn came to our shores.
I remember watching the entire Lannister fleet burn at anchor and watched as they sank to the bottom of the ocean.
I remember the Ironborn disembarking from their ships to sack the town, slaughtering countless men, women and children who tried to flee.
Any who tried to fight back were put to the sword; those who couldn’t defend themselves were drowned or taken back to the Iron Islands as thralls and salt wives.”
In Daveth’s mind, faint screams and shouts were heard, fires ravaging the town as swords clashed and the Ironborn’s cruel, unforgiving laughter was louder than anything else.
“They cornered us in one of the alleys.
One of my friends, Connin, was dragged away and had his head held underwater until he stopped struggling.
Orwen tried to fight, but was cut down with a single strike.
The others… Drannyl, Briden, Rechar, Rodner… they were all cut down one by one, either by the Ironborn’s blades or by drowning.
When I close my eyes, I still see their faces.
At night, I hear their screams in my sleep.
That’s where they found me.”
“W-what happened?” Sansa asked.
Daveth inhaled deeply and exhaled just as sharply, his right hand beginning to tremble.
“They dragged me to the Iron Islands in chains.
Pyke, I think. Find the original chapter at g.com.
Or was it Great Wyk?
Old Wyk?
I don’t really remember.
I’d rather not remember.
But I do remember… the countless, unspeakable things they did to me while I was their prisoner.
I was tortured daily.
The Ironborn tried to break me, treated me like I was their own personal plaything.
Their property!
How can you expect to be the same person after that?
They beat me, they starved me, they tried to drown me… and no matter how many times I tried to escape, they always caught me.
‘You’re gonna make us a fine trophy,’ they said to me.
‘A tribute to satisfy the Drowned God.’ That’s where Ser Barristan found me.
He cut them all down before they had a chance to draw their swords and brought me back to the capital once Balon Greyjoy surrendered and bent the knee.”
Daveth found himself gradually becoming tired, staring at his feet as he clenched his fists in a rather tight grip.
“My dearest one,” Sansa spoke softly, her voice filled with hurt and sympathy.
“I had no idea.
Why didn’t you tell me?
Why didn’t you tell the King?”
“Father…?” Daveth muttered quietly, a violent shiver taking him.
“You think my own father even cared enough to consider checking on me to see if I was all right?
‘He won’t be a boy forever,’ he told mother.
‘It’s time he learned what it means to be a man.’ I took it upon myself from that point on that I would create a new world, one where families wouldn’t have to mourn the loss of a son, daughter, friend or spouse.
I would crush any who meant to harm them, whether they are Ironborn, Targaryen, Dothraki… even my own flesh and blood.
Everything I’ve said, everything I’ve done… all of it was so that no one would have to experience what I did so young.
When Jon Arryn died, I renewed my pledge.
And I intend to keep it.”
Sansa truly had no words to describe the horrors of the story Daveth had just told her; she just held her arms out and brought her betrothed into a warm embrace, holding him close against her bosom.
A gentle touch and a tender heart, Sansa poured everything she had into that hug, a notion that was foreign to Daveth Baratheon when they first met.
“My sweet King,” she hushed.
“My heart breaks at seeing you like this.
But you mustn’t try to do too much on your own.
I love you.
So please… let me help you.”
Daveth said nothing as he felt his eyes close, wrapping his arms around Sansa’s waist.
“Sansa…” he whispered as sleep soon took him.
Aboard the Fury, somewhere in the Narrow Sea…
On board the flagship of Lord Stannis Baratheon’s fleet, the Fury sailed in open waters, where Stannis himself stood on the deck with his first mate and brother-in-law Ser Imry Florent standing alongside him.
After being sent off, Ser Davos Seaworth came on deck to hand Stannis a message.
“A raven arrived from King’s Landing a few nights ago,” Davos informed him.
Stannis opened the letter and read its content:
“The proper course is clear: Eliminate the traitorous rebel Renly Baratheon, and send us his head as proof.
Once you have accomplished your task, move to intercept the Redwyne Fleet.”
Stannis frowned and placed the letter into his pocket, staring across the Narrow Sea as the moonlight glistened across the ocean.
“Do your knucklebones bring you luck?” he asked.
Davos took the small silk pouch he kept wrapped around his neck, feeling it with his right hand as the sound of bones clattering against each other was slightly heard.
The Onion Knight remembered four of the fingers on his left hand being shortened at the first joint as punishment for his years of criminal activity as a smuggler.
Now Davos wore them around his neck as both a lucky charm and a reminder of who he was once.
“Well, life’s been good since you hacked them off, my lord,” Davos answered.
“And it’s four less fingernails to clean.”
“Fewer.”
“Pardon?”
“Four fewer fingernails to clean.
Never understood why you had to wear them.”
“It reminds me of where I come from and where I am now.
It reminds me of your justice.
It was an honest punishment, and you were good with the cleaver.”
“You were a hero and a smuggler,” Stannis countered.
“A good act does not wash out the bad, nor a bad the good.”
“A lesson I’ve been trying to teach my son,” mused Davos.
“Does he listen?”
“To me?
Gods, no.
But if the red woman told him to leap from a crow’s nest—”
“She has a name.
I trust you’ve not forgotten your old smuggler’s tricks?”
Now that appeared to catch Davos off guard.
He had stopped smuggling since Stannis made him a hedge knight and granted him a tract of land to settle on.
“I’ve lived within the law for over 17 years—” Davos tried to remind him.
“I want you to be a smuggler this time,” Stannis interrupted.
Davos knew he wasn’t going to persuade his liege lord otherwise, so he simply nodded at the request.
“Any shore, any night.
What am I bringing ashore?”
“The red woman.”
Melisandre?
Davos was actually going to smuggle the red priestess Melisandre ashore?
What was Stannis thinking?
What was he up to?
Had he forgotten the words that came spilling out of her mouth or what she did to non believers?
“No one must know what you do, and we will never speak of this again.”
“I am true to my lord and always will be,” Davos conceded but still tried suggesting something else, “but surely there are other ways, cleaner ways.”
“Cleaner ways don’t win wars.”
“But what about the King?”
Stannis stared off into the distance.
“I will handle my nephew when the time comes, Ser Davos.
If I disappoint, he’ll let me know about it.
If I succeed, he won’t care so long as it’s done.”
The Onion Knight said nothing and instead moved to take a small boat to fetch Melisandre.
He didn’t like the feeling that took hold in his gut, but did as he was told anyway.
Elsewhere…
Nightfall had covered the landscape.
But the moonlight shone to reveal the dead bodies of men and horses littering the surrounding area.
In the deepest areas of the Riverlands was a rather large man, wielding a mighty greatsword as he continued hacking away at any survivors in a fit of rage.
“No!
No!
Please…!”
*HACK!*
*STAB!*
*SLASH!*
*THRUST!*
*HACK!*
*CHOP!*
Once he finished “venting his frustrations”, the abnormally large man set off in search of newer targets.
Unbeknownst to him, he was being followed by a small group.
“The Mountain still lives…” one of them mentioned.
“Should we pursue?” asked another.
Their leader stepped forward, a scarred, balding man with reddish hair and a patch covering his right eye.
“Not yet.
We’ll use this moment to seek out new recruits before we continue chasing the Mountain.
But remember…”
All eyes turned to look at their leader as he stepped forward and into the light, revealing himself to be none other than Lord Beric Dondarrion.
“No matter whose cloak the Mountain wears: Lannister, Stark, Baratheon, all men like him prey on the weak, and the Brotherhood Without Banners will hunt him down.”
They retreated back to their hidden layer under cover of darkness, making plans to make their move.
“Lord of Light…” Beric prayed silently, “come to us in our darkness.
For the night is dark and full of terrors.”
With the war going on, how would the Brotherhood Without Banners get involved throughout the regions across Westeros?
What was their true motive?
And what would it entail when the war was brought to an end?