At the Tyrell-Baratheon main camp…
“Our battles are well drawn up,” Renly said.
The king in Highgarden decided that now was the time to rendezvous with Ser Loras Tyrell and his men on the island of Tarth and sail upon King’s Landing.
Accompanying him was the mighty Brienne of Tarth, who helped get his armor on.
“Why not wait for daybreak, Your Grace?” she asked.
The long ranks of man and horse were armored in darkness, as black as if the smith had hammered night itself into steel.
There were banners to her right, banners to her left, and rank upon rank of banners before her, but in the predawn gloom, neither colors nor sigils could be discerned.
Brienne fitted the backplate to the breastplate over his quilted tunic.
The King in Highgarden’s armor was a deep gold and green, the green of leaves in a summer wood, so dark it drank the candlelight.
Gold highlights gleamed from inlay and fastenings like distant fires in that wood, winking every time he moved.
She tightened green leather straps and buckled golden buckles.
“I wish we had more time to prepare, Brienne… but we’re standing on our last legs.
My father in law’s bannermen may have caught the Kingslayer, but enemy morale didn’t seem to diminish.
In fact, they’ve gotten increasingly bolder.”
Renly stood in front of a mirror, contemplating the actions that led to this moment.
Years ago Renly and his nephew Daveth sat on the same council discussing politics and other domestic matters.
‘The Crown Prince and the Master of Laws, uncle and nephew… What happened between us?
‘ he thought doubtfully before dismissing such notions.
‘No!
I must see this through to the end.’
“Brienne,” he spoke finally, “inform the others that I’ll be moving to Tarth.
With any luck we could end this war in a fortnight.”
Before Brienne could move, a cold breeze suddenly swept through the main camp.
“Why is it so cold—?” he asked in a small, puzzled voice.
A heartbeat before the steel of his gorget parted like cheesecloth beneath the shadow of a blade that was not there.
Brienne turned to look and couldn’t comprehend what she was seeing, a shadow taking shape and substance with a man’s face.
She watched as the shadow flew to Renly and pierced his chest with a dagger of darkness.
STAB!
“Ugh!” Renly managed to utter it.
He spluttered as the shadow quickly pulled away, letting blood spurt from his heart to the ground.
“NO!” screamed Brienne.
Renly fell forward into Brienne’s arms, who gently held his body close and brought him to the ground.
“No, no, no, no,” Brienne sobbed.
“What was that noise?
What happened?!
Follow me!” voices outside the tent exclaimed.
Two of Renly’s Kingsguard knights, Ser Robar Royce and Ser Emmon Cuy, dashed inside the tent swords in hand to see Brienne kneeling over Renly’s corpse drenched with his blood on her armor.
In the confusion, both assume that she is responsible.
“Traitor!”
“You’ll die for this!”
“You’ll pay for the King’s life with your own!”
“It wasn’t me!” cried Brienne, but her now former comrades refused to listen to her.
Without hesitation, both Robar and Emmon charged at Brienne.
SWING!
SLASH!
CLING!
CLASH!
THRUST!
Brienne moved faster as she unsheathed her sword to catch Emmon’s blade on the downswing.
A spark flashed blue-white as steel met steel with a rending crash, the body of the dead pretender king thrust rudely aside.
Ser Emmon stumbled over it as he tried to close the gap and Brienne’s blade sheared through the wooden haft to bring her blade slashing across Emmon with enough force to kill him.
Ser Robar charged forth, thrusting forward but missing Brienne and shattering the mirror.
SHATTER!
Brienne pushed Ser Robar away before swinging around to slash behind his knees, bringing Robar down.
Left with no other choice, Brienne thrust her sword down into the back of Robar’s neck, killing him instantly.
Dropping her bloodied sword, Brienne cried over Renly’s dead body.
Her weeping was soon brought to an end when a gentle feminine tone reached her.
“You have to leave,” the woman behind her said.
“If any of Renly’s bannermen see what’s happened here, they will hang you for this.
Now.”
Brienne looked at the woman in question.
She was tall and had waist-length dark hair with haunting violet eyes and wore a purple dress of fine silk, hinting she was of noble birth.
She was very beautiful; her skin was smooth, and she had a more feminine yet slightly muscular physique.
She apparently knew how to fight at least.
Listening to her voice, her tone was emphasized as “foreign” even amongst the Westerosi natives.
“I won’t leave him!” Brienne said with grief in her voice.
“And you cannot avenge him if you’re dead.”
“Over there, go!” More voices began to approach.
The woman looked at the mourning Brienne.
“Come,” she commanded, and the two made their way out of Storm’s End and fled into the woods.
The night air smelled of rain.
Behind them, Renly’s pavilion was well ablaze, flames rising high against the darkness.
No one made any move to stop them.
Men rushed past them, shouting of fire and murder and sorcery.
Others stood in small groups and spoke in low voices.
A few were praying, and one young squire was on his knees, sobbing openly.
“I never held him but as he died,” Brienne said quietly as she and her new companion walked through the spreading chaos, her voice sounding as if she might break at any moment again.
“He was laughing one moment, and suddenly blood was… my lady, I don’t understand.
“I did,” she replied.
“I must admit, I’ve never seen anything like its kind before.
But I can tell you it is the work of dark magic.”
“It was Stannis, wasn’t it?
It looked like him.”
“It, whatever it was, looked like a shadow in the shape of a man.”
“With my lord’s own sword, I will kill him.
I swear it, I’ll—”
“You will do no such thing,” she cut the tall, homely girl off.
“Does the senseless squabbling among the noble Houses end with the country and its people worn down to nothing?
If anything, we should make for the capital once we meet up with Lord Tarly and secure the Kingslayer’s release.”
Brienne stopped and took a moment to listen.
“Do you intend to hand me over to the Oathkeeper?” she asked suspiciously.
“You misunderstand.
I only do what is needed to end this pointless chaos plaguing the landscape.
After that, I intend to resume my travels.
Do not blame yourself for leaving Renly’s side, girl.
You served him well.
But there are others who will need your help.”
“I only held him that once as he was dying.”
“Listen to me,” her companion spoke loudly but firmly.
“He’s gone.
You serve nothing and no one by following Renly to the grave.
I believe both Renly and Daveth were played against each other by a third party.
Someone wanted to throw the realm into chaos.”
“I do not know if that’s possible, my lady.
But if you think so, I could help determine who is truly responsible.
Promise me that you will not hold me back from Stannis.”
“I will not hold you back when the time comes.”
Brienne nodded.
“I never got to know your name, my lady.”
The woman stood silent for a while.
“Ariyana of House Dayne,” she said finally.
“Successor to my uncle Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.”
Brienne recognized the name “Sword of the Morning” before.
It was a title bestowed upon knights of House Dayne deemed worthy to carry the ancestral longsword, Dawn.
For this reason, the Swords of the Morning are all famous throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
The last to bear the title Sword of the Morning was Ser Arthur Dayne, a famed knight of the Mad King Aerys II Targaryen’s Kingsguard and a close personal friend of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
When Arthur died in the rebellion, no one ever expected a new Sword of the Morning could appear at any time.
Until now…
Back at Renly Baratheon’s camp…
Hours had passed.
Once word of Renly Baratheon’s death reached his ears, Ser Loras Tyrell immediately rode to Storm’s End from Tarth to mourn his lover’s death.
He hadn’t left Renly’s corpse for a long time.
Many of the people accused Brienne of Tarth of killing Renly, but she had fled and couldn’t defend herself against these claims.
Everyone within the camp was in a frenzy.
More than half of the Redwyne Fleet was recalled to the Arbor, but more than a few ships and 28,000 men resolved to carry on the plan to attack King’s Landing in retribution for Renly’s demise.
When Highgarden learned of Renly’s death, they announced their intentions to surrender the Reach to the Iron Throne and return the captive Ser Jaime Lannister to the king’s custody.
Margaery and Loras received a summons from their Lord Mace Tyrell to return to Highgarden at once.
The Tyrell siblings found themselves staring down at Renly’s corpse.
“We need to go home,” Margaery told her brother.
“Loras!”
Loras’s face was devoid of emotion, as he was in shock.
“My lord, my lady,” Petyr Baelish made his presence known to the Tyrells as he stepped into the tent.
“Get out,” Loras hissed.
Littlefinger merely ignored him.
“Stannis Baratheon will arrive to claim the Stormlands for the Iron Throne within the hour.
When he does arrive, Renly’s bannermen will flock to him.
Your former companions will fight for the privilege of selling you to the Oathkeeper.”
Loras immediately drew his sword, stepping towards Petyr.
“And you want that privilege for yourself,” he snapped angrily.
“You will note that I am standing here talking to you, not Stannis,” Petyr said, unfazed by the sword aimed at his face.
Margaery took Loras by the shoulder.
“There’s no time for this!” she exclaimed.
“Ride back to Highgarden, sister,” Loras stated as his anger grew.
“Stannis follows the Oathkeeper’s orders.
I’ll make them all pay for this.
I will put a sword through Daveth’s righteous face!”
“You can’t stay here.”
“Renly would have been a true king, a good king,” Loras said as he lowered beside Renly’s corpse once more.
“You’ll be cut to pieces before Stannis sets foot on solid ground.
If you continue to carry out your plans, Daveth Baratheon will show you no mercy.”
Margaery joined Petyr in the convincing.
“You can’t avenge him from the grave,” she stated.
“He’s gone now.
Our family needs you.
I need you.”
Loras, still grieving Renly’s death, felt his anger brew again.
“I’m not going!” he declared and stormed out of the tent, bringing with him his own group of followers still determined to carry on the siege.
“Loras!” Margaery hollered.
The Knight of the Flowers did not listen, and by the time Margaery ran out of the tent, he was already gone.
No doubt he was on his way to Tarth to take the small portion of the Redwyne Fleet loyal to him to lay siege to the capital.
“It seems that vengeance is on his mind now,” said Petyr.
“It’s not too late for your father to have Lord Paxter Redwyne send to retrieve Ser Loras.”
“I hope it’s not too late,” Margaery hoped.
She took a moment to look at her fallen husband’s corpse.
“He was very handsome.”
“He was, Your Grace.”
“Your Grace.” Calling yourself king doesn’t make you one.
And if Renly wasn’t a king, I wasn’t a queen.”
“Do you want to be a queen?”
“No,” Margaery shook her head.
“I want to be the queen.”
Inside Daveth Baratheon’s chamber at King’s Landing…
Nightfall had befallen the capital.
Daveth sat at his desk when Tyrion arrived to bring his nephew the news regarding Renly Baratheon.
“Dead?” asked Daveth.
“Killed by whom?”
Tyrion shrugged.
“Accounts tend to differ, nephew.
Most seem to implicate one of his own Kingsguard, while still others say it was Stannis himself who did it after negotiations went sour.”
“And what does the Master of Whisperers have to say about it?”
“Varys says Renly’s army is flocking to support Stannis, thereby securing Stannis’s hold of the Stormlands.
The Tyrells are sending a raven with terms of their surrender, though a renegade group led by Mace’s son Ser Loras still intends to launch a naval assault on the capital.”
‘Like a moth drawn to a flame,’ thought Daveth.
‘The Knight of the Flowers seems to have taken the bait.’
“Nephew?”
Daveth shook his head.
“It’s nothing.
Still, it does provide us an opportunity to secure Uncle Jaime’s release.”
Tyrion knew there was more to it than Daveth was letting on.
“There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?
About Myrcella?”
Daveth sighed, placing both palms on his face before looking into Tyrion’s eyes.
“Tell me, Uncle Tyrion… did I do the right thing?
Sending my sister off to Dorne?
I know we need to bring them back into the fold, but…”
Tyrion looked kind of surprised.
Daveth had always appeared so sure of himself, so confident in whatever he set his mind to, and not the kind of person to hesitate when an opportunity presented itself.
Now to see him doubting himself… it was rather uncertain, but Tyrion could easily tell how concerned Daveth was for his little sister’s safety and well-being.
“Listen to me.
Myrcella is a sweet, innocent girl, and I don’t blame you for feeling the way you do.
Trust me.
I know how hard it was for you to do it, but you made the right decision.
She’ll be safer in Dorne.”
‘I want to believe that; I really do,’ Daveth thought.
Tyrion raised an eyebrow.
“While we’re on the subject, when was the last time you slept?”
“I don’t seem to recall.
I’ve had to put down a rebellion and give the order to have one of my own family members killed as an enemy of the crown.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to shoulder everything by yourself, nephew.
You’ve been running yourself ragged since you took the throne.
Let me deal with the rest for now.
You’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”
“Seeing Myrcella off as she prepares to leave for Dorne…”
The young stag slowly stood from his desk, leaving Tyrion the only one to remain in his seat.
“I can’t—”
“You can.
As your uncle and your advisor, it’s my duty to advise you not to push yourself too hard.
Now go and get some rest.”
Daveth groaned.
He was too tired and overwhelmed to even lift a finger to argue at this point and went straight to his bed.
As soon as he laid his head down, Tyrion left the room to begin preparing the city’s defenses with Lord Hand Eddard Stark in his nephew’s absence.
Tyrion was not often the kind of person to worry about anyone other than his brother Jaime, his nephews Daveth and Tommen, and his niece Myrcella.
The Imp was certain that if the Oathkeeper kept pushing himself too hard, it could send him to an early grave.
It only seemed fair to help lighten the workload as best as he possibly could.
Once he closed the door, one of Tyrion’s messengers arrived with a message.
“Pardon me, my lord,” the messenger said.
“But your cousin Ser Lancel Lannister has asked to see you.”
“Ah,” Tyrion motioned.
“And so now it’s time to spring the trap.”