In the green fields of the Reach, colorful banners flapped under the bright sun. Renly Baratheon stood before his camp, his armor shining like polished bronze, his crown freshly forged to match his confidence. All around him, knights laughed, drank, and trained, their morale high.
The Reach was fertile not only in land but in power—thousands of men had answered Renly's call, banners of Tyrells, Tarlys, Redwynes, and Florents fluttering across the camp.
Needless to say, marrying the Flower of the Reach was the right decision for Renly Baratheon. This decision didn't only give him the monetary support he needed but also enough political power that those Baratheon soldiers and houses who were loyal to him decided to back him in the upcoming war for the throne.
All under the presumption that the queen's children were bastards and there was no legitimate heir to Robert's throne.
Even then, by the law of the kingdom, it was Stannis—the second brother—who had the stronger claim to the throne over Renly. However, Renly was ambitious. He desired the throne for himself. His failed attempt to convince Ned Stark in King's Landing to capture Joffrey said enough about his character and ambition.
Ned Stark turned out to be an honorable fool, though, and thus Renly had to elope from the capital, only to come to the Reach.
He turned toward the woman standing gracefully beside him—Margaery Tyrell, his new wife. Her gown was green and gold, her smile soft yet sharp as any blade. "You've brought half the realm to me with this marriage, my lady," Renly said, his tone half playful, half proud.
"And the other half will follow," Margaery replied smoothly. "When they see a king who brings peace and prosperity, not fire and ruin."
Renly chuckled. "You speak better than most lords in my council."
"Then perhaps you should listen to me more," she said with a glint in her eyes.
Not far from them, Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, was training with his men. He noticed the pair and approached, wiping sweat from his brow. "Your Grace, the men are ready. They say they will follow you to King's Landing itself if need be."
Renly smiled broadly. "And we shall go, brother of my queen. We shall take the capital not by fear, but by strength and grace. The people will cheer for me when they see the lion's cruelty fall."
Renly turned to face the horizon. "Let Stannis sulk in his stone castle and whisper to his red witch. I have the hearts of men, and that is a far greater weapon."
Margaery leaned close, her voice soft but firm. "You must strike soon, Renly. The realm will not wait. If you hesitate, your brother will move first."
Renly nodded, his smile fading into determination. Margaery tried to lean a bit closer to him—seduction went hand in hand with politics, especially when it concerned the throne.
Even if she was now his wife by law, what consummated marriages among the great houses of Westeros wasn't a vow or a kiss.
It was a child.
That was what would ultimately establish Margaery as his true wife—not to mention bind the Tyrells to the royal bloodline permanently. However, if anyone knew Renly Baratheon even a little, they would have known that it wasn't a woman one needed to seduce him—in fact, it was quite the opposite.
Seeing all her advances ignored, Margaery Tyrell could only reluctantly back off.
As the sun set, the camp glowed with torchlight, the music of pipes and laughter filling the air. What kind of political storm brewed beneath, none were the wiser.
Compared to the music, dancing, and laughter, the situation was quite the opposite in Dragonstone.
Far away, on the bleak shores of Dragonstone, there was no laughter. No songs, no feasts—only the crashing waves and the smell of smoke. Stannis Baratheon stood before the fiery heart of the Lord of Light, his expression carved in stone.
Behind him stood Melisandre, robed in red, her hair blazing like copper in the light of the flames. "The Lord has shown me your victory," she whispered. "You are his chosen, Stannis. The flames do not lie."
Davos secretly rolled his eyes, annoyance clear on his face.
Stannis's jaw tightened. "I've heard enough of prophecies. I trust in steel and discipline, not smoke and whispers."
Melisandre stepped closer. "And yet the Lord's fire burns for you, not for your brother. He plays at being king, surrounded by flowers and songs. But you—your cause is just. Your right is just. You are the rightful heir, the true king by law and by destiny."
At least that was something both Ser Davos Seaworth and the red woman completely agreed upon. That belief was what kept them going.
Stannis stared into the flames, their reflection flickering in his cold blue eyes. "Robert is dead. His children are no true Baratheons. They are Lannister bastards. Ned Stark knew the truth and now he's captured by that Lannister whore. I am next in line by right." He wasn't saying it to anyone in particular—more like declaring it.
From the shadows, Davos Seaworth stepped forward, his rough voice breaking the silence. "Aye, that's true, Your Grace. But law and right don't always win wars. Men fight for the ones they love or fear, not the ones who deserve it."
Stannis turned to him sharply. "Are you saying I cannot win?"
"I'm saying Renly has thousands of swords and the favor of Highgarden," Davos said plainly. "And you have… a red woman and a fleet of ships."
Melisandre smiled faintly. "And the Lord of Light."
Davos frowned. "And how many men does the Lord of Light have?" he asked with sarcasm.
"The Lord of Light doesn't win battles. Men do."
"Enough," Stannis said firmly. He turned to Melisandre. "If your god wants me to rule, then let him grant me victory. Until then, I'll trust my own strength and the loyalty of those who still believe in me."
Melisandre stepped closer, her voice low and haunting. "Then believe in yourself, Stannis Baratheon. For you are Azor Ahai reborn—the one destined to save this world from darkness."
Her words hung in the air, and even Davos felt a chill despite his doubts.
Was it magic, seduction, or both? No one knew—but Stannis Baratheon was falling for it.
Stannis looked away, his face unreadable. "If I am chosen, then I will earn it through battle, not prayer."
At least things hadn't reached the point where Stannis agreed to burn people alive, as most followers of the Lord of Light did.
Outside, the wind howled, carrying the scent of salt and ash. Dragonstone's fires burned bright against the storm, and Stannis's voice cut through the roaring sea.
"Call the bannermen," he ordered. "It's time we meet my brother. If Renly wants to play king, let him. I'll show him what it means to be one."
As the drums of war began to beat, two brothers—bound by blood, divided by ambition—prepared to clash.
And the rhythm of their drums had already reached a certain old lion.
Tywin Lannister sat behind his grand desk in the war room, his golden lion seal glinting faintly in the dim candlelight. A stack of letters lay before him—each one worse than the last. Reports from the South, from the Vale, from the Riverlands. All carrying the same message—war.
He leaned back slowly, pressing a hand to his temple. "First Stannis, then Renly," he muttered under his breath. Actually, that was obvious. He expected it.
The North also made sense; his stupid daughter had, after all, captured the Lord Paramount of the North.
"But why the Vale joining this chaos?"
Kevan Lannister entered the room, quiet but firm as always. "More news, brother," he said, placing another sealed scroll on the table. "From King's Landing. The council confirms that both Baratheon brothers are gathering their armies. Stannis is readying his fleet from Dragonstone, and Renly marches with the Tyrells."
Tywin broke the seal and read quickly. His face stayed calm, though his jaw tightened. "Two brothers claiming one throne. A fool's rivalry. It's better if they just kill each other—but if they attack King's Landing before that, it threatens to crush us between them."
Kevan crossed his arms. "We can deal with one Baratheon. But two?"
Tywin didn't look up. "Then we deal with them both, in turn." He paused, reading the next line, and frowned deeply. "And the North… still no movement?"
Kevan shook his head. "None that we know of. Robb Stark remains in Winterfell, calling banners. But he still hasn't marched south. Seven knows what's going on in that Northerner's head, Tywin."
"I expect no less from a Stark," Tywin replied coldly. Robb Stark was, after all, but a boy. "But what I did not expect," he said, voice sharpening, "is this." He threw another letter onto the table. "Lysa Arryn. That hysterical woman in the Vale has called her banners against us. Declared her allegiance to the North."
Kevan blinked in disbelief. "The Vale too? But why? What reason?"
Tywin's eyes narrowed. "A mad widow's fear turned into foolish courage. She hides behind her mountains, thinking her Eyrie untouchable." He stood, turning toward the large map spread across the wall. "The Vale, the North, the Stormlands, the Reach… all against us." His voice was calm, but his knuckles were white on the table's edge. "House Lannister stands surrounded."
Kevan hesitated. "What will you do?"
Tywin straightened, his tone cold and resolute. "We need allies. We can't stand here alone, surrounded on all sides."
He turned back to the map, eyes glinting under the torchlight. "Prepare the ravens. Tell every Lannister bannerman to ready their swords. And send ravens to Dorne and the Iron Islands," he said, his mind already planning two steps ahead.
...
A/N : Just a bit of the political activites happening around MC, not planning on making much chapters like this thought.
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