Chapter 126: Who is the Real Fool?
"She is Brienne of Tarth, one of my seven sworn guards," Renly said calmly.
"She has sworn before the old gods and the new to give me her life—to be my shield."
"As my protector, she will follow me to the ends of the earth, never leaving my side, guarding me from all danger and defending my honor."
"So, Lady Stark, I ask that you forgive her bluntness. Brienne was only doing her duty."
"She?"
Catelyn barely managed to suppress her surprise.
Renly's explanation dissolved the awkward tension in the hall—and made it clear that the insistent interrupter was, in fact, a woman.
Brienne of Tarth had hair piled atop her head like a squirrel's nest stuffed with filthy straw. Her face was broad and coarse; her teeth jutted unevenly, her mouth far too wide, her lips thick and heavy as caterpillars.
Freckles scattered densely across her cheeks and brow. Her nose looked as though it had been broken more than once.
Is there anything in this world more unfortunate, Catelyn thought, than an ugly woman?
Looking at Brienne, Catelyn felt a surge of pity.
Perhaps the only mercy was her eyes—large and blue, still holding something almost girlish.
Innocent. Direct.
And fixed unwaveringly upon the man who had just defended her in front of the entire court.
"Yes, Lady Stark," Renly said lightly, as if reading her thoughts.
"Just as you suspected."
He offered no further explanation and clearly had no intention of lingering on the matter.
"As for what you said earlier—about kings—we shall have plenty of time to debate titles once the war is done."
"Now," he continued smoothly, "tell me—when does your son intend to march on Harrenhal?"
Reports from Renly's spies said that Tywin Lannister's army remained firmly entrenched at Harrenhal, unmoved despite Renly's aggressive advance.
Perhaps because both claimed crowns, Renly and Robb Stark shared the same unspoken wish: that someone else would break the deadlock first.
Had it not been for that audacious boy—Podrick Payne—daring to provoke matters, Renly would likely have continued watching from afar.
Initiative was not his preferred course.
But Catelyn would not reveal Robb's plans so easily—certainly not before she understood Renly's true intentions.
"I do not sit in my son's war councils, my lord," she replied evenly.
She still called him lord.
Renly only smiled.
"No matter. I ought to thank him—he's drawn the lion's strength away from me."
"Oh—tell me," Renly added casually, "what has he done with the Kingslayer?"
"Jaime Lannister is being held in a dungeon at Riverrun," Catelyn answered.
She saw no reason to conceal it.
The response stirred surprise among the gathered lords.
"He still lives?" Lord Mathis Rowan exclaimed.
Even Renly looked genuinely puzzled.
"It seems the direwolf is gentler than the lion," he said, though whether in jest or mockery was unclear.
The hall buzzed with murmurs.
"Gentler than the Lannisters?" Lady Oakheart murmured bitterly.
"That's like saying the sea is drier than wine."
"I'd call it weakness," said Lord Randyll Tarly bluntly, his short gray beard bristling.
He did not stop there.
"No offense meant, Lady Stark, but your son ought to come kneel before the king himself—not hide behind his mother's skirts."
No offense?
Cersei herself would call that an insult.
"My son is facing powerful enemies, my lord," Catelyn replied coldly, though her tone remained polite.
"He is not tilting at tourneys."
Sensing the spark before flame, Renly rose quickly.
"Easy, Lord Tarly," he said with an easy grin. "Let's not get carried away."
With that, he summoned a steward clad in Storm's End colors.
"See that Lady Stark's companions are given comfortable lodgings—and guarded well."
He turned back to Catelyn.
"I'm grateful to Lord Fossoway for lending me his castle, but I invite you to stay in my own tent. It has stood empty throughout the march."
"Once you've rested, I would be honored if you would join us for supper—at the feast Lord Fossoway has arranged."
"And consider it a pre-victory celebration," Renly added brightly, "to toast the triumph that awaits us."
"The true feast, of course, will be held in the Red Keep's great hall. I hope you'll honor us with your presence then as well."
The hall erupted in approving voices at once.
"A great victory, without doubt!"
"We are certain of it!"
"Long live King Renly!"
The clamorous din made one's ears ache. Renly, however, only laughed all the more brightly. At last he raised a hand, palm downward, gently pressing the noise into silence.
"If my brother heard you now, he'd surely believe it," he said lightly.
"But thank the gods above, I am not Robert. I will wait until I truly sit the Iron Throne before announcing such news to the realm."
You already invited me to the feast celebrating your conquest of King's Landing, Catelyn thought bitterly.
She wanted to say it aloud—but knew it would change nothing.
Having completed his performance of modesty, Renly turned as the hall settled. He slipped an arm around Queen Margaery and helped her rise.
"When that day comes, I wish only to have my beloved queen at my side."
"So rest well, Lady Stark. We shall speak again later."
The meeting ended without warmth. Catelyn understood perfectly—this delay was deliberate.
She watched Renly depart with his bride, then followed the attendant he left behind, out of the castle and into the vast green silk pavilion beyond the walls.
"If you require anything, my lady, merely ask," the servant said, then withdrew.
Left alone, Catelyn stood in silence, surveying the tent.
What more could she possibly need?
The space was larger than the common hall of most inns, furnished with extravagant care: a feather mattress, fur-lined sleeping robes, leather sling-chairs suspended from poles, a writing desk with ink and quills.
Platters of peaches, plums, and pears lay scattered on the table, encircled by delicate silver cups and a flagon of wine.
Cedar chests overflowed with Renly's spare clothing, books, war maps—alongside a tall harp, a longbow, and a bag of arrows.
Red-tailed hawks perched nearby. A rack of finely wrought weapons gleamed softly.
And most striking of all: a wooden bathtub bound with bronze, large enough for two, surrounded by charcoal braziers to ward off the night's chill.
Had she not known that outside burned countless campfires, that steel and banners filled the fields, Catelyn would scarcely have believed she stood amid a marching army.
Renly did not deny himself comfort. No wonder his host advanced so slowly.
At the tent's entrance stood suits of armor like silent sentinels. One in particular—forest-green plate inlaid with gold—bore a helm crowned with massive gilded stag antlers.
The metal shone so brightly she could see her reflection in the breastplate.
A woman's face, submerged in a deep green river.
A drowned woman, she thought.
Has grief already pulled you under?
The reflection gave no answer.
She turned away sharply, hating her own weakness. There was no time for self-pity. She washed the dust from her hair and changed into attire fit for a king's feast.
She knew this pause was Renly's gift—time for her to absorb what she had seen.
Time, before he marched on King's Landing.
By evening, the rain had passed. The final light of day spread generously across the land.
When Catelyn was ready, she went to the feast hall accompanied by Ser Wendel Manderly, Lucas Blackwood, Ser Perwyn Frey, and others.
The castle hall of the Fossoways at Bitterbridge was small—almost cramped.
Renly's knights filled it wall to wall. Her own retainers were placed where space allowed, along benches at the edges.
Catelyn herself sat on the dais, between Lord Mathis Rowan and Ser Jon Fossoway of the Green Apple branch.
Ser Jon was genial, fond of jests. Lord Rowan asked politely after her father, her children, her kin.
She buried her grief deeper still and answered with courtesy and a smile.
She noticed again the "woman" who had earlier rebuked her for improper address.
During her rest, she had learned the truth.
Brienne of Tarth—a warrior who, at Renly's tourney, had unhorsed every man she faced, including Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers.
Catelyn fixed the name in her memory.
Brienne sat at the end of the table, still in knightly attire rather than a lady's gown: a velvet doublet bearing the quartered rose and sky-blue sigil, breeches, boots, a well-made swordbelt.
A newly gifted rainbow cloak draped her shoulders.
Catelyn felt a pang of pity. No garment could soften Brienne's coarse features—freckled hands like spades, a flat round face, teeth that jutted unevenly.
Without armor, her build seemed even more ungainly: wide hips, thick thighs, heavy shoulders, and no hint of a woman's curves.
From her movements it was clear Brienne felt this keenly and bore the pain in silence.
She spoke only when required, eyes rarely lifting from her plate.
But Catelyn's attention did not linger solely on Brienne.
The lavish meal failed to stir her appetite. Everything depended on her resolve; she could not afford to show weakness.
She ate sparingly, observing the man who called himself king.
To Renly's left sat his young queen; to his right, her brother—bright-eyed, clever-looking, with handsome curls of brown hair.
Renly fed Margaery bites from his dagger, kissed her cheek softly—but spent most of the evening jesting with Ser Loras, whispering and laughing together.
Renly drank and ate freely, yet never to excess.
Others were not so restrained.
Lord Willum's son Josua argued with Elyas over who would first breach King's Landing's walls.
Lord Varner pulled a serving girl onto his lap, nosing her neck while his hand slipped beneath her bodice.
A Greencloak named Garth plucked at a harp, singing of a lion with its tail in knots.
Ser Mark Mullendore fed scraps from his plate to a black-and-white monkey perched on his shoulder.
Most outrageous was Ser Tanton of House Fossoway (Red Apple), who leapt onto the table swearing he would slay Sandor Clegane in single combat—
—and thrash Podrick Payne's arse besides, then stuff the Imp into a sack.
When his foot landed squarely in a dish of sauce, the laughter doubled.
At last, as the revelry peaked, a fat fool burst from a gilded tub, wearing a cloth lion's head. He chased a dwarf around the table, batting him with a bladder.
The hall erupted.
After Renly finished laughing, he asked the fool why he beat his "brother."
"Why, Your Grace," the fool cried, "I'm a kinslayer!"
"Kingslayer, you fool of fools!" Renly corrected, and the hall roared again.
Catelyn and Lord Rowan did not laugh.
As she stared at the scene, a quiet voice beside her murmured, "They're all so young."
Yes.
When Robert slew Rhaegar at the Trident, the Knight of Flowers was not yet two.
Most of them had been infants when King's Landing fell. Children when Balon Greyjoy rebelled.
They had never known real war.
To them, this was a game—a tourney writ large, a grand feast.
They sought glory, songs, favor.
They were summer knights.
And yet—
Winter is coming.
As this thought settled in Catelyn Tully's heart, the doors burst open.
A knight in a winged helm strode into the hall, voice cutting through the din.
"Urgent news for the king!"