"Renly! Yet Renly wouldn't claim a bastard quite this grown!" Atop the ship's bow, Margaery Tyrell pondered the vivid picture etched in her thoughts: a striking young lord with an air of easy confidence.
Lord Renly possessed lithe limbs, wide shoulders, sleek raven hair falling straight, eyes of clear azure, and that inviting, soft smile that drew others near.
"Folks whisper that Renly mirrors the King's youthful splendor, which explains why so many lords rally to his banner!" Garlan noted to his sister, his voice carrying a hint of caution.
"We can't glimpse the liberator's true visage. His locks, gaze, and frame echo Lord Renly's closely, but he towers sturdier and more commanding than Renly ever could. Lord Renly carries himself with refined grace and slim poise, while the liberator radiates raw might and unyielding strength. If he truly sprang from the King's line, it would tie every thread together!" The Little Rose's eyes sparkled with sudden insight.
Bloodlines run deep and true; the Baratheons mostly stand tall and broad, fierce as raging tempests. This mirrors the direwolf vigor in House Stark's veins, or the pale locks and purple stares of House Targaryen.
"His very essence diverges sharply from Renly's; he's a relentless, awe-inspiring fighter. Renly fusses over his appearance, dabs on scents, and trades witty barbs with Littlefinger amid council debates, yet he falls short as a true warrior. Renly squanders effort on trivial pursuits. The Wolf King concealed behind that iron mask clings to blood and the swing of the warhammer, much like the King in his prime." Garlan weighed the notion carefully; sharp-minded and observant, he lacked the starry-eyed devotion to Renly that gripped his younger brother.
"How could the King sire a bastard so seasoned by time?" Margaery found the idea almost laughable. Fathering a bastard marked a reckless lapse, and for highborn houses, it insulted sacred betrothals. One conceived before vows cut even deeper, a blatant slight to pledged unions.
Lord Eddard's fallen brother, the wild Brandon, navigated life with cunning; he chased skirts freely and earned the grim moniker Bloody Blade, but the wild one sired no bastards, holding firm to his betrothal with Catelyn Tully out of honor. Like countless noble youths, the wild one drew firm lines between fleeting passions and sworn obligations.
"The King has forever chased his whims, surrendering to every urge. Long before his wedding, during his fostering in the Vale alongside Lord Eddard, he left a bastard daughter with a humble servant lass," Garlan elaborated patiently. "Marriage did nothing to tame his wandering; he even begot Edric Storm right on his brother's wedding sheets. Whispers say the Queen labors endlessly to erase the King's indiscretions, silencing those innocent bastards before they draw breath."
"The board grows ever more thrilling; a bold new contender edges toward the feast in King's Landing!" Garlan grinned, anticipation lighting his features. "The Butter-King outpaces Joffrey in years and eclipses Renly in raw power, commanding legions across the Narrow Sea who pledge their lives to him without question. He'll plunge into the fray without hesitation!"
"And where do we stand in this?"
"The schemers in King's Landing have never carved space for the Rose. Our house first leaned toward bolstering Lord Renly with all our might. But now, we must claim a stance that truly serves House Tyrell's rise. The crown's wearer matters little; your throne as Queen defines our gain!" Garlan reflected deeply. "Father envisions his grandson on the Iron Throne, but he must steady himself and spread our wagers wisely."
House Tyrell aspired to mirror House Lannister's grip, wedding their daughters to kings for unyielding sway. In King's Landing's tangled court, House Lannister dominated through such bonds; House Tyrell surely hungered for the same leverage, backed by their vaults and vassals.
"But the King yet draws breath! And a bastard..." Margaery wavered, doubt flickering. Lord Renly's bold designs already pushed boundaries; could another claimant burn even brighter?
"The winds shift swiftly, sister! In this age without dragons, steel-clad hosts, destriers, and storehouses of grain forge the path to the throne," Garlan reassured her gently. "King Robert seized his seat through clashes, vows, and crushing blows from his warhammer—scant drops of dragon blood at best. Does that trace compare to the Beggar King's claim? Robert's rule lacks the ancient sanctity of House Targaryen's!"
"Even from bastard roots, one wielding vast might can eye the throne with fire. Recall Daemon Blackfyre's audacious bid."
"Your Highness, House Tyrell's coffers echo across the Seven Kingdoms." Within the chamber, Maester Qyburn ventured, "You might extract even richer yields from them."
"The Rose blooms with gold and harvests aplenty, yet they've lingered on the court's fringes—small wonder tangled schemes brew in their halls!" House Tyrell chased the Lannisters' dominant perch. House Lannister flooded King's Landing via marital webs; House Tyrell likely plotted identical conquests.
"House Tyrell wields strength laced with avarice—let them simmer in uncertainty for now," Gendry pondered aloud. "We'll press ahead with our core design: purging the Stepstones clean."
...Under a brilliant blue vault, gray and white Wolf Pack banners whipped in the salt breeze, as the Wolf Pack Fleet sliced through the Narrow Sea's swells.
The Wolf Pack Fleet's vessels formed a motley armada, drawing from river craft and shadowy black hulks gifted by freed slaves, alongside burly merchant tubs laden with goods. None matched the towering masts of grand warships, but these hands all brimmed with seasoned knowledge of the waves. Amid the Stepstones' twisting channels and weathered spires, the ships danced with the gales, nimble and sure.
"Stand with the liberator!" "Join the realm free of chains!" On scattered isles dotting the endless blue, and amid the Rhoyne's weathered ruins, throngs of runaway slaves had turned to piracy or river raiding. As tales of the liberator's deeds rippled outward, droves of these outcasts sailed forth with their ragged fleets, eager to enlist under his banner.
The Myrish folk peered nervously from their walls as siege engines rose beyond Myr, shadows of fear haunting their every hour.
Yet the Wolf Pack Fleet's swift cutters and battle-ready ships struck without warning at the Stepstones' pirate dens, sowing chaos as a bold distraction. Common brigands crumbled against drilled troops, outmatched by the fleet's edge in hulls and hands. Nameless atolls fell one by one, pirate boltholes scoured clean, their defiant crews cut down. Only two bastions endured: the sprawling isle of Bloodstone and Gray Gallows.
"Bloodstone and Gray Gallows Island earn their grim monikers well!" Gendry observed from his deck, eyes fixed on the haze-shrouded Bloodstone. The Wolf Pack Fleet had hammered the pirates' fringe harbors, looting yards and claiming vessels, abandoning the holdouts on Bloodstone and Gray Gallows to isolation; famine would claim them where steel might falter.
"Your strategy shines with cunning, Your Highness! Bloodstone and the Stepstones perch on jagged crags, riddled with labyrinthine defenses, pirates hunkered in those lightless caverns and warrens. Stone and earth redoubts resist fiercely; even Prince Daemon, astride his dragon, wrestled them for moons on end," Maester Qyburn commended, admiration clear in his tone.
"And the wider currents play to our hand," Gendry added. "The Three Daughters lie in ruins, the Ironborn still reel from the Greyjoy Rebellion's sting. The Dornish hold their peace with quiet resolve, offering scant aid to these sea wolves. Cut off from allies, denied fresh streams and bread, the pirates will wither to bones."
"Present my war prizes!" At Gendry's command, Unsullied guards hauled in the bound captives. These wretches hailed from the isles' raider bands, wanderers hailing from myriad ports. Dyed Tyroshi locks gleamed purple-red, Lyseni skin shone pale, Myrish tones glowed olive, and even shadowed folk from the Summer Isles stood among them. Thick hemp cords bit into their wrists, crimson stains blooming where bonds chafed raw.
"I seek ships and hands to sail them, but I'll not barter for your loyalty!" Gendry addressed the huddled pirates, his voice cutting sharp.
"You cur, the Drowned God will drag you under!" A silver-maned pirate with a hawkish beak snarled without cease, surely an Ironborn exile who had slunk from the Iron Islands to haunt the Stepstones.
"Pass my regards to the Drowned God!" Gendry fixed the Ironborn with a steely glare. Two Unsullied advanced, slamming fists into the man's jaw. With swift blades, they severed his tongue, then spiked him living to the prow as a grim warning.
Gendry valued skill in his ranks, but these unyielding sea dogs offered scant worth for folding into his fold.
"These hulls, this rock—they're mine by right of conquest. You face a stark fork: bend the knee and heed my word, or embrace death as this Ironborn did, racing to the Drowned God's embrace!"
The Unsullied herded the pirates into rigid lines, while crossbow ranks nearby cranked their weapons taut.
"King of the Narrow Sea!" One sharp-eyed rogue dropped first, bellowing the cry to the winds.
"King of the Narrow Sea!" The chorus erupted from the captives, a desperate roar clinging to their final hope.