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When the High Septon walked out of the Red Keep, he couldn't help but glance back at this royal fortress that felt both familiar and strangely distant to him.
There was no doubt now — his so-called peace talks had been completely useless. To Stannis and Renly, everything else in this world might be negotiable, but the crown… the crown was not something they would ever share with others.
And once negotiations fall apart, well… there's only one language left to speak — the language of swords and steel.
"Your Grace, I know it's impossible for you to bow your head to a traitor like Renly… but to speak plainly, we only have ten thousand men. They're all seasoned combat soldiers, yes, but Renly's army is at least four times that size."
Stannis had no proper council at his side these days. He couldn't even be bothered to assemble the usual clique of advisors for a so-called small council. As a former Lord admiral himself, he certainly wasn't going to appoint someone else as Master of Ships.
The rest of the official posts? They'd been handed out to a few stand-ins for now, but in truth, none of them held any real authority or significance.
The territory he actually controlled… well, it was probably less than half the size of House Manderly's domain. With so little land to rule over, there was hardly a need for a Master of Coin or a Master of Laws.
That remark just now came from Davos Seaworth — the Onion Knight, the man Stannis trusted most, his right hand in all but name.
Stannis gave a small nod. His short, grey hair stood up in stiff, bristling tufts, sharp as steel needles — much like the man himself.
"You're right, Davos. But not entirely. Renly… isn't nearly as strong as you think."
As he spoke, Stannis rested his elbow on the Iron Throne. He didn't much like putting his unprotected hand directly on this jagged monstrosity.
The blacksmiths who'd forged this so-called chair had clearly never given a moment's thought to comfort. By that measure alone, the Iron Throne was nothing short of a colossal failure, and anyone with eyes could see it.
There was an old tale that anyone who cut themselves on the Iron Throne was unworthy to rule. The throne would not recognise them, and their fate would be miserable in the end. Stannis knew well just how sharp that throne truly was, which was precisely why he had no intention of testing that legend on his own flesh.
Rising to his feet, Stannis stepped away from the throne. He couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that someone was watching him from behind, hidden in the shadows of that looming seat — the same unsettling feeling he had experienced the very first time he set foot in the throne room, when the skulls of House Targaryen's great dragons still hung along the walls, their hollow eyes seeming to follow his every step.
Leaving the throne behind, Stannis walked to the center of the hall. The braziers on either side were already lit, and the flames cast their flickering light across the two men's faces.
"Davos, I know Renly far better than you do. My little brother has never been the type who can sit still and bide his time. If he had the strength to storm us head-on, King's Landing would already be drowning in blood."
Stannis turned his eyes toward the grand doors at the far end of the hall. His deep blue eyes, which looked dark as the abyss, gleamed with contempt and disdain. He pointed in that direction and spoke in his usual calm, unwavering voice:
"If Renly truly had the power to take this whole city, he wouldn't have sent that fat, greasy oaf to do the talking. You'll see, I can already guess — whatever wealth that slob managed to squeeze out of people's pockets, it's all landed straight into Renly's hands."
"Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows, that our good High Septon needs plenty of gold to better serve the Seven… so really, can you even blame him?"
Davos Seaworth gave a small nod, clearly agreeing with his king's assessment.
Still, he scratched his head, frowning with uncertainty as he asked in a puzzled tone,
"But Your Grace… I don't understand. What trouble could Renly possibly be facing? He married the granddaughter of the Queen of Thorns. By all logic, their alliance should be rock solid. No matter how much blood the old lion spills, surely that wouldn't be enough to shake them…? That's eighty thousand men we're talking about."
"That, I couldn't tell you. You should have asked that jingle-jangling High Septon of ours just now. He…"
Stannis Baratheon's words were abruptly cut off as a knight of House Florent, one of his bannermen, burst into the throne room, bringing news that caught everyone completely off guard:
"Your Grace, Renly's army has launched their assault — they're coming from the direction of Mud Gate! Their target… could be the River Gate!"
The River Gate — or more commonly, Mud Gate — was simply a… slightly more polite name for the same place.
In the past, this was the bustling entryway for goods coming into King's Landing from the docks outside the city walls. Everything from fish hauled out of Blackwater Bay to crates of supplies came through Mud Gate. It had always been a lively, crowded stretch of the city.
But now… it was a blood-soaked battlefield.
After the High Septon returned to the Great Sept of Baelor, Renly Baratheon found himself backed into a corner. Although he controlled most of King's Landing, the most vital symbol of power — the Red Keep — was still beyond his grasp.
His own bannermen from House Baratheon had already approached him more than once. They never spoke the words outright, but the meaning behind their counsel was plain as day. They wanted to persuade Renly not to take up arms against his brother.
But the Tyrells, on the other hand, were urging the exact opposite.
Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, had hurried to the city, bringing with him not just the will of House Tyrell, but the voices of the Reach nobility as well. Their message was simple and relentless — Stannis had to be dealt with, and swiftly.
Caught between the mounting pressure from both sides, Renly found himself well and truly trapped. It was not that he suddenly felt any brotherly compassion toward Stannis… but even he understood that this was not a war that could be waged on a whim.
Anyone with half a brain, with just a glance at the layout of King's Landing, could immediately understand the problem. Stannis had entrenched himself within the Red Keep, perched atop Aegon's High Hill, the highest ground in all of King's Landing. Any assault would be uphill, with the defenders holding every advantage of terrain.
On top of that, the streets of King's Landing were as twisted and tangled as a spider's web, more complicated than any city in the Seven Kingdoms. In such narrow, crowded alleys, cavalry were useless, their greatest strength wasted.
And the most frustrating part of all was that even if they managed to construct large siege engines, it would be nearly impossible to haul them through the city's cramped streets. Besides, Renly would never dare unleash such brutal weapons against the Red Keep itself. That would strike a fatal blow to his own image as a king and shatter the fragile prestige he had worked so hard to build.
Therefore, if he wanted to take the city, the only real option was to send in large groups of infantry. In other words, it meant throwing countless lives at the walls, grinding forward inch by inch… and that was precisely what Renly least wanted to do.
There was no way around it. In the end, Renly had no choice but to target the only city gate under Stannis's control. If they could seize it, they would cut off Stannis's only route out of the city — maybe even force him to surrender.
That was Renly's plan, and that was exactly what he put into action.
And so, the war between the two Baratheon brothers erupted near Mud Gate!
The old fishmongers' square, once filled with the bustling trade of fishermen selling their fresh catches, had now transformed into a living hell where lives were harvested like grain.
Renly's army, determined to take the gate, found themselves completely blocked by Stannis's forces holding the walls. With no other option, they could only launch a desperate assault from below.
But the wide, open ground stretching out before the Mud Gate… that space, not small by any means, had now become a deadly graveyard that Renly's army simply could not cross.
The defenders atop the city walls could rain down arrows with ease, calmly aiming and loosing their shafts as they pleased. After all, the city walls connecting from here to the Red Keep were all intact, and the Lannisters, before their retreat, had thoughtfully left behind barrels of arrows for Stannis's men to make use of.
In no time at all, more than five hundred corpses lay sprawled across the fishmongers' square. Blood soaked the cobblestones, pooling into sluggish streams, while the thick, suffocating stench of death — mingled with the sharp reek of urine and the sour stench of spilled bowels — filled the air with such a foul, gut-churning stench that Renly's soldiers dared not charge again.
The assault on Mud Gate had been halted for now.
But further north, following the Mud Gate all the way to King's Landing's great square, lay the long, straight avenue known as Muddy Way. Along this north-south thoroughfare, Renly's offensive was only just beginning.
Because it lay so close to Aegon's High Hill, most of the residences here belonged to the nobility — those long-established aristocrats of King's Landing, ever loyal to whoever wore the crown. And now, with two kings in the city, they chose to remain neutral.
But their residence… their grand estates, with their towering walls and deep courtyards, had become a natural defensive line for Stannis's soldiers controlling the area.
Even though they were hopelessly outnumbered, Stannis's men made sure that with every step Renly's army advanced, they paid a bloody price.
The clash of swords, the dull, sickening grind of steel piercing flesh, and the desperate, agonized wails of the dying echoed endlessly through every corner of what had once been a bustling, prosperous street.
War shows no mercy to anyone. It only grins cruelly in the shadows, devouring the blood and bones of the fallen, growing stronger, more savage, more terrifying with each life it claims.
By the time the sun finally set, this brutal battle had entered its first pause. Both sides were exhausted, worn down to the bone. They needed rest, they needed supplies, or they wouldn't survive the next, even bloodier round of fighting.
Inside the Great Sept of Baelor, a grand feast hosted by the High Septon was already underway. The reason… of course, was to celebrate King Renly's so-called victory — how his army had fought its way up the Muddy Way and was now nearly brushing against the edges of Aegon's High Hill.
For Renly and his bannermen, men accustomed to hosting endless banquets and revels, this sort of feast was not something they could politely decline. Even if his heart was not in it, Renly still draped himself in his resplendent robe of green and gold and made an appearance at the gathering.
After exchanging a few perfunctory words with the overly enthusiastic High Septon, offering some half-hearted toasts, and receiving the blessings of the Seven in the High Septon's name, Renly's role in the celebration was essentially over.
Holding a delicate silver knife in hand, he absentmindedly sliced at the crispy golden skin of a roasted suckling pig, but his appetite was nowhere to be found. Brow slightly furrowed, Renly sat alone at the high table, silent and lost in thought.
The one who should have been seated beside him — the Rose of Highgarden, Lady Margaery Tyrell — was nowhere near. Instead, like a graceful butterfly, she flitted through the crowd of her family's bannermen, her silver laughter drawing every young man's gaze as she charmed them with practiced ease.
"Your Grace, I have the casualty report. Would you like to take a look?"
Brienne of Tarth approached quietly, holding a thin piece of parchment in her hand. She leaned down beside her king, her voice kept low and discreet.
"Mmm… let me see it."
Renly Baratheon nodded calmly and reached out his left hand to take the parchment. But instead of unfolding it right away, he lifted his eyes to Brienne, asking softly, "Brienne… how's the morale? Be honest. Sitting here in this hall, aside from you, I can't say I truly trust a single soul."
The Rainbow Knight followed her king's gaze, sweeping her eyes over the crowd of laughing, drinking nobles below at their feet. On their richly dressed forms, she couldn't sense even the faintest hint of war. It was as if the blood-soaked battle happening barely a few hundred paces away had absolutely nothing to do with them.
"You smell it, don't you, my knight? All I can smell on them is expensive perfume… not a trace of blood."
Brienne understood. Her king wasn't criticizing these nobles for lacking compassion — truth be told, that was something Renly himself sorely lacked. What the king meant was far simpler. These people… were not fighting, not truly, not for his crown.
Renly didn't make things harder for Brienne any longer. These words were nothing more than him venting the frustration simmering in his chest. And frankly, such matters were far beyond the judgment of a mere knight like Brienne.
At last, Renly unfolded the parchment in his hand — the battle report detailing the casualties his army had suffered today.
The moment his eyes skimmed over the numbers, the silver knife in his other hand plunged viciously into the roast pig's spine.
His chest rose and fell as he let out several heavy breaths. Then, without the slightest hesitation, Renly crumpled the parchment and tossed it into the candlestick beside him. Flames flared to life, twisting and writhing like playful spirits. For a fleeting moment, he thought the fire looked far more pleasing, far more beautiful, than Margaery Tyrell ever had.
It was impossible not to be angry. The report spelled it out with cruel, unwavering clarity. Today's battle alone had cost Renly's army over three thousand men.
Nearly a thousand of them had fallen in the disastrous assault on Mud Gate — slaughtered mercilessly by the defenders.
The other two thousand had been lost in the bitter fighting to seize the parts of King's Landing that still lay under Stannis's control. That, in itself, might have been acceptable.
But what truly made Renly's blood boil… was that the vast majority of those three thousand dead were men sworn to House Baratheon — his own bannermen, his own strength, bleeding out onto the streets of King's Landing.
In other words, the foundation he had so painstakingly brought out of the Stormlands had already lost nearly one-sixth of its strength in this single battle. That… made him feel the creeping shadow of danger.
To put it bluntly, his claim to the throne was nothing more than a business venture, jointly funded by House Baratheon leading the Stormlands and the Tyrells of the Reach.
Sure, right now, Renly still sat firmly in the chairman's seat, with the final say in all matters. But as his army bled and his losses continue to increase, there was no telling when the Tyrells might simply kick him out… and claim that seat for themselves.
"Your Grace… shall we… continue the attack tomorrow?"
The question was not really hers to ask, but Brienne, having seen the contents of that report, could not stop herself. Renly had been right after all. In this hall filled with smiling lords and scheming nobles, the only ones he could truly trust were the Rainbow Guard.
Letting out a long, weary sigh, Renly clenched his jaw, gave a cold snort, and replied, "Go tell Randyll Tarly… I expect to see his banners at the Mud Gate tomorrow. That is the king's order."
Brienne of Tarth nodded and withdrew. Yet beneath her calm exterior, she was deeply worried for her king. Just moments ago, a sudden realization had struck her.
Her king… didn't even seem to have a proper way to threaten a commander like Randyll Tarly.
Could Renly truly dare to accuse Tarly of cowardice in battle and have him executed with a single stroke? If he did, the entire Tarly army would turn and leave on the spot, and with them, the Reach lords would abandon him as well. His support base would crumble overnight.
In the political system of Westeros, a king was essentially just a glorified lord, with no divine status towering above the nobility. The king was, at best, the largest noble among them, and if he dared to kill other lords recklessly, it meant declaring war on the entire system.
Why had King Aerys II Targaryen, the Mad King, lost both his life and his kingdom? Because he killed the Lord of the North and his heir, setting off the chain reaction that turned the entire nobility of Westeros against him.
Renly wasn't stupid. He would never make that mistake.
But… if he couldn't do that, what else could he possibly do?
The nobles of the Reach were wealthy, powerful, and firmly entrenched. With barely ten thousand of his own Stormlander soldiers left, Renly could hardly hold them in check anymore.
Tomorrow, maybe the day after, at most three months…
If Renly couldn't sit upon the Iron Throne by then… House Tyrell and the Reach noble lords would lose all patience with him. And when that day came…
If he had only a handful of loyal guards left and no army to shield him, it would take just one dark, silent night. The furious nobles would come for him, slice off his head, and lay it at the feet of whoever happened to sit the Iron Throne at the time — a gift, the finest token of their loyalty.
And make no mistake… they would dare. For power… they would dare do anything.
Such… are the ways of nobles.
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[Chapter End's]
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