The Reach — Bitterbridge
Since the news of Renly's death, Lord Caswell had shut the great gates of Bitterbridge's keep and severed all dealings with the world beyond.
Margaery Tyrell voiced no displeasure at such presumption. She only kept to her queen's pavilion in silence.
Low, heavy clouds rolled above; the sun slipped in and out, offering only thin threads of light. The air hung hot and wet, as if some unseen weight pressed upon every breath.
Within the tent, Margaery wore a dark gown of mourning. Her deer-soft eyes rested, vacant, on the queen's coronet in her hands. It was only an ornament now, she realized—and a wave of weariness washed through her.
Her long, pale fingers brushed the golden rose set in the circlet. She stilled, drew a deep breath, and let it go. Then she told her maid to put the coronet away as if it were any pretty trinket.
Margaery straightened. With or without it, she was still the Golden Rose, still the light of the Reach.
The golden rose does not wither.
Her voice rang clear. "Bring me something to eat."
The maids started, then hurried to obey. Soon plates of sweetmeats were set along the long table.
She had taken only a few bites when the captain of guards called from outside: "Your Grace—Lord Randyll Tarly and Lord Mathis Rowan beg audience."
Margaery's brown eyes flickered. She laid down her golden fork, dabbed her lips with a napkin, and rose. "Show their lordships in."
Tarly and Rowan strode in together and bowed. "Good day, Your Grace."
"Good day, my lords," Margaery replied softly, studying their road-worn faces. "It is good to see you both. The gods keep you."
Randyll inclined his head. Mathis hesitated, then said, "Your Grace… our condolences."
"Thank you," she murmured, grief shading her features. "Tell me—what is the state of things outside?"
Randyll glanced to the silent Mathis, then answered: "Your Grace, I have placed Bitterbridge's granaries and supply trains under guard. I will steady the host as swiftly as may be.
"Since King Renly's passing, many Reach lords and knights—led by House Florent—have gone over to Stannis Baratheon." His gaze hardened. "They are vassals of Highgarden. They asked no leave of their liege—traitors. Their kin and confidants remain in camp. I counsel we execute them at once, to restore the army's heart."
Mathis added, "On the road we heard they mean to march their men straight to Storm's End. That is not only treason, it will unsettle the whole host."
Margaery's fingers curled against her palm. She met Lord Tarly's stern eyes, then flicked a glance toward Lord Rowan. "Lord Tarly, in… "
She lifted her voice. "In the Duke of Highgarden's name, I name you overall commander of the Bitterbridge host of the Reach. From this moment, you have authority to deal with any who shake the army's resolve—until the Duke himself reaches the camp."
Randyll saluted crisply. "Your Grace. I thank you for your trust."
Margaery nodded, her gaze turning to Mathis. "I know little of war, but Lord Tarly will need a reliable quartermaster. Lord Rowan—if you would."
Mathis bowed gravely. "As you command."
After a moment, Margaery said gently, "Lord Tarly, Lord Rowan—in the name of the golden rose, I thank you both for your valor and fidelity."
They bowed, then traded a glance—and looked back to her.
"If there is aught you would say," Margaery invited, "speak plainly. I hold you in esteem, and I will listen."
Mathis cleared his throat. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but… is there any chance you carry King Renly's child?"
A tremor touched Margaery's lashes; the faintest crease marked her brow. After a silence, she shook her head.
"I know how much it matters," she said softly. "So I tell you the truth."
Her eyes glistened. "You knew the king. He meant to wait—to sit the Iron Throne first, and then think of such matters." She let her gaze rest on each of them in turn. "That was his understanding with the Duke of Highgarden. The golden rose keeps its word."
She managed a small smile. "If you prefer… you may call me Lady Margaery."
In camp, Randyll Tarly and Mathis Rowan walked side by side.
"What a pity," Mathis sighed.
Randyll said nothing, boots grinding dust.
"If only King Renly had left an heir," Mathis went on.
"The gods do not give all to any one man," Randyll frowned.
"A poor jest," Mathis said with a shrug. "Lady Margaery's lot is… hard."
They climbed a tower. Randyll studied the sprawling lines for a time, then said, "Lady Margaery is not to be pitied. She is strong—and still the light of Highgarden."
Mathis blinked, then laughed and shook his head. "Old friend—thank you for that answer. I'm honored."
Randyll ignored the jape. "The Florents must be put to death—swiftly."
"In front of the whole army," he added. "The camp must be steadied."
Mathis's face grew grave. He patted Randyll's arm. "Let me do it. I'd rather your lady wife not bear you a grudge."
For Randyll's wife was Melessa Florent—daughter to Lord Alester Florent, who had led the first rush to Stannis.
Randyll shook his head. "I ride in the vanguard. This is my duty."
And silently: It is also how I save my wife's house.
Mathis let it lie and changed the subject. "That night—so sudden. We never had time to seek the truth. Who do you think did it?"
"Stannis," Randyll said, cold as iron.
Mathis stared. "How can you be sure? Have you found anything?"
"It is plain," Randyll answered. "He is the one who profits most."
Mathis had to nod. "To slay one's blood… the gods and men alike condemn it."
"I trust steel more than talk," Randyll said, and turned for the stair.
That day, dozens of heads were set upon spears throughout the Bitterbridge camp.
The Stormlands — Storm's End
Dull clouds smothered the sky. Pale light bled through the thickness and fell spent upon the earth.
"Since Lord Renly's death, His Grace has been plagued by nightmares," said Davon Seaworth, fifth son of Davos, confiding his worry to his father. "The maester's draughts do no good… only Lady Melisandre can soothe him to sleep."
So that was why the red woman shared the king's pavilion? For prayer? Or some other solace? Davos would not ask—neither of the king, nor even of his own son.
Truth be told, since witnessing that night of shadow sorcery, sleep had not come easily to the Onion Knight either.
He dragged his thoughts back. It was not for him to question King Stannis.
At dawn after that black night, he had brought Melisandre back and begged an audience—but was told the king was busy.
Days passed. At last, Stannis summoned him.
The camp stank of horse-dung, tinged with woodsmoke and the scent of stew. On the way to the royal pavilion, Davos passed many southern lords—each born higher than he—glittering in gilt and silvered steel, helms crested with silk and feathers, beast-totems with gemmed eyes.
Near the tent-flap, Davos crossed paths with Lord Alester Florent, just emerged.
Davos bowed. "Good day, my lord Florent."
Alester's breastplate showed a red-gold fox ringed by blue blossoms. Tall, stately, rich—he had been the first to bend the knee to Stannis after Renly's death, and the first Southron lord to cast off the Seven and take up the Lord of Light.
Not long ago he had sat in Renly's pavilion, plotting how to ruin Stannis. Though he was Queen Selyse's uncle, that had not stayed him when Renly's star rose.
Alester looked Davos up and down with scant courtesy, dipped his chin, and swept away.
Davos shrugged and, at the king's word from within, entered.
The furnishings were plain—canvas stitched like any soldier's tent, the gold of old dye faded to drab. But for the burning heart banner flying high at the peak, few would have known the king's pavilion from any other.
Stannis sat on a simple chair. Melisandre stood beside him. Davos kept his eyes from the red woman and bowed.
"Lady," said Stannis, "I will send for you when I have need."
Davos's brow creased. There was a difference in the king's manner toward her.
She dipped. Her voice was low and rough. "As Your Grace commands."
As she passed Davos, she paused. He jerked a nod. The priestess laughed—a small, dark sound—and cold pricked Davos's back like needles.
Stannis motioned him to sit. "Davos. I can see you dislike that woman."
He had been seeking words when the king went on. "Smuggler. I am not blind. Those weathercock lords do not like her either. They ask to fight beneath the crowned stag, not the flaming heart."
His jaw worked; Davos heard the small grind of teeth.
When the silence stretched, Davos ventured, careful, "Your Grace—they will need time. Soon they will be used to it."
"Hmph," said Stannis. "They had better."
Davos pressed on. "Last year they were Robert's men. Days ago they were Renly's. Now they call themselves yours." He met the king's eyes. "And tomorrow—whose, if it suits them?"
Stannis studied his Onion Knight. "You always speak me true…"
He settled back. "You are right. A host of traitors trails behind me. I have punished better men for less, but now I must forgive their sins—must endure their buzzing in my ears like a swarm of flies."
His teeth rasped again.
"You need them to win your throne, Your Grace," Davos said quietly.
"I have forgiven," Stannis said, voice like winter wind. "I have not forgotten."
Davos's eyes flicked toward the door. Words like that, heard by the wrong ears, could bring ruin.
Stannis paid it no mind. "My brother left his foot host at Bitterbridge. I sent my lady wife's brother, Ser Eren Florent, to take command. There has been no word."
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