Bitterbridge, Renly's war camp, late at night.
The lavish tent of House Merryweather was quiet, sealed off from the distant crackle of campfires and the murmur of soldiers beyond.
Around a long oak table sat a dozen nobles and knights from the Stormlands and the Reach. Their faces flickered in the wavering lamplight, their exchanged glances carrying an air of unspoken understanding.
At the head of the table sat their host—Orton Merryweather, Lord of Longtable. His well-kept face bore a practiced, almost theatrical smile, yet there was no warmth in his sharp, calculating eyes.
Beside him reclined his wife, the alluring Lady Taena Merryweather. Draped elegantly across a cushioned bench, she idly traced the slender stem of her goblet with one finger as her gaze lingered, amused and curious, on each face in the room.
Lord Orton cleared his throat, breaking the tense silence. "My lords, I believe we all understand why I've gathered you here at this hour. Our armies march toward King's Landing, and soon, His Grace shall claim his destiny. Yet…"
His tone shifted, the smile fading from his face. "In recent days, the camps have been thick with whispers—and those whispers point directly at His Grace."
To his left, Ser Parmen Crane of Red Lake spoke quietly. "They say His Grace may… suffer from certain shortcomings. It's been two months since his marriage to Queen Margaery, yet the Queen shows no sign of swelling with child. Some even claim His Grace has no interest in women—that he favors handsome young men instead."
As soon as the words left his mouth, a young knight seated in the corner—one of the lesser Stormlands bannermen—muttered nervously, "But... but it's true there's been no sign at all. And the Queen is so beautiful…"
Though barely whispered, his words carried clearly in the silence.
Every gaze turned toward him. The young knight's face blanched, and he fell silent at once.
Lady Taena's soft laugh broke the tension. All eyes shifted to her.
She straightened slightly, the silk of her gown catching the lamplight as it traced her graceful figure. Her eyes glimmered playfully as she spoke. "My lords, as one of the Queen's closest companions, I can assure you—I witnessed His Grace's reaction on the wedding night with my own eyes. There's no doubt the marriage was properly consummated."
A ripple of relief passed among the nobles, especially those from the Reach.
Of course—how could any man, least of all a Baratheon, resist such a queen?
Yet Ser Parmen's expression remained grim. "My lady, perhaps you are right, and His Grace is indeed fond of the Queen. But fondness and ability are not the same thing. Consider the men of House Baratheon. King Robert, Seven bless him—his bastards could fill an army. Lord Stannis—though dour and humorless—at least sired Princess Shireen. And His Grace Renly?"
He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Young, handsome, charming. When he served on the Small Council in King's Landing, he was often seen visiting brothels, wasn't he? Yet tell me—has anyone ever heard of His Grace fathering a bastard? Not one! Does that seem natural? Especially when compared to Robert's... legendary record?"
He paused, his voice sharpening. "Now His Grace has married the most beautiful and fertile woman in all Westeros, yet after two months, the Queen's belly remains flat. Should that not give us pause? What if—just what if—His Grace truly has difficulty siring an heir? For whom, then, are we fighting? A king without an heir is like a tower without a foundation—it will fall, sooner or later."
His words struck the room like a douse of cold water, quenching the brief warmth Lady Taena's assurance had sparked.
A heavy silence fell.
Every man there understood the weight of what had just been said.
Renly's claim to the throne depended heavily on the alliance between the Reach and the Stormlands. And the cornerstone of that alliance was Queen Margaery—her marriage to Renly, and the hope of a future heir uniting Tyrell and Baratheon blood.
If that hope proved false, the entire foundation of Renly's rule could crumble.
A knight from the Reach murmured, almost to himself, "I heard that on the day King Robert died, Ser Barristan Selmy risked his life to spirit away one of his bastards. Supposedly… the King's son."
"Not a bastard!"
Another lord immediately corrected him. "Before his death, King Robert legitimized all his bastards. The boy Ser Barristan took—Gendry—is a trueborn Baratheon now."
At the word "trueborn," the air in the tent grew even more strained.
Stannis had declared himself king on Dragonstone, his proclamations cursing both Lannister and Stark—and slyly branding Renly a usurper.
If Renly truly had no heir, then by the laws of succession…
Lord Orton Merryweather chose that moment to interject.
"My lords, His Grace and the Queen are still young. Matters of succession need not concern us so urgently. I have gathered you tonight for something far more pressing. Earlier this evening, I received a secret letter from the Westerlands."
He paused deliberately, watching with quiet satisfaction as the air in the tent tightened and every gaze turned toward him.
"The sender is a man of the highest rank," Orton continued. "He writes that if we make the right choice at the crucial moment—if we turn our cloaks and lend our strength to the Westerlands—then, when the dust settles, every one of you seated here will be richly rewarded, far beyond your current holdings. The lands of the Stormlands and the Reach will be redrawn."
"The Westerlands?! Tywin Lannister?!"
A lord shot to his feet, his voice laced with disgust. "The father of the Kingslayer? The old lion who murdered King Robert? And we're meant to trust him? His word is worth less than a whore's tears! He wants us to betray our king and serve as Lannister hounds? Let him dream!"
His outburst drew murmurs of approval from several Stormlands lords, their faces burning with anger.
The Lannister name, after Robert's death, stank worse than the dungeons beneath Casterly Rock.
But not everyone was so quick to rage.
Among the gathered nobles—especially those uneasy with House Tyrell's growing dominance or weary of the uncertain war—silence took hold. Their eyes shifted, thoughts whirling.
Yes, Tywin's offer was a viper's bargain. But what if Renly truly couldn't sire an heir?
They had risked everything for this war—would they see the crown pass instead to Stannis, or worse, to some nameless bastard?
Defection was dangerous—but the rewards Tywin promised might be greater still.
Tywin Lannister was cruel, but he was a man of his word.
And Renly's army, though vast, was far from stable. There were rumors—persistent ones. And that faint but growing tension between the Stormlands host and the Reachmen...
Each man weighed the risks in silence.
Lady Taena lounged lazily on her couch, a knowing, amused glimmer in her eyes.
Her husband, Lord Orton, sat still, quietly observing the shifting currents around him.
"My lords," Ser Parmen Crane finally spoke, his voice calm. "Lord Tywin's letter no doubt carries malice. Yet I believe Lord Orton does not bring it to urge betrayal—but to remind us that we have choices. That the strength we hold in our hands still matters."
He looked around the table. "His Grace and the Queen need time. Our army marches soon, first to Tumbleton, and from there, King's Landing lies close ahead. There is still time. Let us wait—see if good news comes from the Queen, and how matters unfold before the capital's gates."
"Well said!"
"Aye, no need to rush to judgment."
"When we reach Tumbleton, we'll see where things stand."
Voices rose in tentative agreement—careful, measured, steeped in caution.
Ser Parmen glanced around at the gathered lords, reading their divided hearts, and allowed himself a small, private smile.
Lord Orton lifted his goblet, satisfaction flickering across his face. "Then, my lords, let us drink—to the health of King Renly, to the future of the realm, and—to ourselves."
His words carried weight far beyond the toast.
Crystal goblets clinked together with a clear, ringing sound, catching the light—and on the faces of the nobles and knights, reflections of ambition, doubt, and calculation shimmered like ripples on dark water.
...
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