Outside King's Landing, along the Blackwater Rush.
A harsh wind swept across the river, churning up mist and rippling the banners above a vast encampment that stretched for miles. A forest of steel and canvas filled the fields and hills—the host of a hundred thousand men under Renly Baratheon.
Yet Renly's army did not advance on the city walls. Instead, it had established an orderly camp a full league from King's Landing.
Beneath the banner of the golden rose, Renly sat astride a magnificent white warhorse. He wore gleaming silver armor and a green velvet cloak that rippled in the wind. His handsome face held a calm, confident satisfaction as he gazed toward the distant figures manning the city's walls.
In his hand, he held a letter, its wax seal already broken.
It was Littlefinger's secret report. King's Landing's grain stores were exhausted. Famine gripped the streets, and riots could erupt at any moment.
Littlefinger also warned that Tyrion Lannister planned to use wildfire to repel any assault on the city.
The power of wildfire was dreadful.
That knowledge made Renly hesitate.
After a long moment of silence, he finally turned to the nobles around him. "Send word to the army. We'll hold position here and starve this city until it collapses from within. Do not give the Imp any chance to strike."
He looked next to Randyll Tarly and Loras Tyrell. "You'll each take ten thousand men and march three leagues west. Guard the main approach. That old lion Tywin will never sit idle while King's Landing burns. Your task is to stop him. Make him bleed every drop of blood before he can set foot near the city."
"Yes, Your Grace!" Loras's voice rang with passion.
Randyll Tarly only nodded in grim silence.
...
King's Landing, atop the Gate of the Gods.
Tyrion gripped the cold stone parapet, his eyes locked on the endless sprawl of Renly's encampment and the column of troops marching westward.
Beside him, Bronn stood with arms crossed, cursing under his breath. "Seven hells… Is that turtle Renly just camping there to watch the show? And that force heading west—he's cutting off the reinforcements, isn't he?"
Tyrion's expression hardened.
Encirclement without attack. Detachment to block support.
Every move Renly made struck cleanly at the city's weakest points.
The food situation was desperate. Panic had begun spreading through Flea Bottom.
And somehow, Renly already knew of the wildfire—Tyrion's last, hidden defense—and had placed his camp far enough away to avoid its reach.
There were spies in King's Landing.
But who?
Tyrion turned abruptly. "Back to the Red Keep."
...
The Red Keep. The Council Chamber of the Tower of the Hand.
The heavy oak doors were shut tight, sealing out all sound from beyond.
Tyrion sat behind a broad desk, his small frame sunk into the high-backed chair, his fingers drumming impatiently against the polished wood.
"Summon Lord Varys, Lord Petyr Baelish, and Grand Maester Pycelle."
His voice was cold, flat, emotionless.
Moments later, the three men entered one after another.
Tyrion did not offer them seats. His sharp eyes moved from face to face like a blade.
"My lords," he began evenly, "Renly's army of a hundred thousand sits encamped a league outside our walls—entrenched, fortified, encircling us but refusing battle. He's sent twenty thousand elite troops westward, no doubt to block my father's advance."
He paused, anger flickering beneath his calm tone. "What's most impressive is that he seems to know our situation as well as we do—the famine within the city, and our... particular defensive measures."
Tyrion's gaze hardened. "Tell me, my lords—which one of you is Renly's eyes and ears in King's Landing?"
The room fell utterly silent.
Varys spoke first, his voice smooth and soft. "Oh, my dear Lord Tyrion, how dreadful! Renly is a cunning foe indeed. My little birds watch every whisper in this city and beyond, and yet not one has reported any sign of messages sent to Renly."
He spread his plump hands wide, his expression one of innocence and helplessness.
Littlefinger gave a low chuckle, his tone light and amused. "Lord Tyrion, you wrong me. I've been quite occupied with grain prices and those damned sand shipments. Hardly time to conspire with Renly. And as for the wildfire—its existence is hardly a secret. The Alchemists' Guild knows, as do certain loose-tongued Kingsguard. I'd say the leak may not have come from among us at all."
Grand Maester Pycelle trembled under Tyrion's cold stare. "M-my lord," he stammered, "I am loyal to His Grace, always have been. At my age, I wish only for peace in my remaining days. I would never—never—betray the crown!"
Tyrion watched them in silence.
Varys's practiced smoothness, Littlefinger's evasive charm, Pycelle's trembling fear—each performance perfect in its own way.
He tested them with several carefully chosen traps—details only the innermost circle of the Small Council could possibly know. But each man either claimed ignorance or answered flawlessly.
Damnable old foxes.
Tyrion cursed inwardly. He couldn't be sure who the traitor was—or even if the leak came from one of these three.
He ended the probing abruptly. "Very well. May the gods keep your loyalty intact. You may go. But remember—keep your mouths shut, and make sure your men do the same. If even a whisper escapes…"
He left the sentence unfinished, but the cold gleam in his eyes made the rest clear enough.
...
Renly's camp, inside the great tent of the Earl of Longtable.
The tent flaps were drawn tight, muting the noise from the army outside. Lord Orton, Ser Parmen Crane of Red Lake, and several other lords from the Reach and Stormlands sat together around a map-strewn table. None of them looked at it.
"Four months," Parmen Crane muttered, voice low and heavy. "And the Queen's belly is still flatter than this table. Rumors are spreading through the camp—soldiers whisper behind our backs. These past few nights, His Grace either buries himself in strategy… or in Ser Loras's tent."
He didn't finish the thought. He didn't need to.
A knight from the Reach spoke up quietly. "Without an heir… King Renly's cause rests on sand. Should anything happen to him on the battlefield, everything we've fought for will collapse. We'll have nothing."
Lord Orton's eyes glimmered. "You've all seen Lord Tywin's letter. He promises that if we lend aid at the right moment, the power of the Stormlands and the Reach will be reshaped. We'll be richly rewarded."
A tense silence filled the tent, broken only by the sound of uneasy breathing.
Each man glanced at the others, weighing thoughts best left unspoken.
Renly's army was vast, but his lack of an heir planted doubt—and doubt was poison.
"The Lannisters can't be trusted," said an older Stormlands lord. "They killed Robert."
Ser Parmen growled, his patience snapping. "But Renly has no heir, and we have no future. Tywin may be ruthless, but at least he honors his word. We need a chance for our houses to survive—and thrive!"
Silence returned, heavier than before.
At last, Lord Orton drew in a slow breath and looked around the table. His voice dropped to a near whisper. "Then… shall I write to Casterly Rock?"
No one gave an answer. But no one objected either.
On every face flickered the same battle between fear, greed, and the grim resolve that follows surrender.
...
At the heart of Renly's camp, within the grand golden-domed tent of House Tyrell.
Queen Margaery Tyrell reclined on soft cushions, her beauty still dazzling—a rose in full summer bloom. Yet her brow was shadowed with quiet worry.
Across from her sat her grandmother, Lady Olenna Redwyne—the Queen of Thorns. Her sharp, time-worn eyes were fixed unrelentingly on Margaery's still-flat stomach.
"It's been nearly four months, Margaery," Olenna said in a low, cutting voice. "Why is there still no sign of life?"
A flush of shame crossed Margaery's delicate face. She lowered her gaze and whispered, barely audible, "Grandmother… I… I don't know. At first, His Grace… he would share my bed sometimes… but lately… he…"
Her words faltered. Memories of Renly's growing distance, of the countless nights he spent instead in Loras's tent, filled her with a helpless ache.
"He seems to have realized it too, hasn't he?"
Olenna's voice cut through the air like a blade, cold and merciless. "A normal, healthy king—newly wed for months, with a wife like you—would spend every night in revelry and still find it not enough. Yet what does he do instead? He turns his tent into a study—or goes seeking comfort from men!"
Her words struck with surgical cruelty.
Margaery's face went pale, her body trembling. "Grandmother…"
"Do you know what they're saying in camp now, Margaery?"
Olenna leaned forward, her shrewd, time-hardened eyes locking onto her granddaughter. "They say Renly cannot perform his duties as a husband. They say he is impotent. They say the Tyrell rose will never bear Baratheon fruit. These whispers kill more surely than swords—they erode morale, make the lords who follow us doubt, hesitate, and search for a way out."
The sharpness in her voice gave way to something heavier—grim, pressing worry. "Margaery, you must be with child. And soon. Until that happens, these rumors will cling to us like maggots to flesh. They will destroy Renly… and everything House Tyrell has staked on him."
Margaery's head snapped up, her wide blue eyes filled with disbelief. "Grandmother… you mean…"
"Yes."
Olenna's tone was iron, her words dropping low and deliberate. "Even if it means another man's seed—you must conceive. And quickly. Before this entire situation slips beyond control."
The words hit Margaery like a thunderclap.
Another man's seed?
It was blasphemy. Betrayal.
She had never imagined her marriage could sink to such humiliation.
"But… Renly…" Her voice broke, heavy with tears and fear. "He'll find out…"
Olenna gave a short, cold laugh. "Do you think he doesn't already know? Margaery, he understands better than anyone where the fault lies. A man—especially a king—who faces such shame will cling to his pride as if it were his crown. Do you think he avoids your bed because he's busy? Or because he loves Loras? No. He's avoiding you on purpose. He's giving you the chance—and himself an escape. A king who cannot father an heir, and a queen who 'miraculously' conceives… Tell me, which version of the story do you think he'll choose?"
Olenna's words crashed through Margaery's mind like lightning.
She remembered Renly's fleeting glances at her stomach, the strange mixture of longing and pain in his eyes. She thought of how distant he had become—and yet how he'd never once accused her.
Cruel as her grandmother's words were, they might not be wrong.
A hollow sense of absurdity swept over her.
She looked into Olenna's hard, unyielding eyes, and all resistance—along with her shame—slowly dissolved.
Closing her eyes, she trembled, a single tear slipping down her cheek. Her voice was faint and shaking. "Yes… Grandmother. I understand. After… after we take King's Landing… I'll do as you say."
Only then did the hard lines of Olenna's face ease slightly. A trace of grim satisfaction touched her lips. "Good. Remember, Margaery—this is for Highgarden, for House Tyrell… and for your own future. Some prices must be paid."
The tent fell silent again, the only sound the faint hiss of incense curling through the air.
Margaery sat motionless, her hand resting over the place where no child yet stirred.
...
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