When the knock came, Renly jolted awake, he'd drifted off despite his best efforts to stay alert. The room was painted in gold and crimson, sunset bleeding through the narrow window. The distant sounds of the castle had grown louder: clattering pans from the kitchens, laughter from the lower yards, the steady tramp of guards on patrol. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, then crossed the room to pull open the door.
A castle guard stood outside, his armor polished and his posture straight. "My lord," he said with a respectful nod, "the feast will begin in an hour. The steward has sent a maid to draw your bath, she'll be here shortly to help you prepare."
Renly ran a hand through his tousled hair as he stepped aside to let the guard pass his message fully. Turning back into the room, he walked to the wooden chest he'd brought from Dragonstone, set against the wall by the desk. He lifted the heavy lid and pulled out his fresh set of clothes, dark blue doublet embroidered with the black stag of House Baratheon, laid carefully over a crimson cloak. He set them out neatly on the desk, where they caught the last light of day and looked crisp and ready for the hall.
When the maid knocks and enters with linens and oils, she offers to help him bathe and dress, but he politely declines, managing on his own. He bathes, dries off, and dresses himself before checking his appearance in the mirror, ready for the feast.
A soft knock came at the door just as Renly finished adjusting his cloak.
"Enter," he called.
Borin stepped inside, freshly washed and in his best leather armor. "My lord, we've eaten, the shift is already set. I'll be by your side all throughout the feast. Four of our men will be within the hall with us, keeping their distance but staying close enough to act if needed. I've left the last two to guard your room. The Hand, the Queen's household, and most of the great southern lords will be there, including the Brackens, Tullys, and Lannisters."
Renly nodded. "Thank you, Borin. Good to know who'll be in attendance. Stay sharp out there."
They soon made their way through the castle as the last light faded, torches flaring to life along every wall. The sounds of music drifted toward them now, lutes and fiddles setting a lively, welcoming pace. When they reached the great hall doors, Ser Preston Greenfield and Ser Kaelen Vance stood guard, their white cloaks gleaming in the torchlight.
"My lord," Ser Vance said with a deep, respectful bow. "The hall is ready. The king and queen will be joining us shortly."
Renly gave a short nod, his gaze drifting toward the small council chambers down the corridor before turning to Borin. "Then let's not keep the hall waiting."
A herald's voice rang out first, cutting through the lively music and murmur of voices: "Presenting Lord Renly of House Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone, brother to His Grace the King!"
As the doors swung open, a wave of sound and warmth washed over them, lutes and fiddles playing a lively tune, the clatter of plates, and the glow of hundreds of candles lighting up the high vaulted ceiling. Great banners hung from the walls: the stag of Baratheon beside the lion of Lannister, flanked by the sigils of every major house in attendance.
Nobles filled the long wooden tables, their rich fabrics gleaming in the candlelight. Eyes turned toward the entrance as Renly stepped inside, Borin flanking him, and a hush fell across the hall before the music and conversation picked up again, many raising cups in quiet greeting to the King's brother. Borin moved quietly at his elbow as they made their way toward the raised dais at the far end, where a chair had been set for him beside the empty seats of the king and queen.
A servant hurried forward to pull out his chair as Renly approached the long high table that stretched nearly the length of the dais. At its very center stood two grand chairs side by side, reserved for King Robert and Queen Cersei, their sigils hanging proud above them. To King Robert's left sat Renly, then Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, with Lady Lysa Arryn next to him and Lord Hoster Tully at the end of that side. To Queen Cersei's right was Lord Kevan Lannister, followed by Ser Jaime Lannister in his white Kingsguard cloak, then Tyrion Lannister with his mismatched eyes fixed on the table below, and Lord Varys at the far end of their side, his fingers steepled as he watched the hall fill.
The music swelled suddenly, and a herald's clear voice rang out across the great hall, echoing off the high vaulted ceiling:
"Presenting His Grace, King Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm! And Her Grace, Queen Cersei of House Lannister, Queen Consort to His Grace the King, Lady of Casterly Rock, and Light of the West!"
Every noble in the hall stood as one, heads bowed and eyes turned toward the massive oak doors. King Robert emerged first, his broad frame filling the doorway, crown gleaming bright against his dark hair. He wore deep blue velvet embroidered with golden stags, and the weight of his titles seemed to sit easier on him than his armor ever had. At his side, Queen Cersei moved with effortless poise in emerald green brocade, her golden hair twisted into an intricate braid woven with tiny diamonds. As they made their way down the center aisle toward the high table, the herald's words still hung in the air, reminding all present of the power and prestige gathered in that hall.
Robert paused at the foot of the dais, placing a heavy hand on the carved wooden rail as he looked out over the sea of faces before him. A wide grin spread across his face, and he called out in a voice that boomed without effort: "My lords! My ladies! You may sit!"
As the hall settled back down, he turned and offered his arm to Cersei, helping her up the steps first before following. The queen took her place at the center of the high table with regal composure, while Robert lowered himself into his chair with a contented sigh, its high back carved with stags in full flight.
"Now," he said, slamming his fist lightly on the table, making cups rattle, "where's the wine? And where are the pies? I've been listening to that herald go on long enough, I'm ready to feast!"
Laughter rippled through the hall as servants hurried forward with flagons of vintage red and golden mead. Cersei placed a delicate hand on Robert's arm, her voice low and smooth as she spoke to him: "Your Grace, perhaps we should offer a toast first, for the health of the realm, and our loyal bannermen."
Robert nodded, lifting his cup high once it was filled. "To the realm!" he roared, and hundreds of voices echoed back at him in unison. "And to all of you who keep her safe and strong!"
As he drained his cup and signaled for more, Jon Arryn leaned forward from his seat beside Renly, his voice steady as he addressed the king. "Your Grace, the small council has prepared a report on the harvests in the Reach—"
"Later, Jon," Robert said with a wave of his hand, already reaching for a platter of roasted swan being set before him. "Tonight we feast! Reports can wait for the morrow!"
At his words, the hall erupts once more, music swells, voices rise in cheer, and servants weave between tables bearing flagons of wine and mountains of food. Amidst the growing clamor, Jon Arryn lets his gaze drift from the king to the young lord beside him, then leans slightly forward, his voice low and warm enough to cut through the feast hall's din. "Good to see you settled, boy. Been too long since we spoke face to face, how have things been on Dragonstone?"
Renly nodded, a small smile on his lips. "Good to see you too, my lord. Dragonstone's… well, it's holding, but there's plenty that needs seeing to. The port's small docks have been falling apart for years, and after the war, what little repair work had started was abandoned completely. The miners have been making do with worn-out tools that aren't safe to use deep in the shafts, most of the good equipment was taken for the army or lost when supply lines were cut. The fields were overgrown when I arrived, trampled by marching men and left untended while folk fled or took up arms, and what seed was left in the storehouses had either been eaten by soldiers or gone bad from neglect. We needed timber, iron tools, and good seed to get everything moving again before winter sets in."
"I see. War scars run deep," Jon Arryn murmured, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
He leaned back in his chair, a look of quiet approval crossing his face as he spoke in a warm, steady tone. "I'm glad you had the sense to see what needed doing , and the nerve to send word to King's Landing to get those supplies procured. Truth be told, when maester Pycelle told me about it, I was skeptical, but he confirmed it is indeed from Dragonstone, so I decided I couldn't let you shoulder the cost alone especially at that state. Now then, what do you have in mind to put all of it to use?"
Renly straightens his shoulders, his voice clear and sure as he meets Jon Arryn's gaze. "First, we're getting the docks repaired, not just patching them up, but reinforcing the pilings so they can handle heavier loads. The miners are already getting their new tools this week, which means we can safely reach deeper veins of dragonglass. For the fields, we're clearing the overgrowth and planting hardy grain that'll hold up to the island's winds, we're also putting the villagers to work terracing the slopes so the soil doesn't wash away come rain."
Jon Arryn lets out a short snort, a warm smile playing at his lips as he looks Renly over. "Good, you've been doing an excellent job, little lord. Far more mature than even some of the lords I know." He leans back in his seat, his expression growing slightly more serious. "Now, when the raven came last night, word was you're here on business. Might I inquire for what exactly?"
Renly's eyes brighten as he leans forward, eager to explain. "Crafters, I'm looking for crafters and polishers who can make fine jewelry out of dragonglass. I know it's sharp, but it's fragile too, after testing it out, we've found jewelry's the best use for it. And dragonglass is… quiet beautiful, to be honest. The mines even hold different colors of it, deep black, hints of green, some pieces almost shimmer blue in the light."
Jon Arryn raises an eyebrow in pleasant surprise, leaning forward again to listen closely. "Fine jewelry, hmm? And you plan to trade for it? Sell it? And have you found any craftsmen willing to take on the work?"
Renly sits up a little straighter, his voice bright with enthusiasm. "Both, actually, sell some to merchants for gold to fund more repairs, and trade the rest for things we still need, like medicine and better weaving tools for the village women. As for crafters, no, not yet. The requirements are quite specific as well, they need to be skilled, but we're hoping for cheap labor if possible."
Jon Arryn strokes his chin thoughtfully, a slight furrow forming between his brows. "Specific skills and affordable labor… that's a tricky balance to strike, I'll give you that. Most master craftsmen won't work for little more than a living wage, and those who will might not have the steady hand you need for delicate work like jewelry. But don't worry, I'll have someone make a list of capable craftsmen who work for reasonable rates. Then you can meet them personally if that's what you want."
Renly's face lights up with gratitude, and he bows his head respectfully. "Really, Lord Hand? You've been helping me so much more than I could have ever asked for. Dragonstone has been overlooked for so long, and I feared I'd be left to manage alone. To have your support, not just with coin and supplies, but with guidance and connections like these, it means more to me and my people than words can say."
As he straightens up, a small smile tugs at his lips, privately thinking that having someone as generous and well-connected as Jon Arryn in his corner was nothing short of a godsend… and having such a flattering technique as well.
His quiet reflection is cut short when a loud voice rings out across the hall: "A toast! To our realm and its protectors!"
It's Lord Coren Blackwood, a minor bannerman from the Riverlands, who pushes to his feet, his red-and-black cloak swirling as he raises his cup high. The room falls still as all eyes turn toward the speaker. Then, rising to his feet beside Jon Arryn, Renly lifts his own cup high, his voice carrying clear and strong over the silence. "To the realm!" he called, and the hall quieted further to listen. His voice was carefully measured, every word chosen with precision. "And to those who hold its lands with honor, earned through generations of service, through sweat and sword, not through coin or connections that place some above the rest."
The last word hangs in the air like frost on steel. For a long moment, no one speaks, no one dares to break the heavy silence that has settled over the hall. Then, from somewhere in the back, a single cup clatters against a table.