[Nearing the Inn at the Crossroads, The Riverlands, 8th Moon, 298 AC]
The summer sun hung low behind a veil of grey as Lord Renly Baratheon rode at the head of the honor guard, the green and gold of House Tyrell fluttering beside the crowned stag of Storm's End. Dust curled beneath the hooves of nearly fifty riders as they made their final descent into the valley below, where the royal procession had encamped in a wide clearing near the old crossroads inn.
Renly turned his head slightly to the rider on his right. Ser Loras Tyrell, clad in resplendent silver plate adorned with golden roses, rode as proud as any young knight might beside his lord. His brown curls fell across his brow, damp with sweat, but his smile was that of a man riding into triumph. It pleased Renly, though he did not show it openly. Loras was many things, beautiful, bold, vain, but in a world of steel and lies, Renly had found in him something genuine.
To his left, however, was a different sort of companion entirely. Lord Varys, the Master of Whisperers, sat astride a black gelding, wrapped in soft lilac robes that looked ill-suited for the saddle. His eyes flicked across the camp below with the faint amusement of a man reading a page he already knew by heart.
"I confess," Renly said under his breath, "I'm still not sure what compels you to ride north, Lord Varys. There are no secrets in tent flaps and pavilions."
"Oh, my lord," Varys cooed, eyes never leaving the camp, "that's where all the best secrets are. Men speak far too freely under canvas, especially when they think the trees do not listen."
Renly grunted, not in approval, but not in disagreement either. The spider was what he was. But it was not the Master of Whisperers who had brought Renly galloping half a realm away. It was the man in the northern pavilion, Lord Alaric Stark, the Lord of Winterfell, the Warden of the North. And, if rumor was to be believed, a wolf with a lion's mind.
As the honor guard approached, Renly's eyes swept the encampment, noting its meticulous order. Tents were arranged in rows, with standards of grey and black, and white flying from them. The direwolf of House Stark flew high. Soldiers moved among them with discipline that was rare for any host not bearing Lannister gold.
"You see it too?" Renly said, glancing at Loras.
"Aye," the knight replied. "That's no feudal levy. These are drilled men. Armor, Discipline, Nobles, and smallfolk alike wearing the same greaves."
"A professional army," Renly mused. "A northern standing force, raised solely with Northern gold."
"Only the Lannisters have done the same," Loras said. "Though with ten times the gold."
"Yes," Renly said, his tone curious rather than alarmed. "But they did it with coin. Alaric Stark did it with loyalty. That's rarer."
They passed through the perimeter without delay. Renly's banner had been seen hours ago. Northern guardsmen in mail and boiled leather saluted without fanfare. Greycloaks watched with sharp eyes and spears planted into the earth like iron teeth. They didn't smile. They didn't jest. They reminded Renly, disconcertingly, of the red cloaks of House Lannister, pests all to common in the capital as of late.
The Honor guard, led by Renly and Varys, soon arrived outside the king's tent, where Robert greeted them rather unenthusiastically, especially himself, no love being lost between the two brothers.
Soon after, the men led north from the capital were settled in and merged with the royal procession.
[Later that day.]
As Renly dismounted and was led to a large grey pavilion near the center of the camp, the banner of House Stark billowed in the breeze. Two Winter Guardsmen stood outside it, tall and grim-faced, helmed in wolf-shaped steel. Their spears gleamed, held with perfect stillness.
Just as he opened his mouth to request an audience, the tent flap rustled, and Lord Varys emerged.
His expression was unreadable at first, lips slightly parted as if in thought, but something about his eyes told Renly more than the words would. A flicker of unease, followed by swift composure.
"Lord Renly," Varys said smoothly, bowing his shaven head. "How fortunate. Lord Alaric has just concluded his midday counsel. You may catch him in a generous mood, though I'd not wager gold on it."
Renly raised a brow. "You found what you were looking for?"
Varys's smile was thin. "I always find something, my lord. The trick is surviving it."
With that, he swept past, gliding silently across the grass like a silk-clad shadow.
Renly turned back to the guards. "Tell Lord Stark that Lord Renly of House Baratheon seeks his audience."
But even as he spoke, a voice from within called out. "Let him enter."
The guards did not move. But the flap parted again.
Renly ducked inside and was greeted by a rush of cold air tinged with fur, woodsmoke, and parchment. The interior of the tent was well-appointed but not luxurious. A large desk dominated the center, cluttered with ledgers, maps, and wax-sealed messages. Behind it sat Alaric Stark.
And flanking him were two direwolves.
They were massive. One stormy gray with white accents, the other a crimson brownish-red, her amber eyes glinted with uncanny intelligence. One of them growled low and deep, not in threat, but in warning.
Renly stopped mid-step.
"Come," Alaric said, his voice low and rough like northern stone. "They won't bite unless I say so."
Renly approached with measured confidence and took the seat offered to him across the desk. He fought not to look at the wolves too often.
"I appreciate the audience, Lord Stark."
Alaric studied him in silence for a long moment. He was broad-shouldered, thickly built, and his gaze had none of Ned's quiet melancholy. No, this one had the cold weight of someone who did not ask for war, but knew how to win one.
"Get to the point," Alaric said bluntly. "You didn't ride from the Capital to exchange pleasantries."
Renly stiffened. So much for subtlety.
"Very well," he said, clasping his hands. "I've heard of your strength, my lord. Not just in sword or steel, but in men. Loyalty. Vision. You've built something that even the South cannot ignore. And it occurs to me that your interests may not always align with the Crown's."
Alaric's brow rose a fraction. "Is that a threat?"
"A proposition," Renly replied smoothly. "One day soon, the realm may be tested. Robert grows more and more unhealthy and… complacent, and his appetites haven't lessened. The line of succession is… uncertain. And when that day comes, the realm will need strength. Direction. Stability. I intend to offer all three."
"You speak of the Crown," Alaric said flatly. "But you wear no crown."
"Not yet," Renly admitted. "But I know men. And I know lords like you will see the wisdom in supporting a king who offers peace and progress, rather than chaos."
"You think I would join your faction?"
"I think you're too clever not to consider it."
Alaric leaned back, the direwolves following his every motion like twin shadows. "I have no love for southern politics, Lord Renly. And I've seen enough southern lords to know what follows them. You seek a throne not yet vacant, and you ask me to wager the North's future on your gamble."
Renly didn't blink. "It's no gamble. You've seen what's coming. Lannister ambition. Crown indecision. The smallfolk starve while gold flows in and out of King's Landing like ale at a feast. You've already distanced yourself. This host you've raised, this discipline, it speaks volumes. You don't trust the realm."
"I trust my own," Alaric said. "That's what matters."
"Then trust that I'll remember those who stood with me when the realm burns."
Alaric's eyes narrowed slightly, but not in anger. Calculation, perhaps. Or mild curiosity. "And if I were to align with your cause… hypothetically, what would you offer the North?"
Renly smiled faintly. "Autonomy. Security. Trade. You've more ships than ever before. I'd see White Harbor flourish. I'd see the North's roads paved, extra canals completed, your mines protected. A strong North is no threat to me."
"And if I decline?"
"Then I hope we remain friends, my lord."
A long silence followed.
Finally, Alaric stood. "You've said your piece. I'll consider it. That's all you'll get today."
Renly rose with him. "That's more than most give."
The two men locked eyes, no warmth, but no malice either.
"Seven watch over you, Lord Stark."
"The old gods don't need watching," Alaric replied.
As Renly left the tent, the direwolves rose in silence. He stepped into the cooling afternoon, blinking at the sunlight.
Loras joined him moments later. "You live."
"Only barely," Renly muttered. "That man's eyes could freeze wine."
"And what did he say?"
"Nothing. And everything."
[That Evening, Loras's Tent]
That night, Renly sat beside Loras beneath a low lantern in the Tyrell pavilion. The tent smelled of pine and rose oil. Loras leaned against his side, half-asleep, the warmth of his body a sharp contrast to the cold unease lingering in Renly's chest.
"You still believe you can win him?" Loras asked.
Renly sighed. "I don't need his sword. Just his silence."
"But you want his sword."
Renly smiled bitterly. "Everyone wants a wolf on their side. But I'll take a wolf that doesn't bite me just the same."
[Later, Varys's Tent(Brief POV Shift)]
Far across the camp, Lord Varys lit a single candle in his own darkened pavilion. He stared at the parchment before him, one of several.
Names. Timetables. Destinations.
But above all, a list of those who might tip the scales when the game truly began.
Lord Alaric Stark was not circled.
But he was underlined. Twice.
[The Next Morning, Inn at the Crossroads]
The scent of spiced sausages and sweet morning bread wafted through the common room of the Inn at the Crossroads, blending with the warmth of fire and the low murmur of the waking camp. Renly Baratheon lounged at a long table near the hearth, a plate of food before him and his niece and nephew on either side, Myrcella on his left, Tommen on his right.
"—and just as I notched the arrow, the storm broke. Thunder cracked so loudly that Lord Bryce Caron's horse nearly bolted into the brush. But I loosed anyway, and by some miracle, the arrow struck true. Right in the eye of the beast."
Myrcella gasped, her fingers clasping at her chin. "You killed a boar in a storm?"
Tommen looked skeptical. "Was it bigger than Father's?"
Renly laughed, ruffling Tommen's hair. "Not quite. No boar is bigger than your father's. Or so he insists."
It warmed him, being around them, these two children who still had sweetness in them, unmarred by courtly venom.
'Unlike their brother.' Renly thought with distaste. The whore-spawn with a crown's claim. The boy Joffrey had neither their innocence nor their charm. Just cruelty and Lannister arrogance.
He sipped from his cup, eyes drifting across the common room to the northern table.
There sat Lord Alaric Stark, broad-shouldered and silent, speaking in low tones with his uncle, Eddard Stark, and that giant of a knight, Ser Desmond Manderly, if Renly recalled rightly. A few others were present, Alaric's sworn shield Ser Torrhen, along with several other men, most likely from his famed Winter Guard.
The northern table was quieter than the others, but no less alert. It reminded him of wolves eating their meal, focused, not unaware.
A sudden noise broke the moment. A serving boy, no older than nine, stumbled between the tables, arms full of trencher plates. He clipped the leg of a chair, lost his footing, and fell directly against Alaric Stark's seated leg. A hush fell across the inn. The boy's father, a man with a worn apron and fear in his eyes, rushed forward.
"My lord, I-I'll thrash him, I swear!"
But Alaric said nothing. He looked down at the boy, who was trembling and trying to push himself up, face pale.
Then the Lord of Winterfell stood, reached down, and lifted the child by the shoulders, brushing flour and crumbs from his tunic.
"Easy, lad," Alaric said. His voice wasn't warm, exactly, but it was… soft. Firm yet not hostile. "You're carrying too much at once. It never hurts to ask for help when needed."
The boy blinked. "Y-Yes, my lord." A grin broke across his face. "Thank you, my lord!"
Alaric gave him a small nod, the beginnings of a smile graced his countenance, and he sat back down.
Renly leaned slightly toward Myrcella. "Did you see that?"
She nodded, wide-eyed. "He's nice, like I told you, uncle! I thought Northerners were supposed to be scary."
"Some are," Renly murmured, watching the Lord of Winterfell return to his meal. "But not all wolves snarl before they bite."
Cersei, off to the side with Joffrey's hand clutched tightly in hers, scowled faintly at the scene. She looked from the northern table to her children, then turned them both away from the warmth of the fire. Jaime, lounging in his armor nearby, simply raised an eyebrow at the exchange, his expression unreadable.
[Later, Departing the Inn]
The clamor of a host on the move echoed across the field beside the inn. Horses neighed. Wheels groaned. Banners flapped in a rising breeze. The royal procession was once again preparing to march, with Castle Darry as their next stop on the slow path to King's Landing.
Renly oversaw the organizing of his personal guard, a green-and-gold blur of Stormlanders and Reach knights. Ser Loras was already mounted, waiting near the rear with his helm under his arm.
Renly's eyes drifted toward the crowd gathered at the edge of the camp. Peasants and townsfolk had come to see the king and his retainers pass by. Among them, Lord Alaric knelt beside a few dirty-faced children, ruffling one boy's hair, tossing another in the air before catching him again with surprising gentleness for a man of his build. The children giggled, surrounding him like ducklings.
Renly couldn't help but smile.
That smile faded when he caught Cersei's reaction. She stood rigid, hands on the shoulders of Tommen and Myrcella, both of whom strained to see past her.
"No," Cersei whispered sharply, dragging them back.
She sees what I see, Renly thought. And it terrifies her.
A few steps behind her, Jaime stood once more. This time, he did look interested, but not alarmed. If anything, there was a quiet bemusement in his face, as if he were observing a puzzle unfold.
Renly mounted, giving one final glance to Alaric and his direwolves. He's no mere Warden. Not anymore.
[On the Road, Two Days Out, Between the Darry Fields]
The sun had risen high, a pale disk behind clouds. The line of the royal procession stretched across the rolling Riverlands like a great, crawling serpent.
Renly rode ahead of the main vanguard, Loras beside him. A hush had settled between them as their horses trotted along a muddy ridge overlooking a scattering of farmsteads.
He was brooding. Again.
"I wonder," Renly said after a time, "how many men Robert has actually ruled."
Loras turned his head. "All of them, I imagine. He wears the crown."
"Wearing it doesn't mean keeping it." Renly's voice was quieter now. "My brother is tolerated, yes. But such a feeling fades. He drinks, he hunts, he whores, and he plays at king while others rule behind his back."
Loras didn't answer at once.
"It's why the realm whispers," Renly continued. "Why the lords hedge their bets. Varys may speak softly, but his eyes dart toward the future. And Littlefinger's smile? I trust a viper's kiss more than that man's friendship."
"You still believe the throne should be yours," Loras said, gently.
"I do." Renly's jaw tightened. "Stannis is too rigid. He would sooner burn the realm than bend. And the boy… Joffrey…"
He spat. "He is not Robert's son. Not truly. That golden hair is more than a coincidence."
"And Stark?" Loras asked. "You believe he might turn the tide?"
Renly exhaled. "I believe he could hold the North together, even if the Seven Kingdoms fell apart. I believe the man follows his own code, not gold or gossip. That makes him dangerous. But it also makes him… necessary."
Loras looked thoughtful. "You want to make him your ally."
"I'd make him Protector of the Realm if it won me his support."
"You're not king yet."
Renly grinned. "Not yet."
[Evening Camp, Outside Castle Darry]
The castle walls loomed in the fading light, squat and unimposing compared to the Red Keep or Storm's End, but defensible. Already, the royal banners were visible across its battlements.
Tents sprang up like mushrooms in the surrounding fields, and the evening cookfires were already rising.
Renly stood by the stream's edge, watching the water reflect the first stars of the night. Across the way, he saw Rodrik Stark, Ser Torrhen's son, brushing down his horse, Domeric Bolton lounging beneath a tree beside him.
Just uphill, Alaric stood beside his uncle Ned, speaking in tones too soft to hear. Ser Torrhen lingered nearby, arms crossed, his posture coiled like a drawn bow. Wherever the Lord of Winterfell went, these wolves followed.
I must win him… or at least keep him distant from the Lannisters, Renly thought. If Cersei draws him in, we're all lost.
He heard the soft approach of Loras's boots in the grass. "They're wary."
"Good," Renly said. "So am I."
They stood together as the wind rustled through the grass.
"Do you trust him?" Loras asked finally.
Renly's eyes lingered on the shadows beyond the firelight. "I don't need to trust him. I need to understand him. And I think we're beginning to."
[Castle Darry, the Next Morning]
The procession rolled into Castle Darry under banners bearing the Crowned Stag and the Black Plowman on Brown. Robert led the column with wine in hand, shouting greetings to the gathered townsfolk. Cersei followed behind in a lacquered wheelhouse, windows shuttered.
Alaric Stark rode near the front of the Northern host, his red direwolf trotting at his side, the grey one vanishing into the woods.
As Renly passed beneath the gates, he could feel the next phase beginning. The road to King's Landing grew shorter. The stakes, taller.
And the wolves were watching.