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The banquet ended on a sour note, for this situation had already turned into a scorching hot potato, far too dangerous for anyone to handle.
No one in their right mind would dare to recklessly launch an attack on another rival while tens of thousands of people — people who could turn you into their next meal at any moment — were breathing down your neck. That would be no different from marching straight to your own grave.
Truth be told, Renly had been toying with the idea of pulling out entirely. After all, that was his own elder brother they were talking about. Whether or not he had it in him to risk the lives of the hundreds of thousands of King's Landing's common folk, just to get rid of his own brother, well… that was another question altogether.
But the real problem was that once word of this got out, especially if it was fanned and exaggerated by those with their own agendas, Renly Baratheon's reputation would be utterly destroyed. And that would deal a fatal blow to any hope he had of ruling in the future.
He wasn't like Aegon Targaryen or Robert, those rough warlords who carved out kingdoms with their swords and fire. His claim to power didn't come from the battlefield but on legitimacy, inherited through Robert's throne.
But that also meant he had no choice but to abide by all sorts of rules and restrictions, a web of regulations he couldn't afford to break. His reputation was part of the foundation holding his rule together. His military strength alone wasn't enough to crush all opposition, so he had to rely on these invisible bonds to maintain control.
Yet, faced with the collective opposition of every single Reach noble under his command, Renly couldn't afford to fall out with them. All he could do was fling his sleeves in frustration and leave, cutting the banquet short.
What he didn't realize was that ever since the moment he stepped into King's Landing, there were already people laying the groundwork, determined to push him and Stannis into a fight to the death.
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Renly had lost a personal seal — not that the thing carried any real authority on its own. It was merely a symbol of identity, a small, finely crafted token engraved with his crowned stag sigil, the kind of item one might use to rally loyal troops or authenticate private commands.
But with the armies of the Stormlands and the Reach already assembled here in King's Landing under his banner, the seal itself was of little practical use to anyone else.
At the time, that's exactly how he saw it. Those were the days when he was still basking in victory, riding high on a wave of momentum. He got drunk at a banquet, woke up the next day, and completely forgot the matter.
The one who picked up that little seal was none other than Alesander Staedmon, the so-called "Pennylover." The name said it all — greedy to the bone, never particularly liked by Renly, always hovering on the outskirts of the army, barely worth paying attention to.
To put it bluntly, if the man went missing, not many would bother searching. If he dropped dead somewhere, they'd just haul his body back and bury it without a second thought.
It was exactly this kind of man that House Tyrell set their sights on. A small trick, a bit of manipulation, and they had him right where they wanted — completely in their grasp.
And now, this Lord of Broad Arch wasn't even in King's Landing anymore. Halfway through the campaign, he claimed ill health, said he wasn't fit to continue fighting. Despite the mockery and scorn of others, he shamelessly abandoned the army and left.
Renly did not make things difficult for him. Truth be told, his departure made no real difference. His men remained behind, and that was what truly mattered. One less mouth to feed was hardly a loss worth mourning.
But Lord Alesander Staedmon did not return to his ancestral seat at Broad Arch to wait out the war.
No… instead, he made straight for Storm's End — Renly's birthplace and the beating heart of the Stormlands.
His intentions were plain to see. He was after the last fleet still under Renly Baratheon's private command. This fleet belonged solely to the Stormlands, a personal force unbound by the authority of the royal navy.
The man commanding that fleet was Ser Selwyn Tarth, father of Brienne of Tarth and the current Lord of of House Tarth. He had refused to bend the knee to Stannis.
And ever since his only daughter and heir became one of Renly Baratheon's Rainbow Guard, the Tarths of Evenfall Hall had thrown their lot in with Renly, pledging themselves to his cause.
Now, that small fleet — the last that the Stormlands could still call their own — lay quietly anchored in the waters of Shipbreaker Bay. Compared to Stannis's royal navy, it was insignificant, far too small to decide the course of the war. That was why it had remained there all this time, lingering as little more than a symbolic presence.
But when the news from House Tyrell reached Lord Alesander Staedmon, he wasted no time. He set sail from Storm's End, bound for the Isle of Tarth, where he arranged to meet with none other than Lord Selwyn Tarth himself.
"This is His Grace's personal token, Lord Tarth. Please, see for yourself."
A puzzled frown crept across Selwyn Tarth's face as he accepted the object, an emblem that represented Renly's identity. He turned it over in his hand, carefully inspecting it for some time. Once satisfied that the item was genuine, and seeing that the man before him was also a noble from the Stormlands, most of his suspicion began to melt away.
Though, truth be told, Alesander Staedmon reputation wasn't exactly stellar. But then again, how many lords across Westeros could claim to be paragons of virtue?
Even Selwyn Tarth himself — back in his younger, wilder days — had been known for cycling through mistresses like changing shirts. He was hardly the type to judge a man's worth by rigid moral standards.
"Lord Tarth," Alesander leaned in slightly, his voice lowering as he spoke, "I've come here on behalf of His Grace to deliver a confidential order."
"A secret order?" Selwyn Tarth's expression shifted, confusion flashing across his face. A secret mission? Why wouldn't they just send a raven? Why go through all the trouble of sending someone in person? What was going on?
But the next moment, Alesander Staedmon's words cleared up all the doubts swirling in his mind.
"Lord Tarth, His Grace commands you to lead your fleet directly to Dragonstone, Stannis's stronghold. You are to take the best men of House Tarth, and capture Stannis's heir, Shireen Baratheon."
"What!" The shock burst from Selwyn's lips before he could stop it.
"Calm yourself, my good lord," Alexander quickly soothed him, a sly smile playing on his lips. "Stannis Baratheon has pulled all his fleets to King's Landing. This is the perfect opportunity."
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When Selwyn Tarth finally stood on the deck of his ship, the salty sea wind whipping past him, his mind kept circling back to those dangerous words Alesander Staedmon had whispered to him not long ago — words that still made his heart race with unease.
"Stannis only has one child, one daughter. "And that child of his… might as well be a rock. He doesn't even have a single bastard to his name."
"So what?" Selwyn had frowned back then, unable to grasp the full meaning.
"My good Lord Tarth," Alesander's lips had curled into a subtle, knowing smile as he spoke, "if we were to… remove his daughter from the picture, then even if Stannis does manage to seize the throne, who inherits it after him?"
A sharp breath escaped Selwyn's lips as the implication settled over him. "You mean…"
"Exactly." Alexander's eyes gleamed with quiet calculation. "If Shireen Baratheon were to vanish from this world… then Stannis's next lawful heir is none other than His Grace, Renly Baratheon. Tell me, my lord, when that day comes, do you truly believe Stannis will still be so eager to fight His Grace to the bitter end?"
"Stannis's temperament is no secret. All of Westeros knows what kind of man he is," Selwyn had said gravely. "We cannot afford to gamble on something like that."
"That's where you've got it wrong, my lord," Alexander countered easily, waving a hand. "Stannis might be that stubborn, but what about his men? Would you be willing to follow a leader who has no future?"
The moment those words fell, everything clicked into place in Selwyn Tarth's mind. He finally understood why Renly Baratheon had sent a man like Alesander Staedmon all the way here to find him personally.
This was the kind of business that could never see the light of day. There could be no written orders, no letters, no evidence left behind.
If you couldn't win on the battlefield, then you resorted to means like this. And His Grace, Renly Baratheon — the bright and shining future King of the Seven Kingdoms — could never afford to have such ugly stains on his reputation.
That was why this task had been handed to him, Selwyn Tarth. He was to be the villain in this tale. And once the deed was done, Renly would shield him from the storm that came his way.
The plan was simple: put on a show. A few harsh words of public rebuke, strip his daughter Brienne Tarth of her position among the Rainbow Guard, and send her back to Evenfall Hall. That was precisely what Selwyn had been hoping for all along.
As for his own reputation? That didn't matter in the slightest.
He was already fifty-three years old. Who knew which day might be his last, when he'd keel over and go meet the Seven? By then, with control of Tarth Island firmly in his hands, was he really worried his daughter wouldn't find suitors?
Even if his daughter wasn't exactly blessed with beauty, there would still be a line of men at his door eager to propose marriage to her. He understood the ways of the nobility far too well to doubt that.
The more he thought it through, the clearer Selwyn Tarth's decision became. He would take on this mission. But he also had his own plans.
He wasn't about to simply murder Stannis's daughter, Shireen.
Instead, she would… meet with misfortune during the return voyage. Somewhere in the treacherous waters of Shipbreaker Bay, a storm would strike, a hidden reef would claim the ship, and the girl would quietly vanish beneath the waves.
That much, Selwyn Tarth could arrange with ease.
After all, everyone knew the storms near Storm's End were as wild and unpredictable as a drunk septon's sermon. The sea there was fierce, the waves towering, and the seabed riddled with jagged rocks.
A shipwreck… that was the most ordinary thing in the world.
Surely, no one would question it, right?
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After ten days at sea, Lord Selwyn Tarth's fleet finally entered the waters of Blackwater Bay.
They sailed not under Renly's crowned stag banners, bold and proper, but under Stannis's version—the crowned stag wreathed in flames.
There were two reasons for this.
First of all, even though Stannis had already pulled the bulk of his royal fleet to King's Landing, there was no telling if other lesser houses still had ships lingering in Blackwater Bay.
Flying Stannis's banner would spare them a great deal of unnecessary trouble.
Second, this operation was a covert raid on Dragonstone. If they were spotted and identified as enemies before even reaching shore, and the gates of Dragonstone slammed shut, capturing the island would be no easy feat.
The men Selwyn brought were the best House Tarth had to offer. Every man lost would be one man too many. And Renly Baratheon certainly wasn't going to take responsibility for those deaths.
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