Storm's End, four days later.
A black raven pierced the sky and landed upon the high tower of Renly Baratheon's solar.
The message it bore was strange—no seal, no signature. Only a folded sheet of parchment, scrawled in ink as dark as blood:
> "They are not Robert's. Ask your brother. The lioness sleeps in death, but her cubs still wear false crowns."
Renly crushed the letter in his hand, a frown curling his lips.
> "Lies," he muttered. "Or worse… truth."
His squire, Loras Tyrell, watched him with a wary gaze.
> "If Stannis knows," Loras said, "he'll act. He believes it's his by right."
> "It is by right," Renly said bitterly. "But the people don't want Stannis. They want a king who can smile. Not a stone-faced zealot."
> "And you think it should be you?"
> "I know it should."
Renly stared out the window, unaware of the faint shimmer of elven eyes in the far treetops.
Köinzell was already ahead of them all.
He had traveled far—faster than ravens, unseen by all. He had whispered into the ears of bannermen, blackmailed lesser lords, and ensured the Vale remained uncertain.
The game was shifting.
Köinzell didn't seek a throne.
But he would decide who earned the right to sit upon it.
And the swords of the gods would obey his judgment.