CATELYN
After two weeks of hard travel from Riverrun, she and Ruyan finally arrived at Renly's camp near Bitterbridge. The sight that greeted her was unsettling—thousands were camped, but not for war. The banners flew high, wine flowed freely, and laughter rang out like they were gathered for a wedding feast, not a campaign.
She couldn't help but recall the siege of Storm's End, when Mace Tyrell feasted outside the castle walls while Stannis and his men endured starvation. This felt no different. While Robb fought the Lannisters, Renly splurged extravagantly in wartime.
That wasn't even the worst of it. She suspected Renly would only move when her son's efforts weakened the Lannisters. She could hear the murmurs around them, the assessing looks thrown at Ruyan. She glanced at the young woman beside her—the North's queen in all but name, though Catelyn had never quite brought herself to call her daughter.
They had barely spoken during the journey. It wasn't surprising—they had little to discuss. Even now, Catelyn felt uneasy in Ruyan's presence, like the girl brought something unnatural in her wake. Those birds, always watching, always following... they reminded her of her own children and their wolves. But the resemblance only made it worse.
She remembered the real reason for Robb's kidnapping—that mixing of magical bloodlines. She considered such things unnatural, against her faith. Yet she had noted Ruyan's unusual communion with birds, much the same as what her children shared with their wolves.
They were ushered into a massive tent where Renly held court with Ser Loras, Queen Margaery, and lords from the Reach and Stormlands. Catelyn performed her curtsy, Ruyan followed suit with precise grace. Renly welcomed them with his usual flash of teeth and silk—charm masking entitlement, like perfume over rot.
He offered condolences. Empty ones, perhaps. She doubted he truly grieved—and that made them worse. To them, Ned was a traitor to the realm. She could only hope that Ned's name still meant enough to give them pause—before they believed the worst.
"Lady Stark," Renly said, his voice smooth as honey, "you're most welcome in my camp. Though I confess surprise at your presence. I thought the North had withdrawn from southern affairs entirely."
"My son seeks justice for his father," Catelyn replied, keeping her voice level. "We need not be enemies when we already share a common one, Your Grace."
Renly's smile remained pleasant but calculating. "Justice is a noble cause. Though I wonder—does your son still consider himself bound to the Iron Throne? Or has grief driven the North toward... independence?"
"My son is not your enemy," Catelyn said carefully. "He came south to save his father, not to make war on the rightful crown. And you know what they did to him."
Renly's expression shifted to false contrition. "And I grieved, truly. Lord Stark was a good man—honorable to a fault. Had he listened to my offer, had he accepted my help, we might have taken King's Landing together. The Lannisters could have been crushed beneath our banners."
Catelyn went still. "You're saying you had the strength to stop it. And chose not to."
"I extended my hand," Renly replied smoothly. "He was too proud to take it. I had the men, the support. Maybe the gold cloaks secured by Lord Baelish were enough for him If he had marched with me—"
"You mean if he had supported you," Ruyan interrupted quietly, her voice sharp as winter steel.
Renly glanced at her, that soft smirk never wavering. "Had he recognized the moment, he might have survived it. He chose a narrow road. But I assure you, Lady Stark—when I sit the Iron Throne, I will see justice done for your lord husband. That I swear."
Catelyn's voice turned frosty. "We do not want promises forged in hindsight. We want justice. And if you cannot offer that now—while you feast and your enemies gather—then we must ask what you truly offer."
"Aren't you here seeking an alliance?" Renly asked, leaning back in his chair with practiced ease.
"It would be better if we worked together to defeat the Lannisters," Catelyn replied.
"And we can," Renly said, his tone growing more serious. "But I need to know where the North stands. Your son commands a formidable army, and he's shown he can win battles. If he were to declare for the rightful king—for me—we could unite our forces and crush the lions together."
The implication hung in the air like incense. Renly wasn't demanding submission outright, but the expectation was clear enough.
Catelyn felt the conversation circling nowhere productive. The smugness in Renly's voice, the casual dismissal of her son's crown, the assumption that the North would simply submit—it all grated against her like sand on skin.
"I would ask for quarters where we might rest," she said carefully. "And time for you to reconsider the terms of this alliance."
Renly nodded graciously, though his smile remained calculating. "Of course. You'll have the finest accommodations my camp can provide." He paused, letting his words hang in the air. "But understand, Lady Stark—the realm needs unity. Your son has proven himself a capable commander, but kings need to know where powerful lords stand. There's little room for... ambiguity in these times."
He gestured toward the tent flap with flourish. "I invite you both to dine with me tonight. Perhaps better wine and company will help clarify matters."
As they were escorted from the royal pavilion, Catelyn caught Ruyan's eye. The young woman's expression revealed nothing, but there was something in her dark gaze—a calculation, a weighing of options that spoke of plans already forming.
Outside, surrounded by the sounds of revelry and the scents of roasting meat, Catelyn wondered if they had ridden all this way only to confirm what she had feared: that Renly Baratheon would demand submission disguised as alliance, expecting the North to bend the knee in exchange for his gracious acceptance of their fealty.
RUYAN
Everything around her was pageantry. Renly Baratheon had the men, but he wouldn't move unless his enemy was weakened. He was proud, arrogant. An alliance was impossible. He would not budge—nor would the northern lords.
Sycophants surrounded him. He had the least claim, yet the most swords.
Stannis would strike through other means. He had to.
The marriage to the Tyrell girl was purely political. She saw it in the absence of touch. In how the queen's brother never left the king's side.
Ruyan doubted Renly would change his mind at the feast. But something else had shifted. She had seen it earlier—Mace Tyrell's stillness when a message was whispered into his ear. That kind of stillness meant something had changed.
It was dark when she finished washing. She gave Lihua a look. No words were needed. The woman took her post outside the tent.
Ruyan sat cross-legged before the low lantern, silk robes pooling around her like spilled ink. The flame flickered, casting dancing shadows across the canvas walls. She inhaled slowly, deeply, feeling the familiar pull of meditation settle into her bones.
Yèmíng perched on the tent's support beam overhead, her mottled gray and white plumage blending perfectly with the shadows. The great owl's golden eyes fixed on Ruyan with ancient understanding. The bond between them was loose—not the overwhelming connection she shared with Tiancì—but tonight, that delicate thread was enough.
Ruyan's breathing slowed to match the owl's heartbeat. Her consciousness began to drift, like smoke rising from dying embers. The sensation was strange—not the violent wrench of taking control, but a gentle sinking, like settling into warm water.
Let me see through your eyes, she whispered without words.
Yèmíng's head tilted, considering. Then, with quiet grace, she spread her wings.
The world exploded into sharp relief. Every sound magnified—the rustle of canvas in the night breeze, the distant laughter from the feast, the scurrying of mice through the grass. Ruyan's human senses fell away as the owl's predatory awareness took hold.
Flight.
Wind rushed beneath powerful wings as Yèmíng launched herself into the night. The owl banked left, following the lane of torches toward the royal pavilion.
She alighted on the peaked roof of Renly's tent, talons finding purchase on the thick canvas. Through the owl's enhanced hearing, Ruyan caught fragments of conversation from within—Renly's confident laughter, the queen's melodious voice, the clink of wine cups.
Then—movement. A figure approached the tent's rear entrance, moving with deliberate stealth. Yèmíng's head swiveled, tracking the figure. Through the owl's eyes, Ruyan saw him clearly—a slight man in a dark cloak, his face angular and sharp.
Follow.
Yèmíng dropped silently from the roof, her wings barely disturbing the air as she glided to a new perch—the tent pole nearest where the man had entered. Through the thin canvas, the voices came clearer, sharpened by proximity.
"—offering Margaery's hand," said Baelish, voice smooth as always. "A crown for a crown. Renly need not die for her to wear one."
The silence that followed was long and deliberate.
Then Renly's voice, light but precise, floated through the canvas.
"Is that your queen's way of choosing the winner early?"
Another pause.
No response from the man whose daughter had just been offered to a rival king.
Not even breath.
Yèmíng hooted once—low and brief. A sound like a pin dropped in a war tent.
Ruyan exhaled. Her eyes opened gradually, the trance fading like mist, her limbs returning to her with no tremor or shock—only clarity.
And interesting offer. Deliberate to land on targeted ears.
Brought by the same man named Tyron…
What kind of man, a trusted friend of Lady Stark, secured an alliance with the Tyrells while Renly still lived?
A friend of Lady Stark.
A servant of the Queen.
If he played both sides, then he wasn't part of the game.
He was above it.
Not a piece, not even a rogue—
A player.
One moving outside the board entirely.
She opened her eyes and released a long, silent breath.
"Lihua…"
The feast was a spectacle of excess—gilded, bloated, and meaningless. Even the YiTish court at its most opulent would have called it vulgar. Golden plates, Arbor wine flowing like water, peacocks roasted and then re-feathered as if death itself were an inconvenience. Ruyan sat beside Catelyn at the high table, every inch the serene envoy. Her face was still. Her eyes moved.
She observed like a surgeon preparing to cut. Noting patterns. Weighing temperaments. Logging who laughed too easily and who did not laugh at all.
She didn't flinch at noise. Didn't glance at laughter. Her gaze tracked exits—not people. Most of the lords were as expected—bloated on Reach gold, mouths oily with meat and ambition. But two stood out.
Lord Randyll Tarly sat like carved stone. Every motion efficient. When he cut his meat, he did so as if cutting into an enemy. When he spoke, others listened—not from deference, but because his silence was worse. A man forged in discipline. Dangerous, because he obeyed himself before any king.
Ser Garlan Tyrell was a different blade. Polished, smiling, gracious. He praised the wine, laughed at the right jests, and never once let his eyes stop moving. He watched the hall, the table, the doors. Casual competence hiding a soldier's calculation. A different kind of threat—but no less sharp.
The rainbow guard stood behind Renly's seat, six cloaks like a painter's folly. Most were ornamental—chosen for symmetry, not skill. But one broke the pattern. The massive woman in Tarth colors didn't blink. Didn't sway. Her eyes didn't look—they measured.
"Princess Ruyan," came Renly's voice—too smooth to be harmless. "You've been quiet this evening. I hope our simple fare doesn't disappoint after the delicacies of Yi Ti."
"Your hospitality is most gracious, Your Grace," she replied with polished calm. "The Reach is indeed abundant."
Beside her, Margaery leaned toward Catelyn with that same painted smile. "Lady Stark, you must tell me about Winterfell. I've heard such fascinating tales about the hot springs and glass gardens."
Ruyan tuned it out. She had seen enough. The hall was a theater. The food was a distraction. The alliance was already lost.
She spoke only when addressed. Offered only what was required. The feast dragged on with no progress made—Renly spoke of unity while dressing it in submission. Catelyn offered alliance, withholding what Renly truly wanted. Each pretended not to see the other's terms for what they were.
When the lords began to rise, Catelyn tried once more. "Your Grace, if I might speak with you privately—"
Renly gestured graciously, too polished to refuse. "Of course, Lady Stark." He nodded to his guards. "Ser Loras, Lady Brienne, please remain."
As the room emptied, he unfastened his doublet, embroidery catching the lamplight—a stag in gold thread, right over the heart.
"Now then," he said, voice light, hands slow. "What more is there to say? I've made my position clear."
Catelyn stepped forward. "My son has proven himself in battle. He's defeated Jaime Lannister. Broken the siege of Riverrun. Surely such a man deserves to be treated as an equal, not a supplicant—"
Then air shifted. The torches didn't flicker—but the shadows did. Something moved, fast and unnatural.
It slipped past her and Brienne like smoke with weight. Darkness shaped like a man.
For one breath—longer than a heartbeat, shorter than a thought—Ruyan saw a face in the black: gaunt, hollow-cheeked, eyes sharp as obsidian. Not one she knew.
The shadow struck.
Then it was gone.
Renly didn't scream. Didn't even finish turning.
One moment, he stood preening.
The next—he was bleeding from his chest.
His eyes went wide. Not in agony.
In confusion.
Then he fell.
Catelyn screamed. "Stannis! I saw his face! It was Stannis!"
But Loras didn't hear her. His cry was wordless, his body already moving. He dropped beside Renly, hands shaking, trying to will life back into the stillness.
Then grief twisted into rage.
He rose, sword hissing from its sheath. "You!"
He pointed straight at her.
"You and your sorcery! You did this!"
She didn't speak. Didn't move.
He lunged a step forward, blade trembling with fury.
"I'll have your head for this, witch!"