The tension of Casterly Rock did not extend to King's Landing. Instead, the fragrant roses of Highgarden wafted through the streets, a sweet mask for the city's enduring sanitary woes.
The trial of Lysa Arryn and Petyr Baelish had concluded. Lysa had met her end at the hands of a Dornishman, while Petyr, after a thorough scrutiny of his finances revealed a paltry few thousand golden dragons—a sum no one believed—was sentenced to the Wall. This alleviated Renly's burden only slightly, for he now lacked a Master of Coin. As for King Robert, he had once again sought solace in his cups.
Lancel Lannister gazed at his nephew, who was burdened with the weight of state affairs, and offered a kindly suggestion. "It would be prudent to wait for your uncle Tyrion's return from the Wall. Legend speaks of his remarkable aptitude for managing drainage systems in Casterly Rock."
Does he truly take me for a fool? Renly thought. Yet he merely smiled. "That might be somewhat disrespectful to Uncle Tyrion." Changing the subject, he inquired, "By the way, Uncle Lancel, I always assumed you wished to wed Margaery. Why, then, have you been so attentive to Sansa Stark of late?"
"Oh, my nephew is truly astute." Lancel chuckled warmly. "Sansa, that naive and charming girl, has captured my heart. From the moment I laid eyes on her, I was utterly enchanted."
Both men laughed heartily, yet their mirth did not reach their eyes. Lancel was concerned that Renly, preoccupied with the court's affairs, was still watching his movements. Conversely, Renly was wary of Lancel, a man who, in another life, had taken up arms in rebellion. Such a character could very well rise against him.
Suddenly, footsteps echoed in the council chamber. Renly instinctively rose while Lancel's gaze darkened. The newcomers, however, were not foes, but the imposing figure of Mace Tyrell, accompanied by his enchanting daughter, Margaery.
"Lord Tyrell, as the new Master of Coin, your presence is most timely," Renly noted.
Margaery's captivating hazel eyes widened. "Is it truly Prince Renly?" she exclaimed, her voice melodious as a lark. "You are every bit as handsome as the tales suggest, and it appears you are quite invested in matters of state." As she spoke, she casually linked her arm with his. Her smile was as sweet as honey, yet for reasons unknown, Renly found it difficult to be swayed. Perhaps her doe-like eyes lacked the sincerity they seemed to convey. His thoughts drifted to a winter rose, and to the gift he had entrusted his uncle to give Jon Snow before her departure.
Noting his distraction, Mace Tyrell's displeasure became evident. "Young man, is my daughter not captivating enough for you?"
His words were blunt. Renly quickly recognized his misstep. "That is entirely my fault. Since our esteemed guests have traveled from afar, why not join me for a hunt in the woods? I hear that Ser Loras possesses remarkable skills."
Margaery laughed lightly. "There is no need to delay state affairs on my account." Though technically such matters should not fall to Renly, she gracefully overlooked this. "However, if the opportunity arises, might I invite Sansa and Arya Stark to accompany us? As you mentioned, Your Highness, I too have a great fondness for hunting. I would be delighted to introduce you to my falcon."
"That would be most welcome," Renly responded.
After Margaery and her father took their leave, Renly was left deep in contemplation.
"Have I been residing in the council chamber?" the Hound scoffed, breaking the silence. "Unless you are oblivious, such conduct not only defies convention but also invites considerable misunderstanding. This bodice-ripping farce is ill indeed."
"Mere rhetoric cannot forge a wise ruler," Renly agreed. "I must survey the genuine plight of the populace." He turned to his guards. "Ser Barristan, inform the city watch that the households adjacent to the old blacksmith shop likely belong to Littlefinger's agents. Investigate their assets and seize them for the treasury. Should any misappropriated goods be uncovered, let the head of that corrupt guard be severed and displayed upon the city walls."
Varys, who had been observing quietly, chuckled. "The citizens of King's Landing shall surely rejoice. Your methods, Your Highness, bear a striking resemblance to Lord Tywin's style."
"This is merely the desperate measure of a prince lacking funds," Renly replied wryly. Were it not for Robert's recent delegation of authority, he would have remained oblivious to the Treasury's dire depletion. His fifteenth birthday was approaching, and he dreaded to imagine how Robert would indulge in extravagance for the occasion.
Yet, these matters were not paramount. A more pressing concern weighed on him. "If the old tales hold truth, the Night's Watch is gravely undermanned and their weaponry outdated." He produced a letter from Eddard Stark addressed to the Lord Commander. "What are your thoughts on this?"
Varys, evidently already privy to the letter's contents, chuckled softly. "The White Walkers are a relic of years past."
"Preparedness is paramount," Renly countered. "My lords, can the grain from Highgarden sustain the Wall's beleaguered forces? While the Kingsroad is viable, substantial transport would necessitate ships." Everyone present instinctively recalled the Greyjoys.
"Ships are indeed a significant issue," Mace Tyrell remarked. "There are numerous merchant vessels near Driftmark. They should suffice."
"The quality must be assured," Renly insisted. "We must select trustworthy individuals. Our transport must encompass not only grain but also weaponry, manpower, and dragonglass."
"Dragonglass?" Ser Barristan exclaimed, taken aback. "Such an item is exceedingly rare throughout Westeros. Can you be certain of its need?"
Renly gazed at the elderly knight, a genuine smile illuminating his face. "I have faith in Lord Stark. He would never deceive. If the White Walkers truly exist and descend from the North to ravage the south, I ask you all, who among us could escape their wrath?"
The atmosphere in the chamber grew suddenly grave. Varys anxiously rubbed his hands together.
Renly rose, his decision made. "Come, Sandor. First, we must engage a blacksmith."