Game of Thrones: Storm of the Stag

When Loras was younger, he had been fostered at Storm's End as Renly's squire. Many at court had long known of their forbidden relationship.

"How do I look?" Renly asked.

"Beyond compare," Loras praised him. The two were always inseparable.

"My royal brother will be back soon. The Small Council plans to send a few of us to lead the welcome party. Me, Ser Barristan Selmy, and Payne."

"Just His Grace and his party?" Loras asked.

"No." Renly shook his head. "There is also an honored guest, Lord Eddard. He is coming to serve as Hand of the King."

"Lord Eddard? That is hardly surprising. Everyone says the king went north to Winterfell to invite him."

"Eddard Stark, a new player in King's Landing's game," Renly mused.

"Will Lord Eddard be our friend?" Loras asked uncertainly.

"I think so. House Stark and House Lannister were at odds years ago." Renly smiled. "Whatever the case, Eddard coming here is worse than Lord Tywin returning to King's Landing, isn't it? My dear royal brother is not quite so stupid after all."

"Compared with old Jon, Lord Eddard might be more accommodating. Old Jon's devotion to honor was rather excessive," Loras reasoned.

"He is well worth courting. Old Jon is dead, but Eddard can still rally support from the Vale and the Riverlands. He has connections in both," Renly said. Eddard had married into the Riverlands and had been fostered in the Vale.

"We have too few men in King's Landing, only thirty guards. Even if I enlist some nobles and friends, we would have no more than a hundred. Far too few compared with the Lannisters. We must sound out the new Hand and see whether he is our friend," Renly complained.

"If you need them, I can bring you more men from the Reach," Loras said.

"Not yet. The eunuch has too many eyes. He smiles at everyone, but I cannot be sure whose friend he is. We could move guards today, and tomorrow the Spider might pass the information to the queen." Renly shook his head.

"What about Littlefinger?"

"Littlefinger tells me jokes every day, but he cannot be trusted either."

"Fully armed Lion Soldiers in scarlet cloaks are everywhere. The king trusts House Lannister far too much," Loras said quietly.

"And not just them. Aside from the Kingslayer, several of the Kingsguard have already gone over to the Lannisters. We stand alone in the Red Keep, Loras." Renly smiled. "Only the old knight Barristan is at odds with the Kingslayer, but he also despises betrayal above all."

"Then what do we do?" Loras asked.

"We follow our original plan. Margaery would make a better queen. And I must try to win another ally, our new Hand, Eddard," Renly said. "My royal brother has never remained fond of one woman forever, and that Lannister woman grows more arrogant by the year."

"Very well." Loras nodded. "I will write to my father so Highgarden can prepare as well."

"Storm's End and Highgarden are our homes. If anything changes in King's Landing, we must leave quickly and return to our own lands, just as my elder brother Stannis did." A fire seemed to burn in Renly's eyes, the fire of ambition.

If the realm fell into turmoil, Renly believed the warriors of the Stormlands and the wealth of the Reach would give him an enormous advantage.

For a youngest son, receiving the Stormlands had been a windfall dropped into Renly's lap. Yet the king's generosity had only deepened his greed. His heart was never satisfied.

"Do everything you can. I will always stand behind you," Loras said.

"Yes, we must seize the initiative as soon as possible. Apart from the Lannisters, the Baratheon traitor is also itching to act."

"The Mercenary King across the Narrow Sea?" Loras asked.

"Gendry. Compared with Stannis, that bastard has greater strength and more ships," Renly said worriedly. "He also controls the Targaryen remnants. He will certainly invade amid the chaos and press his claim to power."

Renly had never taken Stannis seriously. He knew his brother had little popular support, and his lands were poor and small. But the Baratheon traitor across the Narrow Sea was different. Myr and Tyrosh had populations no smaller than King's Landing's.

"Then should we talk to that bastard?" Loras asked.

"I have always been generous, Loras. Land, gold, I am willing to bestow them on my servants. But some people are exceptions. Their appetites are too large ever to satisfy. We cannot negotiate with that bastard. What he wants is the throne."

"We have a hundred thousand men." Loras was confident of that.

"And how many of those hundred thousand are farmers and servants? They are no match for a standing army. I need allies, and I need greater authority," Renly calculated.

Outside Wolf's Den, the sky was vast and the clouds thin.

Standard-bearers raced ahead with their banners, followed by soldiers carrying a forest of spears that pierced the sky. Gendry watched his army.

The soldiers wore plate armor and carried longswords and long spears. The elite Wolf Pack formed the army's striking force, followed by the Free Army and the Second Sons, who were also largely equipped with plate armor.

The Unsullied's formation offered one kind of tactic, and Ser Jorah's another. He wanted more soldiers. That kind of tactical diversity would be unrivaled.

Now only a few Unsullied still preferred spiked helms and light armor. Even the worst-equipped soldiers wore mail.

Ramsay Snow, who had been released, stood timidly to one side, not daring to speak. He was a fleshy bloodline bearer, with lips like great fat worms.

Standing beside the horse, Ramsay looked at the soldiers. They were powerfully built and plainly well fed.

Ramsay seemed to have swung from one extreme to another. He had originally been cunning and cold-blooded, with some ability to scheme and manipulate, though he favored abuse and depraved behavior. Under Gendry's traps and heavy-handed blows, Ramsay had become a dog wagging its tail for mercy, just as he did before Lord Bolton.

"What do you think of my soldiers, Ramsay?" Gendry asked him.

"They are strong, my lord. Well supplied, well equipped, with high morale. An invincible army in the Green Lands."

"The Green Lands. What about the North?" Gendry looked at Ramsay.

Ramsay shrank back, not daring to speak. He bullied the weak and feared the strong. Such people were small at heart.

"Speak, Ramsay."

"Commander-in-Chief, yours is an army of summer. But the North is different. Our army is an army of winter. Only northerners can endure the bitter cold," Ramsay said, summoning his courage.

"An army of summer. That is true enough," Gendry mused. Winter was the North's best armor. These soldiers could not make a long march into the North at all. For the sake of the future, he did indeed need to leave pieces there. Of course, Ramsay was only a pawn to discard at any moment. His reputation was too foul, his conduct too savage.

"Do you still want to return to the Dreadfort?" Gendry asked Ramsay.

Ramsay instinctively shook his head. "I am your faithful servant, Commander-in-Chief. Ramsay is willing to serve you."

"Tell me the truth, Ramsay." Gendry looked at him, and Ramsay felt the gleam in those blue eyes pressing down on him until he could scarcely breathe.

"I-it is true," Ramsay said. He now feared Gendry's traps. One wrong answer, and he would be dragged outside for a savage beating by the Dothraki.

"I hope it is true as well. If you could return to the Dreadfort, how would you repay me?"

The question was so suffocating that Ramsay broke into a cold sweat.

Chapter 104: Bloodlines and power

"That Ramsay is a menace, Your Highness," Jorah stressed. He wore fine leather armor beneath a green brocade surcoat embroidered with a bear walking upright.

"Then what do you suggest, Jorah? That His Highness completely alienate Roose? Do not forget that Bear Island is still in the North." Qyburn frowned slightly. He wore gray clothes with a Wolf Pack badge on his chest. "Roose cannot be unaware of that fool's atrocities, but this is his last son."

"Though Ramsay is indeed both stupid and vicious," Qyburn added. Slaughter was a sign of madness, and people were an especially scarce resource in the North. A rotten seed like Ramsay would drag House Bolton to its doom sooner or later.

Jorah fell silent. Behind Ramsay's brazen behavior lay Roose's failure to discipline him.

"Enough. Ramsay is indeed a menace, but now is not the time to execute him. That will come at a more crucial moment. I will offer Roose terms he cannot refuse," Gendry said.

Reek had been executed, and Ramsay's courage had been shattered. Ramsay was a degenerate and a murderer, but his time to die had not yet come. Gendry wanted a Ramsay who feared him even more, one who would bark a few times for him in the North, then go decisively to his death.

"Sooner or later, this son will be Roose's ruin," Jorah declared. "The Roose I remember was a quiet man. Young Domeric was truly his son. Roose appeared mild and courteous. He always spoke softly, never raising his voice, forcing his listeners to pay close attention. Though he was cold, calculating, and ruthless, at least he had brains, and manners to hide behind."

"Stark prides himself on justice, yet he cannot fully control his own vassals," Gendry said with another cold snort.

"It is not only Lord Stark. I fear most lords of the Seven Kingdoms are much the same, throwing their weight around on their own lands," Jorah said after a moment's hesitation. "The North is simply remote, and many lords still cling privately to their ancestral traditions."

"Sooner or later, they will have to accept one king, one covenant, and one law." Gendry considered it. The prerequisite was that he obtain that cold Iron Throne when the time came. He needed to wait cautiously, like a hunting leopard choosing the right moment to strike.

"Your Highness, there is one other matter. The Tournament we are preparing-I should go check the security arrangements again." Jorah took his leave. Wolf's Den would soon host lively contests, a grand occasion.

"Thank you for your efforts, Jorah."

"It is my honor, Your Highness." Ser Jorah felt reinvigorated. Power had brought back the feeling of his younger days, charging onto the battlements in boundless glory.

"Master Qyburn, how has your research been going lately?" Gendry asked after Jorah left.

"I am ashamed to say, Your Highness, that my experiments have made little progress. Without suitable specimens, I cannot conduct them," Qyburn said apologetically. "The khal who died at your hands became a mass of mangled flesh. I do not think he meets my requirements."

"Then wait a little longer. I think the Mountain would make a good subject," Gendry suggested.

The best subjects for this kind of necromancy were large, powerful warriors. The Mountain, the gladiators of Meereen, and the Dothraki khals were all candidates.

The experiments depended not only on specimens, but also on a further rise in the magic tide. Only when the Red Comet arrived would Qyburn's necromantic experiments stand a greater chance of success.

"Then I wish you a swift ascent to the throne. If Tywin falls, no one will care about the dog he keeps," Qyburn said with a smile.

"It is too early to speak of that. The Iron Throne is not merely power, but responsibility for the Seven Kingdoms," Gendry replied.

"However, though my experiments have yet to succeed, I have found some useful information in the histories, concerning bloodlines and power."

Unlike other maesters, Qyburn had profound knowledge of mysticism and magic, to the point of obsession.

"That is an interesting subject." Gendry motioned for Qyburn to continue.

"First, the Baratheon bloodline. Its power comes more from the Durrandons. Whether caste toughness or sheer physical strength, that power is inherited through the blood," Qyburn said. "Generation after generation."

After all, this was Westeros, where ancient houses a thousand years old were commonplace: the Hightowers, the Starks, the Baratheons who had inherited the Durrandons' legacy, and the Lannisters. A few miracles and bloodline powers seemed understandable.

"I can feel it," Gendry said. Of all his bloodlines, only the blood of the storm was strongest and active. The others had yet to show any miracles or benefits.

"The Baratheon bloodline manifests in fury and strength, like a storm at sea. The Laughing Storm, King Robert, and that ridiculous Lord Borros, who vacillated during the Dance of the Dragons yet was a formidable warrior on the battlefield. Before fighting Lord Kermit, the grievously wounded Borros killed twelve knights, as well as Earl Roland Darry and Earl Jorah Mallister, but ultimately fell to Lord Tully's morningstar."

"But it seems to be only physical strength." Gendry also felt he had reached a threshold. Perhaps more battles, fiercer battles, could further temper the blood of the storm, but it had not transcended humanity.

"Formidable strength is far from enough," Qyburn reasoned. "I think that as the long summer ends, you may be able to reach a deeper level."

Those with insight had already noticed that the prolonged summer was abnormal. The climate might be connected to magic's resurgence. In any case, it was a possibility. Moreover, the bitterly cold long winter following an overlong summer might bring plague and famine once again.

"What level?" Gendry asked.

"The manifestation of magic, just like the castle of Storm's End, which can completely ward off magical attacks. I believe this may also be vital in the years to come," Qyburn said in all seriousness.

"Those stories about Storm's End!" Gendry murmured. He had heard them as well.

Legend held that Storm's End had been built during the Dawn Age by Durran, the first Storm King. He had declared war on two gods after they killed his family and guests and destroyed his wedding to their daughter Elenei. Before Storm's End, he had supposedly built six strong, towering castles, but all had been destroyed.

The castle was said to be protected by spells woven into its walls, preventing magic from passing through them.

"I will watch the changes in the climate and find ways to increase your power and keep you safe, Your Highness," Qyburn promised Gendry. "I believe it will not take too long."

"Then I shall await your good news." Gendry smiled. "But take care of your health as well, Master Qyburn."

"Rest assured, Your Highness. Though I am old, I am still willing to fight for your cause. The warriors' battlefield is the grassland, while mine is the laboratory and the intelligence network," Qyburn replied proudly.

"One other matter, Your Highness. We have intelligence about House Stark's journey south. Lord Eddard, his two daughters, his bastard son, and a hundred guards," Qyburn noted.

"The Running Wolf is coming." Gendry had expected it. The king could not trust anyone else.

But Eddard seemed to have changed after all. He had brought his bastard son and added fifty guards. Though that would not turn the tables, at least the old wolf had grown a little wiser.

"Your Highness, that is not what I meant," Qyburn said apologetically.