The warm summer wind blew across the Mander, as Renly Baratheon gazed across the wide plains of the Reach. From the battlements of Highgarden, Renly could see for miles around. The fertile plains of the Reach spread before him, and the endless gardens of the Tyrell’s family seat framed his vision. His forces were splayed before him, the seemingly endless camp spreading from the walls of Highgarden, along the Mander’s flat banks, and further out into the country side. The death of his brother had thrown a wrench into Renly’s plans. Both he, and Loras, had intended to bring Margaery Tyrell, the Rose of the South, to court. Had Margaery been able to woo that lecher Robert, the Realm may still have been at peace. Cersei Lannister would have been dumped by the wayside and her entire family purged from any place of influence in the capital.
If only, Renly thought, then we would have had no war, no death and destruction.
Of course, his brother Robert, as was his wont, did not patiently wait for the plan to unfold, and was rather unceremoniously skewered by a boar. The chaos that followed swallowed the capital, before anyone could react to the changing circumstances.
If only that poor fool of a Stark had taken my advice, he might be Protector of the Realm right now, and not decorating the gates of the Red Keep
After his flight with the Knight of the Flowers from the Capital, It had not taken long for Renly and his retinue to race down the Rose Road, sending ravens as they went. Already, the Stormlords were mustering their strength, and upon their arrival in Highgarden, Mace Tyrell had called his banners as well. Loras was always his favourite son, and at his urging, and with some charm on Renly’s part, Mace was easy enough to convince. And all it had taken, was a marriage. Margaery was beautiful, no doubt, yet she was not, as many knew, Renly’s type. The marriage, distasteful as it was, bound Highgarden to Renly, and to have the strength of the Reach at his back, Renly had felt confident enough to finally, and publicly, lay his true and rightful claim to the Iron Throne.
Originally, Renly had planned to press hard for the Capital, the Lion of Casterly Rock would not be slow to protect the little cub that sat on the Iron Throne. The execution of Eddard Stark had changed all that. With a horde of angry Northmen now streaming down from the Neck, Renly and his council had decided that they may as well let the Lion and Wolf bleed each other to death. Already this “King” Robb Stark had dealt Tywin a stinging blow, and taken the Kingslayer hostage. These Northmen would have to be brought to heel eventually, but only after they sucked Casterly Rock dry of its manpower and ravaged its countryside.
Who can stand before me now?
“Your Grace,” a voice said, calling across the vine entwined terrace. “The Council has been summoned, with the arrival of Lord Rowan.”
Renly smiled vacantly, and ran a hand through his thick, black hair. He wore a fine doublet of crushed black velvet, slashed with cloth-of-gold. His supple leather boots came to just under his knees, and about his shoulders hung a heavy cloth-of-gold cape, a prancing black stag sewn into the centre of the rich fabric.
“Tell my goodfather that I will join them shortly. We must ride, and soon.”