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Chapter 93: A King Without a Crown
Daeron Targaryen's Perspective
The cold light of dawn filtered through the small slits in the stone walls. The cell stank of damp, iron, and the heavy breath of defeated men. Daeron stood quietly before the two chained prisoners, his posture straight, his hands behind his back.
Loras Tyrell still lay unconscious, breathing softly. But Renly Baratheon was awake, sitting with his back against the wall, eyes distant, shoulders slumped. He looked like a man who had aged a decade in a single night.
Daeron studied him for a moment—this man who had crowned himself king, rallied an army, married a queen, and believed he could rule Westeros. Now, he sat on a stone floor, his wrists chafed from the chains. There was something tragic in it. And a tiny flicker of pity sparked in Daeron's chest.
"This is no way to treat a Lord," Daeron said, stepping closer, his tone deliberate.
He waited to see if Renly would react to being called a Lord. And there it was—a small twitch in the corner of his mouth, a subtle tightening of the eyes. But he said nothing. Not even trying to protest, he sat there, too defeated for that.
"Release him," Daeron said.
Two of the men standing guard outside the cell moved swiftly, keys jingling as they opened Renly's shackles. The moment the chains fell away, Renly tried to stand but stumbled. One of the guards caught him under the arms and steadied him. He was still sluggish from the sleeping draught.
Daeron gave him a nod of recognition. "Don't worry. You'll be treated with the respect worthy of your station."
He turned without another word, leading the way out of the dungeon corridor. The guards helped Renly walk behind him. Their boots echoed along the stone floor, a rhythmic thud-thud-thud as they climbed the narrow passageways out of the prison level.
At the threshold of the stairs, just before they stepped into the daylight, Renly's voice broke the silence.
"What about Loras?" he asked, stopping in place.
Daeron turned slightly, enough to glance back at him. "He stays in the cell for now."
Renly's jaw tensed. "This is between me and you. You don't have to punish him for my actions. Or is it because of what you saw in my chamber?" His voice cracked, but then steadied. "The septons may call it a sin, but we love each other."
Daeron met his gaze without flinching. "What you do in your bedchamber, Lord Renly, is of no concern to me. I assure you, Loras Tyrell will not be unnecessarily harmed while he is my prisoner."
The fire that had risen in Renly's voice cooled, his shoulders sinking slightly. He gave a reluctant nod, lips pressed into a tight line.
Daeron resumed walking. They passed through a quiet courtyard, across the stone-paved yard where guards saluted Daeron as he passed. Eventually, they reached the solar—once part of the lord's wing of Castle Stokeworth, now Daeron's temporary seat of command.
The guards opened the heavy oaken doors, revealing a spacious chamber lit by morning sun. A round table sat near the center, already being set with tea, bread, cheese, and dried fruits by two quiet servants. They bowed and quickly withdrew.
Daeron entered and took a seat at the table without a word. Renly hesitated at the threshold for a while before walking in, the two guards flanking him. He sat across from Daeron, but did not touch the food or the tea. His hands were still trembling slightly, though he clenched them into fists to hide it.
Daeron showed no such restraint as he poured himself a cup of tea, the scent of mint and lemon wafting up. He took a slow sip, then selected a piece of honeyed bread and chewed it thoughtfully.
Renly held his silence, unwilling to be the first to break it, though confusion flickered in his eyes as he watched Daeron break his fast as if it were any other morning.
The silence stretched.
Daeron calmly drank his tea and reached for a date, eating with a casual ease that made the tension more unbearable by the second. Daeron saw the cracks in Renly's composure, as though the silence pressed too heavily upon him to bear much longer. Finally, Renly could take no more.
"You didn't bring me here to break bread," he said, voice tight. "You brought me here to negotiate my surrender. So talk."
Daeron set his cup down and smiled faintly. "To negotiate would imply the war is still undecided. It isn't."
He leaned back in his chair, the morning light catching the dark crimson of his tunic.
"I have already won."
Renly's face went pale.
"All you are to me now, Lord Renly," Daeron continued, emphasizing the title, "is a problem. You declared yourself king. You wore a crown that was not yours. And you know how a kings deal with such problems."
Renly's throat bobbed as he swallowed. The guards remained silent behind him.
"This is not a negotiation," Daeron said, his voice hardening. "This is me giving you a chance. A final mercy. Convince me—give me a reason—why I shouldn't relieve you of your head and put it on a spike for all to see."
The silence that followed was deafening.
And in it, Renly Baratheon felt the full weight of his uncertain fate.