Check out advanced chapters on : patreon.com/Veni_V
---------------
He was drifting downward slowly, as if he had a pair of white wings—but those wings seemed to struggle against the air.
He had no idea if Camillo and the others had managed to escape. When misfortune strikes, even drinking water can make one choke.
The white dragon pulled at Cole with all its strength. Horses were unreliable, but dragons could be trusted.
This time, he had been completely separated from his group, but at least he had learned something new—Renly was using ships to transport supplies.
He recalled the map, tracing the course of the Mander River. It flowed through Highgarden, past Longtable and Greenfield, before cutting through the Kingswood to merge with the Wendwater, which eventually spilled into Blackwater Bay.
No, Highgarden's fleet couldn't sail directly to the Kingswood. The Wendwater was too shallow, difficult for ships to navigate. They would have to dock near Greenfield and transfer the cargo onto wagons and horses for the rest of the journey.
Cole's weight was still too much for the white dragon to carry for long, but the cliffside had enough jagged rocks jutting out to serve as landing points. They touched down on one of them, and the dragon carefully lowered him onto solid ground before resting. The cliff was treacherous, nearly a sheer drop.
At last, they reached level ground. The white dragon took off again, soaring high, while Cole made his way eastward on foot.
Meanwhile, the cavalry had regrouped, but a key figure was missing. A heavy silence fell over them, their morale sinking. Then, one man raised his voice, spoke a few words, and the riders followed him into the darkness, their pursuers still close behind.
The sun rose and set several times. Another battle had just unfolded beneath the walls of Storm's End. The enemy had attacked in the dead of night. The thick stone walls, battered by siege, seemed to weep, streaked with fresh blood that had yet to dry.
Stannis had commanded the battle through the long hours of the night and had only just lain down to rest. But sleep was fleeting—he was soon pulled from it by a nightmare.
In his dream, Storm's End was deathly silent. The faces around him were grim, stone-like, resembling the gargoyles of Dragonstone. He saw his fleet, Proudwind, sinking beneath the waves. Above the castle, the banners of Highgarden fluttered in the wind.
He woke drenched in sweat. The fire in his chamber had burned out at some point, leaving the room cold. He sat up, shivering slightly.
Just then, a knock sounded at his door.
Adrian Celtigar entered, his gait slow and measured.
"Your Grace, I bring bad news," he said.
Stannis exhaled sharply. "What is it, Ser?"
"Cole Julius seems to have defected to your brother Renly," Celtigar said, hesitating for a moment. "And now, the son of House Bar Emmon is tied up beneath the city walls as their hostage."
By the dim light, Celtigar could see the tension in Stannis's face. He pressed on, "This news will deal a serious blow to our men. That boy—many have begun calling him a savior."
"I see." Stannis's voice was steady. "Savior—that's nothing but foolish talk, the sort of nonsense bards peddle in their songs."
Celtigar kept his thoughts to himself. Yet, Your Grace, those queens call you their savior, too.
After Celtigar left, Stannis called out, "Davos."
A servant entered. "Your Grace, what do you require?"
"Send for Melisandre. And have the servants relight the fire," Stannis ordered.
The servant bowed and hurried away.
When the fire was rekindled, a figure clad in red entered the chamber. She inclined her head in greeting. "Your Grace."
Stannis sat in his chair, his expression unreadable. "Celtigar just brought me news. The old man is ever grim. He didn't tell me to surrender, but I can see it in his eyes—he doesn't believe we can win."
"What troubles you, Your Grace?" Melisandre stepped closer.
"Do you know who stands beneath these walls now? I hear Ser Julius, the one you prophesied about, has been slain by Renly's knights. I ordered my archers to fire upon them, but the more I do, the more they believe I fear him. They call him a savior. It's crippling our morale."
"You foretold that he would kill Renly," Stannis continued, his voice tight. "Now, we don't even know if he's alive or dead."
Melisandre stood by the fire, her shadow flickering against the walls. "This news comes from our enemies. Do you truly believe them?"
Stannis's patience was thin. "I have had enough, my lady. If your Lord of Light does not act soon, I will take matters into my own hands. If we waste any more time here, the only victor will be that boy sitting on the Iron Throne." His gaze burned into her.
Melisandre turned slightly, the hem of her red gown shifting as she moved. Slowly, she faced him again.
"Your Grace," she said, her voice laced with certainty, "Renly's death is near."
With a soft rustle, the red robe slipped to the ground.
In the bustling camp, filled with tents and banners, the wind stirred the golden-stag sigil that hung before the command tent. Merchants, prostitutes, and stable hands moved about, while patrolling cavalry and spearmen stood watch. A knight, clad in armor, rode past on a warhorse, his helmet gleaming in the afternoon light.
Through the rows of tents, a knight in dark green armor approached the central pavilion. His helmet hung at his waist, and his steps were steady with purpose.
Inside the main tent, he found his brother-in-law, King Renly Baratheon.
By Renly's side stood his younger brother, Ser Loras Tyrell, and their sister, Lady Margaery Tyrell.
"Your Grace," Garlan knelt before Renly, offering a respectful salute.
Renly smiled and reached down, pulling him to his feet. "You've done well, Ser Garlan. Your efforts have not gone unnoticed."
Margaery, the famed "Little Rose," flashed a radiant smile, dimples forming on her cheeks. "Second Brother, they say you personally unhorsed Ser Julius."
Compared to his sister, the "Rose of Highgarden," and his younger brother, the celebrated "Knight of Flowers," Garlan was known only as "Garlan the Gallant"—a title bestowed upon him by their elder brother. His name did not carry the same renown across the Seven Kingdoms as Loras's did. He had never cared much for the so-called glory of tournaments.
He shook his head. "He fell on his own."
Renly chuckled. "Perhaps he was intimidated by your charge." He studied Garlan for a moment before adding, "I must decide whether to wait for Ser Barristan or name you my final Rainbow Guard."
"Ser Barristan Selmy is the bravest knight in the Seven Kingdoms, Your Grace," Garlan replied, unwilling to take the position.
"It is said that the knights of Highgarden are both brave and honorable," Renly mused. "You and Loras have certainly proven that."
"If it weren't for protecting His Grace, I would have gone myself," Loras added with a smirk.
Garlan's thoughts drifted to the man who had leapt from the cliff that night. He had sent men to search for the body, but they had found nothing.
Surely, no one could have survived such a fall. And yet… he couldn't shake the unease in his gut, the memory of the man's last words echoing in his mind.
That evening, Renly held a feast in Garlan's honor.
The great hall was filled with laughter and the clatter of goblets. Knights and lords drank heartily, tearing into platters of pork sausage, bacon, steak, and onions.
Garlan frowned slightly—not out of distaste for the feast, but because the army's food supply was still a pressing concern. Holding such a banquet now felt like a waste.