Chapter 33: Kings Rise, The Hawk Chooses a Banner (For Now)
The death of King Robert Baratheon and the subsequent arrest of his Hand, Lord Eddard Stark, was the thunderclap that shattered the Seven Kingdoms' brittle peace. Ravens took flight from every major keep, carrying declarations, summons, and threats. The realm, which had teetered on the brink for years, now plunged headlong into the abyss of civil war. From his dark bastions in the Stormlands, Darth Vorhax, the entity cloaked in the flesh of Lord Ellys Vorant, observed the unfolding chaos with the cold, detached interest of a master vivisectionist.
First came the expected proclamation from King's Landing: Joffrey Baratheon, a boy of thirteen with a Lannister's golden hair and a tyrant's cruel sneer, was acclaimed King, his claim backed by the formidable might of House Lannister and the machinery of the royal bureaucracy. Vorhax's spies within the Red Keep, led by the ever-efficient Will, reported the swift consolidation of Lannister power, the silencing of dissent, and the preparations for Lord Stark's "trial."
Then, like a winter storm descending from Dragonstone, came Stannis Baratheon's declaration. He, Stannis, was the true King, Robert's rightful heir, his claim based on the damning truth of Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen's incestuous parentage – a truth Jon Arryn had died for and Eddard Stark was now imprisoned for championing. Stannis's letters, penned with his characteristic grim righteousness, called upon all loyal lords to flock to his banner and cast down the Lannister abominations.
And finally, from the south, a different call arose, vibrant and full of youthful confidence. Renly Baratheon, Robert's charming younger brother, Lord of Storm's End, bypassing Stannis's superior claim entirely, declared himself King. His claim was based on popularity, charisma, and, crucially, the promised backing of the vast wealth and manpower of House Tyrell of Highgarden, sealed by his betrothal to the beautiful Margaery Tyrell. Renly's banners, the crowned stag on a field of green and gold, were said to be gathering an immense host in the Reach.
Vorhax, in his map room at Stonefang, analyzed these declarations with the precision of a general planning a galactic campaign. Joffrey and the Lannisters were the immediate antagonists, the usurpers many would unite against. Stannis, despite his rightful claim (assuming the bastardy was proven), was grim, unpopular, and possessed limited resources; moreover, Vorhax's Force visions had hinted at a dangerous, fanatical edge to Stannis, a reliance on a red priestess and unsettling shadow magic. Renly, with his massive army of Stormlanders and Reachmen, appeared the strongest contender initially, yet his claim was the weakest, built on charm and ambition rather than law.
It was here, in the interplay between the Baratheon brothers, that Vorhax saw his golden opportunity. His internal monologue, a cold stream of Sith logic, laid out the path:
"Renly, the peacock king, will draw the greatest numbers. His camp will be a locus of power, intrigue, and, crucially, Stormlord loyalty. He is the ideal initial banner to follow. His claim is flawed, his nature perhaps too frivolous for sustained warfare, but his present strength is undeniable. More importantly," and here a flicker of dark amusement touched Vorhax's thoughts, "my visions have shown his end: assassinated by a shadow, a creature of darkness born from Stannis's ambition and his red witch's sorcery. A kinslaying of the foulest, most undeniable sort."
His plan began to crystallize with chilling clarity. "I will declare for Renly. I will become his most ardent, most powerful, most vocal supporter among the Stormlords. I will shower him with praise, with counsel, with the might of my Obsidian Guard and the Wolf Brigade. I will bind myself to his cause, making my loyalty appear unshakeable. And then, when Stannis's shadow inevitably strikes Renly down – likely before any truly decisive battle is fought – I will be perfectly positioned. The Stormlands will be leaderless, their king murdered by his own brother using foul sorcery. I will ensure there are… witnesses… to the nature of Renly's demise, or at least amplify the whispers of witchcraft. I will then publicly denounce Stannis as a kinslayer, a practitioner of black magic, an accursed being unfit to rule. With Renly gone and Stannis damned, I, Lord Vorant, the strongest remaining Stormlord, the champion of order and justice, will step into the vacuum. I will unite the grieving, outraged Stormlands under my banner, consolidate my absolute control over this entire region, and then, with an even greater army at my command, I will be poised to dictate terms to whoever remains in the wider war. The Stormlands will become my unshakeable fortress, the bedrock of my future empire."
The strategy was audacious, cynical, and utterly Sith. It required patience, flawless execution, and a complete disregard for the lives and loyalties he would manipulate.
A raven soon arrived at Crow's Nest, bearing the summons of "King Renly Baratheon, First of His Name." The message was effusive, appealing to Stormlord brotherhood, praising Lord Vorant's renowned military prowess, and promising great rewards and honors for his support. Renly, ever the charmer, knew the value of securing the Hawk Lord's formidable army.
Vorhax's response was swift and public. He ordered Renly's royal banner – the crowned stag on Baratheon gold, quartered with the green field of his growing Tyrell alliance – flown from the highest towers of Stonefang, Crow's Nest, and even the grim Ironscar Hold on Old Wyk. He dispatched riders throughout his extensive domains, proclaiming his unwavering allegiance to the "true and beloved King Renly, the rightful heir to his noble brother Robert's spirit and charisma, the king chosen by the hearts of the people!" His pronouncements were masterpieces of feigned loyalty, lauding Renly's virtues while subtly denigrating Stannis's grimness and Joffrey's dubious parentage.
Then, he mobilized his forces. It was an army far greater and more terrible than the one he had led for Robert. Nearly a thousand Obsidian Guard, their black iron armor now bearing the subtle, crimson etchings he had developed through his alchemical experiments, marched with inhuman precision. Three hundred veterans of Brandon Snow's Wolf Brigade, their Northern ferocity undiminished, their loyalty to Vorhax absolute. Levies from his vast, well-ordered lands, better equipped and more disciplined than any other in the Stormlands, swelled their numbers to over five thousand. His siege train was formidable, his supply lines meticulously organized. And at his hip, Red Rain, the Valyrian steel sword, seemed to pulse with a faint, eager light.
Before departing, he ensured his own realm was secure. His son, Edric, now fifteen, was given nominal command of Stonefang's garrison, though under the strict tutelage of a veteran Obsidian Guard castellan. Lady Anya and his younger daughter, Lyra, remained at Crow's Nest, their safety guaranteed by its formidable defenses and loyal troops. Vorhax cared little for their personal well-being beyond their dynastic utility, but their security was part of the image he maintained.
The march of the Vorant host to join King Renly, who was gathering his massive army at Highgarden in the Reach, was a display of terrifying power. They moved like a dark river, their discipline absolute, their passage inspiring awe and fear in equal measure. Other Stormlords, their own forces often straggling and ill-organized, watched with envy and apprehension as the black banners of the Hawk passed.
Renly's camp at Highgarden was a breathtaking spectacle of chivalry and ostentation. Tens of thousands of knights and soldiers from the Stormlands and the Reach had answered his call, their pavilions a riot of color, the air filled with the sounds of feasting, music, and tourneys held in Renly's honor. It was, Vorhax noted with contempt, more a grand festival than a serious war camp.
His own arrival, at the head of his grim, black-clad army, was a stark counterpoint. A hush fell as the Obsidian Guard marched into the festive encampment, their silent, disciplined ranks radiating an aura of deadly purpose. King Renly, handsome, charming, and exuding an almost tangible aura of self-assurance, greeted Vorhax with open arms and effusive praise.
"Lord Vorant! My Hawk Lord! You have come! With such a magnificent force! Your loyalty and strength do honor to our cause!" Renly declared, his voice carrying over the assembled lords – Mace Tyrell, his sons Loras and Garlan, Randyll Tarly (who now served Renly, his past defeat at Ashford conveniently forgotten in the face of new allegiances), Mathis Rowan, and a score of other powerful Stormlords and Reachmen.
Vorhax knelt, a perfect display of feudal obeisance, though his eyes, as he looked up at the peacock king, held no warmth. "Your Grace," he said, his voice carefully modulated to sound sincere, "House Vorant and all its swords are yours to command. You are the true heir to your brother's valor and the people's love. With you as our King, victory is not merely possible, but inevitable." He presented Renly with a gift: a matched pair of warhorses from his own stables, black as night, their trappings of silver and obsidian, and a casket containing a hundred precisely forged Stonefang steel arrowheads, each one a work of deadly art.
Renly was delighted. In the days that followed, Vorhax became one of his most vocal and seemingly ardent supporters. He praised Renly's wisdom in council (though Renly's councils were often more concerned with the planning of feasts and tournaments than with hard strategy), lauded his kingly bearing, and pledged his forces to the most hazardous undertakings. He subtly fanned Renly's vanity and ambition, all the while using his Force senses and his intelligence network to analyze the intricate web of alliances, rivalries, and hidden agendas within the massive, unwieldy host. He noted the arrogance of many Reach knights, the quiet competence of men like Randyll Tarly, the devotion Loras Tyrell held for his king, and the undercurrent of unease some felt about Renly's blatant usurpation of Stannis's claim.
He established his own encampment with meticulous care – a fortified, highly disciplined zone within the larger, more chaotic camp, its patrols regular, its security absolute. It became a point of dark fascination for many.
As Renly, confident in his overwhelming numbers (some said nearly a hundred thousand men), finally announced his intention to march slowly towards King's Landing, bypassing any immediate confrontation with his brother Stannis, Vorhax publicly applauded the "wise and magnanimous strategy that will surely see King Joffrey's false reign crumble without needless bloodshed."
Privately, however, he dispatched his swiftest agents, and Nyx herself, towards Storm's End. His Force visions, and the cold logic of Stannis's character, told him that Stannis would not let Renly claim the Stormlands, his rightful seat, without a confrontation. The parley between the brothers, the arrival of the Red Woman, the shadow in the tent – these events were drawing inexorably closer. Vorhax needed to be ready. He needed his own "witnesses," his own narrative prepared. The game was far from over; for the Hawk Lord, it was merely reaching the end of its opening gambit. His eyes were fixed on the true prize: the chaos that would follow Renly's fall, and the rich harvest of power it would offer.
(Word Count: Approx. 4350 words)