Chapter 34: The Peacock's Pride, The Brother's Shadow
King Renly Baratheon's march from Highgarden was less a military progression and more a grand, triumphal procession. His army, swelled by the vast levies of the Reach and the fiercely loyal Stormlords, was a sea of colorful banners, gleaming steel, and youthful arrogance. Nearly a hundred thousand strong, they moved with the leisurely confidence of a king who believed his crown already won by sheer weight of numbers and personal charm. Feasts were held nightly, impromptu tourneys and melees were common, and minstrels sang endless paeans to "Renly the Radiant, First of His Name, the Warrior of Flowers."
Darth Vorhax, Lord Ellys Vorant, moved within this festive behemoth like a shard of obsidian embedded in a jeweled tapestry. His own contingent – the black-armored Obsidian Guard, Brandon Snow's rugged Wolf Brigade, and their disciplined levies – was a stark island of grim purpose in the sea of revelry. While Renly and his courtiers indulged in wine and song, Vorhax drilled his men relentlessly, his Force-enhanced senses cataloging every weakness in Renly's sprawling, often ill-disciplined host. He observed Renly's vanity, his reliance on the fawning counsel of Loras Tyrell, and his casual dismissal of the more serious-minded lords like Randyll Tarly, whose military competence Renly seemed to value less than a witty jest. Vorhax, outwardly the most loyal and admiring of Renly's bannermen, used this time to further cement his influence with key Stormlords through carefully chosen words of support, gifts of superior Stonefang steel, or promises of future favor under their "glorious king."
It was near the border of the Reach and the Stormlands that Lady Catelyn Stark, envoy of her son Robb, the newly declared King in the North, arrived at Renly's camp. Her retinue was small, her face etched with grief and grim determination. Vorhax watched with keen interest as she was brought before Renly in his magnificent silken pavilion. He noted her quiet dignity, her desperate plea for an alliance against their common Lannister foe, and her unwavering loyalty to her son. Renly, resplendent in green and gold, received her with his customary charm, but his offer was one of arrogance: "King Robb may keep his crown and his kingdom, for now," Renly had declared, a magnanimous smile on his handsome face, "so long as he bends the knee and does me homage as his rightful sovereign. Once I have dealt with Stannis and Joffrey, we shall speak of the Lannisters."
Vorhax saw the flicker of disappointment and frustration in Catelyn Stark's eyes. Renly's pride, his refusal to see Robb Stark as an equal, was a critical misjudgment, one that further fragmented the opposition to the Iron Throne. So much pride, Vorhax thought, so little foresight. These mortals are so easily blinded by their own petty ambitions.
The festive march was rudely interrupted by dire news from the east. Ravens arrived bearing the stark tidings: Lord Stannis Baratheon, with his smaller, more fanatical army and his formidable fleet, had landed in the Stormlands and laid siege to Storm's End itself. Ser Cortnay Penrose, the loyal castellan, held the ancient Baratheon seat for King Renly but was sorely pressed.
A wave of outrage and consternation swept through Renly's camp. His own ancestral castle, the heart of his declared kingdom, besieged by his elder brother! This was an insult that could not be ignored, a direct challenge to his authority that overshadowed even the distant threat of King Joffrey.
Urged by his incensed Stormlord bannermen – Lord Bryce Caron, Ser Jon Fossoway, and others – and subtly prodded by Vorhax himself, who saw this as the perfect catalyst for the events he had foreseen, Renly made his decision. The slow march to King's Landing was abandoned. With a significant portion of his host, primarily his knights and cavalry, King Renly would ride swiftly to Storm's End to confront and crush his insolent brother.
"How dare Stannis defile our sacred home with his grim presence!" Vorhax had declared publicly in Renly's war council, his voice resonating with feigned outrage. "Your Grace, we must make an immediate example of his treachery! Let the Hawk fly beside the Stag and pluck out this northern viper's eyes!"
Renly, flattered by Vorhax's typically fierce (and public) loyalty, and eager to prove his martial prowess against his dour elder brother, readily agreed. Vorhax ensured that his own elite forces – the entire Obsidian Guard and the Wolf Brigade – were part of this swift-moving vanguard. Lady Catelyn Stark, her hopes of mediating between the brothers fading but not yet extinguished, accompanied them.
Beneath the colossal, drum-towered walls of Storm's End, the two Baratheon armies faced each other. Stannis's forces were smaller, barely five thousand strong, but they were veterans, hardened by their grim lord's iron discipline, and accompanied by the unsettling presence of Melisandre, the Red Priestess of R'hllor, her crimson robes a stark splash of color against the grey stone and steel. Renly's host, even with only his vanguard present, still outnumbered Stannis's by at least four to one, a sea of proud banners and confident knights.
The parley between the brothers took place on a windswept bluff between the two armies, under the watchful eyes of Ser Cortnay Penrose on the castle walls. Renly, magnificent in his green armor with its gilded antlers, was attended by Loras Tyrell, Lord Mathis Rowan, and Lord Vorant himself – Vorhax had ensured his inclusion, positioning himself as Renly's most formidable military commander. Stannis, stark and unyielding in his plain steel, had only Melisandre and Ser Davos Seaworth, his loyal Onion Knight, at his side. Lady Catelyn Stark stood apart, a neutral observer in this tragic fraternal confrontation.
Vorhax observed the scene with every fiber of his Force-enhanced senses. He felt the seething resentment radiating from Stannis, the arrogant confidence of Renly, the desperate hope of Catelyn, and the alien, potent thrum of Melisandre's power – it was a focused, channeled energy, different from the raw Dark Side he wielded, but undeniably powerful and unsettling.
The exchange was as bitter and fruitless as Vorhax had anticipated. Stannis, his voice like grinding stones, laid out his undeniable claim by right of succession. "You are my younger brother, Renly. By all laws of gods and men, the crown is mine."
Renly laughed, a sound as bright and careless as his armor. "The laws of gods and men seem to have forgotten you, brother. The lords of Westeros have chosen me. They acclaim me king. Your claim is but a parchment shield against a storm of swords." He offered Stannis a place on his council, the lordship of Storm's End, even to be named his heir until a son was born to him and Margaery.
Stannis's face was a mask of granite. "I am the King. I do not bargain for what is mine by right. Bend the knee, Renly, and I will give you your life and your old seat. Defy me, and I will destroy you." Melisandre, beside him, seemed to glow with an inner fire, her red eyes fixed on Renly with an unnerving intensity.
Catelyn Stark's attempts to broker peace, to remind them of their shared blood and their common Lannister enemy, were brushed aside by both brothers. The parley ended with Renly scoffing at Stannis's smaller host and declaring his intention to destroy him at dawn. Battle was inevitable.
That night, Renly's camp was filled with the usual feasting and confident boasts. The self-proclaimed king, assured of overwhelming victory, saw no need for excessive vigilance. Vorhax, however, knew this was the night of the shadow. He made his own meticulous preparations. His most trusted Obsidian Guard officers, along with Brandon Snow, were subtly positioned near Renly's royal pavilion, ostensibly as part of an "enhanced honor guard" Vorhax had offered, but in reality, to be his primary witnesses. He instructed them to be alert for anything unusual – unnatural shadows, a sudden chill, any inexplicable sounds. Nyx, his hawk, was perched high in a lightless weirwood tree overlooking the king's tent, her senses linked to his, a silent, unseen sentinel. His own forces were placed on a quiet, high alert, ready to respond instantly to his commands when the inevitable chaos erupted. He had already drafted the core of the speech he would deliver, the narrative of Stannis's kinslaying and witchcraft that would turn the Stormlands against him.
As the darkest hour before dawn approached, Vorhax, feigning sleep in his own heavily guarded tent, felt it through the Force – a ripple of alien, chilling energy, a sliver of unnatural darkness detaching itself from the direction of Stannis's camp. Nyx's senses confirmed it: a shadowy, vaguely human form, almost invisible to mortal eyes, slipped through Renly's unsuspecting Kingsguard and into the royal pavilion.
There was a single, muffled cry, abruptly cut short. Then, silence.
Moments later, screams erupted from the king's tent. Knights and guards rushed in, torches flaring. Vorhax, already armed and armored, was among the first of the high lords to arrive, his "witnesses" converging with him, their faces carefully schooled into expressions of shock and horror.
The scene within was one of brutal, inexplicable slaughter. King Renly Baratheon lay dead in his rich campaign bed, a single, precise wound beneath his gorget, his green armor splattered with his own royal blood. There was no sign of an assassin, no weapon left behind. Brienne of Tarth, the Maid of Tarth, one of Renly's devoted Kingsguard, knelt beside his body, howling in grief and disbelief. Ser Robar Royce and Ser Emmon Cuy, other members of his Rainbow Guard, stared in stunned horror.
Before anyone else could shape the narrative, Vorhax acted. "A shadow!" one of his Obsidian Guard officers cried out, his voice ringing with practiced terror. "I saw it! A fleeting shadow, darker than night, cold as the grave, it slipped into the King's tent!"
Brandon Snow, his face a mask of grim conviction, added, "There was an unnatural chill, moments before the cry. Like a breath from the Stranger himself. No mortal man could have passed the King's Guard unseen!"
Vorhax himself stepped forward, Red Rain now drawn, its crimson ripples seeming to reflect the blood on the floor. His voice, filled with a potent mixture of feigned grief and righteous fury, thundered through the gathering crowd of horrified knights and lords.
"Our King is murdered!" he roared. "Slain not by an honorable foe in battle, but by a craven assassin, a creature of darkness! Did we not see the Red Woman at Stannis's side? Did we not feel the chill of her unholy sorcery at the parley? This is Stannis's work! He has murdered his own brother, the rightful King Renly, through black magic and kinslaying of the foulest kind!"
He raised Red Rain high. "Will you Stormlords, you brave knights of the Reach, bend the knee to a kinslayer? A sorcerer who deals in shadows and murder? Or will you avenge our beloved King Renly and purge this darkness from our land?"
His words, delivered with the Force subtly enhancing their emotional impact, struck a chord with the shocked, leaderless assembly. Renly's vast army, moments before poised for victory, began to fracture. Fear, confusion, and outrage spread like wildfire. Some lords, particularly those of the Reach like Mathis Rowan and Randyll Tarly, looked grim and calculating, perhaps already considering their options. But many Stormlords, Renly's own people, cried out for vengeance against Stannis.
Vorhax saw Catelyn Stark and Brienne of Tarth (whom some, in their confusion, were already beginning to eye with suspicion) making a desperate escape from the chaos. He made no move to stop them; they were irrelevant to his immediate plans, though Brienne's eyewitness account might prove useful later.
His gaze swept over the terrified, enraged Stormlords. His moment had come. "The Peacock King is dead," he thought, a chillingly empty echo of Renly's charm in his mind. "But the Hawk will feast."
The shadow of his ambition was poised to engulf the leaderless Stormlands. The game had taken its next bloody, preordained turn, and Lord Vorant was ready to claim his winnings.
(Word Count: Approx. 4450 words)