Nerd In the North 6-1 (Patreon)

Mud, horses and ambition; a mix of all three coated the air of Bitterbridge like a perfumed maiden; the blend entirely unexpected for how sweet it sat in his chest. The Baratheon of Storm’s End breathed it deep, the raw, earthy scent of a hundred and twenty thousand men and their beasts a grounding weight on its own.

It pressed against the flighty silk of his doublet as Renly stood rooted, a stag in his prime surveying a field of steel.

Banners stretched to the horizon, a sea of color snapping like applause against the sky of the Riverlands. Lush and promising, the golden rose of Highgarden stood first and foremost, the huntsman of Tarly strutting right behind and firmly ahead of the Frey’s twin towers, stark and drab as the Riverland sky itself. 

A rainbow of loyalties all their own, woven and braided into a single, magnificent tapestry formed of thread, sword, and beating heart all in a vast assembly all his own.

Robert had no claim to this, his brother nearly in the arms of the Stranger as he clung to his deathbed. And neither did Stannis, his terse brother with no hold over these men’s hearts or minds. No strength of arm or crushing hammer blow had won these men to his side, and certainly no dry rasp demanding duty he had yet to earn.

No, his.

All his; won with a smile, a jest, a calming hand on an unsteady shoulder.

A good day to be a king. The remnant of wine in his cup was as warm as the thought he favored, the very last sip down his throat equally enjoyable. Nay, a perfect one.

Renly shifted his weight, wood creaking beneath his feet at the slight motion. The smile worn bright and bold on his face had yet to fade and he doubted it would have reason to shift, the presence behind him — one more felt than seen — doing its part to buoy his spirit. 

It was a heat quite radiant and perpetually pleasant, one that had nothing to do with the sullen coals dying in the brazier. The comet of the year past had bled its red omen across the stars and the shifts in its wake had not been small.

He had come to know his own gifts, of course, as many could attest to.

But some had known even greater, more visible, blessings of the Red Comet.

One of his closest had changed in a manner most glorious. The Knight of Flowers, always a creature of grace and beauty worthy of his title, now burned in quite the literal manner. 

A feast for the eyes and the soul; his Ser Loras was a golden blessing, light seeping from the knight’s pores and outward into the world for all eyes to gaze upon.

Many men averted their eyes from him now, as if staring at the sun in such a form could harm their eyes. Yet, the temptation that he considered his was undeniable in the eyes of a few; a few he would never have assumed before.

My sun. And I, the moon reflecting his glory? No. Renly’s thumb rubbed against the ring on his heart finger. The earth he warms.

And the hulking silhouette to his left was no different in her own appeal, albeit her beauty much much less so. Brienne of Tarth stood beneath the drab sky, Rainbow Cloak ill-sat on broad shoulders but the awkwardness that once defined his sworn sword was nowhere to be seen; the half-lumbering gait of a woman uncomfortable anywhere but the battlefield had taken leave of her. 

The only woman of his Rainbow Guard stood taller, legs rooted like an ancient oak yet with the poise of a dancer in the frame of a giant. A faint, silvery sheen clung to her steel the way the air of gold kissed Loras’s skin, a protective glimmer that promised violence both swift and terrible to any who threatened him.

My shield and my sword. If his smile were to grow any larger, he would bear the proper look of his eldest brother and he already bore too close a resemblance. Beauty and the Beast, both touched by the same strange fire.

Blue eyes, ever-bright and ever-bold, turned to the awaiting ocean of faces turned towards him, the sound of their murmurs calling his attention. Renly had always been a creature of the crowd; the rhythm of a speech came to him like simple breath, the precise cadence to turn a grumble into a cheer as natural as anything else. 

Where Robert roared and Stannis ordered; Renly seduced.

But since the passing of that comet, since the strange vitality had flooded his spirit like a draught of Arbor Gold, the wind of his words had become more than just that. A resonance, deep and weighty, hummed in his chest as it did in his veins; his body nearly as powerful as every sentence from his lips. 

It had been only a fortnight past in the training yard, where three knights had come at him as the other lords watched, their blades dull but intent. His veins had sung with that same potency as he moved through strikes seemingly mired in molasses, surprise on their faces delicious as he disarmed them one by one.

Destiny, He had laughed that day, exhilaration bursting free from him. Not a claim. A fact.

His hands raised and, at once, silence fell over the field as a hundred thousand breaths held in anticipation. No greater feeling had there ever been, to hold the attention of so many with such rapt attention.

“Warriors of the Stormlands. Soldiers of the Reach!”

His voice rolled out, impossibly loud, as it carried even to the furthest ranks, as the power flowed from him unseen but certainly not unheard. Renly knew every word from his lips was amplified as the magic — if that’s what this was — left him with a drain not entirely overbearing, but far more than a simple bout in the yard.

“You who have answered the call in the realm’s darkest hour. To stand not with a distant king who has forgotten you, seeking warmth in cold stone, but of a brother in arms who stands with you!” Already straight spines stood taller. “Who bleeds by your side!” Raised heads reached higher. “Who feasts at your table!” Any fatigue and uncertainty was wiped clean from the faces nearest him as if by the hands of a strong but gentle bathmaid.Renly felt their spirits lift, courage hardening into the finest castle-forged steel; a young squire near the front flushing with color, a grizzled veteran with clouded eyes blinking away tears as if he was but a green boy once again. His strength flowed into them and their adoration seeped back into his spirit; the loyalty in their souls music only he could hear. 

Loras stepped forward then, the crown resting in his deft hands; the gold of the stag’s head, antlers entwined with roses, catching the weak sunlight and the greater light of his own blessed grace. 

A crown for a new age.

For a new king.

“They call my claim false. My words untrue. Our goal foolish,” he chose not to look to his side, eyes not touching the gift in his beloved’s palms, “My brother Stannis,” his lips paused, the name hanging in the air with all the dourness of the man himself, “grim, grey, Stannis, believes the throne his by right of birth, as if his own actions do not show him disloyal to crown and country both. The boy Joffrey,” the sneer curled his lip without even a thought, his words as true as his feelings, “a monster born of incest and deceit, Lannister spawn borne from Lannister seed, sits upon the Iron Throne because of his mother’s madness and his father’s oathbreaking.”

The accusation brought forth roars from all sides, all that anger quieted at once as he raised nothing but a hand.

“But what is a king?” His voice rose to a silent army, the largest in all of Westeros. “Not a name scratched in a ledger? Not a line of succession written with soft hands, wrinkled hands, by maesters who have never known the hilt of a sword? Or is it the will of the people? Is it the strength to lead? The courage to protect? The heart to care?”

He swept his arm across his chest, a hundred thousand eyes and more widening as his voice rose even louder. “I see over a hundred thousand swords sworn to my cause! I see the strength of the Reach and the fury of the Stormlands united behind me! That is my claim! You are my claim!”

The roar was physical, a wall of sound that struck him like any blow he’d ever felt; enough to shudder the platform he stood upon.

Renly’s eyes stayed firmly on the cheering crowd as Loras stepped ever closer from behind, crown lifted high as Renly’s hands raised to meet it. His fingers touched the crown, gold cool and heavy as he lifted it even higher; a beacon to all who supported his cause. “I am Renly of the House Baratheon, The First of His Name!!”Then he thrust it onto his brow. “King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm! ”

One hand formed a fist as he held it to his heart, thumping his chest with strength that sounded out loud and clear through his own power. “And I swear to you now, by the old gods and the new, my heart will know no rest and my soul no satisfaction until the bastard of Lannister is cast down, the Whore Queen brought to justice, and true peace is restored to this land!”

Swords clashed against shields, a rhythmic thunder behind a hundred thousand voices as Renly stood with the hum of power vibrating in his heart.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Hours passed and the command tent was once more a haven of silk and shadow; wind drumming a soft, sibilant rhythm against the canvas a counterpoint to the distant, raucous celebration of his army. 

Loras sat in the corner polishing his breastplate, the sight domestic even against the golden light that clung to him even brighter in the dimness; casting deeper shadows on silk walls.

Legs up on a camp stool, Renly picked up his harp, the beautiful thing with polished wood and strings of silver staring back at him. He’d always played, once a simple parlor trick to please the ladies and amuse the lords of the court, but now… 

Deft fingers found the strings without conscious thought, plucking a single, clear note.

A low meandering tune left his lips as he hummed, the song itself a Stormlands ballad older than the Seven Kingdoms themselves; a stag facing down a thunderstorm. With each note he plucked, each breath from his lips, he could feel the weariness in his muscles dissolve, power flowing from his fingers into the wood, into the air, and ebbing back to fill him once more.

Manicured hands, the hands of a courtier — not a warrior — continued to play as he stared down at them, uncalloused save for the slight ridges from holding reins. 

Yet, he knew if he were to clench a fist now, he would feel strength that of a kni… nay.Two knights would be hard pressed to match him blow for blow. Even in a bout, he had no doubt that he could pick up a blade right now and wield it with a lethality that would match Loras’s own. 

Or at least, the Loras of old. 

This new Loras was another matter entirely.

No longer the charming brother of the king, his eyes continued studying his fingers, jeweled rings upon them catching the firelight. No longer the Master of Laws who laughed at court and ignored the rot. A warrior. A king. A sorcerer? 

Ideally not the last one, no; people had the tendency to burn sorcerers. A blessed monarch, then. 

A smile playing at his lips, the blessed monarch of the Seven Kingdoms set aside the harp, one final note hanging in the air as he rose to his feet. Slow measured steps carried him to the campaign table where the map of Westeros was spread, weighted down by goblets and wooden pieces.

All the pieces set and ready to be played. The Reach was his, the breadbasket of men and gold even less in question than the followers of the stag that were the Stormlands. He had the numbers. He had the love, of course. 

And above all else, he had the power.

Blue eyes drifted north, to the jagged line of the Wall at the very top of the browned map, then down, further past the Neck, to the shape of King’s Landing. That was where Joffrey held, the Mad King come again, they were already calling him.

And Stannis… 

Poor unyielding unflinching Stannis, all alone on his rock in the sea, grinding his teeth with thoughts of justice and oathbreakers making his nights more weary than restful.

The old Renly would have sent envoys, offered terms. Perhaps, even offering Storm’s End to Stannis or giving his grim elder brother a high seat on the council; anything to avoid the messy, bloody business of kinslaying or war, anything to deflect the relentless iron-willed competence he knew defined his brother. 

No longer. He plucked a dagger from the table, twirling the hilt in one hand. That was the former Renly. The Renly who needed words because he lacked steel. I have steel now. 

His gaze slid to Loras as the Knight of Flowers stood, breastplate forgotten. And much more than that.

The gods had given him this strength for a reason and it was not to sit idle. If negotiations were to win the day, he would negotiate. But until his brother showed himself to be more than an obstacle, he would be treated as a relic of rigid duty and joyless rule. 

And relics belonged in the past.

“Well, my love.” Renly smiled as he took in his lover’s resplendent shirtless form. “It seems the real play begins.”

Loras stepped closer, the heat radiating from him a palpable thing. “And you will be magnificent.”

“Indeed.”