299 AC - Westeros - Third Person POV
The winds of war howled across Westeros, carrying whispers of betrayal and flame. Petyr Baelish, ever the schemer, rode through the Reach toward Renly Baratheon's camp, his mind spinning webs of alliance and deceit. His plan was to sway the Tyrells, but the game of thrones was about to shift beneath him.
Outside the ancient walls of Storm's End, Stannis Baratheon and his younger brother Renly met under a grey sky, their banners—stag on black and stag on green—flapping in the salt-laced wind. The parley was meant to forge peace, to unite the Baratheon brothers against their common foes. Stannis, rigid as iron, stood with Davos Seaworth at his side, while Renly, clad in resplendent green and gold, was flanked by Loras Tyrell and Randyll Tarly. The air crackled with tension, each brother's claim to the Iron Throne a blade between them.
"You have no right to the crown," Stannis said, his voice grinding like stone. "I am Robert's heir by law, the eldest. Bend the knee, Renly, and I will make you my heir until I have a son."
Renly's laugh was sharp, his charm a weapon. "The realm loves me, brother. Eighty thousand men march at my back, while you skulk on Dragonstone with a handful. The lords and smallfolk alike will never kneel to a man who grinds his teeth in his sleep."
Davos shifted, uneasy, as Melisandre's red eyes gleamed beside Stannis. "The Lord of Light has chosen your brother," she intoned, her voice a low fire. "Kneel, or face his wrath."
Renly's smile faltered, but his resolve held. "I'll not kneel to a fanatic or a shadow. The throne is mine by right of strength." He turned, his cloak swirling, and rode back to his camp, the parley shattered.
That night, in the darkness of Storm's End, Davos stood by the sea, his face was that of horror. Melisandre, her robes glowing faintly, whispered of power beyond mortal ken. At her bidding, a shadow was born—a wraith with Stannis's face, conjured by the red priestess's sorcery. It slipped through Renly's camp, unseen by guards, and entered his tent. Renly slept, unaware, his dreams of crowns and glory cut short as the shadow's blade pierced his heart. By dawn, Renly Baratheon, King of the Reach, was dead, his murder a mystery that sent ripples of fear through his host.
Petyr Baelish, arriving at the Tyrell camp, found it in chaos. Lords and knights milled about, their faces pale with shock. Loras Tyrell, grief-stricken, clutched Renly's cloak, vowing vengeance, while Mace Tyrell wrung his hands, his dreams of a Tyrell queen fading. Littlefinger, ever quick to seize opportunity, approached Mace with a silken smile.
"My lord," Baelish said, bowing low, "the loss of King Renly is a tragedy, but House Tyrell's ambitions need not die with him. Margaery remains unwed, and the Iron Throne still seeks a queen. Joffrey Baratheon, the rightful king, could make her his bride."
Mace's eyes narrowed, but greed flickered within.
Littlefinger's voice was honeyed, his lies seamless. "Joffrey sits the throne, backed by Tywin's gold and swords. Marry Margaery to him, and House Tyrell gains the crown it seeks. Renly's cause is lost, but yours can rise higher."
Loras, overhearing, spat, "You'd sell us to that monster? Renly's blood is barely cold!"
But Mace, ever pragmatic, waved his son down. "Enough, Loras. Littlefinger speaks sense. Margaery as queen secures our future." After heated debate, the Tyrells agreed, and Baelish's deal was struck: Margaery would wed Joffrey, binding the Reach to the Lannisters. Littlefinger, however, kept his true thoughts hidden—he had whispered to Renly's bannermen before leaving, planting seeds of alliance with the fallen king's cause, ready to play both sides.
In King's Landing, Tyrion Lannister, newly named Hand of the King, fought to hold a fracturing city together. The smallfolk rioted in the streets, hunger gnawing at their loyalty, while Cersei's rash decisions and Joffrey's cruelty threatened to unravel the throne. When word arrived of Stannis's fleet sailing from Dragonstone, its black sails darkening the horizon, Tyrion's mind turned to war.
"He's coming for the city," Tyrion said, poring over maps in the Tower of the Hand. "Stannis's fleet is his strength—hundreds of ships, carrying thousands of men. Our walls are strong, but our garrison is thin, barely two thousand."
Bronn, his sellsword guard, leaned against the wall, sharpening a dagger. "So we fight smart, not hard. Got any tricks up your sleeve, Imp?"
Tyrion's eyes gleamed. "Wildfire. The alchemists have been brewing it in secret. We'll turn the Blackwater into a pyre."
When Stannis's fleet entered Blackwater Bay, Tyrion's trap was sprung. Ships laden with wildfire drifted toward the enemy. As Stannis's galleys closed in, a flaming arrow ignited the green inferno. The bay erupted in emerald flames, consuming half the fleet in a cataclysm of fire and screams. Ships splintered, men burned, and the water itself seemed to blaze. Stannis, aboard his flagship, watched his strength crumble, his face a mask of fury.
The surviving ships landed, disgorging Stannis's men onto the shores of King's Landing. The city's meager defenders fought bravely but were overwhelmed, their numbers too few to hold the gates. Joffrey went cowering into the Red Keep, wailed for his mother, while Cersei's nerve faltered. Just as the walls began to breach, horns sounded in the distance. Tywin Lannister, with twenty thousand men, thundered into the fray. The Lannister army smashed into Stannis's flank, cutting through his depleted forces like a scythe.
By dawn, the Blackwater ran red with blood, not fire. Stannis's army was broken, his fleet a smoldering ruin. He fled with what remained, retreating to Dragonstone, while Tyrion, exhausted but victorious, surveyed the city he had saved. In the Red Keep, Cersei embraced Joffrey, her relief tempered by fear of the sorcerer-king in the North. Littlefinger, returning with the Tyrells' pledge, smiled his secret smile, knowing the game was far from over.
In the North, word of the Blackwater reached Riverrun, where Aemon Targaryen and his lords planned their next move. The Lannister-Tyrell alliance was a new hurdle, but Aemon's powers and the North's forty thousand swords remained a force to be feared. The Riverlands, now secure, bolstered his cause, and whispers of his sorcery spread, drawing men to his banners.
The Tyrells, newly allied with Joffrey, prepared to march on King's Landing, Margaery's betrothal a seal on their ambition. Mace Tyrell dreamed of a queenly daughter, while Loras burned for vengeance against Stannis. The Reach's fields would fuel the Lannister war machine, but their loyalty was as fickle as Littlefinger's promises.
In King's Landing, the smallfolk cheered the victory, though fear of Aemon's name lingered. The Red Keep stood as a fortress of intrigue, with Cersei, Tyrion, and Tywin each playing their own game. Joffrey, oblivious to the fragility of his crown, demanded more heads, unaware that the North's dragon was rising.
The Battle of Blackwater had saved the Iron Throne for now, but the war was far from over. Across the Narrow Sea, in Uruk, Domonic Augustus watched and waited, his own conquests reshaping the East. In Westeros, the game of thrones grew bloodier, and Aemon Targaryen's ice and fire cast a shadow over all.