13 The Battle of Blackwater Bay

The scene in the Baratheon camp north of Storm's End was chaotic - but there was a certain order to it. Clumps of armed foot soldiers, archers, and cavalry dashing every which way, with screaming knights and officers directing them towards the many moored boats on the quays. Supply were strewn everywhere, serfs and conscripted noncombatants darting by to load them into the ships. It seemed as if the entire Stormlands and Reach were behind Renly Baratheon.

'And here we are, ready to present the North to him.'

Eventually, Robb Stark, Catelyn Stark, and the rest of their retinue managed to secure a few noncombatants to take charge of their mounts. It was so surreal, being not just a future Lord but as a Monarch in his own right. Certainly the current regime in King's Landing didn't view his claim as legitimate, but having defeated the Lannister host on the battlefield and capturing the Kingslayer himself added a more practical type of legitimacy. Robb was their equal, and was being treated as such.

"Your Grace, Lady Stark," announced the armored form of a Baratheon Kingsguard… the female armored form. "King Renly and Queen Margaery have been awaiting your arrival for some time now. They are ready to welcome you to the Stormlands." She stood tall, menacing yet noble at the same time. This was a powerful warrior even in spite of her gender.

Catelyn knew exactly who she was. "Brienne of Tarth." She had known her father well, and the young Brienne from the last time she saw her hadn't outgrown her tomboyish attitudes. "I didn't know you found service at King Renly's side."

Leading the two Starks to the ornate command tent - bearing the sigil of King Robert - the iron faced lady allowed herself a small smile. "His grace will make an excellent King, avenge his brothers from the Lannisters." Brienne glanced at Lady Catelyn wryly. "As with his marriage, His Grace is one of those rare few that know the value of a strong woman, be it in body or in mind."

"I have raised my boys the same way," remarked Catelyn, smirking at Robb - who had the good graces to look away with a knowing innocence. 'Even Jon.'

Two guards pulling the tent flap back, Catelyn and Robb stepped inside the massive tent. There, seated on an oaken throne, was Renly Baratheon. On his head rested a crown, and next to him sat the Rose of Highgarden. While her husband nodded in acknowledgement of his guests, Margaery Tyrell beamed in greeting. Robb noticed a faint twinkle in her green eyes, and bowed. "Your Grace, my Lady."

"Robb of House Stark, King of the North, and the Lady Catelyn Stark," announced Brienne. "Presenting to Renly of House Baratheon…" Continuing to recite the litany of titles, Robb glanced towards the throne. What kind of red blooded male would he be not to notice one of the most beautiful girls in the Realm, and he had enough experience to tell she seemed to like what she saw. 'If only she weren't the Rightful Queen.' He could almost hear his mother scolding him for taking the risks he was, so covered them with a regal mask.

His mother hadn't wanted to come, but the Northern Lords felt - and he agreed - that the Young Wolf supplement his battle skills with that of diplomacy. Robb knew he was experienced in that front, and had to obtain such knowledge if he were to be a great King for the North.

"Greetings, Young Wolf. Lady Stark. Welcome to Storm's End Camp," Renly stated after the titles had been announced. "You must be famished. Please, before we talk business, allow my household to provide you with food and drink." That did sound lovely…

Almost an hour later, the servants were clearing the last of the plates off the table. "Now then, sweetpea," the would be King addressed his bride. "Do please leave us. I have business to discuss with my guests."

"Husband," replied Margaery, "This seems to be a discussion that I could provide…"

"I'm sorry, dear," Renly replied in a sweet tone - but both Starks could sense the ice in it. "But that wasn't a mere request. I will come see you once I'm done." With a kiss on her forehead, Renly bid her farewell. While rather polite, Catelyn knew no Stark would have ever disrespected their wife or female relative in such a way. Judging from the fist Robb formed underneath the table, he agreed. Or was it something different? In possession of a mind as well as beauty - something she shared with the Tyrell rose, and her famous grandmother - Catelyn could see the instant spark of lust between her son and the would be Queen. 'Good thing this meeting is only for a day or two.' Robb's honor was enough to prevent him from sullying his good name in such a manner, but then again, Catelyn would have said the same of Ned.

'But he did honor you.'

Renly broke the contemplation. "Now then, your emissaries had arranged a framework for you and I to enter into an alliance - we have common cause, I to take the throne and avenge my brothers, and you to avenge your father, Young Wolf."

"There is more to strategy and motive than vengeance, your Grace," Catelyn said.

"And what is it that you truly wish for? The rescue of young Sansa from the Red Keep?"

Biting her lip, Catelyn would have moved heaven and earth to rescue her daughter. Both her daughters. In her hesitation, Robb answered for her. "We wish… I wish that the North achieve its rightful place. The rest of the realm understands us not, and with what the Targaryens did to us and what Joffrey likely plans to do, our independence is non negotiable." Catelyn was impressed - her son sounded every inch a leader.

Nodding, Renly smirked slightly. "I have no issue with independence for the North, as long as you swear the same loyalty to me as your great father swore to Robert. That alliance between them and Jon Arryn brought over a decade of peace. An alliance between us will have the same consequences once Joffrey's head is mounted on a pike. And that will be soon, as I plan to assault King's Landing within the fortnight."

"If you plan to do so, what role do we play?" Robb was genuinely curious. Renly was still a far better strategist than him.

"The Lannister army under Lord Tywin still exists. It needs to be pinned and defeated even after the capitol falls." He raised a glass. "May this alliance last a thousand years."

Setting down the sleeping figure of her young son, Dany kissed his little, pink cheek. "Sleep tight, sweet Prince. Dream of how a mighty warrior you shall be, and of the great Kingdom you will inherit." The seven-month old Rhaegar Targaryen yawned in his sleep, arms stretching up. A once hardened heart melted into goo, Dany feeling such love for the little tiny creature before her. Soft crying from the other crib in her personal tent - guarded by four elite Unsullied soldiers picked by Greyworm, her top commander - drew her attention.

"My sweet little one," she cooed, clutching Arya close to her. Even with her features, she reminded her so much of Jon. It warmed her heart and made it ache at the same time. The wails lessened, but she remained as fussy and discomforted as before. "Please don't cry, what could be bothering you?" What with securing the Unsullied, preparing battle plans, and raising three unruly dragons, the time needed to morph from a confused girl into an experienced mother was limited - handmaidens helped, Missandei being quite the natural much to her surprise, but Dany insisted on keeping her children close as opposed to most noblewomen. She loved them, and aside from Saracen they were her only connection to Jon.

Rocking her daughter back and forth, Dany wracked her brain for why Arya could be crying. 'Cloth dry. Missandei fed her only an hour ago. She doesn't look or feel sick.' If it was loneliness, or missing her mother, Arya would have calmed down. Normally composed and regal, Dany was close to crying in pure frustration. 'Jon would be laughing his ass off at this,' she thought. Desperation made one look outside the box. "Would you like to hear about your father?"

Abruptly the wails stopped, Arya blinking her grey eyes at her mother. Dany almost burst out laughing at the irony of it all, but couldn't. She missed Jon desperately, so it was only natural that even their one-year-old children would spiritually crave closeness with their father. "Well then, let me tell you about the North's greatest swordsman - born of House Stark, the most honorable House in all of Westeros…"

"The future of our house rests on you fathering children for His Grace." Her former beauty withered by age - though most said it had slowly transferred to the new generation - the Queen of Thorns sill possessed the sharpest of minds. "You must just try harder, my dear."

Sighing, Margaery's beauty was marred with frustration. "You don't know how I've tried, grandmother. It is of no use." She paced back and forth, chestnut hair swinging madly. "I have kept all the lights off. Made myself up to look like a boy." Her nose crinkled at the rather foul memory coming to mind. "Not to mention having Loras in the same room as I while…"

"I don't want to hear it." Oleanna spat. Much as her father denied it, both Margaery and her grandmother had accepted Loras' proclivities… they didn't like it, but accepted it. "Even your brother can sleep with women if he so wants. Don't tell me that your husband…"

Margaery nodded. "Nothing I can do leads his appendage to stiffen, and even with Loras there he cannot finish inside me." Stray tears fell from her eyes - she knew most noble women would have to endure being married to someone they did not love for political reasons, but to be married to a man that liked only men? Inhaling, she summoned her grandmother's infamous steel. "I fear he will never quicken me."

Muttering something foul, Oleanna rose and hobbled to a window with her cane. "I was afraid of that. You must try to bear him a son and you are fertile now." Her wrinkles deepened in thought. "Perhaps… I think I may have a solution to this."

Pulling the cloak tighter over her head, hiding her face in the darkness, Margaery Tyrell stalked through the darkened camp. To her right the waves crashed into the rocky coast. The name for the Stormlands was apt, and luckily the ships were all moored in the Storm's End harbor, which was protected by a storm barrier breaking the waves. If anything, it joined with the post-feast lethargy among the men to help cloak her from discovery. Margaery's husband wouldn't care, as he was currently enjoying himself with Loras in the warmth of the royal tent.

And therein laid the problem. The "perfect" marriage arrangement for the Reach and House Tyrell could only work if she delivered King Renly - soon to be the undisputed King of the Seven Kingdoms once Joffrey was deposed and King's Landing was his - a son and heir. However, with her husband unable to finish himself with any but a man, she was stuck. Stuck with what her grandmother felt was the only solution.

It would be simple enough after the fact - if Renly was anything like his brother, get him drunk enough to pass out and he'd believe anything could have happened before losing consciousness. Loras would play ball. No matter how hard he loved Renly, his loyalty to their House was unquestionable. The complexity entered with finding a person who would both be willing to commit adultery with the Queen and one that resembled Renly enough to avoid uncomfortable questions. Covered in bulky and flowing garments, Margaery could never deny her renowned beauty. She was truly the Rose of the Reach as many called her, suitors crawling on their hands and knees for her till Renly Baratheon swooped in. Seduction wasn't too bothersome a chore, her grandmother taught her well in that particular art. But who would be trustworthy enough not to blab - someone with a stake in the game.

Finally, with many to choose from, only one tickled Margaery's fancy. And he was the one who's tent was about to host an unexpected visitor. Pulling the flap back, she stepped inside.

The brazier had died out, but in the summer heat it was actually better that it did. Creeping closer to the bed, Margaery was about to remove her cloak when a knife found itself pressed to her throat. Her blood turned to ice, body shivering in terror.

"Identify yourself," Robb Stark growled, blanket slipping down his torso - bare due to the temperatures in the south. Fingers shaking, Margaery managed to complete the task of lowering the hood of her cloak. Hard eyes widened in surprise. The knife lowered. "Queen Margaery, what are…?" Suddenly self-conscious, Robb covered his torso with the thin blanket.

His actions endeared him more to Margaery, who fought a laugh. In a world of backstabbing noblemen, willing to kill their own mother for more power or money, the Starks had honor - were above it all. The Young Wolf still might not go for it, so she would have to lay the seduction thick. "I could see you eyeing me since you got here, Robb Stark." She slid out of her nightdress, revealing her naked form.

"We… can't do this…" Robb tried, but couldn't will his hands to resist. Every man had at least one weakness. The Young Wolf found one.

Straddling him on the bed, Margaery never dropped her smile. "I'll be quiet."

Arms straining to push the oar through the choppy waters of Blackwater Bay, Davos Seaworth deftly maneuvered the small craft towards one of the caves that dotted the cliffs off King's Landing. These were only accessible by sea, and while there were plenty of caves within walking distance he had been informed by his ward that solitude was preferable. Sparing a glance at the visage of Melisandre, moonlight illuminating her fair features, Davos reasoned she had a reason to wish for it.

"And it begins soon," spoke the Red Witch - as Stannis always called her. "They're massing for the assault."

Looking over his shoulder for a moment, Davos managed to pick up the flickering lights as they glided through the water. What had to be over a hundred ships, likely all packed with Baratheon troops. "They're following Stannis' plan then. Well that is to be expected, considering most of his advisors and officers flocked to Renly."

"The youngest Baratheon betrayed his kin by abandoning him at the capitol," Melisandre mused as they pulled into the cave. "The Lord of Light may not interfere in the affairs of men, but through his servants justice will be rendered against the guilty." Rising from the boat, even the billowing cloak was unable to disguise her pregnant belly.

As with the cave, Davos didn't bother to try to discern what Melisandre's game was. His gut told him that he'd rather not know. "The night is dark and full of terrors," he muttered, igniting a torch to banish the blackness. "No wonder men cherish fire so, even if it can burn."

A soft laugh left the Red Woman. "A rather deep statement, coming from a simple man. Though I doubt you do not hold complications, Ser Davos Seaworth." Stepping gingerly on the rocks, she studied him. "You claim to be a reformed smuggler, meaning you have had times as a bad man while also meaning you have redeemed yourself with good. But a half-rotted onion is rotten completely. One can only be good or evil."

"If your lord truly does care about a scoundrel like me, then I'll hope I am the former." He couldn't say that watching over her - be it for Stannis, King Joffrey, or Tywin Lannister wasn't interesting. Such was his life. Interesting.

Sitting down on an outcrop, Melisandre eyed him curiously. "We are both knights, Ser Davos, if unconventional. But an onion has layers, as you do. It is hard to catch a glimpse underneath yours." It was at that point that she removed her cloak, leaving her swollen body bare to the elements.

"Lords protect us," Davos gasped, his torch suddenly glowing three times as bright.

"The Lord of Light is the only true god, Ser Davos." Folding her hands in her lap, Melisandre sat still. "We must wait now." In the distance, a massive roar filled Davos' ear.

It had begun.

"Where are our soldiers, Imp!" Joffrey snarled at his uncle. More Baratheon soldiers were pouring in, the last of Renly's ships docking. Out in the bay, the licks of green flame still illuminated where dozens of ships and thousands of men had been dispatched into a watery grave. His uncle's idea, a good one he grudgingly admitted. "You promised your wildfire attack would cripple them."

"Your Grace, it did cripple them." Gritting his teeth, Tyrion did his best not to slap the King as with the smallfolk riot - a vicious idiot described him well, but with his blood up and the wrong Clegane standing right next to him, it wasn't the safest time to deliver hard lessons. "If it hadn't been for the preliminary strike, they would have swarmed the walls by now. Sandor Clegane managed to beat back an initial assault, but they've rallied. We don't have enough men for a protracted battle."

Joffrey nearly tumbled back in fright as an arrow smacked one of the stone battlements right next to him - had the faceless archer been more accurate, young Tomman would have been King. "What… what should we do?" All bravado had leached from him. The arrogant boasting to Sansa prior to the fighting seemed so small compared to the glaring reality of impending death.

Looking at the assembled garrison below, Tyrion gulped. "Nephew, this is a time for you to lead your forces. Show them that you are willing to fight alongside them, to fight for your city and your kingdom. Lead us to slip around them and annihilate the Baratheons."

While his uncle's romanticized portrait of him fighting off his uncle's forces appealed to him, the crippling fear remained. The messages from the Red Keep still remained in his mind. His mother wanted him to join her, his uncle wanted him to lead the fight, and Lord Baelish nestled squarely in the middle by wanting him to stay in the defenses. To allow the King to fight hard but not needlessly risk himself.

"I will stay here and defend the battlements. You lead the charge."

Tyrion sighed. He honestly expected much less. 'I can barely hold a sword,' he thought to himself, 'Yet I must lead the charge. How… ironic.' With that he dashed off.

Glancing about, Joffrey barked a command. "Archers, bring more archers to the wall before…"

Suddenly, a door to a battlement was kicked open to reveal Loras Tyrell - armor drenched in blood, the Highgarden heir and right arm of Renly himself raised his sword, Baratheon guards behind him. "We meet again, Joffrey. Your uncle sends his greetings."

Hands shaking, Joffrey drew his own sword. "Ser Gregor, kill him." Sometimes the battles came to you.

"AHHHHHHH!" Davos grimaced, one part of him wishing he could help while the other advised him to back as far away as possible. The latter won out, to an extent. "URRRRRRRGH!" Melisandre's screams echoed through the cave - obscuring the chaos of the battle outside. Grabbing her hair as she told him to do, Davos couldn't help but observe the scene before him. The Red Woman was one of the great beauties of the realm. Not now though, not under the current circumstances.

The prospect of having to deal with Tywin Lannister's child did not appeal to him. Of the three that existed, one killed the King he was sworn to protect, one was a bitch that Stannis thought was sleeping with the former, and the third was a drunken imp, the best of the lot. What would the fourth be?

Davos soon got his answer. "ARRRRRGGGHHHHHH!" His eyes widened and muscles shook as instead of a baby, a black cloud flowed out of the Red Woman. More literally clawed out with wraith-like hands. "The Lord of Light demands justice!" she shrieked. The wraith was fully out, taking the shape of a humanoid form. "Deliver it unto those that seek evil!" A pitched scream left the dark shroud, racing through the air to some unknown prey.

"Well then." Close to shell-shocked, Davos couldn't help the calming quip that left his trembling lips. "My decision not to cross you seems to be working out for me."

"Drop anchor!" yelled the captain, the massive weight smacking onto the muddy ocean bottom, the fleet flagship held itself only a hundred yards from the city walls - just about to fall. Renly felt on top of the world. Standing just in the entranceway to his cabin, the sounds of battle filled his ears. What had looked nearly like defeat and was now just wisps of green flame and debris on the sea surface. Soon he would be King. Soon he would sit upon the Iron Throne.

"Husband!" cried out Margaery, trembling from apprehension. "You may be killed, being so close to the battle." It was already killing her that Loras was fighting on the city walls.

Scoffing, Renly looked back at her. "That will not happen, wife. I will be King, and you Queen." Confidence ringed his handsome face.

The words stabbed deep. Her passion with Robb Stark - however satisfying and amazing it was - hadn't produced a child. She had bled one week before, and would have had to start over. The fortunes of House Tyrell under King Renly were vested on it.

Lady Brienne caught her eye. "Don't worry, my Lady. I will make sure no harm comes to him."

Her words were spoken too soon, for both jumped as a black wraith passed through the wooden walls of the ship - a wraith looking exactly like Tywin Lannister. Floating behind Renly, a translucent dagger formed and sliced through his resplendent Stag armor, impaling on his heart.

"NOOOOO!" Brienne cried, Margaery just stunned silent. The wraith shrieked and vanished just as two Baratheon guards stormed in. They saw Brienne, knelt at Renly's side, and assumption took over.

"You'll pay for this, bitch!" one snarled, charging. Brienne drew her blade. Margaery, recovering her wits, tried to explain but it was too late. Brienne killed both and stripped her armor off, plunging into the dark depths to make her escape. The Red Woman's plan worked - the pretender was dead, and only four knew the truth.

It spread like wildfire. One Baratheon archer with sharp eyes noticed their leader's fall outside Renly's Kingsguard, and while those turned on Brienne of Tarth, in his panic the archer hollered to his unit: "The King has fallen!"

Panic and mass hysteria were the most contagious diseases in the human condition. Soon, even in the heat of battle, news of Renly's demise had infected the Baratheon army. Already facing the determined defenders on the walls and being slammed into by a strategic envelopment under Tywin Lannister arriving on the scene, the news of their King's death was too much. The army broke, fleeing as fast as their feet would take them. Tywin owned the field.

"Come back you cowards!" roared the normally suave Loras Tyrell, soon distracted by his final comrade's torso being run in by the King's sword - a lucky hit considering the blow was sloppy and made with a hand shaking from fear. The blow that was reserved for the great heir to Highgarden came from the Mountain. Revenge for the fated joust, Robert Baratheon's last, was best served cold for Gregor Clegane. But it was served, Loras Tyrell's face smashed in just as Stannis' was.

Ten minutes later, the battle was over. Ninety thousand Baratheon and Tyrell forces had assaulted King's Landing by the sea. Only fifteen thousand escaped, forty thousand captured and the rest dead on the beaches or in the water - Tyrion Lannister and the Lady Melisandre had delivered a great victory for King Joffrey, First of his Name. None south of the Riverlands could challenge his hegemony over the Seven Kingdoms.

And oh how the South would howl.