Chapter 125: Renly Wears a Crown—But So Does My Son
Fate dragged Catelyn south again and again, as though she had been born to belong to the southern lands, as though her life were never meant to intertwine with the North at all.
She wanted to return home, to the cold country of her youth, to put her shattered house back in order.
Yet her son—Robb Stark, fifteen years old, hailed by the northern lords as the King in the North—had sent her farther south still.
Even as her father, Lord Hoster Tully, lay at death's door, the command had not changed.
She was to leave Riverrun and go in her son's stead, to treat with Renly Baratheon—who styled himself King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm.
And what am I meant to say to him? she wondered.
Tell him my son does not recognize him as king?
Catelyn placed little hope in the meeting. She knew too well that what they needed now were allies, not new enemies.
But Robb would not bend the knee to a man he believed had no rightful claim to the throne.
The Reach was green and gentle, its fields lush, its waters rich. Catelyn Tully gazed across the rolling emerald landscape, yet felt only emptiness within.
She held a bowl of oat porridge in her hands, stirring it absently. Her fingers felt stiff and clumsy today.
I should be grateful, she thought.
Valyrian steel is merciless—yet I still have both my hands.
She forced herself to swallow a few tasteless mouthfuls, bitterness rising higher than the gruel itself. At last, she set the bowl aside.
The sooner she saw Renly, the sooner she could turn back north.
"We should depart," she told Shad, one of the guards who had prepared the meal.
Catelyn mounted first, urging the column forward at once.
Beside her rode Harrion Morren, holding high the banner of House Stark—the white direwolf snapping proudly against the sky.
They had not gone far before they were discovered.
Tumbler's Ford lay nearby, not far from Renly Baratheon's encampment—a town recently struck by a raid from the City Watch.
This was the northeastern edge of the Reach, near the headwaters of the Mander.
Renly's riders surrounded them swiftly: forty heavily armed cavalry led by an elderly knight with a grizzled white beard.
When he saw Catelyn's banner, the old knight rode forward alone.
"My lady," he called out, "I am Ser Colen of Greenpools. You are in danger here."
His warning was earnest.
But Catelyn had no time to linger. She needed to see Renly—before he marched on King's Landing.
His assault would benefit Robb as well. If Cersei meant to hold the capital, she would be forced to summon Tywin Lannister from Harrenhal.
And if Tywin marched south, that alone would be a victory.
"I cannot sit idle at Riverrun waiting for peace," Robb had told her.
"That would make me seem afraid to fight again."
"My father taught me—when there is no war, soldiers begin to dream of hearths and harvests. My northern host is already growing restless."
My northern host.
Even his words had begun to sound like a king's.
Remembering that, Catelyn's urgency sharpened.
"Our purpose is most pressing," she told Ser Colen.
"I come as envoy of my son, Robb Stark—King in the North—to parley with the King of the South, Renly Baratheon."
At her choice of words, Ser Colen politely—but firmly—corrected her.
"King Renly was duly crowned and anointed, my lady. He is the lawful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms."
His tone remained courteous.
"His Grace and his army are encamped at Tumbler's Ford—the very place attacked not long ago by Podrick Payne of the City Watch. I would be honored to escort you."
He raised his mailed fist. His men parted at once, forming ranks on either side of Catelyn and her guard.
Escort… or arrest?
The thought flickered through her mind.
But she had no choice now but to trust the old knight's honor—and, more importantly, to trust Renly himself.
Still, in her heart, she continued to think of him as Lord Renly.
Her son did not recognize him as king.
Less than an hour into the ride, they saw the smoke from countless campfires rising ahead, and beyond it, the distant outlines of a stone-built town and castle.
Another short stretch onward, and sound itself began to roll toward them across farms, fields, and open land—
a low, swelling roar, like the muffled call of the sea.
As they drew nearer, the sound grew stronger.
By the time the town of stone and timber emerged clearly through the fine misting rain, the noise had resolved into a chaos of voices and clashing metal: horses screaming, men shouting and cursing, the mingled scents of cooking food and animal filth thick in the air.
Despite the warning of smoke and haze, Catelyn and her companions could not help but gape at the sight before them.
Thousands of campfires cast a pale fog over the land. Lines of horses stretched for miles. Entire groves had been cut down to fashion poles for banners and standards.
Great siege engines stood in ordered ranks upon the green fields outside Tumbler's Ford—catapults, scorpions, massive battering rams. The wheels of the ram-carts alone stood taller than a mounted knight.
In the drizzle, countless spearpoints bristled skyward, flashing coldly as though thirsting.
The tents of lords and knights dotted the countryside like silk mushrooms.
They saw spearmen, swordsmen, men in helms and plate.
They saw camp followers flaunting themselves, feathered archers strutting, laborers driving wagons, swineherds tending livestock, messengers running orders, squires sharpening blades, knights exercising warhorses, grooms cursing stubborn mounts.
"Incredible…" murmured Ser Wendel Manderly. "So many soldiers."
"Yes," Catelyn agreed softly.
Even she had never witnessed such a sight—not in her girlhood, not as the wife of a great lord, not even as the daughter of one.
Nearly all the southern nobility had answered Renly's call.
Everywhere flew the golden rose of Highgarden—stitched upon soldiers' tunics, fluttering from green silk streamers tied to spears and lances, carved upon shields hung before the tents of House Tyrell's many branches: sons, brothers, cousins, uncles.
Catelyn spotted the fox-and-flowers of House Florent.
The green and red apples of the Fossoways.
Tarly's striding huntsman.
Oakheart's leaves.
Crane's five golden cranes in a vee.
Mullendore's black-and-orange butterflies.
And beyond these—
On the far side of Tumbler's Ford, the banners of the Stormlands had been raised: the sworn vassals of House Baratheon, loyal to Storm's End.
She recognized Bryce Caron's nightingale, Penrose's quills, and Estermont's green sea turtle floating upon a green field.
There were others too—dozens of sigils unfamiliar to her—lesser lords, landed knights, hedge knights, freeriders.
All had gathered around Renly Baratheon, seeking to stand beside the victor in this war of crowns.
And above them all flew Renly's own banner.
From the highest siege tower, atop a vast oak platform clad in oxhide, streamed the most magnificent banner Catelyn had ever seen—large enough to carpet a great hall.
Even in the rain, it flew proudly.
Gold field.
Black crowned stag.
Tall.
Leaping.
Triumphant.
Noticing their stunned silence, Ser Colen slowed his pace, allowing them time to take it all in.
Thus they rode on, bearing the direwolf of Stark—so out of place among the southern colors—until at last they halted before an unremarkable stone keep.
"My lady," Ser Colen said, drawing rein, "allow me to announce your arrival."
"You have my thanks," Catelyn replied, her mouth dry, her expression grave.
Before long, a steward emerged to inform her that King Renly Baratheon the First would grant audience to Catelyn Stark, envoy of Robb Stark.
Declining the escort of Harrion and the others, Catelyn followed the steward alone into the keep.
Inside the hall, she saw many of the same banner-bearers she had passed outside—now in flesh and finery.
Some faces she recognized.
Her father had often hosted southern lords at Riverrun. She spotted Lord Mathis Rowan, broader and hardier than she remembered, his white tunic emblazoned with the golden tree. Beside him sat Lady Oakheart, slender and small. To her left was Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill, his greatsword Heartsbane resting against his chair, radiating cold menace even beside the hearths.
Others she could name only by sigil.
Yet all of them were secondary to the man seated at the center, beside a young queen—laughing, radiant, crowned.
No wonder they flock to him, Catelyn thought. He is Robert reborn.
Renly Baratheon was as handsome as his brother had been in youth: slender limbs, broad shoulders, straight black hair, bright blue-green eyes—and even the same easy smile.
A delicate circlet rested upon his brow, worked in pale gold, set with a rose and a dark emerald stag with golden horns.
He wore green velvet, embroidered in gold thread with the crowned stag—Highgarden's colors.
And beside him sat his queen, dressed likewise.
Margery Tyrell, Catelyn knew at once. Daughter of Mace Tyrell.
Through that marriage, the entire south had united.
Renly was twenty-one. Margery was younger still—perhaps even younger than Robb. She was beautiful, with soft doe-brown eyes and long curls falling loosely over her shoulders. Her smile was shy, sweet, practiced.
"Step forward, Lady Catelyn Stark," the king said.
Catelyn inhaled slowly, straightened her back, and advanced with composed dignity.
"My lord," she said, bowing, "I come as the envoy of my son, Robb Stark—Lord of Winterfell and King in the North."
"You should call him King," a voice snapped.
Renly merely waved the interruption aside, smiling.
"Welcome, Lady Stark. I grieve for your husband's fate."
He turned to his queen.
"My dear Margery, this is Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell."
"You are most welcome," Queen Margery said warmly. "I am deeply sorry for your loss."
"Thank you," Catelyn replied, the words hollow yet necessary.
Then Renly continued, his voice clear and ringing.
"I swear to you, the Lannisters will pay for Eddard Stark's murder. Once I take King's Landing, Cersei's head shall be yours."
And will that bring Ned back to me?
The thought burned bitterly.
Aloud, she said only, "Your pledge of justice honors you, my lord."
"King!" another voice barked.
"And you should kneel before the king!"
This time Catelyn saw the speaker—a knight in bright gold armor, a fresh blue cloak draped over his shoulders.
"The distance between lord and king is not as vast as you imagine, ser," Catelyn replied calmly.
"Renly wears a crown. So does my son."
Her voice rang firm and clear.
"Rather than quibble over titles in dust and mud, let us speak of matters far more urgent."
Silence fell over the hall.
Catelyn noticed the knight's face flush crimson, as though struck.
As though humiliated.