The plains outside Myr stretched endlessly beneath a pale blue sky. The wind rolled over the tall grasses like waves upon a green sea, carrying with it the faint scent of salt from the distant Narrow Sea. A small gathering of nobles stood upon that expanse—figures whose names would one day shape the fate of Westeros.
There was the Rose of the Reach, radiant and poised.
There stood the last true dragon, silver-haired and ethereal.
And there, clad in gold and black, stood the legitimized son of House Baratheon—the young stag whose name now echoed across continents.
Ser Barristan Selmy stood slightly apart, his white cloak stirring gently in the breeze.
"Ser Barristan," Ser Garlan Tyrell said respectfully, inclining his head. "Your name is sung throughout the Seven Kingdoms. It is an honor."
The old knight chuckled, lines deepening around his eyes. "You are kind, Ser Garlan. Though I fear my name now appears on a different sort of list—traitor, dismissed from the Small Council."
"That," Garlan replied calmly, "is their folly."
Daenerys Targaryen stepped forward then, her silver-gold hair shimmering in the sunlight. "I am grateful you could come," she said warmly to Margaery and Garlan. "Welcome."
Her violet eyes lingered thoughtfully on the Tyrell siblings. House Tyrell had bent the knee to Robert Baratheon after the fall of House Targaryen, yet they had not been overzealous in their betrayal. They had fought symbolically, preserved dignity, and avoided needless cruelty. In Daenerys's mind, that counted for something.
Unlike others who had abandoned her family without even a token resistance.
Margaery Tyrell lowered herself gracefully to one knee. "Your Majesty honors us with your welcome."
Daenerys smiled and reached down to lift her up. "Please. Call me Dany. And may I call you Margaery?"
"If it pleases you," Margaery replied gently.
The two women studied one another in silence for a brief moment.
Margaery was the very image of a Reach maiden—brown hair cascading in soft waves, warm brown eyes, elegant features framed by traditional silks embroidered with golden roses. She radiated charm and cultivated grace.
Yet standing before Daenerys, she felt something unexpected—a subtle distance. Not hostility, not coldness, but something larger. Daenerys possessed a beauty that felt almost unreal, something ancient and elemental. The silver hair, the luminous skin, the otherworldly violet eyes—it was the sort of presence that commanded rooms without effort.
It was not merely beauty.
It was myth.
Gendry Baratheon broke the quiet.
"I had expected to see you at Renly's coronation."
He wore a golden brocade cloak, embroidered with fifty leaping stags on one side and fifty roaring dragons on the other. Upon the stag's head sat not only a crown—but a warhammer.
Power, earned by strength.
Garlan's expression hardened slightly. "Lord Renly has indeed declared himself king. House Tyrell serves the rightful crown."
"Usurpation is treason," Gendry replied evenly. "But silence may be questioned as well. I heard Renly named Edric as his heir—claiming noble birth makes him more suitable."
"That is Renly's opinion," Garlan said diplomatically. "He also seeks stronger alliances. There has been talk of uniting Edric with Shireen Baratheon—should Stannis agree. The fleet of Dragonstone is… persuasive."
Gendry almost smiled at that.
Renly was thinking politically, as always.
But the match struck him as faintly absurd. Edric and Shireen were of similar age, true—but Shireen bore the scars of greyscale, and Stannis was not a man easily bent by marriage pacts. Still, Renly was desperate for legitimacy. A united Baratheon front would be formidable.
Margaery's gaze shifted subtly toward Gendry.
For a fleeting moment, she saw Renly in him—those clear blue eyes, that Baratheon coloring.
But the resemblance faded upon closer look.
Renly had been slender, polished, charismatic in a courtly way.
Gendry was built differently.
Broader shoulders. Strong forearms shaped by years at the forge. A jaw set firm with stubborn resolve. There was steel in his eyes—not laughter.
Renly had been a summer breeze.
This one was a storm.
He was handsome, undeniably so—but in a rawer fashion. A warrior's presence rather than a courtier's charm.
Margaery wondered briefly whether he admired beauty as easily as Renly had.
She also wondered whether he was as easily swayed.
"I hope to see House Tyrell's loyalty proven," Gendry said at last, turning his attention back to Garlan.
"You shall receive our message truthfully," Garlan replied.
"There is no need for tension," Daenerys interjected gently. "You are guests."
She looked toward the horizon.
"Winter is coming. The long summer wanes. The Reach feeds the Seven Kingdoms. In times of famine, grain may matter more than swords."
Garlan nodded slowly.
The Reach was vast, populous, fertile. Its people were numerous as ants in a field. But they lacked unity without direction.
Gendry studied him.
"I've heard you train against three or five men at once."
Garlan smiled faintly. "Battle rarely offers single combat. Preparation must account for chaos."
"A sensible approach."
"And yet," Garlan said carefully, "Your Highness has already fought and won many wars."
Gendry shrugged lightly. "I enjoy it."
The words were simple—but the tone was absolute.
Garlan inclined his head. "Then forgive my curiosity."
He signaled to a squire, who brought forth blunted swords and shields. Garlan raised his own shield, marked by twin golden roses, and donned his helm.
"If Your Highness would indulge me."
Gendry accepted the blunted blade. Armor was strapped into place. No ceremony. No flourish.
Garlan moved first.
He advanced like a hunting leopard—controlled, swift, precise.
Their blades met with a ringing crash.
Steel struck steel. The sound echoed across the plain.
Garlan's technique was flawless—measured strikes, balanced footing, disciplined defense.
But something was wrong.
The strength behind Gendry's blows was monstrous.
Each strike reverberated through Garlan's shield like a hammer against an anvil. His arms trembled. He adjusted his stance, redirected momentum, attempted to circle—
Too slow.
Gendry's second strike shattered the shield.
Wood splintered. Iron boss split.
Garlan staggered, muscles spasming from the impact.
A third strike hovered inches from his throat.
Silence.
Garlan dropped his blade.
"I yield."
The admission was calm, but inside he reeled.
He was no stranger to defeat. But this had not been a narrow loss.
It had been overwhelming.
The young Baratheon possessed strength that bordered on the unnatural. Speed matched it. Worse—there was calculation in his movements. He was not merely powerful. He was disciplined.
Garlan exhaled slowly.
"To witness such prowess is humbling. You have my respect."
Daenerys smiled proudly. "As it should be."
Margaery stepped forward with renewed composure.
"The Reach would welcome Your Highness. Falconry, hunting, tournaments. My brother Willas breeds exceptional horses and hounds."
"There will be time for such pleasures," Gendry replied.
But his tone suggested war came first.
That evening, within the council hall of Wolfs Den, the mood shifted from courtesy to strategy.
Maps covered the long oak table. Rivers, roads, castles, banners.
Gendry stood at the head.
"Time is our greatest weapon," he said firmly. "I will march across the Green Fork, via Ruby Beach. Riverrun must be relieved."
Ser Barristan studied the map thoughtfully. "Speed invites risk. If you permit, I would command the vanguard."
Gendry shook his head.
"I will lead it myself."
A few eyes lifted at that.
"The Vale's levies and the Claw's forces will form the bulk of the army. They are not accustomed to one another. Old grievances linger. I must be present."
He traced the positions of Lannister forces.
"Tywin commands twenty thousand—the hammer of the Westerlands. To break him directly would require thirty or forty thousand. We do not possess such advantage."
He moved his finger to another set of markers.
"But Jaime Lannister's forces are divided. Three siege camps. Spread thin. Overconfident."
Ser Barristan nodded slowly. "A precise strike."
"We destroy the Kingslayer's army first," Gendry said. "Then the lion's claws are dulled."
Silence followed.
Then Barristan straightened.
"If you lead the vanguard, then I shall ride beside you."
Gendry met his gaze.
"Gladly."
The old knight's eyes gleamed faintly.
In that moment, the room felt different.
Not a council debating possibilities.
But a war already begun.
Outside, the wind shifted.
And far across the Narrow Sea, storms gathered.
The stag had chosen his path.
He would not wait behind walls.
He would not command from safety.
He would ride at the front.
He would strike first.
"I am the vanguard," Gendry Baratheon said quietly.
And no one in that hall doubted him.
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