Renly Baratheon had been one of the first lords to rise in the struggle for the Iron Throne, but he was also among the first to fall.
The sea stretched endlessly beneath a clear blue sky, its waves crashing rhythmically against the shore. A large-bellied ship carrying Renly sailed farther and farther away from Storm's End, its golden quartered banners fluttering in the wind.
Ser Loras Tyrell stood motionless on the cliffs, watching the vessel disappear into the horizon.
Only after Renly's figure vanished completely did the Knight of Flowers finally turn away.
A deep emptiness filled his chest.
Renly had left.
And somewhere in his heart, Loras already knew the truth—
Renly Baratheon would never return.
Aboard the ship traveled not only Renly, but also a number of prisoners gathered from across the Stormlands. Some had been convicted of poaching deer, others of smuggling, theft, or rape. Rather than execute them, they were all being sent to the Wall together.
In a sense, they were Renly's final guards.
Dangerous men.
Desperate men.
Along with them traveled wagons of supplies from the Stormlands. It was not much, but it was at least a gesture of goodwill toward the Night's Watch.
The sound of galloping horses soon echoed across the road.
Clatter! Clatter! Clatter!
Ser Loras, Ser Cleos, and a group of green-cloaked guards rode together toward the castle gates.
Loras still carried terrible injuries from the boiling oil that had been poured during the siege. Burns covered much of his neck and back, leaving ugly blisters and scars that would likely remain for life.
Fortunately, his handsome face had escaped unharmed.
The maesters had cleaned and treated his wounds carefully, but he still could not wear proper armor. Instead, he dressed in lighter clothing beneath a green surcoat embroidered with three golden roses—the sigil of House Tyrell.
White bandages wrapped tightly beneath his clothes.
Loras dismounted slowly before approaching Gendry.
"Renly has lost," he said quietly. "Now you are the true heir, Your Highness."
The autumn wind rustled his brown curls as he spoke.
But something inside him had vanished together with Renly.
The passion.
The joy.
The love.
All of it had been taken away.
"Once my injuries heal," Loras continued, "I will train harder than ever and challenge you again on the tourney grounds."
Despite everything, the Knight of Flowers remained proud.
Perhaps too proud.
Failing to draw his sword in time to protect Renly had become the greatest humiliation of his life.
Gendry looked calmly at the young knight.
"I'll look forward to that day."
The Knight of Flowers was famous throughout Westeros—young, handsome, elegant, and swift on horseback.
But Gendry also saw his flaws clearly.
Loras craved glory too desperately.
Sometimes he acted carefully, but at other times he was reckless to the point of foolishness.
"Don't forget to send my greetings to Highgarden," Gendry continued. "The hunt is about to begin, and I hope to see the hunters of Highgarden join us soon."
"Winter is approaching. The Night's Watch continues to call for aid, and we don't have much time left."
Jon Snow silently observed Loras from nearby.
Even in the North, the fame of the Knight of Flowers had spread far and wide. Yet from Jon's perspective, Loras resembled many southern knights—
A summer knight.
A man who had never truly faced the cruelty of winter.
Loras lowered his head respectfully.
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Grain, supplies, soldiers—I will urge my father, Lord Mace, to send support."
Though his tone remained polite, everyone understood the hidden meaning behind Gendry's words.
If Highgarden delayed again, the consequences might not be pleasant.
Several knights stepped forward to bid farewell to Loras. Despite everything, he still maintained strong ties with many nobles of the Stormlands due to his years serving Renly.
As Loras prepared to leave, he suddenly turned back toward Gendry.
"Still… thank you."
"You made me understand that there will always be someone stronger."
"A real battlefield is nothing like a tourney."
Bitterness filled his voice.
"I used to train every day until every strike of my lance was perfect. Until my horse felt like part of my body. I believed I stood above every knight in the Seven Kingdoms."
"Then I met Ser Gregor."
"And afterward… I met you."
Gendry merely smiled faintly.
"Failure is part of life."
"Everyone experiences it eventually."
Privately, Gendry hoped this defeat would finally teach Loras caution. Otherwise, the young knight would continue throwing himself recklessly into danger.
In King's Landing, during the Hand's Tourney, Ser Gregor Clegane had nearly cut him down on the spot.
Without Sandor Clegane intervening, Loras would already be dead.
The Knight of Flowers eventually mounted his horse once more and departed alongside the men of Highgarden.
Watching him disappear into the distance, Gendry sighed softly.
"Summer roses bloom beautifully…"
"But winter roses rarely survive."
His gaze slowly shifted southward.
The first crown had already fallen.
Now it was time to target King's Landing and the Crownlands.
—
Far away in Dorne, at the Water Gardens, Prince Doran Martell sat beneath an orange tree.
This place was the one he cherished most in all the world.
Blood oranges hung heavily from the branches overhead. Every so often, one would fall onto the pale marble floor below with a soft thud before bursting open, filling the air with a sweet fragrance.
"The blood oranges are ripe," Doran said quietly.
Beside him stood his younger brother, Oberyn Martell—the infamous Red Viper of Dorne.
A gruesome decoration had recently been added to the balcony overlooking the gardens.
The severed head of Ser Gregor Clegane.
His skull had been cleaned and preserved before being sent to Dorne, while the rest of his corpse had been claimed by Qyburn and the Triarchy.
Oberyn leaned casually against the railing.
"Why do we continue waiting for the oranges to fall on their own?" he asked coldly.
Pointing toward Gregor's head, he smirked.
"That is only the first."
"You know very well whose head I truly want."
"Tywin Lannister's."
"You promised we would avenge Elia together."
Doran remained calm.
"And we will."
"But you are too impatient, Oberyn."
"Your journey across the Narrow Sea was already reckless enough."
Oberyn laughed softly.
"Yet it succeeded."
"The storm despises the lions just as much as we do."
"The alliance between the storm and the dragon is becoming stronger every day."
Doran sighed heavily.
"They are still children."
"They are victorious children," Oberyn countered immediately.
"The situation has never been better."
"The wolves hate the lions."
"The Tullys hate the lions."
"The storm hates the lions."
"Everyone wants Tywin dead."
His eyes narrowed dangerously.
"And I would rather take Tywin's head myself than let someone else claim it."
"You know me, brother."
"My greatest love has always been blood."
Doran shook his head slowly.
"The time is favorable, yes."
"But we must still wait."
"You are the viper that strikes."
"And I am the grass that hides it."
"A viper must be cunning, but even grass knows how to wait for the right moment."
Oberyn let out an irritated sigh.
"We have already waited more than a decade."
"This is the perfect opportunity."
"Robert is dead."
"Viserys is dead."
"The realm is divided."
"What more are you waiting for?"
Doran's expression remained unreadable.
"I am waiting for certainty."
"Dorne has the smallest population among the Seven Kingdoms."
"Many of our lords still hold ancient grudges."
"Courage alone cannot replace numbers."
He looked toward the horizon.
"Prince Lewyn's death and the loss of ten thousand spearmen weakened Dorne greatly."
"And the wars ahead will be even worse."
"Autumn has already arrived."
"Winter comes next."
Oberyn narrowed his eyes.
"You fear more than winter."
"Yes," Doran admitted quietly.
"Lys and Volantis are preparing for war."
"The slave cities are gathering armies."
"The coming conflict will spread across the Narrow Sea as well."
He folded his hands carefully.
"So I choose patience."
Oberyn stared at his brother before finally laughing bitterly.
"The gods truly blessed Dorne by making you my older brother."
"For Dorne, your caution is a gift."
"But for me?"
"It is torture."
Then his expression darkened.
"And what of your children?"
"Arianne."
"Quentyn."
"All our plans for them and the Targaryens have fallen apart."
"The Beggar King is dead."
"And Daenerys now belongs to the storm."
Doran closed his eyes briefly.
Years ago, Dorne had secretly arranged a marriage pact between House Martell and House Targaryen.
The agreement had been signed in absolute secrecy.
Viserys Targaryen was meant to marry Arianne Martell.
In exchange, Dorne would support the Targaryen restoration.
Even Varys and Illyrio had never known about the pact.
But now it was meaningless.
"Everything has changed," Doran said bitterly.
"We waited too long."
"We planned too carefully."
"And in the end, we accomplished too little."
Oberyn rubbed his forehead.
He knew his brother's greatest weakness well.
Doran had brilliant strategies.
But he lacked the ability to act decisively.
Doran continued quietly.
"I once planned to send Arianne to Tyrosh to meet Viserys."
"But Mellario threatened to harm herself if I took another child away."
His voice grew heavy with regret.
"So Arianne never met the man she was promised to."
"And Viserys died without knowing his bride."
"This isn't your fault," Oberyn said.
But both brothers understood the truth.
Doran's family had slowly fallen apart because of these endless schemes.
His wife had returned to Norvos years ago.
Arianne distrusted him.
Quentyn had grown closer to House Yronwood than his own family.
And Trystane was still too young.
"We have sacrificed too much for revenge," Doran whispered.
"My wife."
"My children."
"My family."
"Because of that… I must remain cautious."
Suddenly footsteps echoed nearby.
Areo Hotah approached with his great longaxe resting over one shoulder.
"Prince," he said respectfully, handing over a sealed letter.
"A raven from the Stormlands."
Doran opened it carefully and skimmed the contents.
Then he handed it silently to Oberyn.
"Renly has lost."
"Stannis has surrendered."
"It seems events are moving far faster than I anticipated."
Oberyn finished reading before smiling slowly.
"Then it is time to choose."
"The letter does not ask Dorne to march through the mountain passes."
"It only asks us to prepare near the Stepstones."
Doran nodded slowly.
"That is manageable."
"But first, one thing must be done."
He looked directly at Oberyn.
"I need you to remove the Spider's eyes and ears from Dorne."
Oberyn's grin widened dangerously.
"That, I can do."
"My daughters are here as well."
Then he paused thoughtfully.
"I have another request."
"Even if I do not go personally, I want someone to act as my envoy."
"Not as Dorne's envoy."
"As mine."
Doran frowned slightly.
"Who?"
"Arianne cannot keep secrets."
"Obara drinks too much."
"Nymeria spends too much time with the Fowlers."
"Sarella is lost in her own games."
Oberyn smiled faintly.
"So I only have one choice left."
"Tyene."
"My sweet, gentle daughter."
Doran sighed deeply.
"Yes…"
"And perhaps the most dangerous of them all."
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