The evening's feast was held in the great hall of Evenfall itself, which had been decorated for the occasion with banners and flowers and the kind of attention to detail that suggested considerable expense and even more considerable planning.
Renly sat at the high table beside Lord Selwyn, with Alexander on his other side and Ser Cortnay beyond that. The other Stormlands lords were arranged at tables below the dais, their conversations filling the hall with the comfortable hum of men who had eaten well and drunk better and were now in that pleasant state of satiation that made the world seem kinder than it actually was.
The food had been excellent, a parade of dishes that showcased both the abundance of Tarth's own production and the reach of its trading connections. There had been fish from the morning's catch, prepared in half a dozen different styles. There had been venison from the highland forests, and beef from the central valley, and lamb so tender it fell apart at the touch of a knife. There had been vegetables and fruits and cheeses, some of them familiar and some of them not, and there had been, of course, the whiskey.
Morne whiskey, as it was now being called, was unlike anything Renly had tasted before. It was smoother than the brandies he was accustomed to, with a complexity of flavour that suggested depths he had not expected from a spirit produced on a Stormlands island. There were notes of honey and oak and something darker, something that might have been smoke or might have been magic or might have been nothing more than the imagination of a man who had consumed rather more of the product than strict sobriety recommended.
"The whiskey ages in ironwood casks," Alexander explained, when Renly commented on it. "The wood imparts certain properties that other materials cannot replicate. We are still learning the optimal aging periods, but the early results are promising."
"This is early results?"
"The distillery has been operating for less than two years. The whiskey you are drinking is eighteen months old, which is young by any reasonable standard. In another five years, perhaps ten, we will be producing spirits that will make this taste like water by comparison."
Renly looked at his cup, at the amber liquid that caught the candlelight and seemed to glow with an inner fire. "If this is what you produce in two years, I shudder to think what you will accomplish in ten."
"That," Alexander said, "is rather the point."
The conversation had turned, by gradual degrees, to matters of trade and politics. Lord Selwyn had presented the formal terms of the alliance he was proposing: exclusive rights to distribute Morne whiskey in the Stormlands and the capital region, in exchange for a percentage of sales and a commitment to maintain quality standards that House Tarth would specify. It was, Renly had to admit, a remarkably fair offer. The Tarths could have demanded much more, given the obvious quality of the product and the equally obvious lack of competition. Instead, they were offering terms that would make the distribution partnership genuinely profitable for both parties.
"The other lords have signed similar agreements," Selwyn had explained. "Houses Rain, Mistwood, and Stonehelm have contracted to supply wood and flowers for our perfume production. The scents we produce from their flowers will carry their house names, which gives them a stake in the quality and a reason to promote the product in their own territories."
"You are binding the Stormlands lords to Tarth through commerce," Renly had observed.
"We are creating relationships of mutual benefit," Alexander had corrected gently. "Commerce is merely the mechanism. The true currency is trust, built through transactions that leave both parties better off than they were before. A lord who profits from his association with House Tarth is a lord who has reason to speak well of us, to defend our interests when they align with his own, to think of us as partners rather than competitors."
"And if your interests diverge?"
"Then we negotiate. That is what civilised people do." The boy had smiled, that unsettling, knowing smile that made Renly feel like he was the one being evaluated. "War is expensive, Lord Renly. Trade is profitable. Given the choice, most people prefer profit to expense. We are simply making that choice as easy as possible."
Now, as the feast wound toward its conclusion and the servants began clearing the tables, Renly found himself thinking about everything he had learned during his visit. The transformation of Tarth was remarkable, undeniably, perhaps unprecedentedly remarkable. But it was the mind behind the transformation that truly captured his attention.
Alexander Tarth was eleven years old. He should have been learning his letters and practicing with wooden swords and dreaming the simple dreams of childhood. Instead, he was redesigning the economy of an island, negotiating trade deals with lords three times his age, and building walls that would have impressed the engineers of the Freehold.
Either the boy was the most extraordinary prodigy the Seven Kingdoms had produced in generations, or something very strange was happening on Tarth. Renly was not entirely sure which possibility he found more unsettling.
* * *
The announcement came the following morning, during a smaller gathering in Lord Selwyn's solar.
Renly had been invited along with a select group of the more significant lords: Estermont, Buckler, and Grandison, men whose opinions carried weight in the Stormlands and whose reactions to what they were about to hear would shape how the news was received elsewhere. The solar itself was a comfortable space, furnished with the kind of understated quality that suggested wealth without flaunting it, and dominated by a large map of Tarth that hung on the wall behind Lord Selwyn's desk.
"My lords," Selwyn began, "I have asked you here to share news that will shortly become public knowledge. I wanted you to hear it first, from me, so that there would be no misunderstanding about its significance."
The lords exchanged glances. Lord Estermont, who was Renly's bannerman as well as his relative by marriage, leaned forward with an expression of polite interest that did not quite conceal his curiosity.
"House Tarth has entered into an alliance with House Manderly of White Harbor," Selwyn continued. "The terms include mutual trade agreements, military cooperation in matters of mutual interest, and the sharing of certain technical knowledge relating to shipbuilding and navigation."
"An alliance with the North," Lord Buckler said slowly. "That is... unusual."
"Unusual but not unprecedented. Trade between the Stormlands and the North has existed for centuries, though it has never been formalised in this way. The Manderlys control the only major port on the eastern coast of the North. We control a strategically positioned island in the Narrow Sea. The synergies are obvious."
"Synergies," Lord Grandison repeated, as though the word were unfamiliar to him. "And the military cooperation?"
"If either house is threatened by enemies at sea, the other will provide assistance. It is a defensive arrangement only. Neither house is obligated to support offensive operations or to involve themselves in conflicts that do not directly threaten their waters."
Renly watched the reactions carefully. Buckler was skeptical but not hostile. Grandison was confused but intrigued. Estermont, who had spent enough time at court to understand the implications of what was being described, was looking at Selwyn with an expression of dawning respect.
"There is more," Selwyn said. "The alliance is to be sealed by a betrothal."
The room went very quiet.
"My daughter Brienne, Lady of Morne, will marry Ser Wendel Manderly, Lord Manderly's second son. The wedding will take place within the next 3 years. Ser Wendel will take up residence at Morne Castle as Knight Guardian and Commander of our eastern naval forces. Brienne will retain her title and her authority over the Morne region. Their children, when they come, will carry the Tarth name and continue the line."
Lord Buckler made a sound that might have been surprise or might have been protest. "The Lady Brienne? But she is... that is to say..."
"She is the finest warrior on this island and the most capable administrator in the Stormlands," Alexander said quietly. He had been standing by the window, so still that Renly had almost forgotten he was there. Now he stepped forward, his violet eyes calm and his voice steady. "Ser Wendel is a knight of proven courage and considerable naval experience. He admires my sister for exactly the qualities that have made her difficult to match by conventional means. Their union will be a partnership of equals, which is considerably more than most marriages can claim."
"You arranged this," Renly said. It was not a question.
"I suggested the possibility. My father negotiated the terms. My sister accepted them." Alexander's expression was unreadable. "Brienne has spent her life being told that she must choose between being a warrior and being a wife. This arrangement allows her to be both. I do not see why that should be controversial."
The silence that followed was the silence of men reassessing their assumptions. Renly found himself doing the same. He had known about Brienne, of course. Everyone in the Stormlands knew about Brienne the Beauty, the lord's daughter who was taller than most knights and more skilled with a sword than any of them. He had assumed, as everyone had assumed, that her future held either a marriage to some desperate minor lord willing to overlook her deficiencies for the sake of the Tarth name, or a quiet spinsterhood in her father's hall, growing older and stranger until she became one of those cautionary tales that mothers told their daughters.
Instead, she was going to be Lady of Morne, wife to a Manderly, commander of a military force, and the anchor of an alliance that bridged the length of Westeros.
"The Manderlys are sending shipbuilders as well," Selwyn continued, steering the conversation back to safer waters. "They will establish a yard in the cave docks beneath Morne, where they will construct cogs and war galleys for our fleet. The North has a long tradition of shipbuilding that we intend to learn from and eventually surpass."
"Cave docks," Lord Estermont said. "Beneath the castle?"
"Natural formations that we have improved and expanded. Ships can enter and leave through a sea-level opening that is invisible from the surface. The yard is protected from weather, from observation, and from attack. It is, we believe, unique in Westeros."
Renly thought about what Selwyn was describing. A hidden shipyard, protected by geography and fortified by engineering. A fleet that could be built in secret and deployed without warning. An alliance with the only major northern house that possessed both wealth and seafaring capability.
"You are preparing for war," he said.
"We are preparing for contingencies," Alexander corrected. "War may come or it may not. What we can control is whether we are ready when it does."
"And the Wall of Tarth that everyone is whispering about?"
Alexander smiled, that unsettling, knowing smile that Renly was beginning to recognise as the boy's default expression when he was about to say something significant. "Would you like to see it, Lord Renly? I think the time has come to show you what we are really building."