Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki and Himura; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

9th Day of the 9th Moon

The Lord of Storm's End

Renly could not remember the last time Robert had called for an emergency small council meeting. It must have been a pretty dire reason if his royal brother managed to turn away his attention from his wine and whores.

Surprisingly, Baelish was absent. Renly could not remember Littlefinger missing a single meeting since joining the council. A glance told him the rest of the councillors were as clueless as he was. At least his preparations for the tourney were more or less complete unless Robert suddenly decided to introduce another barbaric contest from the North at the last moment.

"We have a problem," Robert rumbled, brow scrunched up.

"Besides our master of coin flunking the meeting?" Renly said with jest, but none of the thrice-damned prudes even graced him with a smile.

"He's probably trying to find the owner of some tavern or brothel to bargain for their establishment," Varys pointed out with his soft, annoying voice.

"No, Baelish has been found." A troubled frown found its way to Robert's face. "Or, well, his head, to be precise."

"His head?" Selmy blinked in confusion.

"Aye, Ser Balon Swann found his head rolling amidst some refuse in a small alley near his inn, the rest of the body nowhere to be seen. Took quite some cleaning to even recognise our master of coin."

That made the meeting chamber even more sombre than before. Renly's mind started working furiously. At the last council meeting, Baelish was one of those who vehemently opposed Stark, albeit not in a direct manner. He spied on Stark from the corner of his eye - the Northman was just as surprised as Renly was or a better mummer than them all.

Or perhaps this was Cersei's handiwork, clearing the way for her new alliance?

"I saw Littlefinger just three days prior, chatting up Lady Amanda Staunton," Renly recounted hesitantly as a chill crawled up his spine.

Stark finally stirred from his seat, looking pale and tired as his cold eyes inspected the councilmen with suspicion. "Who could want Baelish dead?"

"Perhaps it was some jealous whore?" Varys suggested. "Our dear master of coin dabbled with not only pleasures of the flesh but many shady characters and had also loaned money to quite a few knights and lords. One dagger between the ribs and nobody to collect the debt.."

"Dying because of copper counting," Robert snorted with thinly veiled amusement. "It matters not, in the end. Baelish is the last of his line, is he not?"

"An admittedly short line, but yes." Pycelle hemmed, looking awake and alert for once.

"Should his murder not be investigated?" Stark insisted. "Where is the rest of his body?"

Oh, he was good - every word was spoken with genuine conviction. Nobody else in the room seemed to suspect the cunning wolf lord even a little.

Yet, predictably, Robert did not seem very keen on the idea. Littlefinger was quite useful, but for all of his usefulness, he had failed to make any meaningful allies. Coin and friendly words could only get you so far - and Littlefinger had infamously never employed any guardsmen of his own aside from an old knight and three men-at-arms, and now it seemed like he paid the ultimate price for that folly.

"Varys, look into it," his brother decided.

The eunuch bowed his head submissively. "It shall be done, Your Grace. But there's not much to go off from a single head."

"Find the rest of the body, then," Stark pointed out.

"It's not an easy thing, Lord Hand. When body parts go missing in the city, they usually end up in some 'bowl o' brown' in Fleabottom…"

Renly's stomach churned at the thought, and the rest of the councillors and his royal brother looked no less queasy.

"Forget about Littlefinger for now," Robert waved as if trying to chase an unpleasant smell away with his meaty paw. "We need a new master of coin!"

"The treasury is in dire straits," Renly noted. "We need someone capable at a trying moment like this. Perhaps Willas Tyrell?"

A heartbeat later, he realised it was the wrong move - the mere mention of Tyrell made Robert disinterested and disappointed. "Not one of your bannermen?" The words left Renly speechless as his brother's gaze moved to the other councillors.

"Willas Tyrell is a young and intelligent man. But if we're talking about those experienced in coin and administration, there's nobody better than Tywin Lannister," Pycelle pointed out.

Selmy conspicuously remained silent; the white cloak knew little of the matters of coin and cared even less.

"So, what say you, Ned?"

"Both Willas Tyrell and Tywin Lannister are far from here, yet the crown cannot afford to wait for them to travel to King's Landing. Not with the tourney around the corner." Stark rubbed his well-groomed beard. "Perhaps Tyrion Lannister?"

"The Imp?" Renly couldn't even stop the dismissive snort that escaped his mouth. Eddard Stark was finally showing his true colours!

The Hand bobbed his head unironically, giving him an unamused glance. "Aye. He's sharp of wit, knows his way around gold as Tywin Lannister's son, and most importantly - he's already here and can take up the post immediately."

"Alright then," Robert slapped the table before Renly could retort. "My shortest good-brother shall be our new copper counter. May his japes and jests be more colourful than the previous one." The proclamation was finished with a generous gulp from his cup.

"Your Grace, Balon Swann was the one to find Baelish's head?" Stark's question received a quick nod. "I say we need to replace the Commander of the City Watch. I have never met a more incompetent man - this Janos Slynt should have never risen above the post of a petty captain."

The words made a dire chill crawl up Renly's spine, the Northerner was trying to grab another post in the royal court! But… this could be a chance. He grimaced inwardly; if Robert's earlier reaction was anything to go by, suggesting Loras for the position would not be received very well.

"Lord Stark makes a good point - there had been a riot and three drunken brawls just last night. We need someone to cleanse the corruption from the gold cloaks and deal with the overfilled city." Varys clasped his plump hands and leaned forward, purple eyes roaming over the councillors. Yet no man was proposed for the post.

A few tense minutes were spent in silence as the councillors contemplated their options.

"How about Balon Swann?" Renly suggested, seeing that nobody was putting forth any candidates. "He's a modest yet capable and leal man." And most importantly, House Swann was sworn to him. The marcher lords were hardy folk.

"If he's half as good as his lord father, the City Watch ought to be in good hands," the Hand grudgingly agreed, and Selmy gave a short nod in support.

"Alright then, I'll send a runner to summon Ser Balon for the honours," Robert declared, waving Tommen over to fill his goblet with wine. Renly couldn't believe that this proposal passed so quickly, or for Stark, of all people, to be the first to endorse it. Now, he only had to get the Swann knight on his side, which wouldn't be too difficult. "Anything else?"

The Bold finally stirred from his chair. "What is to be done with Slynt, Your Grace?"

"Give him some token pension for his service and dismiss him," his brother declared after draining his cup in a single swig. "Meeting adjourned."

Renly's mild concern in the beginning had now turned into a full-blown alarm. Things were happening too fast, and he liked it not.

***

10th Day of the 9th Moon

Unsurprisingly, Slynt had failed to make it out even a day after being dismissed. This morning, his body had been found stark naked, bruised purple and hanged on the harbour like a common brigand. Without his position to protect him, one of the many Slynt had extorted or offended had taken the chance to extract their vengeance.

Even here, amidst the orchids in his own manse, Renly did not feel as safe anymore. He had doubled the guard, and all of his food and wine was meticulously tested before it reached him, but he wasn't sure if it would do him any good. What if Eddard Stark and Cersei Lannister decided to get rid of him next?

Yet his gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of his lover, who quickly joined him in the small grove, sitting on the tapered chair Renly had servants bring out for him.

"The Red Wake and a score of Stark men arrested some bard in the Rusty Byrnie last night," Loras whispered as he discarded his dark travel cloak, revealing the appealing hunting leathers underneath. The Rusty Byrnie was a well-off tavern in the southern part of the city, nestled in the southwestern skirts of Visenya's Hill near the River Row.

It took Renly a few moments to remember who the Red Wake was. The Giant of Winterfell was the same sort of brutal dog as the Mountain. Northmen rarely found their way south of the Neck, and he knew precious little about them aside from the members of House Stark, yet he recalled a Northman claiming descent from actual giants. Regardless of the veracity of their claim, perhaps the Red Wake was a by-blow of one of them?

"What for?"

"He was soliciting others to spread slander against our Lord Hand." His lover grimaced. "His tongue was removed, his fingers cut, and his back caned a dozen times."

Seven have mercy. Was Stark moving to terrorise the smallfolk into obedience now? Perhaps there was some truth to the rumours of his practice of dark magicks - the man had proven himself cold, brutal, and scheming. Dabbling with sorcery was not that far-fetched anymore, and the murder of ravens surrounding the Hand's Tower had only grown in the last few days.

"Perhaps we can find this bard?" Renly said, grabbing his lover's hand in reassurance. Most skilled bards could read and write, so getting some information from the man was not impossible even without a tongue.

"The Red Wake was doing the caning. Only mangled flesh and shattered bones were left after seven strikes, yet the brute continued for twelve." Loras' face looked rather green.

Evidently, Stark was not so easily curbed. With his heavy-handed brutality, the rumours would be either quelled or spread like wildfire. Still, slandering nobility always came with some dangers, even more so a highlord.

Renly couldn't help but feel outmanoeuvred completely - the Lord of Winterfell was making rapid moves one after another, and there was no seeming chink in his armour that he could latch onto to. His opponents were being meticulously cleared up one after the other. Renly would have fled if the new Commander of the City Watch wasn't a Stormlander, and the Tyrells weren't coming to King's Landing. With the full backing of the Reach and the Stormlands, he had little to fear, not even from someone as insidious as Stark. Yet his royal brother would not move to remove his dear friend or wife without irrefutable proof of misdeeds, and even then, Renly feared that Stark would be capable of hoodwinking his brother regardless.

"Any headway with Jon Arryn's death?"

"Your brother and the late Lord Arryn were investigating something together," Loras had murmured. Renly couldn't tear his gaze away from the lazy brown curls that tumbled over his gorgeous amber eyes. "It's hard to find out what exactly that was when both their households fled the city half a year ago, but I managed to find two more places they visited."

This confirmed all of his suspicions - the only one who could possibly want the Old Falcon out of the way was Cersei. Renly leaned forward, finally intrigued. "Do tell."

"A butcher's shop near the Sept of Baelor and Tobho Mott's smithy."

"And why would my dour brother and the old Arryn concern themselves with such places?"

Mott was the best smith in the city, but Stannis despised unneeded flair, and the days Arryn would take to the battlefield or the lists were long gone. Besides, a butchery was not something lords would enter - if they had any interests, they'd sent their servants to bargain with the owner.

"To look at the apprentices, it seems," Loras said. "Took me a while to notice, but both could be mistaken for younger brothers of yours after a bath and a new garb. Just like little Edric, but without his Florent ears."

"…Robert's bastards?"

"Indeed. One Gendry, Tobho's apprentice, is built like a bull and looks my age. And Gerold, the butcher's nephew, looks the same, only a year older and a head taller than you."

Which would make the bastard over seven feet tall. The men who could boast of such height could scarcely be counted on one hand in the city. There was no doubt in his mind; both were his brother's bastards with distinctive looks and builds. Renly suppressed the tinge of rising jealousy - a few bastards could scarcely be compared to him!

"Why would my brother and Lord Arryn look at Robert's bastards?" The query remained unanswered - Renly's lover seemed just as confused about it as he was. "What about Lord Arryn's death?"

"I have tried everything but approaching the grandmaester to no avail. Pycelle dismissed Arryn's personal maester and treated the Old Falcon on his deathbed."

Renly gritted his teeth. "Pycelle is a Lannister creature through and through. Going through him would alert Cersei."

For a few painfully long heartbeats, Loras hesitated before finally blurting out, "Perhaps a letter to the Lord of Dragonstone?"

"I'd rather flee the city than lower myself to ask for help from Stannis," Renly denied immediately. His surly brother was unreasonable, bullheaded, and unpleasant. It was under question if they could even have a proper conversation without tossing insults at each other, let alone try and cooperate.

Not in this life, at least.

The two lovers remained silent as they mulled over the dilemma they faced. Loras leaned on his shoulder, and Renly found his hand lazily combing through his brown curls. Despite being the Master of Laws, he was ashamed to admit that he had little influence over his brother's court. He lacked a reliable spy network, and his contacts with the city watch had not borne fruit. No doubt, the works of the late and unlamented Janos Slynt. Renly hoped for the Swann knight to prove himself useful, but it was still too early to judge. Despite his disdain for the upstart, he could still deal with Baelish and even cooperate with him.

While Renly would never speak it out loud, he missed Littlefinger's clever quips and japes. Alas, the mockingbird's sharp tongue finally stung the wrong man.

Another person that Stark and the queen had removed from the board, and Renly could easily guess why - Baelish was never subtle about his bragging of bedding both Tully sisters and anyone who had stayed in court had heard of it one way or another. Mayhaps Stark could have swallowed the insult if Littlefinger had not opposed all his moves in the small council, subtly or not. In the end, Baelish was not half as clever as he thought.

"Perhaps the eunuch could provide us with some assistance?" Loras shuffled nervously. "He was the one to bring this whole issue to you first."

Renly rolled the idea in his mind for a few heartbeats before shaking his head. "Not just yet. Only the Seven know what the Spider is truly plotting."

He would sit back and observe Varys to see if the Essosi spymaster would make for a suitable ally. Despite his friendly facade, the eunuch had served under both Targaryen and Baratheon, and Renly still was unsure where his loyalties were.

Making overtures to Balon Swann and confirming his alliance with Mace Tyrell was far more important.

***

11th Day of the 9th Moon

The Onion Knight, Dragonstone

Davos missed Driftmark. Where Dragonstone was rocky, dark, and gloomy, and its air choked with sulfur and brimstone, Driftmark was the picture of serene beauty with the tall towers of High Tide overlooking its calm azure waters, fertile low hills, crystalline sandy shores, pleasant sea breeze and brightness.

Yet, Stannis had decided to return here, against all advice from Cressen, himself, and Monford Velaryon.

According to the old maester, the dreary, barren isle had been barely inhabited by a small handful of fishermen before the dragonlords had turned it into their trading outpost with their sorcery two centuries before the Conqueror. This was the most fortified trading outpost Davos had ever seen - the fire mages of the Freehold had worked their arcane arts, raising a formidable fortress with three curtain walls from the unbreakable fused black stone. Dragon statues, gargoyles and all sorts of grotesque and menacing beasts were immortalised in every corner of the Valyrian citadel, looking so vivid they put any other stone sculptors to shame.

Even the traditional merlons along the battlements were replaced with blood-curdling macabres of basilisks, manticores, wyverns, and the such.

A cold gust of wind battered at Davos from the north, replacing the smell of sulfur and brimstone with salt and providing a brief respite from the sweltering heat. Yet it was but a prelude that disturbed the calm below.

Not a single cloud could be seen in the vast blue expanse of sky, but the dark, green waters of the Narrow Sea began to mercilessly batter the rocky shore down the smooth, pitch-black curtain walls. The sea was a harsh and fickle mistress, and Davos could see a few braver fishermen struggle to steer their boats for the small wharf nestled beneath the village resting atop a rocky cliffside.

"A storm is coming."

Davos turned his head to see lord Monford Velaryon gazing at the tumultuous sea from the battlements, just a handful of yards away. As usual, the graceful man was garbed in fine sea-green velvet, with a pale blue cloak chequered in white and pale blue, clasped by a golden seahorse. It was a surprising thing for the young lord to speak to him. Few of the highborn gave the Onion Knight any time of the day, most hailing from a storied line of kings, heroes, conquerors, or explorers of yore, while he came from salted fish and onions. And the Lord of the Tides was a proud man, his House coming to these shores from the Freehold itself, even before the House of the Dragon fled to Dragonstone.

Worst was that while Davos had learned his courtesies, he never managed to get the hang of speaking or dealing with other noblemen. His tone was rough, and his words sounded crude, a part of Fleabottom that would remain with the Onion Knight until his death.

"Aye, Maester Cressen says the days are getting shorter," he said, still unsure why the Lord of the Tides would speak to him after pretending he was beneath his notice for moons. "Summer is ending soon, and the calm with it."

The Narrow Sea was notoriously tumultuous in autumn, and experienced sailors avoided undertaking any long journeys during the season. Winter storms were even more brutal but much more rare instead. Davos knew many foolhardy smugglers and sellsails that met their end in a watery grave for thinking they could defy the angry tempest.

As if it had heard him, the sea roared as the waves were getting bigger and bigger and the wind - more vicious.

"House Stark has it right - winter is coming," Monford agreed with an imperious nod. "Has Lord Baratheon told you?"

Davos couldn't help but scratch his ear. Stannis confided with him about many things, and he would not betray his liege lord, even to a perceived ally. "Told me what?"

"He plans to resign from his post of master of ships and order the royal fleet to return to King's Landing under the demands of the new Hand." The Velaryon lord pinned him with his purple gaze, and the Onion Knight nodded in confirmation. Even now, the old smuggler could vividly remember Lord Stark's letter; it had forced Stannis to choose between resigning from his position or returning to his post.

A fair thing, as there had been a surge of sellsails and smugglers on this side of the Narrow Sea with the fleet docked and Stannis too feeble to make an appearance out in the open for more than half an hour and keeping all of the captains close. The kingdom could not go without a master of ships and a royal fleet forever.

Stannis had known he couldn't hold onto the post, and Stark's direct orders could not be ignored for long, as the moon given to consider was at an end.

"I've heard." He was there when his liege lord made the decision, too. "But there's not much that could be done."

His shrug only seemed to incense Monford more as his purple eyes blazed with fire, and his fists tightened. "All our efforts into turning the royal fleet into a naval powerhouse will be for nought. This cannot stand!"

Under Stannis, the royal fleet turned from a motley assembly of the Narrow Sea Houses into a uniform, well-trained and structured force sporting some of the best warships in the world. Yet, that meant neither Velaryon, Celtigar, nor those houses along Massey's hook could freely enjoy the royal favour in shipbuilding.

All the Houses in question still had a few ships to their name, but it was barely a tenth of what they could muster before.

"I'll bring your concerns to lord Stannis," Davos said softly. But it was another question if the Lord of Dragonstone would heed his counsel or even request it. "Yet the royal fleet belongs to the king to do with whatever pleases him."

"But is it to His Grace's pleasure or Lord Hand's will?"

"There's a difference?"

A vicious wave over twenty feet high slammed into the cliffs below, sending droplets of water sprawling high up in the air; some even managed to whip Davos in the face. The Onion Knight gingerly opened his eyes, wiped away his face with the hem of his brown cloak, and turned to look at the Valyrian lord.

Monford's silver hair was drenched, and his impeccable face was twisted into a scowl. "Quite a big difference. Did you know my father, Lord Lucerys Velaryon, was the master of ships under the mad king's reign?"

"Aye," the Onion Knight bobbed his head. He had to manoeuvre numerous times around the man's ships. It wasn't too hard, as Lucerys had grown lax over the years, unlike Stannis. Or perhaps it was Davos who had gotten better at smuggling?

"He and his fellow councillors tried to urge both the mad king and the many Hands to curb Rhaegar and his ever-growing influence," he spat. "I visited Dragonstone occasionally, too - while the Silver Prince presented an amiable facade, he was cold and uncaring deep down. It was easy to see once my father pointed it out. Rhaegar loved to be seen and heard, basking in the adoration of the crowds, but cared little for the matters of justice and the realm. All who tried to befriend him were pushed away, all but Dayne and that peacock Connington." There was a heavy tinge of bitterness there. Had Monford tried befriending the Silver Prince, only to be spurned? "He favoured the Dornish over everyone else, even the vassals of Dragonstone, since his marriage to the sickly princess. They say Aerys was the mad king but failed to see under the facade of the Silver Prince - the son was no lesser than the father."

All Davos could do was nod. He wasn't even too surprised; in the last few years, he had seen far too many noblemen and was confident to paint them all in the same brush. They could be perfectly courteous and pleasant but turn prickly, proud, vain, foolish, or arrogant in a heartbeat. There was one exception - Stannis, and his steadfastness was why the old smuggler had agreed to pledge himself to the man, heart and soul.

Still, the long monologue confused the old smuggler greatly.

"What does this have to do with our own woes?"

"Blood runs thicker than water, Ser." Monford eyed him with something Davos couldn't identify but didn't like one bit. "No matter how many royal councillors rallied against Prince Rhaegar, Aerys remained reluctant to remove him in favour of Viserys until it was too late. While Lord Stark is His Grace's friend, Lord Stannis is still his brother."

Davos promised to bring the issue to his liege, and the Lord of the Tides quickly excused himself, fleeing from the battlements as the furious waves below kept crashing into the craggy cliffs. It was hard to tear his gaze away from the sea's wroth, and the smuggler lost track of time until a guardsman arrived with a summons from Stannis.

His gaze drifted towards the Sea Dragon Tower as he made his way to the gallery. Yet the draconic-looking structure showed no signs of the tragedy - rains had washed away the soot and ashes, and one would be hard-pressed to know the tower had been choking with flame looking from the outside. Yet the fire had been so hot not even bones had been left from Selyse Baratheon, and all metals, including steel, had been melted. It had taken two moons for the servants to dredge the slag and other refuse left.

Yet, aside from the restored rookery and the maester's workroom, everything else had been left ghostly bare - there were no doors, portraits, tapestries, vases, curtains, furniture or wooden floorboards.

Shaking his head, the Onion Knight made his way through the gallery, over the middle wall, and finally, up to the arching stone bridge, the sole entrance to the massive Stone Drum keep. The yard was filled with men-at-arms hard at work. Stannis had decided to strengthen his garrison to two hundred strong, all with handpicked leal Baratheon veterans of many a battle, half of whom had weathered the siege of Storm's End with him.

Davos grew winded by the time he reached the floor where the lord's quarters resided. Just as he turned around the corner, he saw young Shireen leave her father's room, a wide smile on her face.

"Ser Davos!" This was the happiest the old smuggler had seen the shy girl. Despite being stiff from the greyscale on the left side, her cheerful smile melted his heart. The way her blue eyes sparkled with delight gave Davos some hope for the future. Many had called Shireen ugly, away from Stannis' ears, but it was an undisputed fact. While she would never grow into a beauty of the songs, her bright smile gave him some hope - adolescence did have its way of turning an ugly duckling into a graceful swan. And neither Baratheon nor Florent lacked for handsome looks.

Despite the tragedy, the young heiress managed to find joy in the time she spent with her father. Lady Selyse had rarely dealt directly with her scarred daughter, preferring to leave most of the work to the old Septa Leira. Stannis had hardly had the chance to see Shireen much before, unwilling to drag his daughter into King's Landing under the cruel scrutiny of the royal court.

It was ironic that such a bitter tragedy managed to strengthen the bonds between father and daughter.

"M'lady," he bowed.

"Do not be late for our writing lessons before dinner!" Her imperious command brought a wry smile to his face. As soon as Davos nodded, she made for the library with a joyful spring in her step.

The two burly guardsmen announced his presence and opened the door for him as the Onion Knight braced himself for a solemn meeting.