ARC II: THE AGE OF EXPANSION AND THE ANNIHILATION OF THE GREYJOYS
Chapter 26: The Verdict of Steel and Blood
POV: Prince Renly Baratheon (297 AC)
The court of Winterfell is completely and utterly distinct from that of King's Landing. In the South, politics is a dance of fine porcelain masks, a hall filled with rehearsed smiles and calculated courtesies where every courtier hides a dagger within the folds of their velvet, always plotting the downfall of the man beside them through whispers and poisons. In the North, this aristocratic falsehood simply finds no oxygen to breathe. The Northmen are endowed with a brutal frankness—sometimes uncomfortable and far too direct for the sensitive ears of the southern court—but it is a clean rawness. In this realm, a man does not build his dignity upon the amount of gold in his coffers or the twisting nature of his lies; he proves himself worthy through the pure strength of his sword arm and the unshakeable weight of his given word.
Even knowing that my prolonged stay here represents a glaring administrative detour from my duties in the capital, I could not resist the temptation to extend my visit for a few more months. I sent a formal message to my brother, King Robert, informing him that I would remain in Winterfell to oversee the diplomatic developments following the wedding. His reply came on a crumpled parchment stained with beer, very much in his dynamic style: he wrote that if he were in my shoes, enjoying the finest steel, the wildest hunting, and the strongest drinks in the known world, he would do exactly the same. Robert always appreciated the honest rawness of the northern lands far more than the Iron Throne that consumes him day after day.
Yet, my greatest and most fascinating surprise during this period did not come from the granite walls or the ancient forests, but rather from the figure of young Aegon Targaryen.
I will not lie and say I expected a friendly reception from a survivor of the dynasty my own brother dethroned with his warhammer; I anticipated, at the very least, a gaze heavy with historical rancor or a cutting coldness. I was proven completely wrong. Aegon, the son of Rhaegar and Elia Martell, revealed himself to be a young man of a disconcerting serenity—focused, intelligent, and devoid of any political bitterness toward my name. Furthermore, he inherited the stunning, almost ethereal beauty of his Valyrian ancestors, with genuine silver hair and eyes that carry the exact shade of Eastern amethysts.
And, of course, there was something that became immediately obvious to me and my dear Loras: Aegon prefers the same fruit we do, so to speak. Men who share this reserved nature, outside of traditional standards, develop a sort of refined perception—a silent instinct that allows us to recognize our peers even beneath the heaviest armor. There is no carnal tension between us, but rather the rare camaraderie of knowing exactly who we are in a world that demands duty-bound marriages and dynastic lineages. This affinity of shared tastes paved the way for a genuine, lighthearted, and strictly platonic friendship.
A firm knock on the oak door of my quarters announced that the morning mist was beginning to rise. It was time for the training yard. I certainly did not spend all these days merely appreciating the frozen landscapes of the North or drinking the heavy wine of the Starks; I took advantage of every dawn to test my limits and try to absorb the fundamentals of local lethality.
I joined Loras, and we headed to the main courtyard, where the heat of moving bodies fought off the biting cold of the day. Along the way, we encountered the circle of young lords who represented the military future of the realm. Robb Stark, Ned's eldest son, was adjusting the leather bracers of his training armor and offered a smirk as he noticed our approach.
— Well, look at that. The flowers of the South have decided to join us in the mud of the yard again — Robb teased, his tone rough but playful, typical of the warriors here.
Aegon, walking beside us with his impeccable posture, replied immediately, returning the ironic smile:
— Do not worry, Stark. We will go easy on you today, despite all your provocations.
I could not help but laugh at the lad's audacity. Adjusting my riding gloves, I issued my own challenge to the young wolf:
— Well, strip those magic runes from your armor and let us see who is truly best with pure steel.
Roderick Dustin, the son of Elia Martell and William Dustin, stepped up just behind the group. He is, without a doubt, the most silent, serious, and stern of that generation of combatants. His words came heavy with absolute confidence:
— We have already tested without the active matrices, Lord Baratheon. But if you want to speak of pure excellence, Aemon is the best among us. During the last solstice, in the mystical isolation pavilion, his talent with the blade was so great that it forced Ser Arthur Dayne himself to use both hands on the hilt of his sword.
In any other court in Westeros, or under any normal circumstance, an assertion of that magnitude would be dismissed as a boastful joke meant to provoke southerners. But not here. Aemon, the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, was a prodigy whose name already echoed with reverence. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, possesses a mastery over the mechanics of combat that borders on an affront to ordinary men. I myself have tested my skill against him during the first weeks of my stay. Even joining my forces with Loras and Garlan Tyrell, the three of us were swept off the field simultaneously. The former Knight of the Kingsguard toyed with our reputations as if we were peasant children brandishing dry twigs, not experienced knights seasoned in the finest tourneys of the Reach.
And the situation became even more impressive when observing the effect of the runes that the King of Winter personally bestowed upon Arthur. Not only upon him, but even upon the beautiful Lady Ashara, whose presence at court carries a secret that defies common sense. There is something profoundly ancient in the lineage of House Dayne that reacts with the energy matrices in an inexplicable way. There must be some mystery guarded within their fortress to justify such a tight mystical symbiosis.
When we reached the center of the wide training yard, the true and terrifying difference between the military preparation of the two kingdoms struck my eyes. There, women trained side by side with men in the dirt. And it was no protocol exhibition or choreographed dance, where a noble lady superficially learns which side of the blade pierces for a last-resort defense; it was authentic, high-impact military training, with many of those warrior women forming part of the regular standing army of the North.
Many of the southern knights in our retinue who came for the royal wedding openly mocked that sight during the first few days, confined to the safety of their private quarters. However, everyone who tested themselves against them was thoroughly humiliated, ending up flat on their backs in the mud, disarmed before the eyes of the entire court.
In a slightly more secluded section of the yard, where the granite was scored with deep grooves, the princesses held their sessions under the supervision of the grandmasters. The Dragon Princess, Rhaenys Targaryen, was locked in an exhibition duel against none other than the Bold himself, Ser Barristan Selmy.
The movement mechanics of that elite transformed combat into something almost impossible for conventional human sight to follow. Watching the clash of their blades required an agonizing amount of focus, for they moved in a manner that defied perception. The runic speed created kinetic accelerations that shattered the boundaries of ordinary reflexes. Rhaenys's body moved leaving a faint visual blur in the air, as though she were rapidly accelerating. An attack that seemed to originate from above, directed vertically at Barristan's shoulder, transformed instantly into a low thrust right at the ground.
It was pure spatial acceleration. The blade simply vanished from one trajectory and reappeared already connecting with the opponent's guard, a movement where the strike seemed to be up top and, in the blink of an eye, was already down below, as if cutting right through the travel time itself. The displacement of air generated by this speed snapped like the crack of a leather whip. The Old Barristan, however, won the bout without showing any fatigue, utilizing his monumental experience to anticipate the princess's attacks. Still, Rhaenys's technical level was terrifying; her pure speed and the aggressiveness of her feints were more than enough to defeat even Loras in a direct clash of training swords.
A few paces away, the young Princess Myrcella Stark was also practicing her evasive footwork. It was evident from her posture that she performed this routine out of obligation rather than a genuine love for the physical act of combat. Yet, everyone in the yard maintained a reverent distance from the girl. Her skinchanging ability ensured she feared no man; after all, she was perfectly capable of invading the minds of her attackers from a distance, seizing control of their actions to make them kill themselves or turn on one another. It is a blood-chilling thought to know that a girl of such fragile and delicate appearance carries such capacity, but that is the reality of the world we live in now.
More toward the center, young Arya Stark was dueling with the fortress's master-at-arms. The girl displayed an impressive mastery for her age and a wolfish ferocity that contrasted starkly with her blossoming beauty. Though Arya had not inherited the golden locks and green eyes of her mother, Cersei—being entirely a Stark in features and blood—one could not deny how beautiful the girl was. She bore a striking resemblance to her aunt, Lady Lyanna, who sat in a slightly elevated viewing area alongside the other ladies of the court and Queen Margaery.
To many in the South, the war that ravaged the continent occurred because two men of royal blood fought over the love of that same lady. Of course, the true motive was the brutal execution of the Lord and heir of the North in the dungeons of King's Landing, but most people prefer the comfort of a fairy tale to the bloody reality of history.
After the training session concluded—where we once again took quite a beating, even with the Northmen visibly holding back so as not to injure us severely—I retired to my quarters for a quick bath with Loras. Moments later, clean and refreshed, we were in Aegon's company. Our similar tastes in certain intimacies and the complete absence of political pretensions among us consolidated an atmosphere of relaxation and strong friendship.
I settled near the hearth, watching Aegon pour the wine.
— Who would have thought... — I began, letting a light laugh escape. — If the great loyalist lords of the South, those who still secretly toast to the Targaryens, knew that the young man they consider the true heir to the Iron Throne wants absolutely nothing to do with the crown, their silence would be deafening.
Aegon let out a clean laugh, leaning against the granite wall.
— They can keep that ugly throne. I want nothing to do with it, and I harbor no ill feelings or resentment toward your family, Renly. The past of King's Landing does not dictate who I am.
I laughed at his sincerity and, taking advantage of the relaxed atmosphere, decided to tease the lad:
— Well, then tell me, Aegon: which handsome youth of this austere court have you already seduced to the point of making the septons cry out to the Seven Hells against such indecency?
The question drew immediate laughter from Loras and the Valyrian prince himself. Aegon shook his head, amused:
— None, Lord Baratheon. And even if I did, the Old Gods do not possess a hell or subterranean punishments for the pleasures of the flesh. In the North, everyone joins together in death and returns to the earth and the trees.
— Well, then I must ensure my conversion to the faith of the Old Gods before I die — I joked, raising my chalice. — But in all seriousness, none? It must not be as poorly looked upon here in the North as it is in the South, right?
Aegon took a sip of his wine, his expression turning a bit more serious:
— Perhaps there isn't the same religious persecution, but it's still not what is expected of an heir to a great lineage. However, if you possess enough strength with a sword, you can shut the mouths of most critics. But I do not plan to live a life of scandals. When the time is right, I will marry a beautiful lady and continue my lineage here in the North.
This determination he had already confided to us before. I looked at him with an arched eyebrow, provoking him openly:
— So you won't follow the old Targaryen customs of marrying your own sister? To be perfectly honest, Aegon... looking at Rhaenys out there in the yard, I believe that if there is a woman in this world capable of making a true sword-swallower's member rise, it is her.
— I'll have to disappoint you then, probably — Aegon chuckled, — but regardless, Renly's speculation is in vain. My sister is in a steadfast relationship with the King himself.
Loras choked on his wine instantly, coughing and wiping his lips hurriedly as his cheeks flushed a vivid shade of red. He shot me an infuriated glare:
— Hey! I am still here in the room, if you don't mind! That might well be true, Renly, but I prefer to know absolutely nothing about the King's dalliances, considering he is married to my sister.
Aegon raised his hands, but the smirk on his face showed he was thoroughly enjoying the Flower Knight's discomfort.
The vigor and physical capabilities of the young monarch were no longer a surprise to anyone within these walls; after all, an entire week of celebrations and the loudly rumored bedding ceremony had made it abundantly clear to all the Westerosi nobility what kind of raw energy ruled this court.
However, all good things must come to an end. My stay in the North already spanned several months, and I needed to return, much to my chagrin, to the Stormlands and my duties in the South.
Walking toward the carriages the following morning, I observed the garrison soldiers marching along the outer walls. The North had become something no one had ever imagined or been able to foresee. Having spent so much time training against them, and witnessing the supernatural speed of their armies and their elite, I stepped into my carriage with an absolute certainty etched into my mind.
If any day in the future the forces of Winterfell decide to march south of the Neck, the great lords of the Seven Kingdoms will have only two choices left to make: kneel immediately, or die in the mud. And I will make certain that my house makes the right choice.