Game of Thrones: I Created the Weave

"Your Grace, Earl Monford Velaryon from the sea sends his regards." Ser Cortnay Penrose handed over a letter.

Renly took the letter, glanced at it, and lightly tossed it onto his desk with a chuckle.

"The young Earl Velaryon is quite arrogant, thinking forty warships are enough to make the Lords of the Stormlands obedient."

Renly walked to the window and looked down at the sea. Dozens of ship silhouettes huddled together, both powerful and tiny.

"Ignore them. Velaryon must have forgotten the origin of Storm's End's name. The strong stone and the storm will greet his 'invincible' fleet for us."

The legend of Storm's End was known to all.

The songs told that Elenei, daughter of the Sea God and the Goddess of the Wind, fell in love with the human Durran. She resolutely gave up her long life, choosing to spend a short but happy life with Durran.

However, Elenei's divine parents were enraged by this and gifted their daughter's wedding with seawater and storms.

This gift was too heavy. Durran's castle collapsed, and none of his family and guests were spared. Only Elenei and Durran, whom she protected, saw the calm ruins afterward.

Durran and Elenei did not yield.

They repaired the castle, and the gods brought storms again. Then they built new castles, each stronger and taller than the last, repeating this cycle.

Until someone helped them with magic, the castle finally successfully withstood the invasion of storms and the sea.

This castle was thus called "Storm's End," and Durran became the first Storm King, ruling the vast lands of the Stormlands.

All that was thousands of years ago, in the Dawn Age.

Storm's End had never been breached.

Cortnay Penrose looked puzzled, "Earl Velaryon is on the 'Pride of Driftmark', which is the largest warship privately owned by the Velaryons. Why is he so dedicated?"

Renly returned to his seat, "Perhaps Earl Velaryon is simply loyal to his king. His dear Majesty hasn't returned Dragonstone to little Shireen."

Renly wasn't that naive. Monford Velaryon must have thought Joffrey had won for sure to dare make such a bet.

After all, when he set sail, Joffrey hadn't issued that absurd command yet.

Renly almost couldn't help but laugh, "Ser Cortnay, the Iron Throne's decree has been read for a week now. What is the total amount of taxes owed by Storm's End?"

Cortnay Penrose shook his head and clicked his tongue, "It's truly hard to imagine. If calculated from the Targaryen era, even selling the entire Stormlands wouldn't be enough to repay it. Even if calculated from the year King Robert ascended the throne, the outstanding taxes have already reached one million six hundred thousand Gold Dragons!"

Renly couldn't help but secretly applaud his opponent.

The situation in the Stormlands was already this bad; the other Six Kingdoms would surely be worse.

Joffrey only gave three years. By then, could the liege lords and dukes of the Seven Kingdoms really offer such immense wealth?

Which duke could take money from their family's private coffers to subsidize such a bottomless pit? If they pursued taxes from their subordinate lords, it would inevitably cause various conflicts, weakening their own prestige and power, with no benefit.

Even if Eddard Stark and Duke Tywin still fully supported him, would the lords under them still obey the Iron Throne without reservation?

Renly knew that the scales of victory had tilted greatly towards him, just waiting for the biggest weight to fall, and the scales would tip completely in his favor. The Baratheons would reclaim the Iron Throne.

Loras, I've wronged you.

Renly tried his best to hide his inner anxiety, "It's been two weeks, has there been no reply from the Reach?"

But Ser Cortnay Penrose still felt the Duke's impatience. Just today alone, the Duke had asked three times.

Knock knock knock.

A crisp knocking sound suddenly rang out. Ser Cortnay walked over to check and returned to Renly's side with a joyful expression.

"Your Grace, the Rose's wax seal."

Renly immediately took it and examined it carefully. Yes, the blooming golden rose pattern was exquisite and familiar enough to be unforgettable. The liege lord of the Reach, the richest of the Seven Kingdoms—House Tyrell.

Renly took a deep breath, carefully broke the wax seal, unrolled the scroll, and read silently:

"To the Duke of Storm's End, Warden of the Stormlands, Master of Laws, Lord Renly of House Baratheon:

The Tyrells and all loyal subjects of the Reach pledge to defend the legitimate succession of the Iron Throne with their lives.

Should the bloodline of King Joffrey I be in doubt, the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms should not fear questioning, but bravely shoulder the responsibility and clarify the truth.

The Tyrells are willing to be the vanguard.

—Respectfully, Willas Tyrell."

Willas Tyrell, the eldest son of the Duke of Tyrell, heir to Highgarden. Renly was both satisfied and regretful.

How wonderful it would have been if Duke Mace Tyrell and the "Queen of Thorns" had jointly expressed their stance.

Renly shook his head again. No, if House Tyrell were truly that reckless, they wouldn't be worth relying on. This was enough for now.

The biggest weight had been placed on the scales.

Renly stood up.

The battlefield would be south of King's Landing and Casterly Rock, and north of Highgarden and Storm's End.

Three months.

The North was the furthest, able to send at most twenty thousand troops. The Riverlands and the Vale could each send twenty to thirty thousand. The Westerlands could send forty to fifty thousand. The Crownlands were the closest, and arming ten to twenty thousand soldiers was possible.

But with Joffrey's tax decree, it would be good if the various lords sent some rabble as a gesture.

Old Hoster of the Riverlands was close to death, and Lysa of the Vale was a neurotic madwoman. The two regions would likely only defend themselves.

Dorne and the Iron Islands, moreover, had no fondness for the Lannisters.

At best, Joffrey could field fifty thousand troops.

The Stormlands alone had twenty to thirty thousand men, and if the Reach mobilized over fifty thousand, the battle to reclaim the Iron Throne would be a landslide victory, with the enemy potentially even defecting on the battlefield.

Renly seemed to already see the courtiers beneath the Iron Throne swearing fealty to him.

"Ser Cortnay, gather all the Lords of the Stormlands, muster the troops at Storm's End, and prepare for war. Also, send this letter to every castle in the Seven Kingdoms, including the Red Keep."

Ser Cortnay took the unsealed parchment. He only glanced at it and immediately froze.

"Duke, Joffrey, he..."

Renly smiled. "Ser, I am His Majesty now. You are not mistaken, Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella are products of incest. By the laws of the Gods and men, the Iron Throne should be inherited by me!"

"Yes. Your Majesty."

His Majesty's eyes were so burning and sharp that Ser Cortnay couldn't help but avert his gaze, and the banner on the wall came into view.

On the golden background of the banner was the emblem inherited from the ancient Storm Kings, the symbol of House Baratheon for three hundred years, Ours is the Fury, the Crowned Stag.

A black stag.

Under the Crowned Stag banner in the Red Keep, Hannah brought King Joffrey good news.

"A hunter in the Kingswood has found a stag that is entirely white. Congratulations, Your Majesty, this must be an auspicious sign from the Gods for tomorrow's coronation."

Joffrey said indifferently, "Offer a hundred Gold Dragons as a reward. Rain is getting wilder and wilder, it's time for a new mount."

War was about to spread, and the coronation ceremony was a good opportunity. King's Landing would be reborn starting tomorrow, and Westeros would become a magical empire under the guise of religion.

Azor Ahai, the Hero King.

"Where is Melisandre, the Priestess of R'hllor from Asshai?"

Hannah remembered her. "She's staying at the inn near the Mud Gate. Does Your Majesty wish to summon her?"

Joffrey smiled.

After tomorrow, Melisandre would come to him on her own.

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