text ▌seelie & private locked.

[impeaches]

For those that are unaware of me, my name is Renly Baratheon. Times have been trying of late, I believe, and we have all been suffering ills that there are few words best to describe. It is for this that I would desire to offer myself as a helping hand or soothing ear for all that desire it or have found themselves lost or without an ally to aid in soothing their turmoiled emotions. You may find me through this network or in my rooms in the castle; the marking of a stag is upon my door and you will be greeted by my fawn, Laurel. I doubt it will be hard to miss.

[ And now for the main point of his post:

LOCKED TO: SANSA, ARYA, MARGAERY, JON, GENDRY. ]

My dear friends and kin; I would hope that I could meet you all sometime in the near future, once your own missions and duties are attended to. I have brought gifts for you all that I would like to pass on as soon as matters are in hand. I would also wish to hear more of the fate of Ned Stark. You have my thanks.

Comments

[baseborne]

[For a long, tense moment, Jon thinks Renly seeks a fight, maybe an uneven one when he calls back one of his scribes... Then he begins to disrobe. Just in time, a myriad of (flustered) protests die on Jon's lips when the last layer of fabric parts and the wound is revealed - if he had any doubts before, they are washed swiftly away. Power to make life, Lady Melisandre had once told him. Power to make light. Power to cast shadows. It is unsettling to look upon, but damning? Jon is not so certain.]

Ham-- what? [In that moment he is reminded absurdly of Pyp, and of the crushing loneliness he'd felt following his lord father's advice and sending the last of his friends far away. The night is dark and full of turnips. Jon shakes his head, dismissing the absurdity of the stray thought and Renly's nickname.] It's not Stannis whose prayers the Red God answers, if he ever even prays. [Somehow Jon doubts that he does.] Lady Melisandre acts as her god wishes, to hear her tell it, not as her king does. Her plots are her own, and she is no kin of yours- [Wait a hot minute.] --Whatever you say he is, I follow him no more and no less than I follow any other man who names himself king. The Night's Watch takes no part - it's not his war I fight in, it's him who came to the Wall to fight in mine.

[Let's not talk about the fact that Jon explicitly talked him through exactly how to wrest the North away from the Lannisters. Words are not swords, but Stannis had taken some of his swords and far too much of his food and a castle on the Wall as well. Let's just definitely never mind all those things right now, though.]

[impeaches]

[ Renly is aware his rage has gotten the better of him; it is hardly the first time. He recalls, a time bare months ago in his mind, that he had raged at his brother, at Robert, for his own false ideals of kingship. It was a disgrace and a fallacy of kingship, everything that the Renly as King had felt kingship to be rubbed in his face and dismissed entirely. He shakes his head, forcing himself to do himself up and force himself back into the clinical clarity of his own mind. He refuses to allow himself to fall prey to that anymore. ]

Ham God. Born amidst salt and smoke; my brother is naught more than a ham prepared for the burning. [ He leans back, arms crossing over himself and his expression souring. ] Lady Melisandre acts as lunacy concealed within the arms of religion. Stannis is a pawn in her games as much as the next man - and you do not wonder what drew him to religion in the first place, Jon Snow? I highly doubt it was a pious nature that made Stannis turn to the Lady herself; I suspect it was more to do with what her cunt could offer him in the meantime.

[ He steps back, summoning his squires and redressing himself properly, smoothing down his silks and repairing himself to look all the king he once had been. ]

You follow him and I am sure the Watch does no more than follow you, with all your intelligence and honour. You follow a kinslayer and kingslayer both, an abomination in the eyes of the Old and the New. It is your shame that you must bear for these choices. You may say that you follow him no more than anyone else but your words belay you. You are Stannis' boy and he poisons your mind with his lies and whispers. I had thought better of you.

[baseborne]

[Jon still remembers the warning Stannis had given him about Val. Beauty can be treacherous, he'd said. No, Jon can't picture the man turning to Melisandre for what she had between her legs, as much as he seemed to scorn women and his duties in marriage: some men think with their cocks, that much is plain, but to do so Stannis likely would have had to dust his off first. For power, though, that Jon can believe. For an angry red god that actually answered prayers when all the south's seven new gods were silent. For that the strength which Renly had yanked out from under him by calling all his banners and setting them up prettily in some field while Eddard Stark got his head taken off.]

Might be you should have asked my lord father while he was yet here. [Or, you know, alive.] Stannis' claim is the one he supported. Likely on account of Stannis actually having a claim.

[Being Lord Commander has made Jon more bold than he ought to be, in truth.]

[impeaches]

[ Renly simple laughs, shaking his head and waving a hand. ]

Perhaps he had a claim better than my own, but Stannis was unfit, unwelcome and unloved. He was a solider and we have long since seen that soldiers do not a king make. He would have fallen no sooner than he had rose to take the crown.

[ He shakes his head, amused by Jon's staunch support. ]

The people would not have accepted him nor his Red God. They would have loved me, my lady wife and the gifts and kindnesses we would have given them.

[ And, then, a nod. ]

I hope your gift comes to be useful.

[baseborne]

[Like you? Jon wants to ask: he wants to offer up some bitter laugh and say that it's Stannis who still lives, all this time after putting the fiery crown on his brow, but he keeps it in. That much, he'll do for Sansa. Though besides, it's the strength of that selfsame lady wife's House that held the throne for the mad Lannisters and their bastard boy-kings who even now persisted in tearing up the land: Westeros needed those golden monsters less than anything else in the world, it seems to Jon. Less even than this youngest Baratheon with his pretty face, and his pretty clothes, and pretty words.]

I'm sure it will, [is what Jon says instead of any of that, his voice stiff and grey eyes like cold chips of ice, though there's a seething defiance underneath them that might look out of place on the face so like his father's. Lord Eddard Stark never had Jon's hot bastard's temper - must be, he got it from his mother.] I thank you for the gift, and the thought, my lord. [But no more than that, clearly.]