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

[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.]