The war room of Storm's End was dim except for the soft glow of lanterns illuminating the map table. Outside, the ocean winds howled against the thick stone walls, a reminder that even the mightiest fortress stood at the mercy of the elements.
Inside, however, the conversation was far more turbulent than any storm.
Gendry rested both hands on the painted table, leaning over the shifting borders of Westeros. His advisors stood nearby—Qyburn, Jorah Mormont, and the man known simply as the Handsome. They had been discussing alliances, threats, and the shadow of Renly Baratheon, who remained both a lingering memory and a formidable rival for the Iron Throne.
"Lord Renly is still a great man in some respects," Gendry began quietly. There was no bitterness in his tone—only a calm acknowledgement of reality. "Brienne left because she is a woman of honor. She serves her promises before she serves any lord. If she were to join me, she must first settle her debts with Renly."
He paused, tapping one finger on the Reach.
"I don't resent her for that."
Renly Baratheon had been many things—vain, flamboyant, overly concerned with appearance and charm—but he was also kind, charismatic, and beloved by the people in a way Gendry had never been. While others trained with steel, Renly wielded charm as his weapon.
Gendry's voice took on a thoughtful edge.
"He had his flaws. But there were shining qualities too. Not all battles are fought on the training ground."
Qyburn gave a faint, tight smile.
"If we're speaking of dancing and aristocratic elegance, then yes—Lord Renly is unmatched."
Jorah scoffed, arms crossed.
"Charm doesn't win a real war. Sooner or later, Renly will learn that. A smile cannot stop a spear."
But the Handsome Man shook his head.
"And yet, charm and amiability have won him many allies and adoring hearts. That alone makes him dangerous."
This was undeniably true.
Brienne's loyalty was the most vivid example. At the welcoming feast on Tarth, Renly had treated the painfully timid, awkward Brienne of Tarth as though she were no different from any other noble maiden. He danced with her—gracefully, confidently—and for the first time in her life, Brienne had felt beautiful.
That single memory had bound her heart to him.
The room fell silent for a moment, everyone lost in their own thoughts.
Then Qyburn spoke, voice cold and analytical.
"Renly is one of our greatest opponents. He has ambition for the Iron Throne as well. And now he commands the Stormlands by right and has drawn in the Reach through the Tyrells."
He touched several sigils on the map.
"The Reach was fragmented before. But the Lady Olenna Tyrell forged unity—Tyrell, Redwyne, Hightower—all marching under one banner. Their combined wealth rivals that of any kingdom."
Jorah stepped forward, tapping another area of the map.
"That is true, but the Reach is not a monolith. Their alliances are shallow, bound more by convenience than loyalty. Large houses like Hightower have their own interests. And though they have marital ties to House Tyrell, they dislike joining wars. I once married a woman from House Hightower—I know their ways."
Even so, Qyburn countered,
"If we land by sea, Renly could call upon the Redwyne fleet. And Storm's End remains nearly unbreachable."
At this, Gendry straightened, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"There is another way."
The three men looked at him sharply.
"A new landing route," Gendry said. "One that does not require sailing into the jaws of the Reach or Stormlands."
Before anyone could question further, a knock sounded on the door.
Anguy leaned in. "My Lord, your guests have arrived."
Gendry nodded. "Good. Excuse me."
His advisors understood immediately—anyone the regent prince met personally was no ordinary visitor.
---
The Knight From a Vanished Past
Gendry and Daenerys walked together through the quiet garden, the lanterns casting long shadows over trimmed hedges. The air held the scent of salt and wet stone.
Waiting for them was a weathered knight—brown-haired, middle-aged, wearing a leather armor that had clearly seen long years of hardship. His sword, however, was spotless—cared for as though it were an extension of his soul.
Ser Mortimer Boggs bowed stiffly.
"I am honored, my Lord, Princess," he greeted, voice cautious yet steady. "It is heartening to know that across the sea, there remain those willing to fight for House Targaryen."
Gendry studied him. The man looked worn down by life, but not broken. His posture was straight. His eyes steady.
"And you fight not only for Daenerys, but for me?" Gendry asked gently.
"Yes," Mortimer answered. "For the shared honor of the true dragon. Many brave men died. But those of us who remain… we remember."
Daenerys stepped forward, warmth in her voice.
"I've heard you fought beside my brother Rhaegar at the Trident."
The knight's eyes softened. The memory, though painful, was cherished.
"Not just I," Mortimer said quietly. "Many from Claw Peninsula fought for him. Clebb, Bren, Boggs—men who believed in the rightful king. The Kingsguard had brave knights from Clebb, Hardy, Caffrey, Payne… and three of Clebb's own sons."
His voice grew even softer.
"The bells of the Trident tolled for all of them."
The weight of the past hung heavy in the cold garden air.
Mortimer said no more about the war. Some tragedies needed no elaboration. But fate had twisted the stories of Westeros so strangely that the bastard of House Baratheon now stood side-by-side with the last daughter of the dragon—two remnants of two rival lines, united by a new purpose.
Daenerys placed a gentle hand on her chest where a four-colored badge rested—a symbol of the reborn alliance between dragon and stag. She was no longer the fragile child she once was.
"I am pleased to meet you," she said softly. "You remind me of Ser Darry."
Mortimer bowed his head. "Thank you, Princess."
She did not linger on the past. She had learned from exile that dwelling on what was lost only shackled her future. She would wear new crowns; she would forge a new dynasty.
Mortimer seemed deeply moved.
"I have waited many years for a glimmer of hope."
Gendry's eyes sharpened.
"And after Robert took the throne, how were you punished?"
Mortimer exhaled slowly.
"Harshly. Some were executed or exiled. Others lost their titles and lands. Claw Peninsula remained a knighthood only because outsiders could not hold it. But all of us paid crippling ransoms in gold."
His voice quivered—not with fear, but with anger long bottled.
"But we endured."
"And now?" Gendry asked.
Mortimer straightened with solemn conviction.
"Now, my Lord and Princess, when you raise your banners on Claw Peninsula, we will answer. I speak for House Thorne—but also for thousands. Our land may be barren, and the nobles of King's Landing may mock us as half-savages, but our courage has never faltered. And King's Landing is within reach."
Gendry exchanged a glance with Daenerys—both impressed, both hopeful.
"Very well," Gendry said at last. "Your loyalty will not be forgotten. But it is not time to strike yet. Prepare quietly. I will send grain, armor, weapons. Your coastline is ideal for covert supply."
Mortimer nodded deeply.
"I will make ready."
Daenerys stepped close, squeezing Gendry's hand. "And House Darry—don't forget them."
"I won't," Gendry promised. He felt her unease; her connection to Westeros still flickered between longing and fear. "They cared for you. I will repay them."
From Claw Peninsula to Fountainhead and Darry Town, a silent arc of loyalists encircled the eastern side of King's Landing. It would become a blade pointed at the heart of chaos.
But it was also dangerously close to the Royal Fleet at Dragonstone.
They would need caution. Patience. And timing.
Mortimer took a deep breath.
"One more thing, my Lord. I am willing to strike at House Lannister to prove my loyalty. Robert earned his throne through battle and courage. But the Lannisters—" His face hardened. "They earned theirs through betrayal and deceit. I hate them. All of Claw Peninsula hates them."
Daenerys's eyes gleamed with cold fire.
"The Lannisters have wronged me as well."
Westeros had always understood one thing: a victory won by strength could be respected. But a victory through treachery earned only hatred.
And the Lannisters had committed every sin in the war—betrayal, kingslaying, the killing of children, the burning of women, the sacking of King's Landing.
Their day of reckoning was drawing near.
---
Thus began the quiet stirring of forces beneath the surface of Westeros—an alliance of gratitude and hatred, loyalty and vengeance. An arc of fire waiting for a spark.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)