I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
________________________________________
Chapter 92: The Banner on the Bed.
The sun had barely broken the horizon when the alarm rang out across the Red Keep.
The sharp clang of the bells echoing through the stone courtyards and corridors, calling guards to arms and sending attendants scrambling from their posts. Ravens were halted mid-flight, and servants froze in their steps. the castle stirred with confusion and fear. Word spread quickly: King Renly Baratheon was gone.
Not just Renly, but Ser Loras Tyrell too.
Within the hour, Queen Margaery's solar was filled with tension. Her chamber was still draped in the soft, silken hues of Tyrell influence, but the warmth they once gave now felt hollow. A bitter chill had replaced the springtime charm.
Margaery stood by the window, her face pale. Her grandmother, Olenna Tyrell, sat calmly, her hands folded in her lap. Her father Mace Tyrell paced the room, his brow furrowed with worry.
The door opened, and her brother Ser Garlan Tyrell entered, his expression grave. He held a small banner in his hands.
"Well?" Olenna asked, her voice steady.
Garlan nodded to his grandmother. "We found two of our Tyrell guards unconscious outside Renly's chamber. They know nothing of the attack. Inside, the room was empty. Renly and Loras are gone."
Mace Tyrell's jaw dropped. "What do you mean gone? How does a king disappear from inside the Red Keep?"
Garlan shook his head. "The only thing of note was this." He held it up for all to see—a small black banner, embroidered with a three-headed dragon. House Targaryen. The banner fluttered slightly in the morning breeze. Its edges were neatly folded, but its presence spoke volumes.
There was a beat of silence before Mace erupted.
"Seven hells," he muttered, stumbling backwards. "He has them. Daeron Targaryen has them both." He began pacing, a nervous rhythm overtaking his breath. "The same boy who burned Tywin Lannister alive—he has my son, and the king. What if he burns Loras too?"
"Mace," Olenna snapped, "shut up and sit down. Your unnecessary pacing is irritating. And you're foolishness is wearing a hole in my patience."
Startled, Mace froze. Margaery, her composure straining, gently took her father by the arm and eased him into the nearest chair.
"It's all right, Father," she said softly, though her eyes remained fixed on the banner in Garlan's hands. "We'll find a way."
Olenna stood by the window, tapping her fingers against the carved wood frame. Her eyes, sharp as ever, hadn't left the Targaryen sigil since it was revealed.
"He left that behind deliberately," Olenna said. "He wants us to know who took them."
Margaery looked to her grandmother. "Then he wants us to fear him."
"No," Olenna replied. "If Daeron Targaryen wanted Renly or Loras dead, he wouldn't have left that banner behind. He would've left ashes."
Mace gulped, his voice low. "But what if he plans to use them—to force our surrender?"
"Of course he does," Olenna said dryly. "But not by slaughter. Not yet."
Margaery walked to her brother, taking the banner from his hands and holding it in front of her. The red dragon seemed to leer at her.
"So what do we do?" she asked. "How do we get them back?"
Olenna turned, her face suddenly weary.
"I don't know about Renly," she said. "But getting Loras back? That's simple enough."
She walked slowly to the center of the room, her voice quiet but firm.
"All we have to do is surrender. Open the gates. And let Daeron Targaryen in."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Bitterness clung to Olenna's words like dust on stone. The matriarch of Highgarden stood tall, but her eyes betrayed the sting of defeat she had never known before. She had seen kings fall, lords rise, and houses burn. But being forced to kneel?
That was a different kind of war.
And for the first time in decades, Olenna Tyrell had no answer.
Renly's Perspective.
Cold stone pressed against Renly Baratheon's cheek as he stirred awake. He woke to darkness and the cold bite of iron around his wrists.
His head throbbed. His limbs felt heavy, as if he had slept in full plate. A low groan escaped his lips as he blinked against the dim torchlight flickering from a nearby wall. Stone. Bars. Chains.
Renly was in a cell. He turned his head, eyes widening at the sight beside him.
"Loras," he whispered
Loras lay beside him, still unconscious. His golden hair was disheveled, his breathing soft and even. A leather cuff bound his wrists and ankles, and faint bruises marked his hands—signs of a swift capture, but no lasting harm.
Renly reached out toward him instinctively, only to be pulled short. His own chains clanked as they snapped taut, binding him to the wall behind him.
Pain crept up his arms as he sat up, slowly, back pressing against the cold stone. He turned—
And froze.
There, standing in front of the cell, calm and still, was a young man cloaked in dark leather. His hair was black as coal, his eyes like cold steel. Though no crown sat upon his brow, there was something regal about him. Something ancient.
Renly knew him. Everyone did by now.
"Daeron Targaryen," he whispered.
It all came back at once, as Renly was stuck with the cold reality that it was over. His kingship had ended not on a battlefield, but in his own bed chamber.
He looked down at the chains around his wrists.
One night. One damned night.
Renly Baratheon—King of the Seven Kingdoms, beloved by crowds—was now a prisoner.
He didn't have the strength to speak again. He didn't know what he'd say if he did. He simply bowed his head, the weight of failure heavier than any chain.