What If Renly Sided With Stannis? | Game of Thrones

#jaimelannister #robbstark #cerseilannister #gameofthronestheories #whatif #robbstark #CatelynStark #nedstark #tywinlannister #cerseilannister #jaimelannister #westeroshistory #alternatehistory #theory #explained #houselannister #housestark #VisionsOfValyria #ironthrone #nedstark Valar Morghulis What If Renly Baratheon JOINED Stannis Baratheon? Let’s explore the possibilities that might have been. The sun dipped beneath the western horizon, painting Dragonstone’s basalt walls with the glow of a dying forge-fire. Within those ancient walls—built by the Targaryens of old—lurked a tension heavier than the basalt towers themselves. King Robert Baratheon was dead, and the realm shuddered under the weight of uncertain heirs. Renly Baratheon arrived at Dragonstone near twilight. His once-dazzling green-and-gold cloak hung limp, embroidered stags dulled by salt and travel-stains. He had fled King’s Landing not long after Robert’s death, spurred by the realization that the Lannisters intended to grasp the Iron Throne by any means necessary. The memory of his older brother Robert—blustering, laughing, living—haunted every torchlit corridor. So it was that Renly found himself before Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone and now claimant to their elder brother’s crown. In the flickering torchlight of the war room, Stannis stood rigid at a heavy table laden with maps, scrolls, and a few half-burnt parchments. To his right stood Davos Seaworth, the onetime smuggler newly named Hand of the King—at least, if one believed in Stannis’s claim. Melisandre, lingered by the far wall, silent, her red robes trailing like fresh blood on black stone. Her presence exuded an unsettling energy. Stannis Baratheon (curtly): “You took your time.” The elder Baratheon’s voice cut through the stillness. Renly pressed his lips together and offered a slight bow. Gone was his usual dazzling smile, replaced by an earnest heaviness. Renly Baratheon (softly): “I did. We quarreled, you and I… but the Lannisters are usurpers, wolves in sheep’s clothing. Or serpents, winding about the throne. You were right, Stannis. You are Robert’s heir. I will stand with you.” For a heartbeat, a flicker of astonishment crossed Stannis’s face. Melisandre’s red eyes narrowed. She seemed unconvinced, though she made no sound. Davos, for his part, offered Renly a tight-lipped nod—a gesture of hope that this reunion might mend old wounds. Stannis Baratheon: “Then rally the Stormlands for me. If your Tyrell alliances are more than just talk, bring Highgarden’s might as well. We march on King’s Landing. We will rip that false bastard-king off the throne he stole.” Renly answered with a resolute nod, shoulders squaring as though a weight had lifted. At long last, these two Baratheon brothers—so different in temperament—had aligned on a single course. The following weeks brought an astonishing wave of mustering. Dragonstone’s small garrison was joined by knights from the Stormlands who yet held to the memory of House Baratheon’s rightful claim. Fickle lords who had once doubted Stannis now considered joining—for the crown was his by law and blood, should Joffrey’s parentage prove false. Letters bearing the crowned stag seal spread across the Narrow Sea’s coasts, urging loyalty and promising justice. Renly’s previous ties with the Tyrells bore fruit as well. Margaery Tyrell, Renly’s wife—or near enough to it in spirit, if not officially wedded by the Faith—persuaded her father, Lord Mace Tyrell, to pledge swords and riders. The vibrant banners of Highgarden soon marched alongside the stags. Rumors claimed Mace would have allied with any strong contender for the Iron Throne, but the presence of his daughter with Renly sealed that arrangement in earnest. The sight of green cloaks from the Reach beside the stags of Storm’s End underscored an unprecedented unification. When at last the Baratheon host moved, it did so with discipline. At Bitterbridge, local lords paid homage—some sincerely, some out of practical fear. At Rosby, Stannis’s vanguard scattered a small Lannister patrol, capturing valuable siege engines. Every minor victory rattled the cage around King’s Landing. Cersei Lannister, regent for her son Joffrey, had counted on old grudges between Stannis and Renly to keep the Baratheon front divided. Now that unity spelled doom for the Lannister hold on power. Within the Red Keep, worry ran high. Tyrion Lannister—the newly named Hand to King Joffrey—arrived from the road, doing his best to fortify the city’s defenses. The gold cloaks, once swayed by coin, began to slip away under the cover of night, some bribed by Baratheon agents, others simply deserting. Tyrion labored to organize a network of wildfire throughout the bay and the city walls, hoping that green flames might stem the tide of invasion. It was a desperate move. Cersei Lannister (grimly): “Must we rely on that vile alchemist’s substance? We have thousands of barrels.