Chapter 19: The King of Ash and Light: A World Trembles
The march back from the ruin of Harrenhal was a strange, solitary pilgrimage. Robb Stark, King in the North, wielder of the Sacred Axe Rhitta, destroyer of castles, walked through a land that seemed to hold its breath in his presence. The sun, his divine patron, rose each day, infusing him with its familiar power, but the devastation he had wrought left a chill in his soul that even its noontime zenith could not entirely dispel. He was weary, not of body, for Sunshine and Ban's immortality made such concerns trivial, but with a profound exhaustion of the spirit. He had unleashed a power meant for gods or demons, and the man who was once Eddard Stark's son felt the terrible weight of that transgression. Tony Volante, however, merely tallied the strategic gain: fear was a weapon, and he had just forged the most potent one in Westeros.
News of Harrenhal's unmaking, of a lone figure commanding the sun's fury, spread faster than any raven. It was a tale too fantastical to be believed, yet the smoking, molten ruin of Westeros's largest fortress stood as undeniable, terrifying proof. Peasants fled from his path, whispering of the "Sun Demon" or the "Wolf God." Lannister garrisons in lesser keeps abandoned their posts, their fear of Robb Stark outweighing their fear of Tywin Lannister.
Tywin Lannister himself, having barely escaped Harrenhal with a terrified retinue, had reportedly fallen back towards King's Landing, his iron composure shattered, his mind struggling to comprehend a war that now included an enemy who could melt stone with a gesture. His frantic ravens to the capital spoke not of a rebellion, but of an unnatural cataclysm, a divine or demonic intervention that had annihilated his reserves and his primary inland fortress.
In King's Landing, the reaction was a potent cocktail of terror and hysteria. Queen Regent Cersei Lannister, upon hearing the full, scarcely believable accounts, collapsed. Young King Joffrey, after an initial burst of childish bluster, descended into petulant fear, demanding his Kingsguard protect him from the "Northern monster." Tyrion Lannister, if he had still been Hand, would have been fascinated, horrified, and already calculating the geopolitical shifts. Without his pragmatic counsel, the Small Council floundered, some advocating for seeking aid from the Citadel or even Essene sorcerers, others for placating this new, terrible power. Sansa Stark's position became even more precarious; she was now the sister of a figure who could command apocalyptic power, making her an even more valuable hostage, but also a target for the terror-stricken Lannisters.
The Faith of the Seven was thrown into turmoil. Some septons denounced Robb Stark as a creature of darkest sorcery, a minion of the Stranger. Others, particularly among the smallfolk who had suffered under Lannister rule, began to whisper that the Old Gods of the North had awakened, or that a new god had risen to punish the wicked, a god of fire and righteous vengeance.
At Dragonstone, Stannis Baratheon and Melisandre, the Red Priestess, received the news with grim intensity. Melisandre saw in Robb Stark's actions the touch of a powerful, rival fire, one not born of R'hllor. Was he an agent of the Great Other, cloaked in false light? Or another champion, a dangerous, uncontrolled variable in her prophecies? Stannis, ever the pragmatist beneath his rigid adherence to law, saw a force that had done what his own armies could not: shatter Tywin Lannister's power base in the Riverlands and sow unparalleled terror in his enemies.
The Tyrells of Highgarden, newly allied with the Lannisters, found their calculations thrown into disarray. Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, was said to have remarked with dry wit, "It seems my granddaughter has married into a family whose chief enemy can melt castles. Perhaps we should have offered Margaery to the Young Wolf instead. He appears to have a more… explosive dowry." The Tyrells, ever opportunistic, would be watching, waiting, reassessing their loyalties.
Robb Stark, oblivious to much of this immediate, widespread fallout, continued his grim march. He arrived at Riverrun not as a conquering hero, but as a figure wreathed in an aura of terrifying power and profound sorrow. His own soldiers, who had heard the wild rumors, looked at him with a mixture of awe, fear, and fanatical devotion. They had followed a brave young king; they now served a demigod.
Catelyn Stark was waiting for him in the courtyard, her face a mask of anguish. She had heard. The tales of Harrenhal's destruction, of a single warrior wielding the sun's fire, had reached Riverrun. When she saw him, Rhitta now slung across his back, its golden head seeming to pulse with a faint, inner light even in the cloudy afternoon, she didn't know whether to embrace her son or fall to her knees in terror.
"Robb…" she breathed, her hand outstretched. "What have you done?"
"What was necessary, Mother," he replied, his voice flat, his eyes holding a depth of weariness she had never seen before. "Harrenhal is no more. Tywin Lannister's power in the Riverlands is broken."
"They say… they say you called down fire from the heavens," she whispered, her eyes fixed on the Sacred Axe. "That you wield magic, dark or divine…"
"I wield the strength of my convictions, Mother," he said, unwilling to explain the inexplicable. "And the North's will to be free."
His war council – the Blackfish, Greatjon Umber, Maege Mormont, Jason Mallister, Edmure Tully – assembled in the Great Hall, the atmosphere thick with an almost religious solemnity. They had heard the fragmented, unbelievable reports from scouts and refugees. Now, their King stood before them, the destroyer of Harrenhal.
"Your Grace," Brynden Blackfish began, his voice hoarse with disbelief. "The tales from Harrenhal… are they true? A lone warrior… the fortress melted…?"
Robb nodded slowly. "Harrenhal stands no more. A significant portion of Tywin Lannister's reserves and war materiel within its walls were… consumed." He chose his words carefully. "Let the world know that those who bring unjust war upon the North and the Trident will face not just our steel, but a righteous fury that can unmake their proudest fortresses."
The Greatjon Umber stared at him, his jaw slack with awe. "By the gods, lad… King… you… you are more than just a wolf. You're a bloody fire dragon in wolf's skin!"
Maege Mormont simply nodded, her eyes filled with a fierce, almost fearful respect. "The Old Gods are with you, Your Grace. Or you are one of them."
Robb knew he could not fully explain the nature of Sunshine or Rhitta. He allowed them to believe it was some ancient, awakened power of House Stark, a blessing from the Old Gods in their darkest hour. It served to solidify his authority, but also to create an unnerving distance between himself and his followers. They no longer saw him merely as their king, their commander; they saw him as a vessel of an awesome, terrifying power. It was an isolating mantle.
Tony Volante, however, saw the utility. Fear was a powerful tool of governance, both internally and externally. Let them whisper of his divine might. It would keep his own lords in line and his enemies sleepless.
His old strategic plans were now largely irrelevant. The world had changed in the fires of Harrenhal.
"Tywin Lannister will be reeling," Robb said to his council, the weariness in his voice belying the sun's renewed strength now building within him as a new day progressed. "He will be desperate. He will likely consolidate all his remaining forces around King's Landing, to protect Joffrey and his own power base there. He knows now that no fortress is truly safe from me."
"What is our next move, Your Grace?" Jason Mallister asked, his voice hushed. "Do you… do you intend to march on King's Landing itself? Can you… do to it what you did to Harrenhal?" The unspoken question hung in the air: Will you unleash that terrible power again?
Robb looked at his commanders. He saw awe, fear, but also a dawning, terrible hope in their eyes. The hope that he could end this war swiftly, decisively, with a single, cataclysmic blow.
"King's Landing is a city of half a million souls, Lord Mallister," Robb said quietly. "My sisters are within its walls. I will not unleash such… indiscriminate destruction upon it, unless all other paths are closed." The thought of using Cruel Sun on a civilian population, even one that housed his enemies, sickened the part of him that was still Eddard Stark's son. Tony Volante, however, filed it away as a last resort, an ultimate deterrent.
"Then what?" Edmure Tully asked. "How do we fight a war when you can… unmake armies with a gesture?"
"My power," Robb said, choosing his words with care, "is not without its limits, nor its costs." This was a lie, in part – Sunshine was limitless as long as the sun shone, and Ban's immortality negated personal physical cost – but it was a necessary lie to maintain some semblance of relatability, to prevent his own people from seeing him as entirely alien. "It is a weapon of last resort, to be used when the survival of our kingdom is at stake. We still need our armies. We still need strategy, discipline, and courage."
He outlined his new strategy. He would issue an ultimatum to King's Landing: the immediate release of Sansa and Arya Stark, unharmed; the surrender of Joffrey Baratheon, Cersei Lannister, and all those directly responsible for Eddard Stark's murder, to face Northern justice. In return, Jaime Lannister would be released, and the Kingdom of the North and the Trident would consider a ceasefire.
"They will refuse," Catelyn said, her voice devoid of hope.
"I know," Robb agreed. "And when they do, their arrogance will be plain for all the world to see. It will justify our next actions."
His plan was to consolidate his hold on the Riverlands, using its resources to strengthen his army further. He would then use his unique abilities not for indiscriminate destruction, but for precise, terrifying strategic strikes. He would not march on King's Landing to lay siege with an army. Instead, he, perhaps with a small, elite force and Rhitta, would target the Lannister and Tyrell leadership directly, or their key military assets, one by one, making their position untenable, forcing them to sue for peace on his terms. It was a campaign of targeted assassination and psychological warfare, backed by the threat of another Harrenhal.
News, or rather lack thereof, from the Iron Islands continued to trouble him. Theon had been gone for weeks, and no definitive word had come. Robb's secret envoy to Asha had managed to send one more cryptic message: "The kraken prepares to strike, but at whom, even its own tentacles do not agree. My brother is a weathercock in a hurricane. Trust nothing from Pyke."
This was a dangerous loose end. If Balon Greyjoy attacked the North while Robb was engaged in the South, it could be disastrous.
Then, a raven arrived from Roose Bolton. The Lord of the Dreadfort's missive was a masterpiece of obsequious deference and carefully veiled information. He expressed his profound, humble awe at the "divine judgment" His Grace had unleashed upon Harrenhal. He reported that his own forces had "pacified" the remainder of the northern Riverlands with "regrettable but necessary firmness." He now awaited his King's further commands, his loyalty "as unshakeable as the Wall itself."
Robb read the letter, a humorless smile touching his lips. Bolton was terrified, or at least pretending to be. But he was also too intelligent not to be plotting. Robb's display of power had likely made him even more determined to find a way to remove such an unpredictable and overwhelmingly powerful King.
"Send word to Lord Bolton," Robb instructed Maester Vyman. "He is to bring his forces to Riverrun at once. All of them. He will join my main host. I wish to… consult with him personally on our future strategy."
He would keep his viper close, where he could watch him.
The world was now different. Robb Stark was no longer just a young king leading a rebellion. He was a figure of legend, a harbinger of destruction, the King of Ash and Light. His enemies were terrified, his allies awestruck and fearful. He felt more alone than ever, the weight of his power, his secrets, and his grief a crushing burden. But as he looked out from the battlements of Riverrun, Rhitta now a constant, comforting presence at his side or slung across his back, he felt a cold, hard resolve. He would bear this burden. He would wield this power. He would forge a future for his people, a future free from lions and false kings.
The game of thrones had been irrevocably altered. And the Sun of the North was just beginning to show its true, terrible radiance.