Chapter 25: The Winter King's Decree, The Realm Holds its Breath
Riverrun, its sandstone walls still bearing the faint, chilling touch of Issylra's frost where she had landed, had transformed from a besieged fortress into the defiant heart of a new, terrifying power in Westeros. The Tully banners, depicting a silver trout leaping on a field of red and blue, now flew alongside the Stark direwolf, but all knew that the true authority resided with the ancient King of Winter and the three colossal dragons whose roars now echoed across the Riverlands, a constant, thrumming promise of annihilation for their enemies.
Lord Hoster Tully, though frail and bedridden, had wept tears of gratitude and awe when presented to King Torrhen Stark. His son, Ser Edmure, now Lord Paramount of the Trident by Torrhen's decree (a title granted once Lannister influence was fully purged), swore undying fealty, his river lords – Blackwoods, Brackens, Pipers, Mallisters – following suit, their previous squabbles and fears dwarfed by the sheer, world-altering power they had witnessed. They had seen Lannister armies, confident and cruel, melt away like morning mist before the fury of Torrhen's dragons. Hope, mixed with a healthy dose of terror, had been rekindled in their hearts.
Catelyn Stark, her grief for Eddard a raw, aching wound, found herself adrift in a sea of impossible new realities. Her husband's impossibly ancient ancestor, a figure from the deepest strata of Stark legend, now commanded not just the North, but forces that could unmake kingdoms. Her son, Robb, the boy she had watched ride south to avenge his father, now stood as Prince of Winter beside this sorcerer-king, his youth and valor suddenly framed by a power beyond mortal comprehension. Her daughters, Sansa and Arya, remained captives in King's Landing, and her hopes for their safety now rested on this ancient Stark and his terrifying beasts.
The Council at Riverrun – Forging a New Order
In the Great Hall of Riverrun, Torrhen Stark convened his first war council since the liberation. Maps of Westeros were spread wide, but the atmosphere was different from the grim uncertainty that had pervaded the Northern camp before. Now, there was a sense of unstoppable momentum, of destiny being rewritten.
"Lord Tywin Lannister reels," Torrhen began, his voice, imbued with the subtle power of the Philosopher's Stone, filling the hall with an effortless authority. "His son Jaime is our captive. His armies in the Riverlands are shattered or fleeing. King's Landing is a city gripped by terror. Now, we press our advantage."
Robb, standing at his great-grandsire's right, spoke with a newfound confidence, though his eyes still held the shadow of his father's loss. "The Riverlords are with us, Your Grace. Their levies are gathering. What is our next target? Harrenhal, where Tywin licks his wounds? Or do we march on King's Landing itself?"
Torrhen regarded his heir with approval. The boy learned quickly. "King's Landing will fall when I deem it so. But first, we consolidate. We secure the Riverlands completely. Every Lannister outpost, every foraging party, will be eradicated. Skane," he nodded towards the unseen presence of his golden dragon, whose distant roar could sometimes be felt as a tremor in the earth, "will continue to support Lord Umber and the main host in this. They will be thorough."
"And Lord Tywin?" asked Lord Jason Mallister, a seasoned warrior. "He will not sit idle. He will rally his forces."
"Let him," Torrhen said, a chilling smile touching his lips. "Let him gather his lions. It will make the hunt easier." He then turned to the matter of Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer was held in Riverrun's dungeons, under heavy guard, stripped of his golden armor but not his arrogance, though it was now tinged with a bewildered awe.
"The Kingslayer has value," Torrhen mused. "Not for ransom in gold, for we have no need of Lannister coin. But as a symbol of their broken pride, and as a… message." He paused. "Prince Robb, you will have the honor of interrogating him. Learn what you can of Tywin's plans, of the situation in King's Landing. But make no promises. His fate is yet to be decided."
The Ultimatum – The Warden's Terms
"Before we unleash the full fury of our war," Torrhen continued, his gaze sweeping the assembled lords, "we will offer terms. Not of peace, for there can be no peace with those who murdered Eddard Stark. But terms for the avoidance of utter annihilation for those who stand against us unwittingly."
He then dictated the proclamation that would be sent by raven to King's Landing, Casterly Rock, Dragonstone, Storm's End, Highgarden, and Sunspear. Its terms were stark and uncompromising:
* The immediate and unconditional surrender of Joffrey Waters, Cersei Lannister, and all those directly complicit in the murder of Lord Eddard Stark, to face the justice of the King of Winter.
* The immediate and safe release of Lady Sansa Stark and Lady Arya Stark into the custody of House Stark.
* The unconditional recognition of the North (including the Neck) and the Riverlands (under House Tully, sworn to House Stark) as a free and sovereign kingdom, forever independent of the Iron Throne.
* The permanent abdication of House Lannister from all positions of royal power and influence within the remaining Six Kingdoms.
* A substantial tribute in gold and resources from Casterly Rock to be paid to the North and the Riverlands as recompense for damages and lives lost.
"They will have one moon's turn to comply," Torrhen concluded. "If these terms are not met, Skane will deliver our response to Lannisport. Morghul will visit Casterly Rock. And Issylra will bring a true winter to King's Landing itself, starting with the Red Keep. Let no lord in Westeros doubt our resolve, or our power."
The audacity of the terms, and the terrifying specificity of the threats, sent a chill through even the hardened Northern lords. This was not warfare as they knew it; this was a pronouncement from a god of vengeance.
The Captive Lion – Jaime's Perspective
In his cell, Jaime Lannister paced like a caged lion. His world had been turned upside down. Magic, true magic, was real. Dragons, not the diminished creatures of Targaryen lore, but colossal, ancient behemoths, answered the call of a Stark who should have been dust for centuries. He had seen his army, one of the finest in Westeros, shattered by shadow and ice, its knights frozen into grotesque statues or fleeing in mindless terror.
When Robb Stark came to question him, Jaime met him with a façade of his old arrogance, though it felt hollow even to himself.
"Come to gloat, boy?" Jaime sneered, though the word "boy" felt absurd when addressing the son of a man whose ancestor now commanded apocalyptic power.
Robb, his grief making him seem older than his years, regarded Jaime with cold disdain. "My father was a man of honor, Kingslayer. A concept you and yours seem to find… quaint." He relayed Torrhen's terms, not as a negotiation, but as a statement of impending doom.
Jaime listened, a knot of ice forming in his stomach. The demands were impossible. His father would never yield. Joffrey and Cersei would never surrender. This ancient Stark was not merely seeking to win a war; he was seeking to unmake House Lannister entirely.
"Your ancestor is mad," Jaime said, trying to sound dismissive. "He threatens to burn cities, to unleash horrors… this is not kingship, it is tyranny."
"It is justice, Lannister," Robb retorted, his voice hard. "Something your House has long perverted. You have one moon. After that… well, you saw what happened to your army. That was but a whisper of their power."
Jaime was left in his cell with the chilling certainty that Westeros was on the brink of an annihilation that would make Aegon's Conquest look like a border skirmish. He thought of Cersei, of Tyrion, even of his monstrous father. For the first time, he felt a genuine fear not for his own life, but for the very survival of his House.
The Whispers Spread – Reactions from Other Kings
The news of Torrhen Stark's return, his three colossal dragons, his devastation of Jaime's army, and his audacious ultimatum, spread through Westeros like wildfyre. Ravens flew, ships carried terrified sailors with impossible tales, and merchants whispered in hushed tones in every tavern from Oldtown to White Harbor.
On Dragonstone, Stannis Baratheon received the confirmed reports with grim stoicism. His legalistic mind struggled to reconcile this ancient power with his own unshakeable belief in his rightful claim. Melisandre, however, was ecstatic.
"The Great Other stirs in the far north, Your Grace!" she proclaimed, her ruby glowing fiercely. "And now, from the North itself, fire and ice are made manifest! This Torrhen Stark, this 'Winter King'… he is a champion against the darkness, or perhaps a sign of its coming! The Lord of Light works in ways beyond our understanding. We must discern his role in the prophecies!"
Stannis, though wary of her pronouncements, knew one thing: Torrhen Stark was now the dominant power in Westeros. He could not be ignored. Perhaps an alliance of convenience against the Lannisters? Or was this Stark another, far more dangerous, tyrant in the making? He dispatched a raven to Winterfell (or rather, to where he believed the Stark King now held court), requesting clarification of his intentions regarding the Iron Throne, his message couched in cautious, formal terms.
In the Reach, Renly Baratheon, amidst his vast, festive army, found his confidence shaken. The Tyrells, particularly the cautious Lord Mace and his shrewd mother, Olenna, urged restraint.
"Dragons, Your Grace?" Lady Olenna had said, her voice dry as autumn leaves. "Three of them, ancient and vast, commanded by a Stark who makes Methuselah look like a swaddled babe? And here we are, playing at war with knights and flowers. Perhaps it is time to send this 'Winter King' a very large, very fragrant bouquet… and a pledge of undying admiration."
Renly, though loath to admit it, saw the wisdom in her words. His own claim, based on popularity and the might of the Reach, seemed fragile indeed against such primordial power. He, too, sent envoys north, expressing his "deep respect" for the ancient House Stark and proposing discussions for a "lasting peace and alliance" – carefully avoiding any mention of his own claim to the Iron Throne for now.
In King's Landing, the Small Council was in chaos. Joffrey was in a state of terrified, impotent rage. Cersei was white-faced with fury and fear. Grand Maester Pycelle wrung his hands, babbling about ancient prophecies and the end of days. Only Tyrion Lannister, newly arrived and reluctantly appointed acting Hand by his father Tywin (who was still reeling and trying to consolidate his forces near Harrenhal), attempted to bring a semblance of rationality to the panic.
"So," Tyrion said, pouring himself a large goblet of wine, "an immortal Stark with three god-sized dragons has returned to avenge his descendant and reclaim the North. And he wants Joffrey's head, Mother dearest. This complicates matters somewhat, wouldn't you agree?"
He knew, with a chilling certainty, that their situation was desperate. Wildfyre caches beneath the city, chain booms across the Blackwater, even the full might of the Lannister armies – all seemed like children's toys against the power described in the frantic reports. Their only hope, he suspected, lay in negotiation, in somehow appeasing this ancient, terrifying power, or in buying time until his father could conceive of some impossible counter.
Tywin Lannister's Desperate Gambit
Lord Tywin Lannister, at Harrenhal, received Torrhen's ultimatum. His face, when he read the terms, was like a death mask. His pragmatism warred with his immense pride. To yield was unthinkable, the end of House Lannister as a great power. To fight seemed like suicide.
He dispatched ravens to his commanders, ordering them to fortify all positions, to prepare for unconventional warfare. He sent urgent pleas for alliances to the Tyrells, even to Stannis, warning them that this Stark menace threatened all southern kingdoms. He began to consider desperate measures: assassination attempts against Torrhen (though how did one kill a man who commanded dragons and seemed ageless?), attempts to sow dissent within the Northern ranks (unlikely, given their fanatical devotion to their returned King), or even… sacrificing Joffrey, if it came to that, to save his House. The thought was abhorrent, but Tywin Lannister was, above all, a survivor.
He sent a carefully worded reply to Torrhen, playing for time, requesting further clarification, proposing a meeting to discuss terms "as befits great lords," all the while his mind raced, searching for a weakness, a strategy, anything to counter the impossible winter that had descended upon his House.
The North's Resolve – The Coming Storm
Back in Riverrun, Torrhen received Tywin's prevaricating response with a cold, knowing smile.
"He stalls," Torrhen said to Robb and his council. "He seeks to buy time, to find a weakness. He will find none."
He turned to a map of the Westerlands. "Lannisport is a wealthy city. Its destruction will cripple Tywin's finances. Casterly Rock is their seat of pride. Its desolation will break their spirit."
His gaze was chilling. "The moon's turn is almost upon us. If my terms are not met by then, the lions will learn the price of defiance. They will hear the roar of Skane over their greatest port. They will feel the shadow of Morghul upon their ancient Rock. And they will know the icy touch of Issylra in their hearts."
He looked out from Riverrun's battlements, southwards, towards the unseen enemies. The Philosopher's Stone thrummed with power, eager. His dragons stirred, sensing their master's intent. The War of Five Kings was rapidly becoming Torrhen Stark's personal crusade for Northern sovereignty and Lannister annihilation. The game had changed. The old rules were broken. And winter, in its most terrible, dragon-forged incarnation, was ready to sweep across the land. The realm held its breath, awaiting the Winter King's next, devastating move.