Chapter 24: The Sun at the Gates: An Empire's Last Sunset
The journey south from the desolation that was once the Westerlands was a march through a world holding its breath. Robb Stark, King in the North and of the Trident, King of Ash and Light, led his army not as a conqueror, but as an avatar of impending doom. His reputation, wreathed in the hellfire that had consumed Casterly Rock, preceded him like a biblical plague. Villages and towns in the Crownlands emptied at their approach, the smallfolk fleeing in terror, leaving behind shuttered homes and offerings to appease the "Sun Demon." No resistance was offered. What lordling would dare raise a banner against a king who could unmake mountains?
Robb himself was a figure transformed. The grief for his father, once a raw, bleeding wound, had become a core of glacial ice within him, a chillingly pragmatic engine driving him towards a final, absolute resolution. The boy who had reluctantly taken up a crown was gone, consumed and reforged in the crucible of war and the terrible majesty of his own power. Tony Volante's ruthless efficiency now dictated strategy, while Escanor's indomitable pride, fueled by the ever-present Sunshine, allowed for no outcome but total victory. Rhitta, the Sacred Axe, was no longer a hidden secret but a constant companion, slung across his back or held loosely in his hand, its golden head radiating a palpable heat that kept even his own men at a respectful, fearful distance.
His mother, Catelyn Stark, rode with the army, a silent, grieving wraith. She had witnessed the erasure of Casterly Rock, and the sight had hollowed her out, leaving behind a terror for her son's soul that was almost as profound as her grief for her husband and her fear for her daughters. She rarely spoke to Robb now, her pleas for mercy having fallen on the deaf ears of a king who had passed beyond such mortal considerations, or so it seemed.
King's Landing, when it finally loomed before them, was a city teetering on the brink of mass hysteria. Lord Tywin Lannister, his iron will the only thing holding the capital together, had overseen desperate, ultimately futile preparations. The city walls, ancient and strong, were manned by every Gold Cloak, every Lannister man-at-arms, and every trembling Tyrell soldier who hadn't deserted. But they knew, every man knew, that stone and steel were no defense against the power that had unmade the Rock. Food was hoarded, the Sept of Baelor was choked with penitents, and those with the means were attempting to flee by sea, only to find the harbor blockaded by ships whose captains were too terrified to sail into the open waters, fearing the King in the North might command the very waves.
Sansa Stark, a prisoner in the Red Keep, was brought before Lord Tywin. Her beauty was fragile, her eyes haunted, but a spark of Stark defiance still flickered within her. Tywin, his face more gaunt and terrible than ever, instructed her on what she must say, what pleas she must make to her brother. She was their last, most desperate card.
"Your brother is a monster, girl," Tywin had told her, his voice like the scrape of bone on stone. "But he is still your brother. Perhaps some vestige of human feeling remains within him. You will appeal to it. You will beg for this city. You will beg for your own life. The fate of half a million souls may rest on your words."
Robb Stark's army, now numbering less than twenty thousand battle-hardened, grim-faced veterans, encamped on the plains before King's Landing. They made no move to dig siege lines or build trebuchets. They simply waited, their silent, menacing presence a far greater threat than any conventional army.
As the sun climbed towards its inevitable zenith, Robb Stark, alone, walked from his camp towards the Gate of the Gods, the main entrance to King's Landing. Rhitta was in his hand, its golden surface already beginning to shimmer and glow, a low hum of immense power emanating from it. He wore no crown, only his battle-stained Northern armor. He was not here to parley as a king, but to deliver judgment as a force of nature.
The battlements above the Gate of the Gods were crowded. King Joffrey Baratheon was there, flanked by Kingsguard knights who looked more like his jailers. He was pale, his lips trembling, his usual sneer replaced by a look of stark terror. Queen Regent Cersei Lannister stood beside him, her beauty ravaged by fear and hatred, her eyes fixed on the approaching figure of Robb Stark with a venomous intensity. Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, stood foremost, his expression unreadable, his posture rigid. Lord Varys, Littlefinger, Grand Maester Pycelle, and a terrified-looking Mace Tyrell completed the grim assembly. And beside them, held gently but firmly by two guards, was Sansa Stark.
Robb stopped a hundred paces from the gate. The sun was directly overhead. He felt its power surge through him, absolute, infinite, the glorious, terrible might of "The One." The air around him crackled, the ground beneath his feet steaming. Rhitta blazed in his hand like a captive star.
His voice, when he spoke, was not a shout, but it carried with incredible clarity, amplified by his power, resonating against the city walls, striking fear into the hearts of all who heard it.
"People of King's Landing! Joffrey Baratheon! Cersei Lannister! Tywin Lannister! Hear me!"
Every sound within the city seemed to cease. Even the wind held its breath.
"I am Robb Stark, son of Eddard Stark, the true Warden of the North, and King by the will of my people! Your reign of lies, murder, and tyranny ends today!"
He recounted their crimes: the murder of King Robert, the assassination attempts on his brother Bran, the unjust execution of his father, Lord Eddard Stark, the torment of his sister Sansa, the devastation of the Riverlands.
"I offered you terms. I offered you a chance for a just peace, for the return of my sister. You answered with mockery and threats. You have chosen your path. Now, you will reap the consequences."
Joffrey, emboldened by the presence of his grandfather and the height of the walls, shrieked, "Traitor! Sorcerer! I am your King! You will bow before me, or I will have your head, just like your traitor father!"
Tywin Lannister's hand shot out, clamping onto Joffrey's arm with bruising force, silencing him. The Old Lion's eyes were fixed on Robb, a desperate, calculating light within their cold depths.
"King Robb," Tywin's voice was strained, but still commanded authority. "Your grievances are… noted. Perhaps there is still room for negotiation. Your sister Sansa stands before you. She is unharmed. We are prepared to discuss her release, and other… accommodations… if you will but stay your hand."
Robb's gaze flickered to Sansa. She was pale, so thin, her eyes wide with terror, yet as she met his gaze, he saw a flicker of her old Stark spirit, a silent plea. Catelyn, watching from Robb's distant camp through a spyglass, sobbed uncontrollably.
"My terms are unchanged, Tywin Lannister," Robb's voice was like the grinding of icebergs. "Surrender Joffrey Baratheon, your daughter Cersei, yourself, and all those complicit in my father's murder to my justice. Release my sister, unharmed. Yield the Iron Throne. Do this, and perhaps this city and its people will be spared."
He raised Rhitta slightly, its glow intensifying, the heat washing over the battlements in a terrifying wave. As a demonstration, he focused a sliver of his will. A distant, empty guard tower on a far section of the city wall, hundreds of yards away, began to glow cherry red, then orange, and with a soft, sighing sound, the stone at its base melted, causing the tower to slump grotesquely before slowly beginning to liquefy into a puddle of glowing slag.
A collective gasp of terror rose from the walls. Mace Tyrell stumbled back, his face the color of ash. Joffrey whimpered.
"That," Robb stated, his voice devoid of emotion, "is but a whisper of what I can unleash. You have seen Harrenhal. You have seen the smoking ruin where Casterly Rock once stood. Do not doubt my resolve, or my power."
Sansa was pushed forward by her guards. "Robb!" her voice was thin, trembling, but carried in the sudden hush. "Brother, please! Mercy! For the city! For the innocents! Father… Father would not have wanted this… this destruction!"
Robb's stone-like expression did not change, but those closest to him on the distant hills might have seen a flicker of indescribable pain in his sun-bright eyes. He thought of his father's honor, his belief in justice, in mercy. Then he thought of his father's headless corpse, of Sansa's suffering, of the endless cycle of violence the Lannisters had perpetuated. Tony Volante's voice was cold and clear in his mind: They understand only one language. Speak it. Escanor's pride demanded nothing less than their utter submission or their utter annihilation.
"My father is dead, Sansa," Robb's voice was gentler now, but held an unbreakable finality. "Murdered by those who stand beside you. His honor will be satisfied by justice, not by my weakness. The innocents of this city are hostages to the arrogance of their false king and his counselors. Their fate rests in Lannister hands, not mine."
He turned his gaze back to Tywin. "You have until sunset. One hour. If by then, my terms are not met, if my sister is not delivered safely to my camp, and if Joffrey, Cersei, and you, Lord Tywin, are not delivered in chains to stand judgment, then King's Landing will burn. Every tower, every sept, every hovel. I will leave nothing but a field of glass where this city once stood. And I will personally escort your souls to whichever of the seven hells awaits you."
"You are a monster, Stark!" Cersei shrieked, her voice cracking with hysteria and hatred. "A demon from the pit!"
"I am what you have made me, Cersei Lannister," Robb replied, his voice turning to ice once more. "I am your reckoning. One hour."
He turned his back on the city, on his sister's tear-streaked face, on the terrified Lannister court, and began the slow walk back to his camp, Rhitta still blazing in his hand, a beacon of impending doom. The sun beat down, nearing its full, glorious, terrible strength.
Within King's Landing, chaos erupted. Riots broke out in the Flea Bottom as the news of the ultimatum and the melting tower spread. Gold Cloaks deserted their posts. Lords and ladies scrambled to find escape routes, only to find the gates barred by Tywin's order, the harbor a scene of pandemonium.
The Small Council convened in a final, desperate session.
"We must give him the girl!" Mace Tyrell bellowed, his courage born of absolute terror for his own skin and his daughter Margaery's. "And Joffrey! Give him Joffrey! My daughter will not marry that little sadist anyway, not now!"
"Silence, you mewling coward!" Cersei snarled. "We do not bow to traitors and sorcerers!"
"Sister," Ser Kevan Lannister said, his voice heavy with defeat. "Look around you. The city is tearing itself apart. Our soldiers are terrified. The walls… he melted stone with a look. What choice do we have?"
Tywin Lannister sat like a figure carved from ice, his face a mask of utter control, but his eyes held the abyss. He had lost. His house was broken, his legacy ash. Casterly Rock was gone. Jaime was dead. Now, this Stark demigod stood at his gates, demanding his life, his daughter's, his grandson's.
"There is always a choice," Tywin said, his voice barely a whisper. He looked at Varys, then at Littlefinger. "Is there any way out of this city, for any of us?"
Varys shook his head slowly. "The King in the North is not a fool, Lord Hand. His army, though small, will have sealed every exit. And even if you escaped the city… where would you run that his sun cannot reach?"
Littlefinger, for once, offered no sly remark, no cunning plan. He merely watched, his eyes narrowed, calculating his own survival in this new, terrifying world order.
In Robb's camp, Catelyn Stark fell to her knees before her son's tent. "Robb, I implore you!" she wept, clutching at his armored greaves. "For the love of your father's memory, do not do this! Do not become the butcher they say you are! Spare the innocents! Spare Sansa! There must be another way!"
Robb looked down at his mother, his face unreadable in the shadow of his tent flap, Rhitta leaning beside him, its light pulsing softly. The sun was beginning its slow descent from its zenith. The hour was almost up.
"Father taught us that a man must do what is right, no matter the cost," Robb said, his voice quiet. "The cost of Lannister tyranny has been too high, for too long. Today, that cost is repaid. In full."
He gently disengaged his mother's hands. "Pray for Sansa, Mother. Pray that her captors choose wisely in these last moments. For if they do not…" He did not finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
He stepped out into the dying light of the afternoon, his shadow long and terrible before him. He walked to the edge of his camp, looking towards the defiant, terrified city of King's Landing. The sun was touching the western horizon. The deadline had arrived. No white flag flew from the Red Keep. No envoys approached.
Robb Stark raised Rhitta. The axe blazed anew, drinking in the last, fiery kiss of the setting sun, its power swelling, ready to be unleashed. The choice had been made for him. Or perhaps, he had made it long ago, in the ashes of his father's honor.
He looked at the city, a dark silhouette against the blood-red sky.
"So be it," he whispered.
And began to gather the fire.