Chapter 27: The Sun King's Return: A World Holds Its Breath
The war for Southern dominion was over, not with treaties signed or surrenders negotiated, but with the deafening silence that followed the utter annihilation of King's Landing. Robb Stark, the King in the North and of the Trident, had delivered his final, terrible message. The Iron Throne was vacant, its claimants consumed in solar fire along with the city that had been its seat for three centuries. House Lannister, as a ruling power, was effectively expunged from the annals of Westeros, its heartland a smoldering ruin, its greatest fortress a footnote in a tale of cosmic retribution, its scions mostly dead or scattered.
Now, the King of Ash and Light turned his face north, towards home.
His army, what remained of it, was no longer a host of eager warriors, but a procession of haunted, hollow-eyed men, forever changed by what they had witnessed. They had seen their young King transform from a brilliant commander into an avatar of divine wrath, capable of unmaking mountains and erasing cities. They marched behind him with a devotion born not of love or loyalty in the traditional sense, but of profound, abject terror and a bewildering awe. They were the disciples of a terrifying new god, their armour still bearing the grime of battle but their souls scorched by the fires they had followed.
Before leaving the devastated Riverlands, Robb established a council to govern in his name, headed by a grimly dutiful Brynden Blackfish Tully, now Lord Protector of the Trident. Edmure Tully, chastened and sobered by the horrors of the war and his nephew's terrible power, pledged to support his great-uncle. The Riverlands were shattered but, for the first time in a year, free from external aggressors, now yoked to a new, infinitely more dangerous sovereign.
Catelyn Stark remained in Riverrun, a ghost haunting its halls. The destruction of King's Landing, the unspoken but certain fate of her daughter Sansa within its inferno, had been the final blow. She was attended by Maester Vyman, her mind lost in a labyrinth of grief from which it would likely never return. Robb visited her before his departure. She did not recognize him, her vacant eyes looking through the terrible, radiant figure her son had become. It was another pyre upon which his old self had burned.
The march north was swift and largely silent. The lands they passed through were eerily quiet. Smallfolk hid, villages seemed deserted, their inhabitants having fled at the news of the Sun King's approach. No lordling offered resistance; none dared. Some castles flew white banners of supplication from afar. Others simply barred their gates and prayed. Robb ignored them all. His focus was North.
He himself was a figure of immense, solitary power. Rhitta, now never far from his hand, seemed to absorb the sunlight, its golden head carrying a perpetual, warm glow. Sunshine's daily surge was a familiar tide, but the elation of its peak power was now muted, replaced by a profound, almost weary sense of absolute control. Tony Volante's cold pragmatism was the dominant force in his mind, the moral quandaries of his actions acknowledged but deemed secondary to the brutal necessities of survival and absolute victory. The game was over; he had ensured no one else could play.
The reactions from the surviving powers of the South, when news of King's Landing's obliteration finally reached their insulated courts, was a symphony of disbelief, terror, and frantic recalculation.
Dragonstone: Stannis Baratheon, his own bid for the Iron Throne having recently (and now, in retrospect, almost comically) failed against the city's conventional defenses and wildfire, received the news like a physical blow. He had believed himself the chosen champion of R'hllor, destined to fight the Great Other. But what was this Northern King, this Stark boy who commanded the sun itself? Melisandre, the Red Priestess, was said to have retreated into her chambers for days, emerging with a new, terrible light in her eyes. She spoke no longer of Stannis as the sole Azor Ahai reborn, but of a world plunged into a new age of fire and shadow, where multiple god-like powers now contended. Stannis, ever the man of iron will, did not break. But his world view, his very understanding of power and prophecy, had been shattered. He looked east, across the Narrow Sea, and perhaps, for the first time, truly considered the ancient Targaryen words: Fire and Blood. He also looked north, towards the Wall, a deep unease settling in his heart. This Robb Stark was now a power beyond any king. He was a force to be reckoned with, or avoided at all costs. For now, Dragonstone fell silent, watching, waiting, its own fires paling in comparison to the sun that had risen in the North.
Highgarden: Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, had been in Highgarden when the news arrived. Her son, Mace Tyrell, and her granddaughter, Margaery, the freshly betrothed Queen-to-be, had been in King's Landing, guests of their new Lannister allies. They were now less than ash. Olenna, a woman who had played the game of thrones with consummate skill for decades, felt a chilling fear she had not known since her girlhood. All her ambitions, all her intricate plans for House Tyrell, had been vaporized along with the capital. Her first act was to send riders to recall every Tyrell banner, every soldier, back to the Reach. Her second was to dispatch an envoy, not a proud lord, but a humble, elderly maester known for his wisdom and soft words, to travel north, not to Winterfell, but to Moat Cailin, with a simple message for the King in the North: "The Reach mourns its losses. The Reach desires only peace. The Reach will not contest your rule. We beg only that your terrible sun never casts its shadow upon our lands." It was an unconditional surrender, delivered with the desperate hope of a woman who knew her house was now utterly at the mercy of a living god.
Sunspear: In the southernmost kingdom of Dorne, Prince Doran Martell received the news with his customary glacial calm, though his maesters reported his gout flared terribly that night. For years, he had plotted a subtle, patient revenge against the Lannisters for the murder of his sister Elia and her children. Now, a Northern boy-king had delivered a vengeance so total, so apocalyptic, it dwarfed even Doran's darkest dreams. He saw both immense danger and unparalleled opportunity. The Iron Throne was vacant, its power structure shattered. But this Robb Stark… he was not a player in the game; he was the game. Doran, ever cautious, ordered Sunspear's defenses strengthened. He sent observers, cloaked in shadow, northwards. He would watch. He would wait. The great game was indeed over, but a new, far more terrifying one was perhaps just beginning, and Doran Martell, a master of patience, would bide his time before choosing his move, if any.
The Vale of Arryn: Lysa Arryn, in the Eyrie, heard the tales and descended further into her paranoia. The mountains themselves seemed to offer little protection against a king who could unmake them. She ordered the Bloody Gate sealed, all passes into the Vale fortified beyond reason, and forbade any raven, any messenger, from entering or leaving. The Vale became a kingdom of self-imposed silence, cowering in the shadow of its own mountains, praying the Sun King never looked their way. Littlefinger, had he survived, would have found a way to turn even this to his advantage. But Littlefinger had been in King's Landing, and like all ambitious schemers there, was now merely a component of the irradiated glass that lined a smoking crater.
As Robb's army finally crossed the Neck, passing through the ancient, refortified bastion of Moat Cailin, a palpable sense of relief rippled through the ranks. They were home. The horrors of the South were behind them. But the horror they carried within them, the memory of what their King had done, would never leave.
The North itself received its conquering King with a mixture of wild, jubilant celebration and a deep, superstitious dread. Tales of his power had preceded him. They cheered the Young Wolf who had avenged Lord Eddard, who had broken the Lannisters and ended the war. But they also whispered fearful prayers to the Old Gods, and to this new, terrible Stark King who commanded the sun.
Winterfell, when he finally rode through its gates, was a joyous, tearful bedlam. Bran, no longer a crippled boy but a strangely intense youth who now sat a saddle with specially designed aides, was there, his eyes wide with a knowing that went beyond his years. Rickon, wild and exuberant, launched himself at Robb, too young to understand the changes in his elder brother, only knowing he was home. Ser Rodrik Cassel, tears streaming down his weathered face, knelt and offered his sword. Maester Luwin looked at Robb with an expression of profound awe and something akin to scholarly terror.
"Your Grace," Ser Rodrik managed, his voice thick with emotion. "Welcome home. The North… the North rejoices."
Robb dismounted, Rhitta a dull golden weight on his back. He looked at his brothers, at the familiar faces of his household, at the walls of his ancestral home. He felt… nothing. The hollowness within him was a vast, echoing cavern. He had come home. But he was no longer the Robb Stark who had left. That boy had died somewhere in the ashes of King's Landing, alongside his sister.
He managed a faint, weary smile for Bran and Rickon. "It is good to be home." But his eyes held no warmth, only the distant, chilling light of a sun that had consumed too much.
He established his rule from Winterfell, his edicts carried by raven and rider throughout his now vastly expanded, terrified kingdom. The North and the Riverlands were his by conquest and acclamation. The Westerlands were a depopulated wasteland, a monument to his wrath, effectively his by default, though he had no interest in ruling its ashes. The Crownlands were a smoking crater. The Stormlands were in chaos, leaderless. The Reach and Dorne had sent messages of peace and acknowledged his supremacy through their fear. The Vale cowered in isolation.
He was, in effect, King of all Westeros south of the Wall, not by claim or diplomacy, but by the sheer, undeniable terror his power inspired. It was a kingdom built on fear, a peace bought with annihilation.
His days were spent in the mundane tasks of governance. Rebuilding the devastated Riverlands, organizing the North for the long winter he knew was coming (both the metaphorical one of his reign and the literal one of the seasons), establishing trade, dispensing justice. He ruled fairly, efficiently, his intellect still sharp, his decisions swift. Tony Volante ensured the machinery of his state ran smoothly. But there was no joy in it. No satisfaction. Only the cold, hard duty of a king who had saved his people by becoming a monster.
He rarely used his powers now. There was no need. The memory of Casterly Rock and King's Landing was enough to ensure absolute obedience. Rhitta lay wrapped in furs in his solar, its light a constant, silent reproach. He still felt Sunshine's daily surge, but it was a burden now, a reminder of the terrible potential within him. He longed for the simple days of being Robb Stark, son of Eddard, heir to Winterfell. But that Robb was as dead as his father, as dead as his sister Sansa.
One evening, as a true Northern winter began to bite, he stood on the battlements of Winterfell, looking towards the vast, dark expanse of the Wolfswood, and beyond it, towards the Wall. He was alone. His mother was a broken shell in Riverrun. His brothers, though they loved him, were beginning to fear him. His lords obeyed him without question, but their eyes held no warmth, only awe and dread. His power had bought him a kingdom, but it had cost him his humanity.
A raven landed beside him, not a Winterfell bird, but one bearing the black feathers of Castle Black. It carried a message from Jon Snow, now a seasoned ranger. It spoke of wildling armies gathering, of ancient fears stirring, of blue eyes in the dark, and of a cold that had nothing to do with winter.
Robb read the message, a flicker of something almost like his old self stirring within him. A new enemy. A true enemy. One that could not be reasoned with, bribed, or terrified into submission by displays of solar fury. An enemy that threatened not just his kingdom, but all life.
Perhaps, he thought, as he stared into the encroaching darkness, his purpose was not yet done. Perhaps there was one last fire he was meant to light, not for vengeance, not for power, but for the survival of the world itself. The King of Ash and Light looked north, and for the first time in a long, long time, felt something other than emptiness. He felt the cold, hard call of a duty that transcended even his terrible, lonely godhood. The game of thrones was over. But the war for the dawn was just beginning.