Chapter 29: The Old Knight, The Sun King, and a Dragon's Warning
The journey of Ser Barristan Selmy, once Lord Commander of Robert Baratheon's Kingsguard, now sworn shield to the last Targaryen claimant, was a descent into a surreal and terrifying new Westeros. He had sailed from Meereen with Queen Daenerys's message of cautious inquiry and asserted right, his heart filled with a knight's duty and a veteran's apprehension. What he found was a land traumatized, its great cities shattered, its people cowering under the shadow of a power that beggared belief.
He landed not at a major port – for many were ruins or paralyzed with fear – but at a small, forgotten cove in the northern Reach, making his way inland with a small, disguised retinue. The tales he heard in hushed taverns and from terrified refugees were worse than the initial reports that had reached Essos. They spoke of King's Landing simply ceasing to exist, of Casterly Rock being unmade from the world, of Harrenhal's ancient stones melting like wax. And always, at the center of these apocalyptic accounts, was the figure of Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, now a King wreathed in solar fire, wielding a golden axe that reaped souls and fortresses alike. "The Sun King," they called him, or "The King of Ash and Light," their voices a mixture of terror and unwilling awe.
Ser Barristan, a man who had faced Aerys Targaryen's madness and Robert Baratheon's war hammer, who had charged into the thick of countless battles, felt a chill that had nothing to do with the autumn air. This was not the Westeros he knew. The game of thrones he had played and observed for decades had been overturned, its board shattered by a player who commanded the very elements.
His journey north through the Riverlands was a passage through a land cowed into an absolute, fearful peace. Stark direwolves flew unchallenged over every keep. The roads were safe, not patrolled by soldiers, but by the sheer, paralyzing reputation of their King. At Moat Cailin, the ancient gateway to the North, his identity as an envoy from Daenerys Targaryen was met with cold suspicion, but also a grudging efficiency. Word was sent to Winterfell, and after days of waiting, permission was granted for him to proceed.
Winterfell itself was a revelation. The ancient Stark fortress, always grim and formidable, now seemed to pulse with a strange, suppressed energy. Its walls were more heavily garrisoned than Barristan had ever seen, its men moving with a disciplined, almost fanatical alertness. There was little joy in their eyes, only a fierce, wary loyalty. And over it all, from the highest tower, flew the Stark direwolf, now somehow more predatory, more dominant than he remembered.
He was brought to the Great Hall, a place he had visited in brighter days with King Robert. It was starker now, colder, despite the roaring hearths. Banners of the Northern houses hung heavy and still. At the far end, upon a massive throne carved from dark weirwood and unadorned iron, sat Robb Stark. The iron-and-weirwood circlet rested on his auburn hair. His face was young, yet ancient with a weariness and a chilling authority that no man his age should possess. His grey eyes, when they fixed on Barristan, seemed to hold the cold light of distant stars, yet within them, a faint, almost imperceptible golden glow, like banked embers. Leaning beside the throne, within easy reach of the King's hand, was the axe of legend – Rhitta. It was colossal, its golden head intricately carved, and it radiated a soft, palpable warmth that filled the vast hall with an unnerving, otherworldly presence. Even unmoving, it seemed to hum with barely contained power.
Flanking the throne were figures Barristan recognized or knew by reputation: the Greatjon Umber, looking more subdued, his usual boisterousness replaced by a fierce, watchful loyalty; Maege Mormont of Bear Island, her weathered face stern and unyielding; a younger Umber, Smalljon, scarred but defiant; and several grim-faced Riverlords, Jason Mallister among them. Two young boys, Robb Stark's brothers, Bran and Rickon, watched from a smaller seat nearby, their childish faces too solemn. Catelyn Stark, Barristan noted with a pang of pity for the woman he had once respected, was absent. He had heard whispers of her broken spirit.
Ser Barristan Selmy, last of the old guard, stood tall, his white cloak a stark contrast to the somber Northern hues. He would not show fear, though his heart hammered against his ribs. He was here for his Queen.
"King Robb Stark," Barristan began, his voice clear and steady, echoing in the suddenly silent hall. "I come before you as envoy of Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the Rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons." He delivered the full litany of titles, a statement of her claim, a challenge in itself.
Robb Stark listened, his expression unchanging, his sun-touched eyes unblinking. The silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of the hearth and the faint, almost subliminal hum from Rhitta.
"My Queen," Barristan continued, "has heard of the… profound transformations… that have befallen her ancestral lands of Westeros. She has heard tell of your victories, and of the… singular power… you now command. She seeks to understand the new sun that has risen in the West. She asserts her undeniable claim to the Seven Kingdoms, by blood, by right, and by the fire of her dragons."
Robb Stark finally moved, a slight inclination of his head. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, yet it filled the hall with an effortless authority, a resonance that hinted at the terrible power he held in check. "Ser Barristan Selmy. A name out of legend. I knew you as Lord Commander to Robert Baratheon. Now you serve his rival's daughter. Loyalty, it seems, is a shifting tide."
"My loyalty is to the rightful ruler of Westeros, Your Grace," Barristan replied, unflustered. "And that is Queen Daenerys."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Robb's lips, a smile that held no humor, only a vast, weary knowledge. "The Iron Throne you speak of is molten slag, Ser Barristan. The city that housed it is a smoking crater, a monument to Lannister arrogance and my… displeasure. The Seven Kingdoms your Queen claims are shattered beyond her imagining."
He leaned forward slightly, the faint golden glow in his eyes intensifying. "Your Dragon Queen… she has actual dragons, you say? Living dragons?" There was a flicker of something in his voice then – not fear, but a detached, almost academic curiosity. Tony Volante, the eternal information gatherer, was intrigued.
"Three, Your Grace," Barristan confirmed. "Hatched from stone in the Dothraki sea. They are her children, her power, her claim made manifest in fire and blood."
"Fire and blood," Robb mused, his gaze drifting to Rhitta, which seemed to pulse in response, its golden light warming the air around it. "A familiar refrain in this land. It seems every would-be ruler believes fire is the ultimate arbiter."
He rose then, and though his movements were unhurried, there was an undeniable aura of power that emanated from him, making the very air in the hall grow heavy. Rhitta remained leaning against the throne, but its presence was a constant, unspoken threat.
"Ser Barristan Selmy," Robb said, his voice now carrying the chilling calm of a winter storm. "You are a man of honor, by all accounts. One of the few true knights left in this blighted world. For that, you have my respect. You will have safe passage back to your Queen."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the old knight, seeming to pierce through flesh and bone to the very soul. "You will carry my reply to Daenerys Stormborn. Tell her this: The Kingdom of the North, and its allied realm of the Trident, are mine. Forged in the blood of my father, Eddard Stark, sanctified by the sacrifices of my people, and secured by a power she cannot comprehend. These lands bow to no Targaryen, no Southern monarch, no dragon queen, no matter how many titles she claims or how many lizards she hatches."
His voice, though still quiet, took on a harder edge, like the grinding of glaciers. "Tell your Dragon Queen she is free to play her pointless game for the ashes of the five southern kingdoms, should she still desire such a poisoned and desolate crown. Let her dispute her 'claim' with Stannis Baratheon, if that grim lord still draws breath and ambition. Let her parley with the Dornish vipers in their sands, or seek alliance with the Tyrell roses, if any of their perfume lingers after the fall of King's Landing. I care not for their squabbles over ruins and graveyards."
He took a step closer, and Barristan, despite his legendary courage, felt an involuntary urge to recoil. The faint golden light in Robb's eyes was now a steady, burning blaze, and the temperature in the hall seemed to rise several degrees.
"But convey this warning, Ser Knight, and ensure she understands its every syllable. If she, or her dragons, or any of her Unsullied or Dothraki hordes, ever dare to set foot uninvited within the borders of my Kingdom of the North and the Trident… if she ever casts her covetous gaze upon my people or my lands…" Robb slowly reached out and laid a hand upon the great, ornate head of Rhitta. The axe blazed into full, terrifying glory, its light filling the hall, outshining the sunbeams, its heat now a palpable wave that made men sweat and gasp for breath even from afar.
"…I will march south again," Robb continued, his voice now the rumble of an earthquake, his eyes pure solar fire. "And I will personally tear her dragons from the sky. I will melt their bones to glass and their scales to ash. And I, Ser Barristan, will dine on their roasted hearts in the smoking ruins of whatever wretched hovel she dares to call her throne. Tell Daenerys Stormborn that the Sun King of the North does not share his sky, nor his lands. She has been warned."
The light from Rhitta slowly subsided, the oppressive heat lessening, but the terrifying impact of Robb's words, and the undeniable power behind them, lingered like the scent of ozone after a lightning strike. Ser Barristan Selmy, who had faced down mad kings and defied death countless times, was shaken to his core. He had come to deliver a queen's claim; he was leaving with a demigod's ultimatum. He saw in Robb Stark's eyes not the honorable boy who was Eddard's son, but something far older, far more powerful, and infinitely more dangerous. This was not a king one negotiated with; this was a force one prayed to avoid.
He tried to marshal his thoughts, to offer some dignified rebuttal, perhaps to speak of the ancient threat beyond the Wall, the common enemy that might unite them, as Queen Daenerys had idly mused. But the words died in his throat. What could he say to a man who threatened to eat dragons?
"I… I will deliver your message, King Robb," Barristan finally managed, his voice hoarse.
"See that you do, Ser Knight," Robb said, the terrible light in his eyes dimming slightly, replaced by a chilling emptiness. "And counsel your Queen to choose her path wisely. Westeros has bled enough under the ambitions of would-be conquerors." He turned away, a gesture of dismissal. "You may depart."
Ser Barristan Selmy was escorted from Winterfell with cold, correct courtesy. His journey south was a blur of troubled thoughts. He had seen the power of dragons. He served a Queen who believed herself destined to rule by fire. But he had just looked into the eyes of a different kind of fire, a sun made manifest, a power that spoke of annihilation with a casual, terrifying certainty. Daenerys Targaryen dreamed of reclaiming a lost throne. Robb Stark had simply burned it, and the city around it, then dared any to challenge his claim to what remained of his chosen lands.
As his ship pulled away from a Northern port some weeks later, heading back towards the warmer climes of Essos, Ser Barristan looked back at the grim, grey coastline of Westeros. He carried a message that could ignite a war between two wielders of unimaginable fire, or perhaps, if his Queen was wise, ensure a lasting, fearful peace. He did not know which outcome was more likely, or which he feared more.
Back in Winterfell, Robb Stark stood alone in the Great Hall, the last echoes of the confrontation fading. The lords had dispersed, their faces pale, their minds reeling. Rhitta leaned against the weirwood throne, its light now a soft, almost gentle golden pulse.
The mention of dragons had intrigued him, a new variable in a game he thought was over. Tony Volante filed away the information: fire-breathing creatures, three of them, loyal to this Targaryen claimant. A potential future threat, or a potential tool, depending on circumstances. Escanor's pride felt a flicker of anticipation: a worthy challenge, perhaps, should they ever meet.
But Robb Stark, King in the North, felt only a deepening weariness. He had delivered another warning, drawn another line in the ash of a broken world. His gaze turned, as it often did now, towards the map of the North, towards the Wall, towards the lands beyond where the true winter gathered.
The sun had set on the ambitions of southern kings. But a longer, colder night was coming for all of Westeros. And he, the Sun King, knew his vigil was far from over.