Chapter 30: The Dragon Queen Hears of the Sun's Wrath
The sun beat down on the Great Pyramid of Meereen, its relentless Essosi glare a familiar comfort to Daenerys Targaryen. From her vantage point, the city spread below, a tapestry of terracotta and ambition, hard-won and precariously held. Her dragons, Viserion and Rhaegal, spiraled on the thermals above, their scales shimmering like jewels, their screeches a declaration of her burgeoning power. Drogon, her black dread, was a brooding shadow in his new lair within the pyramid, his growth outstripping his brothers'. Her Unsullied were an unbreakable shield, her Dothraki a promise of swift retribution, her council a blend of old loyalties and new, sharp minds. Westeros, the land of her birthright, felt closer than ever.
Then, the lookouts on the walls cried the arrival of a ship bearing Ser Barristan Selmy's standard. Weeks, stretching into months, had passed since his departure. Daenerys had dispatched him on a mission of inquiry, to seek out this self-proclaimed King in the North, Robb Stark, and to understand the wild, almost unbelievable tales of destruction that had filtered across the Narrow Sea – Harrenhal melted, Casterly Rock unmade, King's Landing itself erased from the maps. She had sent Barristan to deliver her own claims, to gauge this Stark's intentions, to see if he was a potential ally, a manageable foe, or something else entirely.
Ser Barristan the Bold was escorted into her audience chamber, his white Kingsguard cloak travel-stained and weary, his usually impeccable armor bearing the marks of a long and arduous journey. But it was the look in his eyes that seized Daenerys's attention. This was not the weariness of a simple traveler. This was the profound, soul-deep exhaustion of a man who had gazed into an abyss and seen it gaze back. He looked older, his face etched with lines that had not been there before, his customary knightly composure overlaid with a somber gravity that silenced the room.
Her council was assembled: Ser Jorah Mormont, his gaze sharp and concerned; Missandei, her youthful face betraying a rare anxiety; Grey Worm, commander of the Unsullied, standing like a stoic statue; and Daario Naharis, his usual flamboyant confidence momentarily subdued by the palpable tension.
"Ser Barristan," Daenerys said, her voice carefully neutral, though her heart hammered against her ribs. "You have returned. Speak. Tell us of Westeros, and of this… King Robb Stark."
Barristan knelt, his old bones creaking. "Your Grace," he began, his voice raspy, "Westeros… Westeros is a land transformed. A land broken and remade by a power I still struggle to comprehend." He recounted his journey, his words painting a vivid, terrifying picture: the smoking ruin where King's Landing had stood, a vast, glass-lined crater still radiating an unnatural heat, the Blackwater Bay itself changed, its waters foul and steaming. He spoke of the whispers of Harrenhal's molten stones, of Casterly Rock's utter annihilation. He described the North, a kingdom now fiercely loyal out of a mixture of ancient fealty and profound, elemental fear.
He then spoke of Winterfell, of his audience with Robb Stark. "He is young, Your Grace. Younger even than I remembered Eddard Stark's eldest son to be. But he is… not as other men. There is a light within him, or rather, of him. It is the light of the sun itself, terrible and magnificent. He bears an axe, Your Grace, a golden axe named Rhitta, that burns with this same fire. It is not a weapon of mortal forging."
Daenerys leaned forward, her violet eyes intense. "And my claims, Ser Barristan? My message?"
Barristan met her gaze, his own filled with a grim duty. "I delivered your words, Your Grace, your claim to the Seven Kingdoms as the rightful heir of House Targaryen."
"And his reply?" Daenerys pressed, a knot tightening in her stomach.
Ser Barristan took a deep breath. "King Robb Stark listened, Your Grace. He acknowledged your dragons with a… a detached curiosity. Then he gave his reply." The old knight paused, as if steeling himself to repeat the words.
"He said, and I quote him as best my memory serves, 'The Iron Throne is molten slag, Ser Barristan. The city that housed it is a monument to my wrath. The Seven Kingdoms your Queen claims are shattered, some by my hand, others by their own folly.'"
A low murmur ran through the council. Daenerys felt a flush of anger. Her birthright, dismissed as shattered ruins.
Barristan continued, his voice heavy. "He said, 'The North and the Trident are mine, forged in the blood of my father and the fire of my justice. These lands bow to no Targaryen, no Southern monarch, no dragon queen. They are free, and they will remain so under my protection.'"
"He denies my claim to my own kingdoms?" Daenerys's voice was dangerously soft, her Targaryen temper beginning to smolder.
"He does, Your Grace," Barristan confirmed. "But his message did not end there." The old knight seemed to age further as he prepared to deliver the core of Robb Stark's ultimatum.
"He bade me tell you, Queen Daenerys, that you are, in his words, 'free to play your games for the ashes of the five southern kingdoms, should you desire such a poisoned and desolate crown.' He cares not for what happens south of his own borders, it seems. He said, 'Let her dispute her claim with Stannis Baratheon, if he still draws breath. Let her parley with the Dornish vipers or the Tyrell roses, if any of their perfume remains.'"
"He… he gives me leave to fight for the scraps of my own kingdom?" Daenerys was on her feet now, her fists clenched, her violet eyes blazing. Drogon, in his lair deep within the pyramid, let out a deafening roar that seemed to shake the very foundations, as if sensing his mother's fury. Viserion and Rhaegal, circling outside, answered with agitated screeches.
"And then, Your Grace," Ser Barristan pressed on, his voice filled with a grim resolve, "came his warning. His final words. He stood, and took up his axe, and it… it blazed, Your Grace. Like a captive sun. The heat, even from across the hall… it was the heat of a dragon's furnace. His eyes were no longer human." Barristan's own voice trembled slightly at the memory.
"He said, 'Convey this, Ser Knight, and mark my words well: If she, or her dragons, or any of her followers, 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… I will march south again.'"
Barristan looked directly at Daenerys, his eyes filled with a terrible sincerity. "And then, Your Grace… then he said… 'I will personally tear her dragons from the sky. I will melt their bones to glass. And I will dine on their roasted hearts in the ruins of whatever wretched hovel she dares call her throne. Tell Daenerys Stormborn that the Sun King of the North does not share his sky.'"
A stunned, horrified silence filled the chamber. Daario Naharis's usual smirk was gone, replaced by a look of wide-eyed disbelief. Grey Worm's stoic composure was, for the first time, visibly shaken. Missandei's hands flew to her mouth. Ser Jorah looked as if he had been struck.
Daenerys Targaryen stood frozen, Robb Stark's brutal, contemptuous words echoing in her ears. Dine on their roasted hearts. Her dragons. Her children. The very soul of her Targaryen heritage. This Stark, this boy king, had not just defied her, not just dismissed her claim – he had threatened her very essence, her most precious treasures, with a barbarity that chilled her to the bone.
Her Targaryen fury, the fire that was her birthright, erupted. "He DARES?!" she screamed, her voice cracking with rage and a new, terrifying emotion: fear. "He threatens MY DRAGONS?! He, a Northern savage, a pup who has stumbled upon some dark, accursed magic! He will pay for this insult! He will burn for it!"
"Khaleesi," Ser Jorah interjected, his voice urgent, "Ser Barristan, you believe he can do this? This… power… it is real?"
Barristan nodded gravely. "I have seen things, Ser Jorah, that I would not have believed possible. I saw what they call the 'King's Peace' in the Riverlands – entire towns where the people tremble at the mere mention of his name. I saw the fear in the eyes of hardened soldiers who had witnessed his wrath. The tales of Harrenhal and Casterly Rock are not mere tales. And when he held that axe, when his eyes burned with that light… yes. I believe he could try. And I fear he might succeed."
"No man can slay a dragon, Ser!" Daario Naharis scoffed, though his bravado rang hollow. "Not even a king with a shiny axe."
"This is not mere man, Daario," Barristan said, his voice heavy with conviction. "This is… something else. Something ancient and terrible, awakened in the North. He called himself the Sun King. He is not boasting."
Daenerys paced the chamber, her mind a whirlwind. Her entire strategy for Westeros, her lifelong dream, lay in ruins. The Iron Throne was gone. The capital was a wasteland. The Lannisters, her chief enemies, were broken, but by a power far greater and more terrifying than her own. And now, this Robb Stark, this Sun King, had effectively drawn a line across Westeros, contemptuously ceding her the ashes of the South while daring her to challenge his dominion over the North and the Trident.
"The five southern kingdoms… ruins…" Daenerys murmured, the fight draining out of her, replaced by a chilling pragmatism. "What is there to rule? What is there to win?"
"The Reach is largely untouched, Khaleesi, as is Dorne," Jorah offered. "The Stormlands are leaderless. If Robb Stark truly means to confine himself to the North and the Riverlands… then the southern kingdoms, however battered, are indeed open. Stannis Baratheon's power is broken. There are no other claimants of note, save you."
"And would this Stark allow it?" Daenerys asked, her voice sharp. "Would he truly stand by while I claim a crown, even a lesser one, in Westeros? His warning was absolute regarding his own lands. What of the rest?"
"He seemed… indifferent to the fate of the South, Your Grace," Barristan said. "Contemptuous, even. As if it were beneath his notice, so long as it did not touch his borders. His final words were… 'Tell her the Sun King of the North does not share his sky.' He claims the sky of his own kingdom, perhaps, not all of Westeros."
"A kingdom of two parts, against five," Missandei mused. "He has left the greater portion of the continent, numerically, to others."
"He has left the graveyard, Missandei!" Daenerys snapped. "He has kept the living, and offered us the dead!"
But even as she spoke, a cold, calculating part of her mind – the part that was a survivor, a queen who had forged a path through impossible odds in Essos – began to work. If Robb Stark truly meant to stay within his northern borders, if his terrible power was primarily defensive of those borders… then perhaps there was an opening. A dangerous, uncertain path, but a path nonetheless.
"This power of his," Daenerys asked, turning back to Barristan. "You said it is tied to the sun?"
"It seemed so, Your Grace. Strongest at noon. He spoke of Harrenhal being unmade near noon, and Casterly Rock. When he threatened me, the sun was high, and his axe… it was like holding a piece of the sun itself."
"So by night, he is weaker?" Daario asked, a predatory glint returning to his eyes.
"Perhaps," Barristan conceded. "But he is also said to be immortal, Your Grace. Tales from the North claim he cannot be killed by conventional means, that he heals from any wound. I do not know the truth of that, but his confidence… it is absolute."
Daenerys stood before the great open arches of the pyramid, looking out over Meereen. Her city. Her people. Her dragons. For so long, Westeros had been the dream, the ultimate goal. Now, it was a land dominated by a terrifying new power, a land where her ancestral home was a radioactive crater.
"My advisors," she said, turning back to them, her voice now devoid of its earlier rage, replaced by a chilling calm that mirrored Robb Stark's own. "Our plans for Westeros are ash, like its capital. A direct confrontation with this Sun King, at this time, with our current strength, is folly. My dragons are still young. Our army, however brave, cannot fight a man who eats mountains."
She paused, her gaze sweeping over them. "Therefore, our strategy must change. We will continue to consolidate our power here in Essos. We will build our strength. My dragons will grow to their full might. They will be the largest and most terrible creatures this world has seen since the Doom of Valyria. And when they are, no man, no king, not even one who calls himself the sun, will dare threaten to dine upon them."
Her eyes held a new, hard light. "We will also gather intelligence. Every scrap of information about this Robb Stark, his powers, his kingdom, his intentions. Are there limits to his strength? Does he have enemies within his own lands who fear him? What of this Roose Bolton, whom he supposedly purged? Are there others? Knowledge is power, and we are sorely lacking in it regarding this… phenomenon."
She looked at Ser Barristan. "You have done well, old friend. You have brought us a truth more valuable, and more terrifying, than any treasure. Rest now."
To her council, she said, "Westeros is not lost to us. It is merely… postponed. The game of thrones has changed. The players are different. The stakes are higher than ever before. Robb Stark has drawn his line in the sand with fire and ash. He may rule his frozen North and his muddy rivers. He may even keep the sky above them. But the rest of Westeros… the rest of Westeros will one day hear the roar of dragons again."
Her voice was filled with a new, cold determination. The shock had passed. The fear remained, a healthy caution. But beneath it, the Targaryen fire, though momentarily dimmed by the Stark sun, was re-igniting.
"He says he will eat dragon for dinner?" Daenerys thought, a humorless smile touching her lips as she looked out towards the distant, unseen West. "We shall see, King of Ash and Light. We shall see whose fire burns hottest. And whose name is remembered when the sun finally sets on your terrible reign."
The game was not over. It had merely found a new, more terrifyingly powerful player. And Daenerys Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons, would play her hand when she was ready. The world would hold its breath until then.