Chapter 32: The Isle of Faces: Fire Meets a Setting Sun
The Isle of Faces, a place of ancient power and whispered magic, lay shrouded in mist as two formidable forces converged upon its shores. Daenerys Targaryen, the Dragon Queen, arrived first, her fleet a majestic armada against the grey waters of the Gods Eye. Her three dragons, now colossal, circled overhead, their roars echoing through the ancient weirwood trees, their shadows falling like omens upon the still water. Drogon, the black dread, was largest and most fearsome, his scales like obsidian, his eyes molten gold. Rhaegal, emerald and bronze, and Viserion, creamy white and gold, were scarcely less imposing, their flames licking the air with a promise of annihilation. Her army, Unsullied and Dothraki, disembarked with disciplined precision, forming a formidable guard. Daenerys herself, clad in black dragonscale armor, her silver hair braided with Targaryen rubies, landed on the shore with a queen's confidence, her hand resting on the hilt of a Valyrian steel blade.
Robb Stark arrived hours later, his longships cutting through the mist like silent wolves. His honor guard was small, a hundred of his most trusted Northmen, grim-faced and heavily armed, led by the Greatjon Umber and Maege Mormont. But all eyes were drawn to Robb himself. He wore no armor, only simple Northern leathers, but he radiated a palpable aura of power, the air around him seeming to shimmer. And upon his back, slung across his shoulders like a god's weapon, was Rhitta. The axe pulsed with a soft, internal golden light, even under the overcast sky, its presence dominating the clearing.
The two monarchs met in the heart of the isle, beneath the silent, watchful gaze of the ancient weirwood trees, their faces carved with centuries of silent observation. The air crackled with tension, the power of dragonfire and the might of the sun held in check, but barely.
"Robb of House Stark," Daenerys said, her voice clear and strong, amplified by the magic of the isle. "King in the North and of the Trident. I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I have come to claim what is mine by blood and fire." She gestured to her dragons circling overhead. "These are my children. They are the fire made flesh. They will help me reclaim my throne."
Robb Stark looked at her, his grey eyes, flecked with that faint golden light, unwavering. He did not bow. He did not kneel. He simply met her gaze, his own power a silent, implacable force. "Daenerys Targaryen," he replied, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate from the very earth beneath their feet. "I know your name. I know your claim. I also know that you have landed an army on my continent despite my explicit warning."
"I offered you parley, King Robb," Daenerys countered, her voice hardening. "I came in peace, to discuss the future of this shattered land. But I will not be denied my birthright. The Seven Kingdoms are mine."
"The Seven Kingdoms are no more," Robb stated, his gaze sweeping over the ruins of the isle. "The South is a wasteland, broken by the Lannisters and then by my wrath. The North and the Trident are mine, and mine alone. I will not yield them to you, or to any other claimant."
"You presume to dictate terms to the Mother of Dragons?" Daenerys's voice was laced with a dangerous edge. "You, a Northern barbarian, who stumbled upon some ancient magic and thinks himself a god?"
"I am the King in the North," Robb replied, his voice still calm, but the air around him growing warmer, the light from Rhitta intensifying slightly. "And I have paid the iron price for my crown. I have avenged my father. I have broken my enemies. And I will not bow to a foreign queen who demands my fealty."
"You will bend the knee, Stark," Daenerys said, her hand tightening on her sword hilt. "You will acknowledge my claim. You will swear fealty to the rightful Queen of Westeros. Or I will take what is mine by fire and blood." She gestured to her dragons. "They are the most powerful weapons in the world. They will burn your frozen kingdom to the ground."
A faint, almost pitying smile touched Robb's lips. "You believe your dragons frighten me, Dragon Queen?" He slowly reached back and unslung Rhitta from his shoulders. The axe blazed into life, its golden light filling the clearing, pushing back the mist, its heat a palpable force that made even the dragons above uneasy.
"You bring fire," Robb said, his voice now a low, thunderous roar. "I am the fire. You command beasts. I command the sun."
Before Daenerys could react, before her advisors could utter a word, Robb Stark moved. With a speed that belied his size, he hurled Rhitta into the air. The axe spun, its light intensifying, becoming a miniature sun, a blinding, terrifying force. It flew towards Drogon, the largest and most dangerous of Daenerys's dragons.
Drogon, startled by the sudden attack, unleashed a torrent of black fire, the heat washing over the clearing. But Rhitta was not consumed. It passed through the flames as if they were mere smoke, its light burning brighter, its power growing with every moment.
The axe struck Drogon in the chest, not with a physical blow, but with a wave of pure solar energy. The dragon shrieked in agony, a sound that tore at the very fabric of the air. His scales glowed red-hot, then began to crack and melt. He plummeted from the sky, crashing into the Gods Eye with a thunderous impact, the water around him boiling and steaming.
Rhaegal and Viserion, enraged and terrified, dove to attack. Daenerys, her face a mask of shock and fury, screamed commands in High Valyrian. But Robb Stark was already moving, his speed blurring the eye. He leapt onto the back of a weirwood, using its ancient power to amplify his own, his grey eyes now burning with the same golden light as his axe.
He caught Viserion as the dragon swooped low, his hand closing around the dragon's neck. Sunshine poured through him, and he channeled it into a concentrated blast, directly into the dragon's throat. Viserion convulsed, his golden scales turning black and brittle, his fire sputtering and dying. He crashed to the earth, his body smoking and twitching.
Rhaegal, the last remaining dragon, unleashed a torrent of green fire, but Robb simply raised his hand. A shield of pure solar energy erupted around him, deflecting the flames, turning them into harmless vapor. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he sent a blast of heat that seared Rhaegal's wing, sending the dragon spiraling out of control.
The battle was over in moments. Two dragons were crippled, their roars replaced by whimpers of pain. Drogon, Daenerys's pride, her most powerful weapon, lay dead in the Gods Eye, his black scales cooling in the water.
Robb Stark landed gracefully on the ground, Rhitta returning to his hand, its light now dimmed, but still potent. He looked at Daenerys, his face devoid of emotion, his voice the cold, hard sound of a glacier cracking.
"I warned you, Dragon Queen," he said. "I told you I would eat dragon for dinner. It seems you did not believe me." He gestured to the smoking ruins of Drogon's corpse in the water. "Consider this my final warning. The North does not kneel. And I do not share my sky."
Daenerys Targaryen stood frozen, her face pale, her dreams shattered. Her dragons, her invincible children, her ultimate weapons, had been defeated, one of them slain, by a man who commanded the sun. The power she had wielded for so long, the fire that was her birthright, had been dwarfed by a greater, more terrible force.
"You… you are a monster," she whispered, her voice trembling.
"I am what I have had to be," Robb replied, his voice devoid of pity. "I am the shield that guards the North. And I will not allow any to threaten it, not even a queen with dragons."
He turned his back on her, a gesture of absolute dismissal. "Leave this place, Daenerys Targaryen. Take your wounded beasts and your broken dreams and return to the East. You have no power here."
Daenerys, her pride wounded, her army shaken, her dragons crippled, had no choice but to obey. She ordered her forces to retreat, her face a mask of humiliated fury. As her ships turned back towards the sea, she looked back at Robb Stark, who stood alone on the shore, Rhitta gleaming in his hand, a figure of terrible, unchallenged power.
The Isle of Faces, a place of ancient magic, had witnessed a new and terrifying truth. The age of dragons was over. The age of the Sun King had begun. And Daenerys Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons, had learned a lesson she would never forget: some fires burn too hot to be challenged.