Chapter 38: The Gathering of Vultures
The ravens carrying Ned Stark's revolutionary summons flew from a city holding its breath and arrived in a realm bracing for war. The replies, when they came, were a fractured chorus of pride, ambition, fear, and fury. The great game had been upended, and the players, accustomed to a board they understood, were now forced to react to a move they had never anticipated.
A raven returned from the westerlands, from the fortified camp of Tywin Lannister. It did not carry a seal, only a smear of dried blood. The message was not from the Old Lion himself, but from his brother, Ser Kevan, its tone dripping with cold rage. It declared Eddard Stark a traitor, a heretic, and a war criminal. It spoke of the "foul sorcery" that had crippled Casterly Rock and the "demon" he kept as a pet. It condemned the Great Council as an illegal assembly of traitors and vowed that House Lannister would see every man who attended it hanged for treason. It was a declaration of total, uncompromising war.
From Dragonstone, Stannis Baratheon's reply was, if anything, even more furious, though colder in its fury. "The crown is mine by right of law and blood," he wrote, his script as rigid and unbending as the man himself. "It is not a prize to be given away by a council of sheep led by a northern wolf. You were named Protector of my throne, Stark, not its arbiter. Your duty is to hold the city in my name, not to invite the jackals of the realm to feast upon it. Any lord who attends your 'council' is a traitor to their rightful king. Bend the knee, or be burned away with the rest of the darkness."
The letters from the two primary antagonists were exactly what Thor had predicted. They were the roars of proud, wounded beasts, unable and unwilling to comprehend that the rules of the jungle had changed.
"They have refused," Ned said grimly, standing with Thor in the solar of the Hand's Tower. "They would rather see the realm burn than yield an inch of their pride."
"Pride is the armor of a fool," Thor rumbled, his gaze fixed on the city below. "Let them sharpen their swords in their lonely castles. The world is moving on without them. The question is, who will come?"
The answer began to arrive in the weeks that followed. King's Landing, under the firm hand of the Protector's Guard, transformed into a strange, tense, and bustling hub. The city was an armed camp, but one where the granaries were open and the law was, for the first time in memory, fair. Ned Stark had become a folk hero, the grim-faced wolf who had tamed the lions and fed the poor. And Thor… Thor had become a god. The shrines to him were now a common sight, and the men of the Protector's Guard had taken to painting a stylized hammer on their shields, beside the direwolf of their commander.
The first of the great lords to arrive were the Tyrells of Highgarden. Their arrival was not a military expedition; it was a festival. A procession a league long, of knights in armor polished like mirrors, of ladies in silken litters, and wagons laden with the bounty of the Reach—casks of Arbor gold, wheels of cheese, and barrels of sun-ripened fruit. At their head rode Lord Mace Tyrell, a large, portly man with a florid face and an air of supreme self-satisfaction. He was flanked by his sons, the courteous Ser Garlan and the impossibly handsome Knight of Flowers, Ser Loras.
They came to the Red Keep not as supplicants, but as potential partners, their power and wealth a tangible presence. Mace Tyrell, in his meeting with Ned, was all blustering charm and veiled offers.
"A bold move, Lord Stark! A Great Council! The first in a century!" he boomed, his voice filling the solar. "The Tyrells have always believed in the wisdom of the great houses acting in concert. We are here to lend our support—and our considerable influence—to ensure a peaceful and prosperous outcome."
He spoke of stability, of feeding the realm, and, in a dozen different, subtle ways, he spoke of his daughter, Margaery, the most beautiful and eligible woman in the Seven Kingdoms. It was clear what he was selling: his army and his daughter's hand in marriage for a place at the heart of whatever new order was to be forged.
The second arrival was a stark contrast. From the south came the Dornish, their banners bearing the sun and spear of House Martell. They were not a great host, but a small, elite delegation of guards in shimmering scale mail, their faces dark and watchful. At their head was not the cautious, calculating Prince Doran, but his younger brother, a man whose reputation preceded him like a clap of thunder: Prince Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper.
Oberyn was a man of mesmerizing intensity. His dark eyes missed nothing, and a dangerous, predatory grace was evident in his every movement. He met Ned Stark not with bluster, but with a sharp, analytical stare.
"Lord Stark," he said, his voice a low, cultured purr with the hint of a Dornish accent. "I must confess, I did not think a cold northern wolf had such fire in his belly. You have done in a month what my people have dreamed of for seventeen years: you have brought the lions to their knees." His eyes flickered to Thor, who stood silently in the room. "And you have done it with a rather impressive… pet."
"He is no one's pet," Ned said, his voice cold.
"No," Oberyn agreed, his gaze lingering on Thor with fascination, not fear. "He is not. I have seen men who fight like demons, but I have never seen a man who has a demon fighting for him. I am here for one reason, Lord Stark: justice. For my sister, Elia. For her children. They were butchered by the Lannisters and their mad dogs. Your trial of Gregor Clegane was a fine start. But it was only the opening act. I want Tywin Lannister's head. I want the heads of all who had a hand in my sister's murder. Give me that, and Dorne is yours."
His offer was as sharp and as deadly as his moniker. He did not want power or influence. He wanted vengeance. He was a poisoned spear, aimed at the heart of House Lannister.
But the most fraught arrival was the last. A small party of Northmen rode through the gates, their grey cloaks dusty from the road. At their head was a woman with the fiery hair of the Tullys and the fierce, unyielding eyes of a she-wolf. Catelyn Stark had come to King's Landing.
Their reunion in the courtyard of the Tower was a thing of raw, painful emotion. Ned held his wife, burying his face in her hair, the scent of the North a balm to his weary soul. He had not realized how much he missed her until she was in his arms.
But when she pulled back, she looked at him as if he were a stranger. The quiet, honorable man she had married had been replaced by a hard-eyed general, a revolutionary leader with the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders. She looked around at the Protector's Guard, at the direwolf banners flying defiantly over the city, and her eyes were filled with a deep, unsettling fear.
"What have you done, Ned?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "The stories they tell… a war with the Lannisters, a city in rebellion… a sorcerer at your side…"
Her gaze fell upon Thor, who had emerged from the tower to greet her. Catelyn froze. She had heard the tales, from her own panicked letters and from the whispers that had reached Robb's camp. She had expected a monster, a hulking, brutish demon. She saw a giant of a man, yes, but his eyes… his eyes held a weariness so profound it seemed to eclipse his immense size. He was not the gloating demon of her nightmares. He was… sad.
"My lady," Thor said, his voice a quiet rumble, and he gave a small, respectful nod of his head.
Catelyn, a woman of iron resolve, found herself at a loss for words. She simply stared, her mind trying to reconcile the terrifying legend with the quiet, sorrowful being who stood before her.
Later, Ned brought her up to date on everything. The capture of the Red Keep. The full truth of Robert's death and Cersei's incest. The raid on Casterly Rock. The judgment of the Mountain. The calling of the Great Council. With each revelation, Catelyn grew paler.
"You have declared war on the entire realm," she said, her voice filled with a horrified awe. "You have made yourself the enemy of the Lannisters and the Baratheons."
"I have made myself the protector of the realm," Ned corrected her gently. "I am trying to build something better from the ashes of Robert's lies."
"And you will build it with him?" she asked, gesturing in the direction of Thor's chambers. "With a power you do not understand and cannot control?"
"I understand it well enough," Ned said. "It is the power of a good man who has seen too much of war. And I trust him more than any lord in this city."
The final piece of the puzzle was the Great Council itself. Ned, knowing the Red Keep was a symbol of the tyranny he was trying to dismantle, chose a different venue. The Dragonpit. The vast, ruined arena on the Hill of Rhaenys, where the Targaryens had once housed their dragons. Its collapsed dome and scorched walls were a fitting testament to the dangers of unchecked power.
Under the open sky, in the center of the vast, sandy pit, a great circle of chairs and benches was arranged. Every Great House, save the Lannisters and Stannis Baratheon, had sent a delegation. The proud lords of the Vale, now free of Lysa Arryn's paranoia, had come under the command of Yohn Royce. The Stormlords, leaderless since Renly's death, had sent a council of their elder statesmen. The Dornish were there in force, their bright silks a splash of color against the grim stone. The Tyrells had brought a small army of servants to make their section of the ruins comfortable. And at the head, on a simple wooden dais, was a long table for House Stark and its allies.
The day the council opened was bright and clear. The lords of Westeros, a gathering of vultures in their silks and velvets, filled the Dragonpit. The air was thick with tension, with the murmur of a hundred different schemes and ambitions.
Ned Stark walked to the center of the dais, Catelyn at his side, his Northern and Riverland lords arrayed behind him. And behind them all, standing like one of the great statues of old, was Thor, his arms crossed, his face impassive, Stormbreaker leaning against his shoulder. His presence was a silent, powerful declaration: this council would be orderly. This peace would be kept.
Ned looked out at the assembled lords, the most powerful men in the realm. He saw the greed in Mace Tyrell's eyes, the vengeful fire in Oberyn Martell's, the cautious pride of Yohn Royce. He knew he had not gathered a council of wise statesmen. He had gathered a pit of vipers.
He struck a wooden gavel on the table, the sound echoing in the vast, ruined space. A hush fell over the assembly.
"My lords," Ned began, his voice clear and strong, carrying to every corner of the pit. "We are gathered here today not to celebrate a victory, but to face a crisis. The Seven Kingdoms are without a true king. The line of Baratheon is broken by sin and fratricide. The Iron Throne, the very symbol of our unity, has been the source of our suffering. For three hundred years, we have bent the knee to kings who claimed their power by right of conquest and blood. And it has brought us nothing but war, madness, and ruin."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the lords. "Today, that ends. I have not called you here to choose a new king to place upon that ugly, iron chair. I have called you here to ask a more fundamental question. Must we have a king at all?"
A shocked murmur went through the crowd. This was not what they had expected.
"The Targaryens forged the Seven Kingdoms with fire and blood," Ned continued, his voice rising with a revolutionary fervor he did not know he possessed. "Perhaps it is time we forged something new. A pact. A commonwealth of the great realms, each ruled by its own lord, bound together not by the will of a single king, but by a council of laws, by mutual defense, and by the common good of all our people."
He was not just calling for a vote. He was proposing the dissolution of the Seven Kingdoms as they knew it. He was offering them an end to the game of thrones itself.
He stood before them, the honorable wolf who had been forced to become a revolutionary. Beside him, Thor watched, a faint, proud smile on his lips. The man from Winterfell, the man who had only ever wanted to go home, was now trying to remake a world. And the lords, the vultures, stared back at him, their minds reeling, forced to contemplate a future that was either a madman's dream or the dawn of a new age. The Great Council had begun.