Chapter 23: The Sun's Shadow Falls on King's Landing
The first reports to trickle into King's Landing were dismissed as the ravings of madmen. Fishermen, their skins blistered and their eyes wide with unholy terror, babbled of a second sun exploding in the west, of the sea boiling, of a mountain that had simply… vanished. Then came refugees from Lannisport, their stories more coherent but no less horrifying: a sky-splitting flash, the earth bucking like a wild horse, and a colossal wave that had smashed their city, followed by a rain of black ash and the chilling realization that the great Rock which had guarded their harbor for millennia was gone. Finally, a bloodied, dust-caked Lannister captain, one of the few survivors from a patrol operating leagues east of Casterly Rock, reached the Red Keep, his mind teetering on the brink of insanity. He spoke not of a battle, but of an apocalypse, a judgment, delivered by a lone, glowing figure who commanded the very sun.
Lord Varys, the Master of Whisperers, his face an unusually pale and somber mask, presented these corroborated accounts to an emergency session of the Small Council. The King was not yet present.
"My lords," Varys began, his voice a silken murmur that nonetheless cut through the chamber's anxious hush. "The reports from the Westerlands, however fantastical they may seem, are… consistent. Casterly Rock, the ancestral seat of House Lannister, has been obliterated. Lannisport is devastated. The architect of this… event… appears to be Robb Stark, acting alone."
Grand Maester Pycelle gave a strangled gasp, his chins wobbling. "Obliterated? A mountain? By one man? Impossible! This is… this is dark sorcery of an order not seen since the Doom of Valyria!"
Lord Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish, ever composed, steepled his fingers, a thoughtful, almost predatory gleam in his eyes. "A singular talent, it would seem. One that rather alters the calculus of our current… disagreements."
Ser Kevan Lannister, his face grey with shock and a grief he struggled to conceal, slammed a fist on the table. "This is no time for jests, Baelish! My brother's home… our family's legacy… erased?"
It was at this moment that King Joffrey Baratheon stormed into the chamber, his usually petulant face a mask of blotchy terror and childish rage. Queen Regent Cersei Lannister followed, her beauty marred by a wild, haunted look in her eyes. And behind them, walking with the slow, deliberate tread of a man carrying the weight of an unimaginable catastrophe, came Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King. His face was an unreadable cipher, but the very air around him seemed colder, heavier.
"What is this madness?" Joffrey shrieked, his voice cracking. "They say Stark flew through the air and breathed fire! Lies! All lies! I want his head!"
"Be silent, boy," Tywin Lannister's voice was a low, deadly whisper, yet it cut through Joffrey's hysteria like a razor. The King flinched and subsided, muttering under his breath. Tywin took his seat at the head of the table. "Varys. Report. Everything."
Varys recounted the tales, his voice never wavering, detailing the lone figure, the gathering of light, the cataclysmic destruction that left not even a stone of Casterly Rock upon another, only a vast, smoking crater where the mountain had stood. He spoke of the aftershocks that leveled Lannisport, the poisoned sea, the black rain.
When he finished, a deathly silence filled the chamber. Cersei was gripping the arms of her chair so tightly her knuckles were white. Joffrey was openly trembling. Pycelle was mumbling prayers to the Crone to light their way. Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, who had joined the council late, looked as if he might be sick. His alliance with the Lannisters, sealed by his daughter Margaery's betrothal to Joffrey, suddenly seemed like a pact with a doomed house.
"My home…" Cersei finally whispered, her voice breaking with a desolation that surprised even herself. "The Rock… all those centuries… our history… just… gone?"
Tywin Lannister's eyes, chips of cold green ice, did not flicker. "Grief is a luxury we cannot afford, daughter. The past is ash. We must deal with the present. This… Robb Stark… what is he?"
"Some say a demon, Lord Hand," Varys replied softly. "Others, a god returned. My little birds sing that he wields a golden axe that burns with the sun's fire, and can call down stars from the sky. He is the author of the ruin at Harrenhal, and now… this."
"Sorcery," Pycelle quavered. "Forbidden arts! The Citadel must be consulted! There are scrolls, countermeasures…"
"Countermeasures against a man who eats mountains, Grand Maester?" Littlefinger raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "An ambitious undertaking. Perhaps a strongly worded letter?"
"This is not a matter for mockery, Baelish!" Ser Kevan snapped. "Our entire House… our power base in the West… it is gone!"
Tywin Lannister raised a hand, and silence fell again. "The Westerlands are lost to us for now. Our gold mines are flooded or sealed. Our levies there are shattered or too terrified to fight. Our ancestral home is a memory. These are facts. What matters now is King's Landing. What matters is the Crown." His gaze was hard, unyielding. "Stark's ultimatum stands. He demands his sisters, and our heads. He threatens to bring his… fire… here."
"We cannot yield!" Joffrey screamed, finding his courage in bravado. "I am the King! I will not be threatened by a Northern savage, even a magical one! We have walls! We have the Gold Cloaks! We have the Tyrell army!"
Lord Mace Tyrell visibly flinched at the mention of his army. "Lord Hand," he blustered, his jowls quivering, "my daughter, the future Queen Margaery, is in this city! The Tyrells pledged to defend the Crown, yes, but against mortal foes! Against armies of men! Not against… against that!" He gestured vaguely to the west. "What defense is there against a power that unmakes mountains?"
"A pertinent question, Lord Tyrell," Varys murmured.
"The Stark girl," Cersei hissed, her eyes suddenly alight with a venomous inspiration. "Sansa. She is his sister. His weakness. We still have her."
Tywin looked at his daughter, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "And what do you propose, Cersei? To dangle her from the walls as he rains fire upon us? Do you think that will stop him now? After what he did to Casterly Rock?"
"We make her suffer!" Cersei spat. "For every stone of our home, a lash! For every ounce of our lost gold, a scream! We send him her fingers, her eyes! We show him what happens to those who defy House Lannister!"
Even Joffrey looked momentarily discomforted by the sheer malice in his mother's voice.
"Such an act, Your Grace," Varys said, his tone impossibly mild, "might provoke the very cataclysm we seek to avoid. A cornered wolf is dangerous. A cornered sun demon…"
"The eunuch is right, for once," Tywin said, his voice flat. "Further harming the girl is pointless spite. It will not deter him. It may, in fact, give him the very justification he needs to unleash his full fury upon this city." He paused, his gaze sweeping the terrified faces around the table. "She is, however, our only remaining piece in this game with him, however insignificant she may now seem."
"A bargaining chip?" Kevan Lannister asked, hope warring with despair in his voice. "Can we truly offer him his sister for peace now?"
"Peace?" Littlefinger chuckled softly. "After he has destroyed Casterly Rock? I believe the Young Wolf has moved beyond simple peace negotiations, my lords. He demands crowns and heads. Yours, specifically, Your Grace," he added, with a slight nod to Joffrey.
"Then what are we to do?" Mace Tyrell demanded, sweat beading on his forehead. "Sit here and wait for him to melt the Red Keep around our ears?"
Tywin Lannister's eyes narrowed. For a long moment, he was silent, the only sound in the room Pycelle's nervous breathing and Joffrey's whimpering. When he finally spoke, his voice was the cold, hard sound of a glacier cracking.
"We cannot fight his magic with steel. That much is evident." He looked at Pycelle. "Grand Maester, you will send riders to the Citadel. Demand every scrap of lore they possess on Valyrian sorcery, on fire magic, on any defenses, any countermeasures, however obscure. Offer them gold, titles, anything. But find me something."
Pycelle nodded eagerly, relieved to have a task. "At once, Lord Hand!"
"Varys," Tywin continued, "your little birds. Do any sing of weaknesses? Of limitations to this power? Does he tire? Does it wane with the sun, as some reports suggest?"
"The destruction of Harrenhal was at its peak near noon, Lord Hand," Varys confirmed. "As was the… erasure… of Casterly Rock. It seems his power is indeed tied to the sun. By night, he may be… less. But still, he is not mortal. He has Ban's immortality, or so my whispers from the North suggest. And he wields that… axe."
"Immortality and the sun's fire," Tywin mused, a muscle working in his jaw. "A formidable combination." He turned to Littlefinger. "Lord Baelish. You have a reputation for finding… unconventional solutions. What does your labyrinthine mind suggest?"
Littlefinger smiled, a sly, knowing expression. "Why, Lord Hand, it seems to me that a man who commands such power might be susceptible to a different kind of attack. Not on his body, perhaps, but on his… attachments. He has a mother, does he not? Other kin? Loyalties? Every man, no matter how powerful, has pressure points. Or perhaps," his eyes flickered towards the Tyrells, "one might consider that alliances are fluid. If one king proves too… destructive… perhaps another might seem a safer wager?"
Mace Tyrell bristled, but Olenna Tyrell, had she been there, would have recognized the poison in Littlefinger's words.
"For now," Tywin declared, cutting through the speculation, "our strategy is threefold. First, defense. We will reinforce the city walls, not with stone he can melt, but with men. Every available soldier, every Gold Cloak, every Tyrell man-at-arms will be on those walls. If he comes, he will face a sea of crossbows and scorpions. It may be futile, but we will not yield the city without a fight."
"A fight he can end with a gesture?" Cersei scoffed, her fear making her reckless.
"Second," Tywin continued, ignoring her, "we will attempt to control the narrative. This Stark is not a god. He is a sorcerer, a warlock, trafficking in forbidden arts. The High Septon must denounce him. We will spread tales of his cruelty, of the innocents he has slaughtered. We will paint him as a monster, a threat to all of Westeros, not just to House Lannister. Perhaps other houses, fearing his power, will unite against him."
"And third," Tywin's voice dropped, his eyes glinting with a desperate, cold light. "Sansa Stark. She will be brought before me. Not harmed, Cersei. Not yet. But she will be made to understand that her brother's actions have consequences for her. She will write to him. She will plead for him to show mercy, to halt his advance, to negotiate. She will speak of the innocents in this city. We will see if this… Sun King… has any heart left beneath his fire."
"And if he refuses?" Kevan asked. "If he marches on us anyway?"
Tywin Lannister looked out the window, towards the west, where the sky still seemed to hold a faint, unnatural glow. For the first time, the assembled council saw a flicker of something akin to despair in the Old Lion's eyes, quickly masked.
"Then we pray that the walls of King's Landing are thicker than the stones of Harrenhal, and that his power is not as limitless as it appears." He paused. "And I will send riders to my commanders in the field, those still able. They are to avoid direct confrontation with Stark himself at all costs. But his army… his mortal army… is still vulnerable. If we can separate the wolf from his pack, perhaps…" He did not finish the thought.
The council dispersed in a state of grim apprehension. Joffrey, for once, was silent, his youthful arrogance finally shattered by a terror he could not comprehend. Cersei retired to her chambers, calling for wine, her mind racing with plots both murderous and desperate. Littlefinger and Varys exchanged a brief, unreadable glance before melting back into the shadows of the Red Keep.
Tywin Lannister remained alone in the council chamber, staring at the map of Westeros. His ancestral home was gone. His armies in the west were annihilated or scattered. His son Jaime was dead. His house, the proudest and richest in the Seven Kingdoms, had been brought to the brink of ruin by a boy king who wielded the power of a vengeful god.
He thought of the gold mines, now choked and useless. He thought of the centuries of Lannister legacy, erased in a single, fiery afternoon.
A low growl, almost a snarl, escaped his lips. He was Tywin Lannister. He did not break. He did not yield. He would find a way. Even against a sun, a lion could still roar. And scheme.
He summoned a scribe. There were letters to write. Desperate, perhaps. But he was not done yet. The game was not over until the last piece was swept from the board. And he still had a few pieces left to play, however desperate the odds. The fate of King's Landing, and perhaps all of Westeros, now hung on the response of a grieving, wrathful King in the North who had tasted the intoxicating power of ultimate destruction.