Chapter 20: The Ravens of Truth
The aftermath of Thor's display of power was a city paralyzed. The gold cloaks, stripped of their religious zeal, were back to hiding in their barracks. The smallfolk, no longer whipped into a frenzy by the High Septon, were back to whispering in their homes, but now the whispers were about a different kind of god, one who judged with lightning and spoke of peace. The Red Keep was a fortress of fear, its inhabitants caught between a furious queen and a force they could not comprehend.
In the Tower of the Hand, however, a plan was taking shape. Ned Stark, having crossed a line he could never uncross, was now determined to use the power he had unleashed to its fullest. He had seen the terror in Cersei's eyes, the stunned disbelief in Tyrion's, and the shattered faith of the holy men. He knew that the Lannisters' greatest weapon was their control of the narrative, their ability to manipulate the truth and paint their enemies as monsters. Thor had shown him that power could be answered with power. Now, he would answer lies with truth.
He summoned Grand Maester Pycelle, the old man shuffling into the solar with a nervous, obsequious bow. Pycelle had seen the lightning strike, had felt the earth shake, and now he looked at Ned Stark with a terrified respect.
"Grand Maester," Ned said, his voice cold and authoritative, "I require ravens. To Dragonstone, to Storm's End, to the Eyrie, and to Winterfell."
Pycelle's hand trembled as he reached for his chain. "To… to those places, my lord? But the Queen…"
"The Queen has no authority here," Ned interrupted, his voice like iron. "I am the Protector of the Realm, and I will be obeyed. You will write these letters as I dictate them, and you will ensure that they are sent immediately. If you attempt to delay or alter them in any way, I will have Thor escort you to the dungeons. Do you understand?"
Pycelle swallowed, his eyes darting towards the corner where Thor stood, a silent, watchful presence. "Perfectly, my lord," he squeaked.
Ned began to dictate. The first letter was to Stannis Baratheon, on Dragonstone.
"To Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone, rightful heir to the Iron Throne," Ned began, his voice ringing with a newfound conviction. He laid out the truth: Robert's death, the incest of Cersei and Jaime, the illegitimacy of Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen, and his own support for Stannis's claim. He included the evidence: Jon Arryn's notes, his own investigations, and the testimony of those who had witnessed Cersei and Jaime's affair. It was a declaration of war, a challenge to the Lannister's carefully constructed lies.
The second letter was to Jon Arryn's widow, Lysa, in the Eyrie. He knew she was unstable, paranoid, and easily manipulated, but she was also fiercely loyal to her family. He appealed to that loyalty, telling her of Jon's murder and the Lannister's treachery. He knew that if he could convince her, the Vale, with its formidable army, would join his cause.
The third letter was to his brother, Benjen, at the Wall, asking for any support he could muster from the Night's Watch. It was a long shot, but he knew that Benjen, a man of honor, would do what he could.
The final letter was to Robb, in Winterfell. This was the hardest one to write. He told his son of Robert's death, of his own imprisonment, and of the danger his sisters were in. He did not tell him about Thor. He did not want to frighten him. He simply told him to raise the banners, to gather his forces, and to march south with all possible speed. He knew that this letter would plunge the North into war. But he saw no other way.
As Pycelle transcribed the letters, his hand shaking, Thor watched in silence. He understood what Ned was doing. He was not just sending messages; he was casting spells. He was using the power of words, the power of truth, to counter the Lannister's lies. It was a different kind of power than his own, but a power nonetheless.
When the letters were finished, Ned sealed them with the direwolf sigil of House Stark. He handed them to Pycelle, his gaze unwavering. "See that these are sent immediately, Grand Maester. And pray that they find their mark. For the fate of this realm may hang on the wings of these ravens."
As Pycelle hurried away, Ned turned to Thor. "You said that to win this, I must be willing to use fear as a weapon. I have done that. But I have also unleashed something else. Something I do not fully understand."
"You have unleashed the truth," Thor said quietly. "And the truth, Lord Stark, can be as powerful as any storm. But it is also a dangerous thing. Once it is out, it cannot be called back. It can inspire hope, but it can also inspire hatred. It can unite, but it can also divide. You have cast your lot, Ned Stark. You have chosen your path. Now, you must be prepared to walk it, no matter where it leads."
The ravens flew from the Tower of the Hand, carrying their burden of truth and war. They were the first shots fired in a new kind of battle, a battle for the very soul of the realm. The Lannisters had declared a holy war against a demon. Ned Stark had declared a war for the truth. And the fate of the seven kingdoms hung in the balance.The ravens flew into a changed world. They carried with them the seeds of a war of succession, but the ground upon which those seeds would land had been irrevocably altered. In King's Landing, the lightning had struck, and the echo of its thunder lingered, creating a strange, tense, and unnatural peace. The city that had been on the verge of a riot was now a city of hushed debate. The Tower of the Hand was no longer just a rebel stronghold; it was a holy site.
At its base, a strange new ritual had begun. Each morning, the Stark guards would find offerings left by the main gate: a loaf of bread, a handful of winter roses, a crudely carved wooden figure of a powerfully built man holding a hammer-headed axe. The smallfolk, caught between the divine authority of the Seven and the undeniable, terrifying power they had witnessed, were hedging their bets. They whispered prayers to the Crone for wisdom, but left sacrifices for the Thunderer, just in case.
Inside the tower, Ned Stark found this development deeply disturbing. "They are treating you like a god," he said, watching from a high window as a woman quickly and fearfully placed a small bundle at the gate before scurrying away. "This is what the Queen accused me of. Heresy."
"It is not worship," Thor corrected him from across the room, where he was methodically disassembling and cleaning a crossbow he'd taken from the armoury. He had found the mechanics of it intriguing. "It is fear. And hope. They are two sides of the same coin. They hope I will continue to protect them from the Lannisters. They fear what I will do if they displease me. It is the foundation of all rule, Lord Stark. Even in Asgard."
"The rule of law should be founded on justice, not fear," Ned insisted, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears.
"Justice is a beautiful idea," Thor conceded. "But it is a house built on a foundation of power. Without power, justice is just a prayer whispered in a storm."
He had won them a reprieve, a pocket of stillness in the heart of the hurricane, but both men knew it could not last. The ravens were flying. The great lords of Westeros would soon know the truth of the King's blood. And the lions, cornered and humiliated, were not sleeping.
In the Small Council chamber, the atmosphere was one of controlled fury. Grand Maester Pycelle, his face a pasty grey, had confessed everything about the letters the moment Ned had released him from the tower. He had sent them as commanded, for fear of what Thor might do, but he had come scurrying back to his true masters immediately after.
"So, the die is cast," Tyrion Lannister said, swirling a cup of wine. He had taken to drinking more heavily since the "sermon." His intellectual certainty had been shaken, and he was using wine to soothe his frayed philosophical nerves. "Stannis knows. The North will be up in arms. The Vale will likely follow, if that madwoman Lysa Arryn can be made to see reason. We are surrounded, our claim to the throne challenged by the Hand himself."
"His claim is backed by a demon!" Cersei snarled. She had regained her composure, her terror sublimating into a sharp, cold hatred that was more dangerous than her rage. "Stark must be destroyed. We must send the army."
"What army?" Jaime countered, his voice weary. He had taken to spending his days in the White Sword Tower, polishing his armor, the only task that seemed to make sense to him anymore. "Our men in the city are useless. They will not face him. And father's host is still leagues away."
"We cannot fight the monster, so we must fight the man," Petyr Baelish interjected, his voice smooth as oiled silk. He saw the chaos not as a crisis, but as a symphony of opportunity. "Lord Stark has two weaknesses. The first is his honor, which we have already seen he will cling to even at the cost of his own life. The second… is his children."
All eyes turned to him. "The boy, Robb, is in the North, raising an army," Littlefinger continued. "But the girls are here. In the tower. With him."
"And what of it?" Jaime asked. "We cannot get to them."
"Perhaps we don't have to," Littlefinger said, a sly smile touching his lips. He looked at Cersei. "Your Grace, you have always had a talent for understanding the hearts of young girls. Lady Sansa, I believe, is still quite enamored with Prince Joffrey. She came to this city for a song, and now she finds herself trapped in a horror story. I imagine she is quite frightened. Frightened of her father's 'treason'. Frightened of the… creature… he keeps at his side."
A slow, predatory light dawned in Cersei's green eyes. "Yes," she breathed. "The little bird. She must be terrified. She must long for her handsome prince to come and save her."
"A frightened bird will fly towards any open window," Littlefinger finished. "We cannot break down the door of the tower. But perhaps… we can convince someone to open it for us from the inside."
The plot was as venomous as it was brilliant. It was a weapon Thor could not fight with his axe, and one Ned could not counter with his honor. It was an attack aimed directly at the heart of their fragile alliance: the family Ned was trying to protect.
The agent of this plot was a lady-in-waiting named Jeyne Poole's replacement, a demure, soft-spoken girl named Lylian. She had been one of Sansa's companions before the siege, a girl with honeyed words and an ambitious heart. Under the guise of a concerned friend, she gained an audience with Septa Mordane, and through the Septa, with Sansa herself.
They met in a small antechamber, the conversation a quiet murmur of feigned sympathy. "Oh, my lady, it is so terrible," Lylian whispered, her eyes wide with practiced concern. "The whole city speaks of nothing else. They say your father is in league with dark powers. The Queen is so worried for you. For your safety."
Sansa, who had spent days in her room, listening to the terrifying silence followed by the even more terrifying roar of the crowd, was a bundle of frayed nerves. "My father is the Hand of the King," she insisted, the words a weak shield against her own fear.
"But the King is dead, my lady," Lylian said gently. "Joffrey is the King now. And he loves you so. He speaks of you constantly. He wants only to protect you. He told the Queen that he would give anything to have you by his side, away from… from that monster."
The word hung in the air between them. Monster. It was the word Sansa used in her own mind. The being who had slaughtered men before her eyes, who had broken the sky. The creature her father now seemed to favor over his own daughter's safety.
"The Queen wishes only for peace," Lylian continued, her voice a soothing balm. "She said that if you could only get a message to her, if you could tell her what your father plans, she could find a way to end this without more bloodshed. She could save your father from himself. She could save you."
It was the perfect bait for a girl raised on songs. A secret mission. A chance to be the heroine who saves everyone, who reconciles the warring houses and wins the love of her prince. Lylian pressed a small, folded piece of parchment and a charcoal stick into Sansa's hand. "For the sake of the realm, my lady," she whispered. "For your father. For your future as Queen."
That night, the conflict in Sansa's soul reached its breaking point. She lay in her bed, her heart pounding. Her father was a traitor. Her protector was a demon. Her prince was waiting to save her. The world had turned upside down, and the only way to set it right, she believed, was to trust in the stories, to trust in the Queen.
She scribbled a hasty note, her hands trembling. It was a garbled, childish thing, filled with half-truths and frightened assumptions. Father intends to send us away. He listens only to the monster. He plans to challenge King Joffrey's rule. He is not well. Please help us. Your loyal servant, Sansa Stark.
Her plan was to give it to one of the servants who brought their meals, to bribe him with a piece of her jewelry. But as she crept from her room in the dead of night, a small shadow detached itself from the wall of the corridor.
"Going somewhere, sister?" Arya's voice was as sharp as a shard of ice.
Sansa gasped, clutching the note to her chest. "It's none of your business! Go back to your room!"
"You're a traitor," Arya hissed, her eyes, so like their father's, blazing with fury. She had been watching Sansa ever since the girl had started speaking with the Lannister lady-in-waiting. She didn't trust southerners, and she certainly didn't trust anyone who smiled so sweetly. "You're going to them. You're going to betray him."
"I'm trying to save him!" Sansa cried, her voice a choked whisper. "I'm trying to save us all! That… thing… is going to get us all killed, and Father won't listen!"
"That 'thing' is the only reason you're not already Joffrey's plaything!" Arya shot back. She lunged, not for Sansa, but for the note in her hand. The two sisters grappled in the dark, a desperate, clumsy fight fueled by fear and betrayal. It was not a spar with wooden swords; it was raw and painful. Sansa, though older and taller, was no match for Arya's wiry strength and fierce determination. Arya snatched the note and shoved her sister away.
The noise brought Ned running from the solar, a sword in his hand. Thor was a moment behind him, a silent, looming shadow. In the dim torchlight, they saw Arya standing over her sister, who had fallen to the floor in a heap of tears, the crumpled note in Arya's outstretched hand.
Ned read the note, and the last of the color drained from his face. It was worse than any physical attack. It was a wound from within his own family. His own daughter, his sweet summer child, had been turned against him.
"Sansa," he whispered, his voice cracking with a pain that was deeper than any physical blow. "How could you?"
"I… I was trying to help," she sobbed, not understanding the depth of her betrayal. "The Queen said…"
"The Queen is a serpent!" Ned roared, his control finally breaking. "And she has poured her poison in your ear! Do you have any idea what you have done? You would have condemned us all!"
It was Thor who stepped forward, his presence calming the storm of Ned's fury. He looked down at the weeping girl on the floor, and his face was a mask of ancient sorrow. He had seen this before. He had seen how fear and lies could twist the hearts of good people. He had seen it with his own brother.
He knelt, a mountain coming down to the level of a frightened child. His movement was so unexpected that everyone, even Arya, fell silent. Sansa flinched away from him, her eyes wide with terror.
"Look at me, child," Thor said, his voice not a rumble of thunder, but a soft, gentle breeze. It was a voice so filled with a deep, resonant sadness that it cut through Sansa's fear. She hesitantly met his gaze.
"The world is not a song," he said softly. "I wish it were. I have seen worlds where the air itself sings and the rivers flow with light. They were beautiful. And they burned, just like all the others."
He reached out, not to touch her, but gesturing towards the note in her father's hand. "The woman who gave you those words, the Queen, she does not wish to save you. She wishes to use you. The boy you think you love… he is a spoiled, cruel child who finds pleasure in the pain of others. I have seen his kind before. They are petty tyrants who mistake cruelty for strength. They are not the heroes of the stories."
Sansa stared at him, mesmerized by his voice, by the profound, sorrowful truth in his eyes. This was the monster, the demon, speaking to her with a gentleness her own father, in his anger, could not muster.
"You see me, and you are afraid," Thor continued. "That is understandable. I have done terrible things. I have unmade men and broken the sky. But I did it to protect your father. To protect you. A true monster, little one, does not need a reason to be cruel. A true protector does not always have the luxury of being gentle."
He looked at Ned, then back at Sansa. "Your father is a good man. He is the most honorable man I have met in this broken world. But his honor is a shield made of glass in a battle of hammers. He is trying to protect you. And you… you tried to hand the wolves the key to the sheepfold."
He stood up, his great shadow once again falling over her. "You must choose, Sansa Stark. You can continue to believe in the pretty songs and the smiling snakes who sing them. Or you can open your eyes and see the world for what it is. A very dangerous place that has little time for little birds who will not learn to fly."
He turned and walked back to his chamber, leaving a stunned silence in his wake. He had not threatened her. He had not admonished her. He had simply told her the truth, a truth more brutal and more devastating than any physical blow.
Ned looked at his daughter, now weeping not from fear of Thor, but from the dawning, horrific understanding of her own actions. The Lannister's attack had failed, but it had revealed a terrible weakness in their defenses. They were not just fighting a war for a throne. They were fighting a war for the souls of their own children. And Ned realized, with a chilling certainty, that it was a war he did not know how to win. The ravens of truth were flying, but the whispers of lies were already inside his walls.