Chapter 21: The Realm Responds
The days following the sermon bled into one another, each one a copy of the last, steeped in a tension so thick it felt like the humid summer air itself. The Tower of the Hand was an island of quiet defiance in a sea of fearful uncertainty. The city of King's Landing held its breath, waiting. The High Septon was silent, the Faith having no liturgy to counter a god who could break the sky. The Queen was silent, her public fury replaced by a seething, hidden council of war. And Ned Stark, the honorable wolf who had commanded a storm, was forced into the most agonizing position of all: he had to wait for the world to answer him.
The ravens had flown. They were black-winged words of treason and truth, soaring over the fields and forests of Westeros. In the tower, Ned tried to govern. He drafted decrees he could not enforce, reviewed tax records he could not collect, and read petitions from a city that would not dare approach him. It was a pantomime of power, a charade to maintain a semblance of sanity while the realm decided his fate.
Thor watched him, a silent, brooding presence. The god had won them this reprieve, but he knew it was a false peace. He spent his days in the small garden, not in the brutal regimen of before, but in a quiet, focused training. He moved through ancient Asgardian katas with Stormbreaker, each swing a study in controlled power, each stance a lesson in balance. He was not just honing his body; he was honing his mind, preparing it for the insidious, political warfare of this realm. The quiet offerings continued to appear at the base of the tower. He would sometimes look down at them—a withered flower, a piece of hard bread, a polished river stone—and see not worship, but the desperate, fragile hopes of a people who had forgotten what it was to have a protector. It was a burden heavier than any crown.
The first of the raven's echoes returned not as a letter, but as a whisper, brought by one of Varys's little birds who had, perhaps, decided a Thunder God was a safer bet than a Spider. The news was from the Eyrie.
The Eyrie, The Vale of Arryn
Lady Lysa Arryn read Ned Stark's letter in the High Hall of the Eyrie, the wind whistling through the moon door behind her, a constant, mournful sound. The parchment trembled in her hands. Her husband, her dear Jon, murdered. By the Lannisters. The words confirmed every paranoid fear she had nurtured in her high, lonely fortress. The lions were everywhere, their claws reaching even to the impregnable Vale.
Her son, the sickly, petulant Robert Arryn, clung to her skirts, his thumb in his mouth. Her lords—the stoic Yohn Royce, the ambitious Nestor Royce, the other proud knights of the Vale—stood before her, their faces grim.
"My lords," she shrieked, her voice echoing in the vast, cold hall. "Treason! Murder! The Hand of the King is dead, and now they have imprisoned Lord Stark, who sought only to find the truth! The Lannisters are monsters!"
"Lady Arryn, Lord Stark's letter calls for us to raise our banners," Lord Royce said, his deep voice resonating with a warrior's eagerness. "The Knights of the Vale have not ridden to war in years. We are fresh, strong. We should march to relieve Lord Stark and see justice done for Lord Arryn."
A chorus of assent went through the assembled lords. They were proud men, fiercely loyal to the memory of Jon Arryn, and the thought of Lannister treachery was a fire in their blood.
But Lysa's fear was a far more powerful force than their honor. She looked at her weak, sniveling son, her only child, her sweet Robin. War meant risk. It meant danger. It meant her precious boy might be harmed.
"No!" she screamed, clutching her son tighter. "No! I will not have it! The Vale is safe! Our mountains are our shield. Our passes are impregnable. We will not risk my son's life for Eddard Stark's northern pride!"
"My lady," Yohn Royce protested, his face hardening. "It is a matter of honor! Of duty!"
"Duty? My duty is to my son! To the Lord of the Eyrie!" she screeched, her eyes wild with a mother's terrified love. "The gates will be closed! The Bloody Gate will be sealed! No one enters, and no one leaves! The Vale will stay out of this war! That is my final word!"
She swept from the hall, dragging her son with her, leaving the proud lords of the Vale in a state of frustrated, impotent fury. The first of Ned's ravens had found its mark, but the ground was too barren with fear for the seed of rebellion to grow.
Dragonstone
The raven that flew to the bleak, volcanic island of Dragonstone found a much different reception. Stannis Baratheon stood on the battlements of the ancient Targaryen fortress, the salty wind whipping his dark cloak around him. He read Ned's letter not with surprise, but with a grim, teeth-grinding satisfaction.
He had known. He and Jon Arryn had pieced it together, the terrible truth of the Queen's incest. But he had lacked proof, lacked allies. Now, he had both. Eddard Stark, the most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms, had declared for him. The truth was out.
He walked into the Chamber of the Painted Table, the great, carved map of Westeros that had been used by Aegon the Conqueror himself. A woman stood by the hearth, the flames dancing in her red robes, her red hair, and her unnervingly red eyes. She was Melisandre, the Red Priestess of Asshai, a woman who had come to Stannis with prophecies of a chosen one, a warrior of light reborn to fight a great darkness.
"The raven has brought news," Stannis said, his voice flat, betraying no emotion. He handed her the letter.
Melisandre read it, her lips moving silently. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. "It has begun," she whispered, her voice like the hiss of a flame. "The Usurper's son sits the throne, a bastard born of sin and shadow. The Lord of Light has revealed the truth to his servant, Eddard Stark."
"Eddard Stark serves the old gods of the North," Stannis corrected her, grinding his teeth. The man had no patience for religious fervor, but this woman… she had shown him things in her fires. Things that had come true.
"He is but an instrument," Melisandre said, her eyes glowing with an inner fire. "A tool to place the true king, Azor Ahai reborn, upon his rightful throne." She turned to face him, her presence filling the room with a palpable heat. "The pretender in King's Landing is not the only shadow we must face. The letter speaks of another. A creature of thunder and lightning. A false god."
Stannis's jaw tightened. The news of Thor was the most unsettling part of the letter. It was an unknown quantity, a variable that did not fit into his rigid, ordered view of the world. "He fights for Stark. He has declared for me."
"Does he?" Melisandre countered, her voice a silken challenge. "Or does Stark fight for him? Darkness can wear many masks, my king. This 'Thor' is a power of the old world, a pagan spirit. He may be a foe to the lion, but that does not make him a friend to the stag. The Great Other has many servants. When you take the throne, this demon must be cleansed from the realm with fire and blood."
Stannis looked from the red priestess to the painted map of his kingdom. He was a man of law, of duty, of iron resolve. He cared little for prophecies of ancient heroes. But he needed every advantage he could get. The Lannisters had the wealth of Casterly Rock. His brother Renly had the charm and the love of the people. He had only his claim, his meager fleet, and this sorceress with her fire-god. And now, apparently, he had an alliance with a northern lord who was being protected by a thunder demon. The world was indeed going mad.
"We will sail for Storm's End," he declared, his voice hard as iron. "We will gather what forces we can. Let my brother Renly come and bend the knee. Let the lords of the realm choose. They can have the true king, or they can have the incest-born pretender. There is no middle ground."
Renly's Camp, The Reach
The raven found Renly Baratheon in a sea of summer green, surrounded by the chivalry of the Stormlands and the Reach. He was holding a grand tourney of his own, a festival of flowers and steel. He was young, handsome, charismatic, and he had the unwavering support of the powerful House Tyrell, secured by his friendship—and rumored love—for the handsome Knight of Flowers, Ser Loras.
He read Ned's letter with a dismissive laugh, tossing it onto a table laden with wine and roasted swan. "The honorable Eddard Stark," he announced to the assembled lords, his voice dripping with amusement. "Ever the dutiful soldier. He has declared for my brother Stannis."
A murmur went through the crowd. Lord Randyll Tarly, a hard, stern man, spoke up. "My lord, by all laws of succession, Stannis is the rightful heir."
"Laws?" Renly laughed, a charming, easy sound. "Did my brother Robert win the throne with laws? He won it with a war hammer and the love of the people. Stannis has the personality of a rock and the love of no one but that red witch he keeps. The people of Westeros will not follow a man they cannot love. They want a king who looks like a king, who inspires them." He stood, striking a handsome, regal pose. "I have a hundred thousand swords. Stannis has a few thousand fanatics on a dreary island. Who do you think the realm will choose?"
Ser Loras Tyrell stood beside him, his hand resting on Renly's shoulder. "The rose and the stag, united, are invincible. We will march on King's Landing, and the people will hail Renly as their true king."
Renly raised his goblet. "To King Renly!" he toasted. The lords, swept up in his charm and the promise of glory, roared their approval. The stag was divided. The Baratheon brothers, instead of uniting against the common enemy, would now turn on each other. Littlefinger's chaos was growing.
Winterfell
The raven that arrived at Winterfell was met with a grief that was cold and hard as the northern stone. Maester Luwin read the letter to Robb Stark in the Great Hall, the lords of the North—Greatjon Umber, Rickard Karstark, Roose Bolton—gathered around him.
Robb, a boy of sixteen, heard that his father was a prisoner, that the king was dead, that his sisters were hostages, and that he was now the acting Lord of Winterfell. The news should have broken him. But as he listened, the boyish softness in his face seemed to burn away, leaving the hard, sharp lines of the man he was forced to become. He was a Stark. He was the son of Eddard. His duty was clear.
"They have my father," he said, his voice quiet but steady. "They have my sisters."
"It is a declaration of war, my lord," said Roose Bolton, his voice a quiet, chilling whisper.
"War, then!" boomed the Greatjon Umber, drawing his massive greatsword and laying it on the table. "The North Remembers, Lord Stark! We will march south and pry your father from the grip of those yellow-haired shits! We will see the direwolf flag flying over the Red Keep!"
One by one, the other lords drew their swords, the hall ringing with the sound of steel and shouted oaths of fealty. "The King in the North!" someone cried, and the chant was taken up, a raw, defiant roar that shook the ancient timbers of Winterfell.
Robb Stark looked at the fierce, loyal men who had pledged their lives to him. He was a boy playing a man's game, but he had the strength of the entire North at his back. "Sound the horns," he commanded, his voice clear and strong. "Call the banners. We are marching south."
The echo of thunder had reached the far corners of the realm. The response was not peace. It was war. A war on four fronts, a war of five kings.
Back in King's Landing, news of the northern army gathering reached the Red Keep, along with reports from Dragonstone and the Reach. The stalemate was over. The pieces were moving. Tywin Lannister's army was drawing ever closer.
Ned Stark now understood the terrible truth of his situation. He had unleashed a civil war that would tear the realm apart. His appeal to law and honor had been answered with the drawing of swords and the calling of banners.
He stood with Thor on the battlements of the tower, looking out over the city as the sun began to set, painting the sky in the colors of blood and bruises.
"I have failed," Ned said, his voice heavy with the weight of the coming conflict. "I tried to bring them justice, and I have brought them only war."
"You tried to heal a festering wound with a clean bandage, Lord Stark," Thor replied, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "But the rot was too deep. Sometimes, a limb must be amputated to save the body. This war was inevitable. It has been brewing for years, in the heart of your dead king, in the bed of your queen, in the ambitions of all these petty lords."
He turned to look at Ned, his eyes filled with a strange, ancient compassion. "You did not start this war. But now… now you must finish it."
The city below was quiet, but it was the quiet of a coiled serpent. The armies were marching. The kings were declaring themselves. The game was afoot, larger and deadlier than ever before. And in the center of it all stood a northern lord who had clung to his honor, and a lost god who was just beginning to remember the art of war. The ravens had delivered their message, and the realm had answered. The response was fire and blood.