Chapter 18: The Sun Rises in Wrath: Rhitta's Call and a Kingdom of Ash
The news of Stannis Baratheon's catastrophic defeat at the Blackwater, and the subsequent triumphant alliance between the Lannisters and the Tyrells, fell upon Riverrun like a shroud. In the Great Hall, Robb Stark, King in the North and of the Trident, listened as the grim reports were laid bare. His commanders – Brynden Blackfish, Greatjon Umber, Maege Mormont, Jason Mallister – looked to him, their faces etched with a new, deeper apprehension. Their string of victories, hard-won and bloody, suddenly seemed insignificant against the consolidated might of their foes. Joffrey's throne, once teetering, was now buttressed by the two wealthiest and most powerful houses in the south, and Tywin Lannister, the Old Lion, held the reins of power as Hand of the King.
Defensive strategies were proposed: fortify Moat Cailin, hold the Trident, bleed the enemy in a protracted war of attrition. But Robb, his mind a maelstrom of grief, cold fury, and the chilling pragmatism of Tony Volante, saw only a slow, inevitable strangulation. His father was dead, his sisters hostages, his kingdom isolated and vastly outnumbered. Conventional warfare, no matter how brilliantly waged, would eventually see them overwhelmed.
That night, alone in his solar, the weight of his iron crown pressed down upon him. He looked at the map of Westeros, no longer as a king planning campaigns, but as a condemned man seeking a desperate, impossible escape. He thought of Eddard Stark's headless corpse, of Sansa's torment, of Arya's unknown fate. He thought of the thousands of Northmen and Rivermen who had already died for him, and the tens of thousands more who would fall if this war continued on its current path.
A terrifying resolve began to crystallize within him, born of desperation and the secret, awesome power that lay dormant, waiting. Tony Volante, who had faced down rival families and federal prosecutors, knew that sometimes, the only way to win an unwinnable game was to shatter the board itself. Escanor's pride, which had chafed under the necessity of hiding his true might, roared at the thought of finally unleashing his full, terrible glory upon those who had dared to scorn him, to murder his kin, to threaten his people. And Robb Stark, the grieving son, the embattled King, found himself listening to these inner voices with a new, chilling receptiveness.
His immortality, Ban's curse and blessing, whispered a seductive reassurance: You cannot die. You can risk what no other mortal can. You can become the fire that purges the wicked.
He made his decision in the cold, lonely hours before dawn. He would not tell his council, not fully. They would think him mad. His mother would try to stop him. But this was a burden he had to bear alone, a path only he could walk.
As the sun's first rays touched the horizon, Robb Stark stood in the godswood of Riverrun, the ancient weirwood tree with its bleeding eyes watching him with timeless indifference. He was clad not in his kingly finery, but in simple, dark leather and mail, his Valyrian steel sword at his hip. But it was not this sword he sought.
He closed his eyes, reaching deep within himself, past the grief, past the rage, to the incandescent core of Sunshine's Grace. He felt the nascent power of the dawn stirring within him, a familiar warmth that promised immeasurable strength. Today, he would ask more of it than ever before.
"Rhitta," he whispered, his voice barely audible, yet resonating with an ancient power he was only just beginning to understand. He focused his will, his very essence, calling out across the leagues, not to a mere weapon, but to a part of himself, a divine instrument intrinsically linked to the Grace he now wielded. "Come to me."
For a long moment, nothing. Then, the air before him shimmered. A golden light, more brilliant than the rising sun, tore through the fabric of the morning, a miniature sun blooming in the quiet godswood. The light coalesced, solidified, and with a sound like a celestial choir and a thunderclap combined, the Sacred Axe Rhitta materialized, hovering for an instant before Robb's outstretched hand seized its haft.
It was heavier, more potent than he remembered from his brief, secret communions in Winterfell's crypts. It thrummed in his grip, a living thing, radiating an immense, almost unbearable heat and power, its ornate golden head seeming to drink in the dawn light and amplify it a thousandfold. This was no mere summoning of a distant object; this was an affirmation of his bond with the divine, a sign that he was truly ready to embrace the terrible majesty of Escanor's might.
Catelyn Stark found him there, drawn by an instinct she couldn't explain, by the unnatural golden light that had momentarily outshone the dawn. She stopped dead, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide with disbelief and a dawning terror as she beheld her son, not as a king, but as something… other. He stood bathed in golden radiance, the colossal, glowing axe in his hand pulsing with a life of its own.
"Robb…?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "What… what is that? By the gods, what are you?"
Robb turned, his eyes no longer the familiar grey of a Stark, but molten gold, burning with the light of the rising sun. "I am what I must be, Mother," he said, his voice deeper, resonant with a power that made the very air vibrate. "I am this kingdom's shield, and its sword. I am going to end this war."
"Alone? With… with that?" She gestured to the terrifying axe. "Robb, this is madness! You cannot face Tywin Lannister's armies alone! You will die!"
A faint, almost sad smile touched his lips. "No, Mother. I will not. That, at least, is one certainty I possess." He stepped towards her, and she felt the heat radiating from him, the overwhelming sense of power. "Tell the Blackfish he is to hold Riverrun and the Trident. Tell the Greatjon to keep the men's spirits high. I will return."
"But where are you going? What will you do?" she pleaded, tears streaming down her face.
"I go to deliver a message to House Lannister," Robb said, his golden eyes fixed on some distant, unseen point. "A message written in fire and ash. They have murdered my father. They have tormented my sisters. They seek to destroy my people. Today, they learn that the Sun itself has risen against them."
He turned and strode from the godswood, Rhitta held easily in one hand, its head leaving a shimmering trail of heat in the cool morning air. Catelyn could only watch, her heart frozen with a terror far greater than any army could inspire. Her son was no longer just a king; he was a force of nature, beautiful and terrifying.
Robb Stark marched alone. He needed no horse, for his Sunshine-enhanced speed, even in the early morning, was prodigious. Rhitta, which would have been an impossible burden for any ten men, felt like a perfectly balanced extension of his arm. He moved east, towards Harrenhal, the vast, cursed fortress where rumor placed Tywin Lannister regrouping his forces and gathering fresh levies from the Crownlands.
Lannister outriders, scouting the edges of the Riverlands, were the first to encounter him. They saw a lone figure, radiating a palpable heat, a giant golden axe slung over his shoulder, marching with an inhuman, relentless pace. Some laughed, thinking him a madman. They charged, lances leveled. They did not even get close. A casual swing of Rhitta, and a wave of incandescent energy, a heat haze made visible, turned them and their horses to ash before they could even scream.
Word of the "Golden Demon," the "Sun God of the North," began to spread through the Lannister patrols, a wave of superstitious terror preceding Robb's solitary advance. Men deserted their posts. Entire patrols vanished, their last reported sighting a lone figure walking out of the sunrise.
Tywin Lannister, in the accursed halls of Harrenhal, received these reports with cold disbelief, then growing alarm. He was a man of logic and order; tales of lone warriors incinerating patrols with golden axes were the stuff of peasant superstition. Yet, the reports persisted, growing more frantic, more detailed. He dispatched a strong force of five hundred veteran knights under Ser Lyle Crakehall, "Strongboar," a famously brutal and effective commander, with orders to find this "demon" and bring back his head.
They found Robb Stark as the sun climbed towards its zenith, his power approaching its terrible peak. He stood on a small rise, Rhitta planted head-down before him, the axe itself seeming to blaze with an inner furnace, the air around him shimmering with heat. He looked… magnificent. And terrifying.
"You are the one spreading these mad tales?" Ser Lyle Crakehall sneered, though even he felt an uncharacteristic prickle of unease at the sheer presence of the lone figure before him. "Some Northern sorcerer, are you? Your mummery ends here, demon!" He ordered his men to charge.
Robb watched them come, five hundred armored knights thundering across the field, a wave of steel and horseflesh. He felt no fear, only a profound, almost sorrowful pity, and the overwhelming, righteous pride of "The One."
"So many eager to meet their gods," he murmured, his voice now a resonant baritone that seemed to shake the very air. He raised one hand. "Let there be light."
Above his outstretched palm, a sphere of incandescent energy began to form, growing rapidly, a miniature sun blazing with impossible heat, its light painful to behold even from a distance. "Behold my power," he intoned, the words of Escanor echoing through him. "This is the sun's judgment upon the unworthy. This is my gift to you, Lions of Lannister. A taste of the Cruel Sun!"
With a flick of his wrist, he hurled the miniature sun towards the charging knights.
The effect was apocalyptic.
The Cruel Sun, moving with deceptive speed, slammed into the heart of the Lannister formation. There was no conventional explosion, no sound of impact for a moment, only an unbearable, silent flash of white-hot light that bleached all color from the world. Then came the heat, a physical wave that vaporized everything in its path. Knights, horses, armor, weapons – all ceased to exist, turned instantly to superheated gas and drifting ash. The very earth beneath where they had been was fused into a glassy, obsidian scar. The shockwave, when it finally arrived, flattened trees for half a league around and was felt as a tremor even in distant Harrenhal.
When the blinding light subsided, a vast, circular area of the field was simply… gone. A smoking, incandescent crater marked the spot where five hundred knights had charged. Of Ser Lyle Crakehall and his men, not even a buckle or a bone fragment remained. Only the smell of ozone and a profound, terrifying silence.
Robb Stark lowered his hand, the immense expenditure of power leaving him feeling a slight drain, but still invigorated by the noon sun now blazing directly overhead. He picked up Rhitta, its golden head glowing with sympathetic energy.
"That," he said softly to the empty, smoking field, "is but a fraction of my wrath."
The news of the annihilation of Strongboar's force, not by an army, but by a single man wielding the power of a vengeful god, reached Harrenhal hours later, carried by a handful of outriders who had been far enough away to survive, their minds shattered by terror, their faces burned by the flash.
Tywin Lannister, for the first time in his life, felt a sliver of something akin to fear. This was not war as he knew it. This was not a rebellious lord or a rival king. This was something… else. Something unnatural. Something that defied all strategy, all logic.
He ordered Harrenhal's massive gates sealed. He doubled the sentries on its accursed walls. He sent ravens to King's Landing, to Casterly Rock, calling for every available man, for maesters, for sorcerers if any could be found. But he knew, with a chilling certainty, that walls and armies might not be enough against such a foe.
Robb Stark continued his solitary march. He did not need to storm Harrenhal's gates. He was not here to lay siege. He was here to deliver judgment.
He arrived before the colossal, dark fortress as the sun began its slow descent from its zenith. He was still "The One," his power immense, his presence terrible. Thousands of Lannister soldiers lined Harrenhal's battlements, arrows nocked, scorpions wound, but they watched him with a horrified fascination rather than defiance.
Robb planted Rhitta before him. He looked up at the vast, dark walls, at the golden lion banner that flew, however uneasily, from its highest tower.
"Tywin Lannister!" His voice, amplified by Sunshine, boomed across the fields, shaking the very stones of Harrenhal. "You who murdered my father! You who wage unjust war upon my people! You who hide behind walls while your men burn and pillage! Your crimes are legion! Your arrogance, boundless! But today, your pride will be humbled. Today, your house will learn to fear the light!"
He raised his hand again. Another Cruel Sun formed, smaller than the last, but no less intense. He did not hurl this one at the walls. Instead, he held it, a captive star in his palm, its heat washing over him like a caress, its light a beacon of his terrible resolve.
"This castle is cursed," he declared. "A monument to vanity and cruelty. Today, I cleanse it. Today, I unmake it."
And with a gesture, he sent the miniature sun not crashing into the walls, but drifting towards them, then through them, as if stone were mist. It passed into Harrenhal's largest tower, the Kingspyre.
For a moment, nothing. Then, from within the Kingspyre Tower, came a soundless, incandescent flash. The massive tower, which had stood for centuries, seemed to melt from the inside out. Stone ran like wax, iron turned to vapor. With a groan that echoed for leagues, the Kingspyre Tower, the tallest structure in Westeros, began to collapse, not in a shower of rubble, but in a horrifying, molten slag, pulling other sections of the castle down with it in a cascade of fiery destruction. Screams, finally, could be heard from within, screams of men being cooked alive, of a fortress unmaking itself around them.
Robb watched, his face implacable, as Harrenhal, the dread fortress, began to die. He did not stop with one tower. As the sun continued its descent, he sent more manifestations of his power, not always Cruel Suns, but waves of pure heat, focused beams of solar energy, against other key structures. Rhitta in his other hand pulsed, sometimes unleashing blasts of golden energy of its own, as if in concert with its master. He was not just destroying a castle; he was eradicating a symbol, inscribing his fury onto the very landscape of Westeros.
By the time the sun finally set, Harrenhal was a ruin unlike any seen since the Doom of Valyria. Its mightiest towers were molten stumps. Its great walls were breached and glowing with residual heat. Thousands of Tywin Lannister's men were dead, not by sword or arrow, but by the elemental fury of the sun itself. Tywin Lannister, it was rumored, had escaped with a small, terrified retinue through a hidden postern gate in the first moments of the attack on the Kingspyre, fleeing east towards King's Landing as if the hounds of hell were at his heels.
Robb Stark stood alone before the smoldering, incandescent ruin, Rhitta resting on his shoulder. The immense power of Sunshine had faded with the daylight, leaving him weary, but with a cold, grim satisfaction. He had unleashed his cruel sun. He had marched alone into the enemy and reduced their mightiest fortress in the region to ash and slag.
The world would know now. The King in the North was not just a young wolf leading a rebellion. He was a power unto himself, a terrifying force that could unmake armies and melt castles.
The rules of war in Westeros had just been rewritten. In fire. By his hand.
He turned his back on the ruin of Harrenhal and began the long walk back towards Riverrun, his solitary figure silhouetted against the hellish glow of the cursed castle's final agony. The night was cold, but he carried the memory of the sun's fury within him.