Chapter 36: A Realm in Flux
The weeks that followed the liberation of Harrenhal were a strange interlude, a breath held in the heart of a storm. The war, which had been a series of desperate, explosive confrontations, settled into a tense and watchful quiet. Under the shadow of the great, melted towers, Lord Eddard Stark, the improbable conqueror, found himself facing a challenge far greater than any army: the challenge of building a nation on the fly.
Harrenhal became the de facto capital of the North and the Riverlands. Its vast, cavernous halls, once filled with ghosts, now bustled with life. Ned's Protector's Guard, their numbers swelling daily with vengeful Rivermen and hedge knights drawn to the banner of the victorious Wolf, established a perimeter of control that stretched for fifty leagues. The scorched earth began to heal under their protection. Supply lines were established. For the first time in a year, the smallfolk began to hope that the coming winter might not be their last.
Ned Stark ruled with a quiet, grim efficiency. He spent his days in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, now his council chamber and court of justice, dispensing the law with an even hand. He was no longer just a lord; he was the final authority, the arbiter of a kingdom at war. The weight of it settled on him, aging him, but also forging him into the leader his people needed him to be.
Thor watched this transformation with a mixture of pride and melancholy. He saw in Ned the makings of a great king, a man who ruled not for glory or power, but from a profound sense of duty. It reminded him of his father, in his better years, before the long sleep and the secrets had taken their toll. Thor rarely involved himself in the day-to-day governance. He was the ultimate weapon, held in reserve, his very presence the guarantor of Ned's authority. His days were spent in the training yards, sparring with the Stark commanders, or on the highest battlements, a silent guardian watching the horizon.
The ravens he and Ned had sent out, carrying their audacious commands to the squabbling Baratheon brothers, had flown into a realm in flux. The world was holding its breath, waiting to see how the kings would respond to the man who commanded a god.
In the Lannister Camp
Tywin Lannister received the news of Ned's proclamation with a cold, bloodless fury. He had already pulled his main host back to the Golden Tooth, the heavily fortified pass into the westerlands, after the disaster at Harrenhal. He was a master strategist, and he knew a frontal assault against an enemy who could break mountains and teleport armies was suicide. He had settled in for a long war of attrition, content to let the Baratheons and the Starks bleed each other dry.
When a scout brought him word of Ned's command to Stannis and Renly, a rare, cruel smile touched his lips.
"The wolf grows arrogant," he said to his brother, Kevan, as they stood over their own war map. "He has won two battles with his pet sorcerer, and now he thinks he is the king of all of them."
"He commands them to unite against us," Kevan pointed out, his face grim. "If the Baratheon hosts were to join with his… we would be finished."
"They will not join," Tywin said with absolute certainty. "Stannis is a creature of pure, brittle pride. He will never accept a command from a man he sees as his subordinate. And Renly is a vain fool who believes a hundred thousand swords makes him invincible. Stark has not united them. He has given them an ultimatum they are both too proud to accept. He has guaranteed they will turn on each other."
The Old Lion tapped the map, in the direction of Storm's End. "The stag will gore the stag. And we will wait, and we will watch. And when they are weak and bleeding, the lion will return to the hunt." He would let the pride of his enemies do his work for him.
Dragonstone & Storm's End
Ser Davos Seaworth returned to his king to find him not on Dragonstone, but at the head of a small, grim army laying siege to Storm's End, the ancestral seat of their house, which was being held for Renly. Stannis listened to his most loyal knight's report in his command tent, the wind howling outside like a banshee.
Davos spoke of Harrenhal, of the disciplined army, of the reverence the people had for Ned Stark. He spoke of Thor, not as a demon, but as a being of immense, weary power. He spoke of Ned's offer: a united front, a war against the true enemy, and a discussion of crowns only after the realm was safe.
Stannis's face, already hard as iron, seemed to grow harder still. "He orders me?" he ground out, his jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder his teeth did not crack. "I am the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, by every law of god and man. Eddard Stark is my subject. He will bend the knee, or he will be broken with all the rest."
"Your Grace," Davos pleaded, "the man's logic is sound. The Lannisters are the threat. To fight your brother now…"
"My brother is a traitor and a thief!" Stannis roared, his control finally snapping. "He steals my crown, my castle, my men! He is a cancer in the realm. He must be cut out before the body can heal."
Melisandre, who had been listening silently, stepped forward, her red robes seeming to drink the light from the tent. "The Onion Knight speaks with the sense of a mortal man, my king," she purred, her voice a seductive whisper. "But this is a war of gods, not men. Renly is cloaked in the darkness. He consorts with the heathen Tyrells who worship the Seven. He is a puppet of the Great Other. He must be destroyed. The Lord of Light demands it."
Her red eyes glowed. "And the demon at Stark's side… that is a different kind of shadow. A powerful one. But it, too, will be scoured from the world by the fire of Azor Ahai reborn."
Stannis looked at his Red Priestess, at the unshakeable conviction in her eyes. Her prophecies had been true so far. Her god offered him a power that law and duty could not. "The law is the law," he muttered, as if trying to convince himself. But his eyes were fixed on the flames of the brazier, where Melisandre claimed to see the future.
Renly's Camp
A thousand leagues south, in the sun-drenched fields of the Reach, Renly Baratheon received Ned's command with a burst of joyous, incredulous laughter. His camp was a sea of brightly colored pavilions and lordly banners, a festival that happened to have an army attached. He was surrounded by the chivalry of the south, by the Tyrells with their vast wealth and their beautiful Knight of Flowers, Ser Loras.
"The grim wolf commands me!" Renly announced to his war council, holding up the letter for all to see. "He orders me to give up my claim and bend the knee to my dour, dreary brother! Can you imagine?"
The assembled lords chuckled appreciately.
"Stark is an honorable fool," said Lord Randyll Tarly, a man who respected strength above all else. "He has won a few surprising victories, but he cannot command a king."
"He commands a god, it seems," Ser Garlan Tyrell murmured thoughtfully, though he smiled along with the others.
It was in this camp that Catelyn Stark, having journeyed south to treat with Renly on Robb's behalf, found herself a guest. She listened to the talk of her husband with a heart torn between pride and terror. They spoke of him as a great conqueror, a lord who commanded a demon. She had known him as a quiet, honorable man. She could not reconcile the two images. When she heard of his command to the Baratheon brothers, she felt a surge of hope. A united front. It was the only logical way.
She sought Renly out, pleading with him. "My king," she said, using the title he craved, "I urge you to listen to my husband's counsel. He is a wise man. Your brother Stannis has the better claim by law, but you have the greater army. Together, you and he and my son Robb, with Lord Stark holding the capital… we would be invincible."
Renly smiled his charming smile. "My dear Lady Stark, your husband is indeed a formidable man. But I do not need my brother. I have a hundred thousand men who will see me on the Iron Throne. Why should I share my glory with a man who has never shown me a lick of affection?" His pride would not allow it. He would be the sole king, or no king at all.
His decision was made. He would meet Stannis, but not to treat. He would meet him to demand his surrender, and when his brother inevitably refused, he would crush his small army and take his crown by force.
The parley between the two brothers took place on a windswept hill between their two armies. It was a tense, bitter affair. Stannis, stern and righteous, offered Renly a choice: his life and his ancestral seat of Storm's End, in exchange for fealty. Renly, confident and mocking, offered Stannis a peach.
"You were always the hard one, Stannis," Renly said, biting into the fruit. "And I was always the sweet one. Tell me, which do you think the people prefer?"
They parted in anger, agreeing to settle their claim at dawn with steel. Catelyn watched it all, her heart sinking. The last, best hope for peace had just been dashed on the rocks of brotherly pride.
That night, in Renly's command tent, the King of Summer planned his glorious victory with his Rainbow Guard. Catelyn was there, along with the steadfast Brienne of Tarth, Renly's most loyal protector. They were discussing the final dispositions for the battle when a sudden, unnatural cold filled the tent. The candles flickered, their flames turning a sickly, pale blue.
A shadow detached itself from the wall of the tent. It was a thing of pure, featureless darkness, but it had the unmistakable shape of Stannis Baratheon. It moved with a silent, horrifying purpose, a drawn sword of pure shadow in its hand.
Brienne screamed and drew her own sword, moving to protect her king. Catelyn was frozen in place, her mind unable to process the supernatural horror before her. But the shadow was too fast. It flowed past Brienne's guard and thrust its shadowy blade deep into Renly Baratheon's back, right through the steel plate of his gorget.
Renly let out a small, surprised gasp, his hand flying to his throat. A trickle of real, red blood ran from his mouth. He looked at Catelyn, his eyes wide with a final, uncomprehending shock. Then he fell, the peach rolling from his lifeless hand onto the rich Myrish carpet.
The shadow dissipated, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind only the scent of grave dust and the unnatural chill.
The King of Summer was dead. Murdered not by a sword or an arrow, but by a brother's ambition and a priestess's dark magic.
The chaos that erupted in Renly's camp was absolute. The Stormlords, leaderless, began to desert, many of them flocking to Stannis, the now-undisputed Lord of Storm's End. The Tyrells, their path to the throne through Renly now a dead end, packed their tents and marched their massive army back to Highgarden, withdrawing from the war entirely, for now.
Catelyn Stark, with the help of the grieving but loyal Brienne, fled into the night, a horrified witness to a crime that had changed the world.
The news traveled by raven and rider, spreading across the realm like a plague. It reached Winterfell, where Robb Stark, fresh from his own victories, learned that his potential ally was dead and the war had grown darker. It reached the Red Keep, where Tyrion Lannister learned that one of his family's chief rivals had been eliminated by his own brother, a stroke of luck so profound it was terrifying.
And it reached Harrenhal. Ned Stark received the message from a rider sent by Catelyn, and his face became a mask of stone. He had tried to command the kings. He had tried to force them into an honorable peace. And his failure had been answered with fratricide and black magic.
He found Thor on the battlements, staring south, as if he could already see the new storm that was gathering.
"Renly is dead," Ned said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Murdered. By a shadow with his brother's face."
Thor was silent for a long time. He looked at the sky, at the familiar, distant stars. "I told you this was a world of whispers and shadows," he said, his voice a low, sad rumble. "I was a fool to think a sermon could change that."
He had seen great and terrible magic in his life. He had seen sorcerers who could weave illusions and necromancers who could raise the dead. This shadow, this creature of pure malice, was something he understood. It was a violation of the natural order, a perversion of life and light.
"Stannis has made his choice," Thor continued, his eyes turning cold. "He has chosen to traffic with powers that demand a terrible price. He is no longer just a rival king. He is an enemy."
Ned looked at the man beside him, at the god who had shown him such incredible power, but also such profound wisdom. He had tried to be a peacemaker. But the world would not let him. He had tried to build a kingdom on law and justice. But his enemies had answered with witchcraft and murder.
"The board is shattered," Ned said quietly.
"Then we will build a new one," Thor replied, and for the first time, Ned heard not just the rumble of thunder in his voice, but the sound of a king. "Stannis Baratheon will march on King's Landing, believing the throne is his for the taking. The Lannisters will wait in the west, thinking him our true foe. They are all wrong."
He turned to Ned, his eyes blazing with a new, terrible purpose. "The war for the throne is over. Now begins the war for the dawn. And we are the only ones standing in the way of the darkness."