Chapter 28: Whispers of Ash on an Eastern Wind: The Dragon Queen's Reckoning
In the heart of Meereen, Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men (or so she styled herself in anticipation), Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, stood on the pinnacle of the Great Pyramid, the hot Essosi sun beating down upon her silver hair. Below, the city sprawled, a testament to her conquests, her ideals, and the endless, frustrating complexities of ruling. Her dragons – Viserion and Rhaegal, their scales like molten gold and emerald – screeched overhead, their wingspans growing daily, their flames hotter. Drogon, the largest and fiercest, her black dread, was hunting in the mountains, a force of nature she was still learning to command.
Her gaze, however, was fixed west, across the shimmering horizon of the Summer Sea, towards the land of her birth, the kingdom stolen from her house. Her plans for Westeros were advancing. Her Unsullied were an unbreakable spear. Dothraki screamers, remnants of Khal Drogo's khalasar, had pledged their blood to her. Ser Barristan Selmy, a legend of a bygone age, trained her new knights. Ser Jorah Mormont, her oldest advisor, though his counsel was often tinged with a melancholy caution she chafed against, helped her navigate the treacherous currents of Essosi politics. Missandei, her quiet, wise scribe, kept her grounded. Daario Naharis, her flamboyant Tyroshi captain, promised her victories and amused her with his audacity. The Iron Throne felt almost within her grasp.
It was on a day much like any other, filled with audiences, petitions from former slaves and furious masters, and strategic discussions about ship procurement for the great crossing, that the first whispers arrived. They came on the salt-caked lips of terrified sailors from a trading cog out of Volantis, men whose eyes still held the reflection of an unbelievable horror. They babbled of King's Landing, the greatest city in Westeros, being… gone. Swallowed by a sun that had fallen from the sky, commanded by a Northern wolf-king who wore a crown of iron and weirwood.
Daenerys dismissed it as a mariner's tall tale, perhaps a garbled account of some great fire or a particularly vicious siege. Westeros was at war, she knew that much. The Usurper Robert's brats and the Lannisters were fighting amongst themselves and against this Robb Stark, son of the honorable traitor Eddard Stark. Such conflicts bred exaggeration.
But then more ships arrived, not just from Volantis, but from Pentos, from Lys, even a battered Braavosi trader that had been far out in the Narrow Sea. Their stories, though varying in detail, converged on the same impossible, terrifying core: King's Landing was no more. Casterly Rock, the mountain-seat of House Lannister, was a smoking crater. Harrenhal had melted. And the architect of this… this unmaking… was Robb Stark, the King in the North, who now commanded a power that dwarfed even the dragonlords of Old Valyria.
Daenerys summoned her council to the great audience chamber atop the pyramid. The sun streamed through the arched windows, but it seemed a pale imitation of the terrible light described in the sailors' tales.
"Ser Jorah," Daenerys began, her violet eyes troubled, "these… rumors… from Westeros. What are we to make of them?"
Ser Jorah Mormont, his weathered face grim, shifted uncomfortably. "Khaleesi, the tales are… consistent. Too consistent to be mere fancy. They speak of destruction on a scale I cannot comprehend. They say King's Landing… is gone. That Robb Stark, my former king's son, wields a power akin to the sun itself."
Ser Barristan Selmy, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, looked aghast. "Eddard Stark's boy? Impossible! The Starks are men of honor, not sorcerers! King's Landing… I served there for forty years. It cannot simply be… gone."
"Yet multiple sources claim it so, Ser Barristan," Missandei interjected softly, her usual calm tinged with awe. "They say he carries a golden axe that burns with celestial fire. They call him the King of Ash and Light. They say he destroyed Casterly Rock before he turned his… attention… to the capital."
Daario Naharis, lounging with his usual insolence, actually looked impressed. "A king who can melt mountains and erase cities? Hah! Now that is a man who knows how to make a point! Perhaps this Westeros is more interesting than I thought, my queen."
Daenerys silenced him with a look. "This is no jest, Daario. If this is true… if Robb Stark commands such power… what does it mean for us? For my claim?" Her voice was tight. The Iron Throne, the Red Keep, the very city her ancestors had built with dragonfire – all potentially obliterated by this… this Stark.
A wave of conflicting emotions washed over her. The Lannisters, her family's usurpers and tormentors, were broken, their heartland ravaged, their capital, which they had stolen, destroyed. There was a grim satisfaction in that. But it was not her fire that had consumed them. It was another's. A Stark. A Northern barbarian, wielding a power that made her own burgeoning dragons seem like… like hatchlings, indeed.
"Fire and Blood is the motto of my House," Daenerys said, her voice low. "It seems this Stark has taken it for his own, and amplified it beyond reckoning."
More detailed reports arrived in the following days, some via Illyrio Mopatis's network, others from terrified merchants who had fled the Westerosi coast and made their way to Slaver's Bay. They spoke of Jaime Lannister's public execution, of the systematic annihilation of Houses Frey and Bolton for their treachery. They spoke of a lone figure, Robb Stark, walking before his army, Rhitta blazing in his hand, and unmaking fortresses with gestures, his voice like thunder, his eyes like the sun.
The picture that emerged was not of a mere king, but of a demigod, a figure of terrible, righteous wrath, who had brought an Old Testament-style judgment upon his enemies.
"He has done what your ancestors did, Khaleesi," Jorah said quietly during one council session. "He has remade a kingdom with fire. But Aegon the Conqueror had three full-grown dragons. Robb Stark, it seems, is the fire."
"And what of his intentions?" Daenerys pressed. "Does he claim the Iron Throne now that he has destroyed it? Does he rule all of Westeros?"
"The reports are unclear, Your Grace," Missandei offered. "It seems his actions were primarily focused on avenging his father and destroying House Lannister. He is called King in the North and of the Trident. His reach now extends over the ruins of the Westerlands and the Crownlands by default, but it is a kingship of fear, it seems, as much as loyalty."
Ser Barristan shook his head, his disillusionment profound. "No true king rules by such terror. This is tyranny writ in fire. What he did to King's Landing… to the smallfolk… it is an unforgivable crime, no matter the sins of the Lannisters."
"Perhaps, Ser Barristan," Daenerys mused, a strange light in her eyes. "But sometimes, to break a cycle of tyranny, one must use terrible means. I have brought fire and blood to Slaver's Bay to break chains. He has brought it to Westeros to break… what? The Lannisters? The Game of Thrones itself?"
She found herself strangely drawn to this Stark king, this wielder of unimaginable power. He was a rival, undoubtedly. A Northerner, whose ancestors had fought hers. Yet, he had also done what she had dreamed of doing: he had shattered the power of those who had destroyed her family. But he had also destroyed her birthright, the physical seat of her power. The Red Keep was gone. The Iron Throne was molten slag. What was there left for her to reclaim?
Her dragons seemed to sense the shift in the world's power. They were more restless than usual, their screeches sharper, the flames they breathed in their practice sessions more intense. Drogon, when he returned from his hunts, would fix his great, molten gold eyes on the western horizon, a low, guttural rumble echoing in his chest, as if he could sense a rival sun burning across the sea.
"They feel it," Daenerys whispered to Missandei one evening, watching Viserion and Rhaegal circle the pyramid, their scales iridescent in the setting Essosi sun. "They feel his power."
"Fire answers to fire, Khaleesi," Missandei replied. "Perhaps it is a challenge. Or a greeting."
The strategic implications were staggering. Daenerys's carefully laid plans for the invasion of Westeros were now useless. The political landscape she had studied was a smoking ruin. The enemies she had identified were largely dead or broken.
"We cannot invade a land ruled by a man who can melt mountains," Jorah stated flatly. "Not with the forces we currently possess. Our dragons are still young. Our army, while loyal and disciplined, would be incinerated before they even landed."
"So, we abandon my birthright?" Daenerys asked, her voice dangerously soft. "We let this… Sun King… rule what is mine by right of blood and fire?"
"Perhaps, Khaleesi," Ser Barristan offered, "his power is not without limits. All magic has a price, or so the tales say. And such destruction… it will breed fear, not love. The other lords of Westeros… the Tyrells, the Martells, my former King Stannis… they will not sit idly by while one man holds such sway. They may see you, and your dragons, as the only possible counter."
"An alliance with Stannis Baratheon?" Daenerys scoffed. "The brother of the Usurper? Who also claims my throne?"
"The enemy of my enemy, Khaleesi," Jorah reminded her. "The world has changed. Old enmities may need to be set aside in the face of this new… reality."
Daenerys Targaryen, the last of her line, Mother of Dragons, spent many sleepless nights wrestling with this new, terrible truth. Robb Stark. A name she had barely registered before, now the name that dominated every thought, every strategic discussion. He had stolen her vengeance. He had destroyed her heritage. And he wielded a power that made her own feel almost… nascent.
A part of her, the Targaryen conqueror, felt a surge of competitive fire, a desire to meet this Stark, to test her dragons against his sun, to prove whose fire burned brighter. Another part, the queen who had seen too much death and suffering, felt a profound weariness, a horror at the sheer scale of destruction. Was this what it meant to reclaim a throne? By unmaking the world?
Finally, after days of council and solitary contemplation, she made her decision.
"We will continue to consolidate our strength here in Slaver's Bay," she announced to her advisors. "My dragons will grow. Our army will swell. But Westeros… Westeros is no longer the land we thought it was."
She looked at Ser Jorah, then at Ser Barristan. "I will not sail into a kingdom ruled by a man who can command the sun without knowing far more about him. Ser Jorah, you know the North. You knew Eddard Stark. What manner of man could his son be, to do such things?"
Jorah shook his head. "The Robb Stark I would have imagined, Khaleesi, could never have done this. War changes men. Power changes them more. This… this is something new."
"Then we must learn," Daenerys said, her violet eyes hardening with resolve. "Missandei, you will find me the wisest, most discreet scholars and travelers, those who have knowledge of ancient magic, of the North, of these Starks. Varys had his little birds. We will cultivate our own. I want to know everything about this King of Ashes and Light. His strengths, his weaknesses, if any. His ambitions. The limits of his power."
She paused, a thoughtful, almost predatory look on her face. "And I will send an envoy. Not a grand delegation, but a single, trusted voice. Someone who can observe, listen, and perhaps… speak. Someone who can look into the heart of this Sun King and tell me if he is a god, a demon, or merely a man who has been given too much power."
Her gaze fell upon Ser Barristan Selmy. "Ser Barristan, you knew Eddard Stark well. You served his friend Robert. You understand the honor of Westeros, what it once was. Perhaps you are the only one who can truly gauge what Robb Stark has become."
Ser Barristan looked startled, then grimly resolute. "If it is your command, my Queen, I will go. I will face this… Stark… and bring you word. Though I fear what I might find."
Daenerys nodded. "Go then, old knight. Travel to Westeros. Seek out this Robb Stark. Tell him Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, Mother of Dragons, watches from the East. Tell him… tell him I wish to understand the new sun that has risen in the West."
She turned to look out over Meereen, her silver hair catching the light. The game of thrones she had intended to play was over, its board shattered. A new game was beginning, one played with powers that could unmake the world. And Daenerys Targaryen, for all her dragons and her titles, felt a tremor of uncertainty, of fear, and of a strange, unwilling fascination.
The world had a new sun. And the Mother of Dragons wondered if there was room enough in the sky for two.