Chapter 39: The Lioness, The Falcon, and The Hawk's Terms
King's Landing, once a city of teeming, vibrant chaos, now bore the indelible, chilling imprint of Lord Vorant's new order. The stench of filth and decay that had perpetually clung to its alleys was largely gone, replaced by the sharp scent of lye and the disciplined tread of Obsidian Guard patrols. Streets were cleared, repairs to war-damaged structures were underway with ruthless efficiency (often utilizing forced labor from captured Dothraki remnants or Lannister loyalists deemed "recalcitrant"), and public executions for looting, sedition, or defiance of the Hawk Lord's edicts were swift, brutal, and highly visible. The Red Keep itself was being transformed. Its Targaryen embellishments and Lannister gold were stripped away, its halls refashioned in stark black iron and polished obsidian, reflecting Vorhax's grim aesthetic. The Iron Throne, that ugly, uncomfortable chair of melted swords, had been dismantled on his orders, its remnants likely destined for Stonefang's insatiable forges. In its place in the Great Hall stood nothing yet, only a vast, empty space where a new symbol of power would eventually arise.
It was into this transformed capital that the delegations from the North and the Vale were escorted. Queen Sansa Stark of Winterfell, her auburn hair a splash of defiant color against her somber attire, carried herself with a quiet, steel-cored dignity that belied the horrors her house and her kingdom had endured. Her retinue was small, composed of grim-faced Northern lords and veterans of the Long Night, their eyes holding a weariness that spoke of battles fought against foes far more terrifying than any southern tyrant. The Lords Declarant of the Vale – Lord Yohn Royce, his bronze armor scarred but his pride undiminished; Lady Anya Waynwood, her expression shrewd and wary; Lord Benedar Belmore, stout and anxious – represented the last bastion of organized Andal nobility yet to bend the knee. Their apprehension was palpable as they passed through streets patrolled by the hawk-helmed soldiers whose reputation for merciless efficiency had now become a continent-spanning legend.
Darth Vorhax, styling himself Lord Protector of Westeros, received them in the cavernous, refashioned Great Hall of the Red Keep. He sat not on a throne, but upon a raised dais of black stone, flanked by his most formidable commanders: Edric Vorant, his son and heir, now a hardened young man whose eyes reflected a chilling echo of his father's coldness; Ser Gareth, the grizzled Lord Commander of the Obsidian Guard; and Brandon Snow, the White Wolf, High Marshal of the Storm Army. Behind them stood a phalanx of Obsidian Guard champions, their black armor seeming to drink the light, Red Rain, Vorhax's Valyrian steel sword, displayed on a stark obsidian stand beside him, its crimson ripples a silent threat.
Queen Sansa spoke first, her voice clear and steady despite the oppressive atmosphere. "Lord Vorant," she began, her gaze meeting his without flinching, "the North has bled enough. We fought the Night King and his armies while southern lords played their games of thrones. We have paid for our independence in blood and sorrow. We seek not conflict with you, but recognition of our sovereignty, and perhaps, an alliance against any who would threaten the dawn we fought so hard to secure."
Lord Yohn Royce, speaking for the Vale, was more blunt. "The Vale of Arryn bows to no king but an Arryn, Lord Protector. We have governed ourselves for millennia. We demand to know your intentions. Are you another tyrant come to claim a broken throne, or do you offer a path to a lasting peace?"
Vorhax listened, his youthful face an unreadable mask, his Force senses probing their defiance, their fear, their desperate hope. When they had finished, a profound silence filled the hall, broken only by the distant clang of hammers from the city's reconstruction.
Then, Vorhax spoke, his voice not loud, but imbued with a power that resonated in the very bones of those present. "Queen Sansa Stark. My Lords of the Vale. Your courage is… noted." A slight, almost imperceptible emphasis on the last word sent a fresh chill through his audience. "You speak of independence, of ancient rights, of peace. These are illusions, clung to by those who fear the inevitable march of order."
He rose, his dark attire making him seem a figure carved from shadow and iron. "I have not waded through the blood of pretenders and the ashes of fallen dynasties to preside over a fractured continent of squabbling kinglets and proud, foolish lords. Westeros has bled for centuries because of such vanities. That era is over."
His gaze swept them, cold and absolute. "My vision for Westeros is one of unity. One Empire, under one law, guided by one will. An end to famine, an end to banditry, an end to the pointless wars waged by ambitious fools. I will bring order where there has been chaos, strength where there has been weakness, productivity where there has been waste. The resources of this continent, its people, its armies, will be forged into a single, unshakeable instrument of power, capable of defending against any threat, be it from beyond the Wall or across the Narrow Sea."
He paused, letting his words sink in. "Your 'independence' is a phantom. Your 'ancient rights' are the very chains that have bound this land to an eternity of conflict. I offer you a different path."
His terms were laid bare, stark and unyielding.
"To the North," he addressed Sansa, "you have indeed bled. You have faced horrors few can comprehend. Your strength is undeniable. But your isolation is a weakness the new Empire cannot afford. Bend the knee. Swear your oaths of fealty to me, as Lord Protector of Westeros, and soon, as Emperor. Your people will retain their customs, so long as they do not conflict with Imperial Law. Your ancient houses will be respected, so long as their loyalty to me is absolute. Your fighting men will be integrated into the Imperial Army, their valor recognized, their skills honed. The North will be the Empire's shield against the true darkness, should it ever return. I can provide resources, manpower, and technologies to rebuild your shattered lands and strengthen the Wall beyond any previous measure. But your sovereignty ends. There is only the Empire."
He then turned to the Vale lords. "The Vale of Arryn. Your mountain strongholds have bred a proud, insular people. That insularity is now a liability. You will swear fealty. Your knights, renowned for their valor, will become officers and champions in the Imperial legions. Your resources will contribute to the common good. Young Lord Robert Arryn," his gaze was particularly chilling here, "will be brought to the capital, to be fostered under my personal care, to learn the ways of the new order and to ensure the Vale's… unwavering commitment." A hostage, in all but name. "Lord Baelish, whose machinations contributed to the Vale's recent… instability… has already been dealt with." (A brief, satisfied report from Will had confirmed Littlefinger's demise during the chaos Vorhax had instigated, a loose end neatly tied.)
"The alternative," Vorhax concluded, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper that nevertheless filled the hall, "is annihilation. I do not make idle threats. Ask the shades of House Morriggen, House Swann, House Drumm. Ask the shattered remnants of the Targaryen loyalists or the Ironborn reavers. Resistance is futile. It will only result in the needless destruction of your lands and your people. I offer you a place in a new, glorious future. Choose wisely."
To punctuate his words, he subtly gestured. A section of the courtyard outside the Great Hall, visible through the high arched windows, suddenly erupted in a blinding flash and a deafening roar as one of his "dragon's breath" cannons, ostensibly being test-fired, obliterated a pre-placed stone barricade with terrifying force. The shockwave rattled the very foundations of the Red Keep. The Northern and Vale lords flinched, their faces paling.
Queen Sansa, though visibly shaken, held her composure. "You offer us chains, Lord Protector, however gilded."
"I offer you order, Queen Sansa," Vorhax corrected. "The strong hand that will prevent this continent from tearing itself apart, again and again. The choice is simple: a future of strength and unity under my rule, or a swift descent into oblivion."
He gave them three days to consider his terms and to send ravens to their respective councils. Three days to choose between submission and utter destruction.
During those three days, the delegations were "invited" on carefully orchestrated tours. They saw the Obsidian Guard drilling with inhuman precision, their black armor and Stonefang steel weapons gleaming. They witnessed demonstrations of his advanced siege engines. They were shown the vast food stores being gathered in the city, the efficient (if brutal) organization of labor gangs rebuilding the infrastructure. It was a relentless display of overwhelming power and unshakeable resolve, designed to crush any lingering hope of successful defiance.
Sansa Stark spent those days in quiet, intense consultation with her Northern lords. Yohn Royce and the Vale lords debated furiously, their pride warring with their pragmatism. Vorhax, through his ever-present spies and his own Force senses, monitored their deliberations. He knew their honor, their history, their fierce independence. He also knew their weariness of war, their fear of his demonstrable power.
He was already planning the integration of their forces, the appointment of his own governors and overseers, the systematic exploitation of their resources. The North's hardy warriors and the Vale's proud knights would become cogs in his Imperial war machine. Their lands would fuel his ambitions.
The Long Night, Vorhax knew from his deeper probings of ancient lore and the lingering echoes in the Force, was a cyclical threat, not a one-time event. The Others were not truly gone, merely slumbering, awaiting another age of weakness and division. Daenerys and Jon Snow had won a battle, not the eternal war. He, Vorhax, with the unified might of an entire continent forged into a single weapon under his Sith will, would be the one to truly prepare Westeros for that ultimate, recurring darkness. That, he would tell himself, was the ultimate justification for his iron rule, the true purpose behind his relentless pursuit of absolute power.
As the third day drew to a close, Queen Sansa Stark and Lord Yohn Royce requested another audience. Their faces were grim, etched with the agony of their decision.
Vorhax received them once more in the Great Hall, the silence heavy, expectant.
"Lord Protector," Sansa began, her voice low but clear, "the North… remembers. We remember the cost of defiance. We also remember the price of servitude." She took a deep breath. "We will not see our people needlessly slaughtered. But our allegiance will not be given lightly, nor our traditions easily discarded."
Lord Royce was more blunt. "The Vale will not be broken on your anvil, Lord Vorant, only to be reforged as slaves. We will accept your… protection… under specific, negotiated conditions regarding our laws and the rights of our people."
Vorhax listened, his expression unreadable. Negotiation. Conditions. They still clung to the illusion of choice. He almost smiled. It was time for the final lesson in the Hawk's terms. The lesson of absolute power.
"Your… preferences… are noted," he said, his voice like silk gliding over sharpened steel. "My terms, however, are not subject to negotiation. They are a statement of reality. You will submit, or you will be erased. The choice remains yours, for a few more hours."
He rose, a dark silhouette against the dying light filtering through the high windows. "Consider carefully, Queen of a fading winter, Lords of a crumbling mountain. For the Hawk's shadow is long, and its patience, while considerable, is not infinite." The game was almost over. The continent was almost his.
(Word Count: Approx. 4300 words)