Chapter 2: The Sun's Ascent and the Stag's Arrival
The power continued to build. As the sun transformed from a pale disc in the misty dawn to a brighter, more assertive presence in the morning sky, so too did the strength coursing through Robb's veins. Rhitta, which had been an almost insurmountable burden in the pre-dawn gloom, now felt like a child's toy. He could whirl it, stop its momentum on a whim, and its golden head gleamed with an inner light that seemed to respond to his own burgeoning energy.
The pride, however, was becoming a more significant issue. It wasn't the calculated arrogance of Tony Volante, who knew his own capabilities and wasn't afraid to display them when strategically advantageous. This was different. It was a profound, almost cosmic sense of superiority, a feeling that he was, quite simply, better than everyone else. It whispered insidious thoughts: Why bother with subterfuge? Why not simply declare your power and watch these petty mortals kneel? Who decided they had any right to challenge you?
Robb gritted his teeth, his jaw tight. The cold, ruthless pragmatism of the mafia boss warred fiercely with the sun-drunk pride of the Lion's Sin. "Control," he hissed to himself, the sound amplified in the small, windowless training chamber. "Control is strength. Uncontrolled power is a liability." He forced himself to go through the motions of his old training regimen – sword forms, dagger practice, unarmed combat drills – but using only the barest fraction of his newfound might. It was an exercise in extreme restraint, like asking a giant to thread a needle.
The question of Rhitta's concealment was paramount. He couldn't simply leave a divine, glowing axe leaning in a corner. Could he dismiss it? He focused, trying to will it away, but the axe remained stubbornly, gloriously real. No, it seemed Rhitta was a permanent acquisition, at least for now. His "private training chamber," built off his solar, was indeed soundproofed and its door reinforced with iron bands and a complex lock he'd designed himself. He'd had a false bottom built into a large, heavy weapons chest meant for storing practice gear. With his current strength, lifting the chest's normal contents and the false panel was trivial. He carefully laid Rhitta within the hidden compartment, the faint golden aura it exuded thankfully contained by the thick wood and iron. It was a temporary solution, but it would have to do.
He also took a moment to examine his own physique. He had always been well-built, but now, even with the sun still relatively low, his muscles seemed denser, more defined, though not overtly bulging to an unnatural degree unless he flexed. It was as if his entire body had been optimized, every fiber tuned to a higher pitch. The faint scar on his arm was indeed gone. His regeneration was clearly potent. He wondered, idly, what would happen if he pricked his finger. Would it heal instantly? He decided against the test; no need for unnecessary risks or distractions.
As the morning progressed towards mid-morning, he knew he couldn't remain isolated. Winterfell was a hive of activity, preparing for the royal arrival. He needed to be seen, to direct, to manage. He donned his usual attire – good Northern wool, practical and well-made, a leather jerkin, and his sword belt. He consciously moderated his posture, trying not to tower or exude the sheer physical dominance he felt.
Stepping out of his solar, the change in him, however subtle he tried to make it, was palpable, at least to himself. The air felt charged around him. Servants hurrying by seemed to bow lower, their eyes skittering away from his gaze more quickly. Was it his imagination, or was the Escanor aspect leaking through?
He found Maester Luwin in the Great Hall, overseeing the placement of extra trestle tables and the hanging of Stark banners. The old maester looked flustered.
"Robb, my lord! Thank the gods. The wine shipments from White Harbor, one is delayed, and Cook is threatening to use the smallclothes for kindling if he doesn't get more firewood for the spit roasts."
Robb felt a surge of amusement, tinged with that damnable pride. Such petty concerns. He mentally slapped himself. "Maester, delegate the firewood to Vayon Poole. He knows how to manage the household. As for the wine, send riders to the Kingsroad. If it's a broken axle, have them assist. If it's further delayed, we have reserves. We won't run dry." His voice was calm, authoritative, but with a new resonance that made Luwin blink.
"Of… of course, my lord. At once." The maester scurried off, looking slightly dazed.
Robb then sought out Ser Rodrik Cassel in the main training yard. The grizzled master-at-arms was attempting to drill a raw group of recruits into something resembling a presentable honor guard.
"Ser Rodrik," Robb greeted, his voice easily carrying over the clang of steel.
Ser Rodrik turned, his stern face breaking into a rare smile. "Robb! Good. I need your eye on these lads. Some of 'em hold a spear like it's a live snake."
Robb watched them for a few minutes. His senses, amplified by Sunshine, picked up every flaw, every hesitation. He stepped forward. "You, lad," he said, pointing to a gangly youth whose spear wobbled precariously. "Your stance is too narrow. Widen it. Lower your center. Like this." He moved with a speed and precision that was breathtaking, yet he consciously held back the overwhelming strength. He adjusted the boy's stance, his touch firm, confident. The boy stared at him, wide-eyed.
He spent an hour with Ser Rodrik, his suggestions sharp, insightful, and unerringly accurate. He found he could "read" the men's fatigue, their intent, almost before they moved. Was this Snatch passively working, granting him enhanced perception? Or just Sunshine heightening his senses?
While "correcting" one man's grip on his shield, Robb focused, a flicker of intent, and tried to Snatch a tiny bit of the man's stamina. He felt a subtle warmth flow into him, a minuscule boost to his already immense energy. The man, already tired from the drills, sagged noticeably for a second, then shook his head as if clearing a momentary dizzy spell.
Interesting, Robb thought. Very interesting. And potentially very useful. He made a mental note: practice fine control. Indiscriminate draining would be too obvious.
His interactions with his family were more complex.
Catelyn watched him with an unreadable expression. "You seem… different this morning, Robb," she said, as they briefly conferred about the seating arrangements for the high table. "More… assured."
"There is much to do, Mother," he replied smoothly. "And little time. Someone must take charge." The pride again, leaking through. He needed to be more careful.
His siblings reacted in their own ways. Sansa, already dreaming of Southern knights and princes, barely noticed anything beyond her own excitement. Arya, however, looked at him with her usual sharp scrutiny. "You beat Theon and Jon wrestling yesterday," she stated, not asked, as she practiced lunges with a wooden stick in a quiet corner of the courtyard. "You weren't even trying."
Robb had indeed engaged in their usual morning tussle, and with his nascent Sunshine-enhanced strength, even holding back massively, he'd effortlessly dominated them both, much to Theon's loud chagrin and Jon's quiet surprise.
"I've been practicing," Robb said with a slight smile.
Arya narrowed her eyes. "You're different."
"Am I?"
"Yeah. Like you swallowed the sun."
Robb's smile didn't waver, but a chill ran down his spine despite the internal furnace of Sunshine. Children, sometimes, saw too clearly. "Perhaps I just had a good night's sleep, little sister."
Bran, ever adventurous, was planning to climb the highest tower to get the first glimpse of the King's party. Robb, knowing Bran's future, felt a pang. He couldn't stop him from climbing – it was too ingrained. But he did assign Jory Cassel to "keep an eye on him, from a distance." A small, perhaps futile, measure.
Rickon, still little more than a babe, gurgled happily when Robb lifted him, his small hands patting Robb's cheek. The innocent contact was a grounding sensation.
The sun climbed relentlessly. Nine o'clock. Ten o'clock. Eleven o'clock. With each passing hour, Robb felt the power within him swell to truly terrifying proportions. His skin seemed to glow with a faint golden sheen that only he appeared to notice. The pride was becoming a roaring inferno in his mind, a constant battle to maintain his composure, his human façade. He found himself having to consciously slow his movements, his speech, lest he move with blinding speed or speak with the voice of a god. He retreated to his solar for a period, ostensibly to review final logistical checklists, but in reality, to wrestle with the overwhelming power and the intoxicating arrogance that came with it. This is what Escanor must feel every day, he thought. How does he even function in polite society? Then the answer came, swift and certain: He doesn't. He simply is.
The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating. Tony Volante fought for dominance. Escanor was dominance.
By a quarter to noon, he felt like a walking star. The urge to simply stride out, Rhitta in hand, and reshape the world to his liking was almost unbearable. He focused on his father, on his siblings, on the memory of the Red Wedding, on the Long Night. These were his anchors, the reasons he needed to maintain control, to play the long game.
A horn blew from the battlements. A long, clear note, followed by another.
"The King!" The cry went up throughout Winterfell.
Robb took a deep breath, steeling himself. Showtime. He quickly checked his appearance in a polished shield. He looked like Robb Stark, if a particularly vibrant and intense version. Good.
He joined his family in the main courtyard, where they assembled to greet the royal party. Lord Eddard Stark stood at the front, his face stoic, but Robb could see the underlying tension. Lady Catelyn was beside him, regal and composed, though her eyes darted nervously. Sansa was practically vibrating with excitement, resplendent in a new blue gown. Arya, forced into a dress, scowled but stood straight, her gaze fixed on the gates. Bran, perched on a nearby wall (Jory hovering anxiously below), had the best view. Jon stood slightly behind Robb, with Theon Greyjoy, a position that subtly indicated their status.
The ground began to tremble faintly. The sound of hundreds of hooves, the rumble of carriage wheels, the jingle of harness, and the distant sound of trumpets grew louder.
The massive gates of Winterfell creaked open.
First came the outriders, clad in the gold and crimson of House Lannister and the crowned stag of Baratheon. Then, knights, so many knights, their armor gleaming, banners fluttering. The sheer opulence was a stark contrast to the pragmatic austerity of the North. Robb watched, his senses taking in every detail, every face. His internal monologue was pure Tony Volante: assessing threats, cataloging resources, looking for weaknesses.
And then, the King.
Robert Baratheon was… a disappointment. Robb knew from history that he'd grown fat and dissolute, but seeing it in person was still a shock. The legendary warrior, the Demon of the Trident, was now a bloated, red-faced man who looked uncomfortable in his fine silks and ill at ease atop his massive warhorse. Yet, there was still a spark of the old charisma, a booming voice that carried authority, however faded.
Beside him, on a graceful white palfrey, rode Queen Cersei Lannister. Cold, beautiful, and radiating an aura of disdain that was almost palpable. Her golden hair was a beacon, her green eyes missing nothing. Robb met her gaze briefly, offering a respectful nod, his own expression carefully neutral. Internally, alarms bells were ringing. This woman was poison.
Riding near her was Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. Tall, golden-haired, handsome, and arrogant, his white armor gleaming. He looked every bit the legendary knight, but Robb saw the cynicism in his eyes, the bored disinterest. As their gazes met, Robb felt a flicker of something – recognition? No, more like an assessment. Jaime's eyes lingered on him for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Was it his imagination, or did the Kingslayer sense something different about him? Robb offered another polite, non-committal nod. He resisted the urge to "Snatch" anything from the man, even a sliver of his famed swordsmanship. Too risky, too soon.
The royal children followed. Joffrey, the crown prince, already had the sneer of a petty tyrant. Myrcella was a pretty, shy girl, and Tommen a plump, gentle-looking boy. Robb's eyes lingered on Joffrey. You, you little bastard, are a problem I will enjoy solving.
And then, a smaller figure, riding a pony, almost lost in the procession: Tyrion Lannister. The Imp. Watching everything with intelligent, assessing eyes. Robb had a grudging respect for Tyrion's intellect, as described in the histories. Here was a mind, not just a brute or a schemer.
Lord Stark stepped forward as Robert dismounted with a grunt, his armor creaking.
"Robert!" Ned's voice, rough with emotion.
"Ned! Ah, it's good to see your frozen face!" Robert Baratheon bellowed, engulfing Eddard in a bone-crushing embrace.
The formalities began. Introductions were made. Robb stepped forward when his father presented him.
"Your Grace, my eldest son and heir, Robb."
Robert looked him up and down. "Good lad. Strong Northern stock. You'll make a fine Warden one day, eh?"
"I serve at my father's pleasure, and yours, Your Grace," Robb replied, his voice steady. It was almost noon. The power was a raging inferno within him, but he held it leashed, his mind a fortress of control. He could feel the sun blazing down on the courtyard, and it felt like a direct infusion of might. He was acutely aware of his own physical presence, the sheer, overwhelming power he radiated, and he fought to dim it, to appear as nothing more than a robust young man.
He shook Robert's offered hand. The King's grip was surprisingly strong, a reminder of the warrior he once was. Robb returned the pressure, firm and respectful, nothing more.
Then came Cersei. "My Queen," he said, bowing his head. Her fingers, cool and limp, brushed his. Her eyes were like chips of green ice.
"Lord Robb," she acknowledged, her voice silk over steel.
Jaime Lannister offered a lazy, charming smile. "Robb Stark. We hear you're quite the young wolf." His handshake was firm, confident. Robb met his gaze squarely. "I do my best to uphold my family's honor, Ser Jaime." For a fleeting second, Robb considered a subtle use of Snatch, just to test the Kingslayer's renowned strength, but dismissed it. The risk of detection, or of his own control slipping at this peak moment of Sunshine, was too high. This was not the time for games.
Tyrion Lannister, when introduced, gave him a shrewd, appraising look. "Lord Robb. An honor. Your reputation for… diligence… precedes you even in the South."
"Master Tyrion," Robb replied, intrigued. "I merely attend to my duties."
"A rare quality," Tyrion murmured, a wry smile playing on his lips.
The procession moved into the Great Hall, a chaotic but impressive display of Northern hospitality. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat, ale, and woodsmoke. Banners of Stark, Baratheon, and Lannister hung side-by-side, a visual representation of uneasy alliances.
Robb found himself seated near his father, across from some of the King's lesser lords. He ate sparingly, drank moderately, his senses hyper-aware. He watched Robert gorge himself, listened to his booming laughter and crude jokes. He observed Cersei's subtle manipulations, the way she guided conversations, her smiles that never quite reached her eyes. He noted Joffrey's petulance, Jaime's detached amusement, Tyrion's keen observations.
The sun outside was beginning its slow descent from its zenith. Robb felt the absolute peak of his power pass, the overwhelming tide receding ever so slightly, though he was still immensely powerful. The internal battle for control eased marginally, allowing Tony Volante's calculating mind to fully reassert itself over the fading roar of Escanor's noontime pride. The transition was smoother than he'd feared, a testament to his own iron will, honed over two lifetimes.
He saw his father and Robert speaking quietly, their heads bent together. The offer was being made. The Handship. The first step on the road to ruin.
Robb's gaze hardened. Not this time, he thought. This time, the game is played by my rules.
He knew the coming days would be critical. He needed to gather information, to assess the players, to subtly lay the groundwork for his own plans. He had knowledge of the future, the cunning of a mafia boss, and now, the powers of two of the Seven Deadly Sins.
As the feast wore on, Robb made a silent vow. He would protect his family. He would secure the North. And if the lions or any other predators thought they could devour the wolves, they would find themselves facing something far more dangerous than they could ever imagine. They would face a wolf who could call upon the power of the sun itself.
The King's arrival was not an ending, nor even just a beginning of sorrows. It was the start of his war, a war he had been preparing for his entire second life, a war he was now uniquely, terrifyingly equipped to win. He caught Jon's eye across the crowded hall and gave a minute, almost imperceptible nod. Jon, ever watchful, nodded back, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. Even without knowing the full extent of Robb's new reality, Jon sensed the shift, the steel in his brother's—his cousin's—resolve.
The North had a new guardian, one whose true nature was hidden beneath a veneer of duty and youth. And as the shadows lengthened in the Great Hall, Robb Stark, the reborn Don, the wielder of Sunshine and Rhitta, began to plot.