Okay, here's how that might unfold:
Chapter 20: The King's Ultimatum and the Lion's Roar
The ravens flew south, black wings carrying Robb Stark's audacious ultimatum to King's Landing. The message, sealed with the direwolf of Stark and the trout of Tully, was delivered to the Red Keep with chilling formality. It was not a plea, but a declaration.
To Joffrey Baratheon, styling himself King on the Iron Throne, and to his false counselors, from Robb Stark, by the Grace of the Old Gods and the Trident, King in the North and of the Rivers:
Know that I, Robb Stark, have shattered your armies in the Westerlands and reduced Harrenhal, a fortress that stood for centuries, to molten ruin. I hold your prized Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister, captive. Yet, I do not seek further bloodshed, if justice can be served.
I demand the immediate and safe return of my sisters, Sansa and Arya Stark, to my custody. I demand the surrender of Joffrey Baratheon, Cersei Lannister, and all those directly responsible for the murder of my father, Lord Eddard Stark, to face Northern justice. These are my terms.
Should you refuse, know this: I have unleashed a power that can unmake castles and break armies. I will not hesitate to wield it again. I will march south, not with a host, but with a force that will make the Westerlands a scorched ruin, erasing your strongholds and your wealth from the face of the earth. I will bring fire and ash to King's Landing itself, and I will not rest until my father's blood is avenged, and my sisters are free.
Choose wisely.
The ultimatum landed in King's Landing like a thunderbolt, throwing the already fractious Small Council into chaos.
The meeting took place in the Small Council chamber, the air thick with tension and the stench of fear. Joffrey Baratheon, a boy-king in name only, sat on the Iron Throne, fidgeting nervously. His face, usually a mask of petulant cruelty, was pale and drawn. He clutched a goblet of wine, his hand trembling slightly. He had heard the whispers, the terrified accounts of Harrenhal's fall. He knew, with a dawning horror, that this "Young Wolf" was not just another rebel lord.
"This… this is treason!" he screeched, his voice cracking. "He threatens me! He threatens King's Landing! He dares to demand my surrender!"
Ser Kevan Lannister, Tywin's brother, stood beside the throne, his expression grim. He had seen the reports, the sketches drawn by terrified survivors, depicting a lone warrior wielding a power that defied all reason. He knew his brother, even now, was reeling from the shock.
"It is more than treason, Your Grace," Kevan said, his voice low and controlled. "It is an act of war unlike any we have faced before. He has demonstrated a… a capability… that we cannot ignore."
Queen Regent Cersei Lannister, her face a mask of icy fury, paced the chamber. She had always dismissed Robb Stark as an arrogant boy, but the destruction of Harrenhal had shaken her to her core. Her own children, her own life, were now threatened by this… force.
"He dares to threaten my children!" she hissed, her green eyes blazing. "He demands my surrender! He will get nothing! I will see him broken, his head on a spike!"
Grand Maester Pycelle, his chain of office clinking nervously, wrung his hands. "Your Grace, such… such power… it is unnatural. We must consult the Citadel! Perhaps there are ancient texts, wards, some defense against such… sorcery."
Varys, the Master of Whisperers, glided into the chamber, his plump form radiating an unsettling calm. "My little birds sing of wonders and terrors, Your Graces. The tales from Harrenhal… they are… compelling. The Young Wolf has become something more than a king. He is a legend, a force of nature. And he wants his sisters."
"We will not yield!" Joffrey screeched again, slamming his goblet down. "I will not negotiate with a traitor! I will raise every man in the Seven Kingdoms and crush him!"
"With what, Your Grace?" Kevan Lannister asked, his voice dry. "The Stormlands are in chaos. The Reach is… hesitant. And half our armies are either dead, captured, or scattered across the Westerlands, thanks to this… this 'Young Wolf'."
"We have dragons!" Joffrey insisted, his eyes darting towards the skull-lined walls of the chamber. "We have dragon skulls! They will obey us!"
Varys chuckled softly, a sound that made the hairs on the back of Cersei's neck prickle. "Alas, Your Grace, the dragons are long dead. Their bones possess no fire."
The debate raged, a cacophony of fear, denial, and desperate proposals. Some advocated for sending assassins, for hiring sellswords, for any means to eliminate Robb Stark before he could unleash his power again. Others, more pragmatic, suggested a parley, a desperate attempt to buy time, to understand the nature of this "weapon" he wielded.
Cersei, driven by a mother's terror for her children, proposed a different, insidious solution. "He wants his sisters? Let him have them. But not as he expects." She outlined a plan, a cruel, elaborate scheme to turn Sansa and Arya into weapons against their brother, to break their spirits and their bodies, to send them back to him as twisted parodies of themselves, a message of Lannister dominance.
Kevan Lannister, even hardened by years of war and political intrigue, recoiled. "Sister, that is… monstrous. The girl is innocent. And such cruelty will only further enrage the King in the North."
Cersei's eyes were like chips of green ice. "He has already enraged me beyond measure. He has dared to threaten my children. He will learn that Lannisters always pay their debts. And sometimes, the payment is more… exquisite… than mere death."
The debate continued, the Small Council divided between a desire for vengeance and a growing, terrified understanding of the force they were dealing with. Joffrey, swayed by his mother's cruelty and his own desperate need to assert his authority, ultimately sided with Cersei.
A raven was sent north, carrying not an acceptance of Robb Stark's terms, but a mocking refusal, laced with threats against his sisters and a chillingly detailed description of the tortures that awaited them if he dared to set foot in the South. The die was cast. The war would continue, and it would be bloodier, more brutal, and more terrifying than anyone in Westeros could have imagined. For the King in the North had unleashed his cruel sun, and the world would tremble before its light.