The Bone King, Chapter 62

Daemon Blackfyre stood in the grand hall, mud and sweat clinging to his battered form. He felt the cold air drift past the walls of black stone, each slab etched with scenes of horror. The vastness of the chamber pressed in, and at its center hovered Jason Lee upon his floating throne of fused bone. Daemon caught himself staring at that sight – a throne sculpted from remains, suspended by no chain or rope. He had long ceased to question how such things were possible.

The other southern lords huddled nearby, their faces pale, their bodies trembling. A single devout voice among them muttered hushed prayers to the Seven, though the words wavered. Skeletal guards stood in silent ranks around the perimeter, their weapons glinting with a faint green aura. The black knights flanked the throne, armor dark as pitch, helms shaped like twisted visages. Daemon recognized the one who had disarmed him. It stood motionless, a silent warden of this dread place.

Jason Lee, robed in deep black, surveyed them with a calm that seemed beyond mortal. His eyes glimmered with subdued light. He lifted one hand, snapping his fingers. A jarring click echoed, clear in the hush. At once, the throne descended from midair, drifting down as though guided by an invisible force. It touched the floor with the faintest scrape. The hush deepened.

Jason stood, stepping clear of the throne, dark robes trailing. He held a sword in his hand. Daemon recognized it with a pang of disbelief – Blackfyre, the ancestral blade of Aegon. He had lost it in that nightmare of a battlefield. Yet there it was, gripped by the very being who had undone their entire army.

One of the more religious lords, a gaunt man wearing a half-torn surcoat of House Redwyne, staggered forward. His eyes burned with a desperation that bordered on madness. He thrust a shaking finger at Jason. 

“Demon!” His voice rang, though it cracked at the edges. “Demon from the Seven Hells, abomination in mortal flesh!” His words echoed in the space.

Daemon tensed. He saw the robed woman with the ebony staff tense as well. The bone-white woman, Little-Cloud, inclined her head slightly, sky-blue eyes narrowing. The black knights seemed to shift in readiness. But Jason only raised a brow, lips curling in a smile that held no warmth.

The devout lord pressed on, voice rising. 

“You will be judged by the Seven, you – you vile spawn!” Spittle flew from his lips. A hush spread over the southern lords, many recoiling. Daemon felt a cold sweat break along his brow. He saw Jason tilt his head, as though amused.

With an air of casual indifference, Jason snapped his finger once more. The devout lord’s words faltered mid-breath. He clutched at his own throat. His mouth opened in a silent scream. Daemon watched the man’s skin peel away, flesh dissolving as though touched by acid. The process took a single heartbeat. Ribbons of meat sloughed off, leaving bleached bone beneath. The lord collapsed, half-skeleton, half-melted gore, his shriek lingering for a moment longer before it faded into a wet gasp.

Silence clamped down on the hall. A handful of lords backed away, eyes bulging. One Stormlands baron dropped to his knees, trembling so violently he could not stand again. Others simply stared at the remains, silent horror etched on their faces. Daemon’s breath caught in his throat. He forced himself not to recoil. He recalled the man’s name, once a proud vassal. Now undone in the space of a single snap.

Jason gazed at them all. 

“Anyone else?” he asked, voice quiet. The dread question hung in the stale air. No one spoke. Some averted their eyes. Daemon saw one man’s knees buckle, but the skeletons caught him before he could slump to the floor. A pungent odor rose – at least two men had soiled themselves. The moans that followed were muffled, half-choked by fear.

Jason nodded with satisfaction, turning his gaze to Daemon. Slowly, he held out the sword Blackfyre, its blade reflecting the unnatural glow of the hall’s green braziers. Daemon felt an ache in his chest, seeing his family’s ancestral steel in this sorcerer’s grip. He stood straighter, ignoring the bruise along his ribs.

“So,” Jason said, “Daemon Blackfyre. A name with weight. Would you like to be king of the remains of the southern kingdoms?” 

He flexed his fingers along the hilt, as if offering the sword. The lords around Daemon exchanged fearful glances. Some parted their lips in shock. The question cut through the hush like a blade.

Daemon pressed them shut. Then, voice steady but subdued, he shook his head. 

“I will never dishonor my brother. The Crown is his, not mine.” He paused, forcing his shoulders firm. “I came here under his banner, not to usurp him. I stand by that.”

Jason’s eyes searched him, impassive. Then he laughed, a short sound devoid of true mirth. 

“I expected no less of you.” He made a small motion with Blackfyre, as if testing its balance. Then he walked forward, cloak dragging lightly on the polished floor.

Daemon’s pulse thrummed. He noted every detail: the bones of the throne behind Jason, the black knights watchful at the dais steps, the robed woman and the bone-white Other who stood off to the side. The lords parted as Jason approached, uncomfortably stepping back from the man they now recognized as more than mortal. Daemon stayed put, feet planted. He would not cower, even if dread churned in his stomach.

Jason halted a pace away. He studied Daemon’s face. Then he offered a thin smile and turned to address the entire captive crowd. 

“Kneel,” he said softly. “Kneel and accept my supremacy. Recognize what I am.” 

His gaze traversed them. “I grant you the honor of bowing before a living god.”

A hush endured, unbroken by any immediate compliance. Some lords hesitated. One man started to lower himself, but paused, uncertain if he should. In the hush, Daemon heard the faint rustle of shifting undead, the whimper of a battered knight. Then the robed woman with the ebony staff raised her chin. Skeletons marched in from either side, nudging or dragging men onto their knees. Faint moans accompanied each forced genuflection. Daemon felt a skeleton’s bony hand brush his shoulder, urging him down. He set his jaw but let his knee bend. He had no choice. The black knight who bested him stood only a few steps away, the abomination’s power overshadowing all mortal valor.

He lowered his head, heart pounding. The entire row of lords and knights sank in a ragged line. Jason tilted his head, observing them. That short silence weighed more heavily than the thick air. Then he exhaled. 

“Good,” he whispered.

Moments passed. Jason lifted his gaze to the dais where Brandon Stark and the Northern lords stood. 

“Now,” he said, turning back to the captives, “there is something you must see. A demonstration, if you will. Rise.” 

A motion of his hand signaled the skeletons to pull the men to their feet once more. Some stumbled, some whimpered, but all were herded toward a side corridor. Jason led the way, and the group followed, flanked by black knights and abominations.

Daemon’s mind raced, half-dreading what new horror awaited. Torches lined the corridor. They passed dark doorways, from which rose faint moans. Perhaps a prison block. They pressed onward, occasionally stepping around half-collapsed walls that showed remnants of the old Moat Cailin behind the new black stone. Jason’s necromancy had rebuilt and reshaped everything into a single labyrinth.

Eventually, they came upon a tall set of double doors carved in swirling patterns of bone. Skeletons heaved the doors open, revealing a balcony that overlooked the swamps outside. The day’s gloom had lifted slightly, though the sky still wore that unnatural greenish hue. Daemon glimpsed the bog spread below, riddled with bodies from the prior battle. He recognized broken banners, shattered wagons, lumps of flesh and bone piled in mud. The stench, even at a distance, rolled up in a foul wave.

Jason stepped onto the balcony, resting a hand on the black railing. The railing was shaped like interlocked femurs. He beckoned the captives forward with a single gesture. They crowded behind him, stifling coughs at the odor. One man retched quietly, turning aside. Daemon forced himself to look out.

Countless corpses, mostly southern men, lay in tangled heaps. A few had been stripped of armor by scavenging skeletons. Some were half-submerged in bog water. Others sprawled with arms extended, as if reaching for salvation that never came. Daemon’s gut clenched. He recognized a few surcoats from noble houses—Kellington, Wild, even Tarly’s own retinue. The scale of the slaughter was almost beyond words.

Jason turned, surveying the lords. His gaze flicked across them, lingering on those who showed the deepest terror. Then he smiled, lifting both hands. A crackle of energy flickered around his palms, arcs of sickly green dancing along his fingers.

“You marched north to conquer,” he said, voice carrying on the wind. “You believed an old castle and a weakened realm. Now you see what it costs to stand against me.” He gestured at the field of bodies with a slow sweep. “But let me show you something else. Let me show you what becomes of those who defy me.”

His hands rose, palms facing outward. The swirling arcs of magic intensified, forming small vortices of green flame. Daemon felt a pressure in the air, a crackle that made his teeth ache. The robed woman with the ebony staff stood behind Jason, staff glowing in resonance. The bone-white Other watched, face unreadable.

A hush weighed on every captive. Daemon, pinned between skeletons and black knights, could do nothing but observe. He saw the sky darken anew, clouds roiling overhead in shades of black and green. The wind rose, sending a foul stench swirling around them. Jason closed his eyes, concentrating. Then, with a sudden motion, he thrust his arms outward toward the bog.

A wave of power rippled through the air like a thunderclap with no sound. The corpses below twitched as if in unison. Daemon’s breath caught. He heard the slightest rustle, faint even at this distance, a thousand bodies shifting. Then those bodies began to rise.

Some jerked upright, heads lolling. Others pushed themselves out of the mud, limbs at odd angles. Daemon saw a severed torso crawl forward, dragging itself by elbows. Here and there, a few skeletons already stripped of flesh joined the movement, rattling as they stood. The entire bog teemed with unholy motion—men who had been dead a day, reanimated in an instant by the Boner Lord’s will.

Gasps and screams erupted among the southern lords on the balcony. One reeled backward, nearly tumbling into a black knight. Another hid his face in his hands, shaking uncontrollably. A devout man dropped to his knees again, wailing incoherent pleas. Daemon’s eyes remained locked on the nightmare below, stomach twisting. Hundreds, maybe thousands of fresh corpses now lurched or crawled through the mud, heads canted, jaws slack. Some bodies were dismembered, missing arms or legs, yet they moved all the same, guided by that foul magic.

Jason lowered his arms, arcs of green fading from his fingers. The new undead legion milled about, turning toward the fortress as if beckoned. Over the wind, Daemon heard faint moans. The entire field seemed to roil in a grotesque parody of life. Some corpses bore battered plate, others simple tunics. A few still clutched broken weapons.

“Behold the power of a god,” Jason said softly, addressing them. “You think me demon or monster. Perhaps. But your souls exist by my forbearance.” 

He paused, scanning their terror-stricken faces. “Kneel to me, or join their ranks. Those are your choices.”

His words sank into the captives like a final blow. One lord, face ashen, nodded mutely. Others stared at the newly formed undead army below. Daemon kept his jaw clenched, forcing composure. He recognized men among that horde, knights who had served under him, now lifeless shells. The sight cut deeper than any blade.

Jason exhaled, stepping back from the railing. The wind whipped his cloak, sending the black fabric fluttering. He turned to face them fully, eyes flicking from one captive to another. Silence lay thick as tar. The robed woman’s staff dimmed, the bone-white Other merely watched with those uncanny eyes.

One by one, men bowed their heads. Some sank to the floor right there on the balcony, arms trembling. The skeleton guards parted to allow them space. A hush of submission spread. Daemon stood with the barest inclination of his head, refusing to collapse. But he offered no open defiance. He recalled how easily that devout lord was dissolved. He understood the futility of standing alone.

Jason Lee held out his right hand and the woman in black robes then slapped his hand and they both snickered.