The Bone King, Chapter 61

Daemon Blackfyre stood among a ragged line of captured lords, their clothing torn and caked with mud. The morning, if it could be called morning beneath the gloom, brought only a dull light. Undead warriors surrounded them, skeletal figures bearing spears, gauntlets rattling against the shafts. Through the gaps in their ranks, Daemon glimpsed the bogland still steaming from the night’s slaughter. No bird songs rose. No wind whispered. An odd hush clung to every man left alive.

He glanced aside at Lord Tarly, who pressed a trembling fist to his chest. Tarly’s eyes darted from one skeletal escort to another, each time widening as if confronted by new terrors. Behind him, a devout knight from the Vale gripped a broken symbol of the Seven, mouthing silent prayers. Others stared at the ground, shoulders hunched.

A sudden shriek broke the hush. One captive—a young lord from the Westerlands—struggled against two skeletons hauling him by his arms. He yanked free for half a breath, stumbling backward. With a harsh rattle, a monstrous figure appeared from behind a wagon—an abomination of corpses sewn together, arms and legs in horrid mismatch. The creature lunged with unnatural speed, seizing the young lord by his ankles. His cry rose into a frantic scream as it dragged him across the mud, ignoring his flailing. Daemon clenched his jaw, pressing his lips into a firm line. There was no saving that fool. The skeletons parted, letting the abomination vanish around the corner with its quarry. A hush settled once more, fear thick in the air.

Another lord fell to his knees, hands clasped before his face. His lips moved, begging the Seven for mercy. The undead guards took hold of his arms, hoisted him upright despite his kicking and moaning. The man's pleas rasped in the dull light. Daemon tried to speak, to steady them, but his own throat felt taut. He found no words. The undead pressed forward, prodding them along.

They marched in a loose column, guided by skeletons at intervals. Corpses with empty sockets, some wearing scraps of Northern heraldry, others in mismatched armor. Daemon heard the shuffle of bone and the soft slurp of wet earth beneath. He kept his gaze forward. He was unarmed, disarmed earlier by that black knight. The others carried no weapons either. They were herded.

Ahead, the ground sloped upward, rising from the bog into what used to be Moat Cailin. Daemon remembered old campaigns, visiting that ruin as a younger man, the broken walls, the collapsed towers. Now all he saw were walls of dark stone, freshly built or conjured by magic. The ramparts soared like jagged cliffs, each crowned with gargoyles carved to resemble twisted skulls. Spines jutted from the parapets, an array of menacing shapes. It almost reminded him of Dragonstone, but… far more menacing.

A retainer to Daemon's right stumbled, muttering half-formed curses. Two skeletons pressed in and lifted the man by the arms, carrying him. His boots dangled above the muck. Another abomination, massive and sewn from mismatched torsos, lumbered along the flank, ready to grab any who lagged. Its stench fouled the air, a reek of rot and necromancy. Men coughed, covering their noses.

One of the southern lords—a thin man from House Beesbury, with a torn surcoat—tried to shuffle away from the line, veering behind a wagon. A skeleton at his side whipped its head around. He broke into a desperate sprint, feet squelching. He got three steps before a monstrous undead shape, half-human, half-beastly limbs, lunged from behind a splintered cart. The man let out a choked cry as bony hands seized his collar, dragging him onto the ground. His screams faded into ragged gasps as he vanished into the chaos of limbs. Daemon clenched his fists. The line moved on.

They ascended a ramp of new black stone. The old causeway was gone, replaced by steps wide enough for three wagons abreast. Skeletal banners flapped overhead, bearing the sigil of the skull entwined with swords. Daemon raised his eyes, squinting at the high towers. Each soared above the bog, far taller than any fortress he had known. Its surfaces shone with a dull gleam, as though polished by unholy means. He saw silhouettes patrolling the ramparts, possibly living guards or more undead. The swirling gloom above cast greenish shadows across the stones.

At the gates, a wide arch yawned. Decorated pillars flanked it, chiseled into images of writhing corpses. The portcullis stood raised, carved in the shape of interlocked bones. Daemon’s heart pounded. The entire fortress seemed built to embody fear and dominion. The columns soared overhead, culminating in gargoyle faces with open jaws.

The skeletal escorts pressed them onward. The lords shuffled through the gate, passing into a courtyard paved in black granite. Torches sputtered along the walls, each flame tinted green. Corpses from the battlefield might have been stacked here earlier, Daemon guessed, but he saw no heaps. Perhaps the undead had already carried them deeper inside for reanimation. He swallowed, mouth dry. The captives bunched close, jostling each other in an instinctive search for solace.

At the far end of the courtyard stood great double doors, flanked by towering statues of robed figures with skull heads. The doors groaned open, revealing a hallway lit by more green flames. The abominations and skeletons ushered them in, prodding or dragging the injured. Daemon felt the close press of damp air, the walls lined with carvings of monstrous shapes devouring men. A hush settled among the captives, aside from occasional whimpers.

They emerged into a grand hall that dwarfed any throne room Daemon had ever seen. The ceiling soared like a cathedral, ribbed with black arches. Gargoyles perched on support columns, each with eyes that glowed faintly. The floor was polished stone, reflecting the sickly light of braziers placed at intervals. At the far end rose a dais, and upon that dais hung a floating throne of blackened bones. Daemon froze at the sight, breath catching in his throat.

The throne itself seemed suspended in midair by some unearthly force. Bones fused and twisted, forming a high-backed seat with edges shaped like grasping hands. It gleamed with dark energy, faint arcs of necromantic light dancing along its surfaces. Seated there was Jason Lee, the one called the Boner Lord. The man—God—wore dark robes, embroidered with swirling motifs that might have been runes. His face was impassive, eyes capturing the flicker of green flames. Over his shoulders fell a black cloak, draping the edges of the bone throne.

Flanking the throne were three knights in black armor, each helm fashioned into a grim visage. Daemon recognized one: the black knight who had bested him. Another knight stood taller, a hammered crest of horns upon the helm. The third, smaller and more lithe. Each wore a cloak trimmed in faint silver, each carried a weapon that gleamed with runic symbols.

At the right side of the dais stood a woman in black robes. She held a staff of ebony, topped with a small skull carved from polished crystal. Necromantic energy shimmered around her in pale lines. Her face was partially obscured by a deep hood, yet Daemon saw her mouth pressed into a thin line as she eyed the captives. On the left stood a bone-white woman with hair as pale as fresh snow. Her eyes carried a bright blue, reminiscent of a clear sky. Something about her presence sent a chill through the hall. Daemon guessed she might be the Other rumored to be Jason’s ally—Little-Cloud, if memory served. The mere thought made him swallow hard.

Crowded around the dais were lords of the North, or so Daemon assumed. Men wearing cloaks of fur, bearing sigils he dimly recognized. Some from House Manderly, House Glover, others from smaller houses. Their faces remained guarded. A short man with a watery green cloak stood near the front—perhaps a Crannogman. Brandon Stark also stood there, though at first Daemon almost missed him, overshadowed by these monstrous presences. The King in the North wore a subdued cloak of grey and white. Daemon locked eyes with him for a brief instant, seeing a flicker of pity or regret. Then Brandon looked away.

The undead ushers halted the captives in the center of the hall, forcing them to stand or kneel in a huddle. One by one, men raised their faces. Some tried to speak, but the hall’s oppressive atmosphere stifled them. A devout lord sank to his knees, muttering prayers to the Father, the Warrior, each syllable hushed. Another lord from the Stormlands stared blankly, a bandage wrapped around his head. A few trembled so violently they could barely stand.

Daemon stood near the front of that group, breathing shallow. He forced himself not to slump. He felt every ache in his body, the weight of dried mud on his armor, but he kept upright. He wouldn’t kneel, not yet. He studied the dais, the floating throne. Jason Lee’s eyes flicked across the captives, calm and calculating.

A skeletal herald stepped forward, carrying a staff topped with a small jawbone. The herald pounded it once upon the floor. The echo reverberated in the hushed hall. Then Jason Lee spoke, his voice low yet carrying across the space.

“Welcome,” he said, the single word laced with an undercurrent of power. He tilted his head slightly, regarding them like a man might regard penned animals. “You stand in the presence of your conqueror.”

The words caused a stir among the prisoners. One man tried to retort, but his throat produced only a hoarse croak. Another began to sob softly. Daemon set his jaw. He wanted to retort, to challenge. But the memory of that battlefield, of arcs of green lightning, stilled his tongue. He heard the ring of footsteps as one black knight shifted, resting a hand on a pommel.

Jason Lee let the silence ride a moment longer, then continued.

“You marched north to break my domain. You planned to lay siege to a fortress you thought was old and crumbling. You thought to conquer and subdue a weakened and isolated North. You found something else.” He lifted a hand, a faint swirl of necromantic light coiling around his fingers. “You found a god.”

Low gasps rippled among the men. Some shook their heads in disbelief. Others lowered their eyes, refusing to meet that gaze. Daemon felt a crawling unease in his spine.

The robed woman with the ebony staff stepped forward, her voice a quiet hiss.

“Lord Jason spares those who yield.” She paused, scanning the captives. “Kneel, and perhaps you may live.”

Several lords sank to their knees instantly, heads bowed. The devout ones began mumbling frantic prayers. The robed woman’s stare flicked across them, lips curved in cold amusement. Others, like Daemon, stood uncertainly, eyes shifting from the black knights to Jason Lee on his floating throne.

The bone-white woman, her face smooth as polished stone, turned her sky-blue eyes on Daemon. He felt a chill, as though she stared into the marrow of his bones. A hush deepened. Even the North’s lords on the dais seemed reluctant to speak.

Brandon Stark stepped forward from among them, clearing his throat.

“My lord,” he said quietly, addressing Jason Lee, “these men stand defeated. Their armies are scattered. What would you have of them?”

Jason’s gaze rested on Brandon, then drifted back to the prisoners. He tapped a finger on the arm of his throne, the bones shifting as though alive.

“The Crown must learn its folly.” He motioned to the black knights. “Take them to the lower holds for now. They will remain as hostages. Some we might ransom, or else use as an example.”

One of the black knights nodded, though no words came from that helm. The robed woman signaled with her staff, and skeletons advanced from the sides of the hall.

Suddenly, a captured Stormlands lord broke from the group, pushing aside a lesser guard. He bolted across the floor, footsteps echoing on the black stone. His eyes wild with desperation. He had no weapon, only panic fueling him. A black knight stepped forward with inhuman speed. The man let out a cry. The knight seized him by the throat, lifting him off his feet. The prisoner kicked, tried to speak, but only gurgling sounds escaped. The black knight threw him down, pinned him, and pressed a blade to his neck. The robed woman gestured, and the knight withdrew. The man lay panting on the stone, tears streaking his face.

Jason Lee let out a short, dismissive exhale.

“You see,” he said. “No escape.”

And then Jason Lee turned towards him. “Now, what exactly am I to make of you, Daemon Blackfyre?’