The Bone King, Chapter 57

Maester Colin was… concerned. 

An army in the hundreds of thousands now marched upon Neverwinter. Colin did not have an accurate number as the Crannogmen were not exactly able to count every single one, but close to three hundred thousand was likely accurate enough. Such a large host was… ill-advised. It meant they moved slower than small armies, required greater amounts of food and clean water, and required massive baggage trains. The Crannogmen asked to ambush them, nip and bite at the heels of a giant, fill it with little bleeding wounds to weaken it before the true battle. In a traditional war, perhaps, such a thing would’ve been invaluable–maybe even necessary. Men in armor and knights upon the backs of horses simply had no means of fighting the men of the bogs; they could not chase them into the mire and they certainly could not take some hidden pass beyond the reach of the denizens of the Neck–not if they wished to pass into the North on foot. 

And yet, Lord Jason Lee said no. 

The Lord of Greywater Watch, Lord Therion Reed, was baffled, but otherwise knew his place and bowed. Brandon Stark, King of Winter, was similarly confused, but did not otherwise argue. Of course, there were three very obvious reasons why Lord Jason Lee saw no need to rouse the Crannogmen to war. The first reason was that he and he alone wielded powers beyond any sorcerer in Westeros or Essos. Even the accounts of the potent magics of the Valyrian Freehold paled in comparison to the–frankly–maddening abilities of Lord Jason Lee, who could raise the dead on a whim and launch terrifying bolts of dark magic from his fingertips. The second reason was his dragon, Nightfury, whose breath burned hot enough to reduce entire hills and small mountains to smoldering lakes of molten lava. Unlike the dragons of the Targaryens, however, Nightfury was possessed of a frightening intelligence–not of the bestial, animalistic sort, but one that was closer to the will of man. Not even the Black Dread could hold a candle to Nightfury. The third reason was Lady Little-Cloud, a literal fucking Other, who apparently swore some kind of oath of fealty and loyalty to Lord Jason Lee. Little-Cloud also had her own dragon, White Shadow, who was quite possibly twice as large as the Black Dread, but had a breath of ice and cold. 

Just one of those three could, if utilized correctly and efficiently, destroy an entire army and, of course, Lord Jason Lee had all three of those. 

His concern was not for the North or for Neverwinter, but for the hundreds of thousands of warriors, camp followers, servants, and lords who had absolutely no idea what they were walking into. Many of them were not evil or wicked–most men weren’t. They fought because they were paid to do so, because fighting meant their families would have something to eat. Men, by nature, unless driven by greed or lust or simple desperation, would prefer not to butcher each other over the whims of a lord. 

“Lord Jason Lee,” Colin said, his voice cracking. He turned away from the window view that overlooked a large portion of the Neck and all its bogs and mires southward. “Do you truly intend to massacre the southron army?” 

Lord Jason Lee, who sat upon a wooden stool, sipping on a goblet of Arbor Gold, turned his gaze to the ceiling for a moment before shrugging. Despite the elaborate and, frankly, impractical decor of Neverwinter, apparently meant to inspire fear and dread–two things it did quite well, Colin mused–Lord Jason Lee himself had no stomach for thrones. He often said they were uncomfortable and much preferred either a simple stool or a cushioned seat. He did have a throne–an even greater monstrosity than the Iron Throne itself, made entirely of blackened metal and made to resemble a host of wailing souls and skeletons and somewhere at its center was just enough space for someone to sit on. 

“Honestly?” Jason Lee said. “I’m not a monster. I don’t think I’ll be killing most of them and, honestly, holding the lords for ransom is a more profitable endeavor; however, I also want to make an example of them, a show of force, if you will, to make sure that no one else ever tries to fuck with me.” 

The Boner Lord suddenly stood from his seat and looked out the window to behold the Neck. “Despite all the death that surrounds me, I actually do not enjoy killing people. I’ll do it if I have to and I won’t lose any sleep over it, but the act itself brings me no joy. Those who march in the name of the Targaryens did so as warriors and, as warriors, they know the risks of their profession. I will kill many, but I will not annihilate them. They will fear me and they will break. Does that answer your question, Colin?” 

Colin nodded and bowed his head slightly. It was as good an answer as he was ever going to get–and as merciful as Jason Lee was ever going to be to his enemies. “I understand, my lord.” 

“What of the Northern Armies? Are they prepared for war?” Lord Jason Lee suddenly asked. 

Colin nodded. That, he could answer quite readily. The North might’ve been slow to rise from its slumber, but its awakening was terrible indeed. Brandon Stark, the King of Winter, had called his banners long before he journeyed to Neverwinter. “Yes, of course, my lord. Though King Brandon rests in Neverwinter, the Northern Houses have answered his call to arms and are raising and marshalling their troops as we speak. It is likely that the crown will send an army through the coast. Reinforcements, I believe, should already be marching to White Harbor and Widow’s Watch–if not today, then very soon. It is possible they may try to take Karhold or Skagos, but those are unlikely and unwise actions. Scouts patrol the western shores, but the likelihood of the Royal Fleet disembarking there is similarly unlikely as the very elements would test them.” 

Lord Jason Lee nodded and smiled. “Very well. In any case, if it all goes to shit, I’ll always have two dragons–that’s two more than the Targaryens who, I think, just love to refer to themselves as dragons… fucking idiots.” 

And then, the Boner Lord breathed in and a dark look came over his chiseled features. Blue-green flames surged through and around him, coating his form and his eyes. The flames licked and danced in the open air. Colin shuddered as the God of the North spoke. “They’ll be here soon. And they will be made an example of.” 

In the corridor, torches spat and hissed. The stone walls shone black, the mortar lines glowing with a faint magical residue. Colin’s boots tapped on the polished floor, a floor that had not existed mere months ago. He passed undead workers with sponges and cloths, wiping away dust from the corners, silent as tombs. Each skeleton wore a small band of colored cloth around a forearm bone, presumably to differentiate squads or tasks.

He reached a wide balcony overlooking an inner courtyard. He paused to rest his notes on a ledge, hands trembling from more than just the cold.

Below, a cluster of skeletal minions assembled in ranks. One, taller than the rest, carried a halberd inscribed with glowing runes. Another skeleton turned, evidently giving silent orders. Then they marched off, heading deeper into the fortress. The uniformity unsettled him. No living troop matched such perfect discipline.

A footstep echoed behind him. He glanced back to see a Northern guard, wearing Stark’s direwolf badge alongside Jason’s skull emblem. The guard nodded in quiet salute, then continued on. The merging of symbols still made Colin uneasy. Yet, the union was real. The North now had two lords: Brandon as King, and Jason as God.

Shaking his head, Colin resumed his walk. He thought about the southern armies. Thousands upon thousands, unprepared for the horrors awaiting them. Nights in the bogs, suffering chills that no cloak could ward off. Days trudging over sinking ground. And if they reached the fortress? They would face dragons that spewed ice and flame, undead soldiers tireless and calm, and a necromancer who shrugged at the prospect of killing men.

He trudged past an archway leading to a descending staircase. Wisps of a sour smell wafted up—some new cauldron room or alchemical site, maybe. Undead had been seen carrying barrels of strange chemicals there. He frowned, deciding not to investigate now. The fortress had many secrets, each more unnerving than the last.

Crossing another corridor, he entered a narrower passage. The black walls bore swirling patterns reminiscent of dragon scales. Torch brackets jutted like claws. The passage ended at a smaller door. Inside was a small study that served as his domain. He let himself in, sliding the door closed behind him.

A single candle burned on a plain table. He set his stack of parchments down, eyes flicking to a battered ledger with a worn cover. He had begun to record the developments of Neverwinter, from the day it started rising to its current monstrous form. He planned to keep a clear account for future historians—if the realm even had a future.

He shrugged off his cloak, hung it on a peg, then settled into a rickety chair. The candlelight revealed lines of notes scrawled across pages: farmland expansions, skeletal workforce counts, material gleaned from the Moat Cailin ruins. He tapped a quill against the page.

He wrote in short lines:

• Army from the south. Possibly three hundred thousand.

• Lord Jason Lee forbids Crannogmen from guerrilla tactics.

• King Brandon perplexed, yet obeys.

• Conflict seems inevitable.

He paused, glancing at the quill. Outside, the wind whistled around a tower’s sharp spire. He thought about men in the southern host, men no different from those he’d seen laboring in the fields all his life, men who took up arms because the Crown commanded. They had families, hopes. He pressed the quill’s nib to the paper, resumed writing.

• Lord Jason sees no need for half measures. Believes his magic, dragons, and the Other known as Little-Cloud are enough.

• He does not seek total slaughter. But he will kill as needed.

• The time for negotiation seems gone.

He lifted the quill. A vague tremor in his hand betrayed the tension coiled in his chest. He wondered if this record mattered. Maybe no historian would read it. Maybe the south would crumble, leaving only the North under an undead banner. Or maybe the Targaryens would break Neverwinter’s walls, and everything here would be lost.

He set the quill aside and sighed. A simple caretaker of knowledge, caught in the midst of a clash beyond mortal comprehension.

A faint knock disrupted him. He rose, opened the door. A squire from House Reed, judging by his bog-green cloak, stood there. The squire’s wide eyes flicked behind Colin as though seeking some spectral presence. He cleared his throat.

“Maester Colin,” the boy said. “Lord Therion Reed seeks you in the courtyardt.”

Colin nodded, though a tightness gripped his throat. 

“At once,” he said. He pulled on his cloak, sliding past the lad into the hallway.

They made their way through twisting corridors, passing more undead servants polishing floors or carrying sacks of mortar. A few living guards in Stark livery ambled by, exchanging weary nods with the squire. The air was thick with the odor of burnt resin from torches and a stale undercurrent of decay that clung to the undead.

At last, they emerged into the courtyard. The open space lay illuminated by tall braziers spaced evenly around the perimeter. The spires of Neverwinter loomed overhead, black against the star-scattered sky. Snow drifted lazily, not quite a storm, but enough to dust the stone with white flecks.

Therion Reed stood near a group of men—some living, some not. He turned at Colin’s approach. The lord’s lean frame was swathed in thick furs, and his boots bore a layer of swamp mud from a recent trip to the Neck. He offered Colin a curt tilt of his head.

“Maester,” he said, voice clipped. “We have a development. My scouts returned from the bog edges. They confirm the southern army is nearing the boundary. They might set camp by tomorrow’s dusk. They’ll be here in four days–if the weather is kind.”

Colin inclined his head. A jolt passed through him. “That soon?”

Therion’s lips drew into a thin line. “The Crannogmen see their torches at night, thousands of flickering lights. They stretch far across the horizon.”

Colin inhaled. “Lord Jason has made his stance clear. No ambush. He insists we let them come.”

Therion’s fingers flexed at his sides. “Yes, so I must do nothing. I stand ready, but idle. My scouts will keep watch and report back everything they see.”

The tension in the man’s posture showed his frustration. Reed had lived his life defending the Neck through cunning and surprise. Being told to wait contradicted every lesson his father taught him.

Colin let out a slow breath. “Have you told King Brandon yet?”

Therion nodded. “Yes. He’s in council with the Boner Lord right now. I suspect they’ll send me back to Greywater Watch soon. In case the southern army splits, though–with the size of their baggage train–I doubt that.”

Colin shifted, looking at the silent skeletal guards that flanked the courtyard. Their eyes glimmered with faint magic. One carried a standard bearing the skull-and-swords sigil. Another held a staff with a small lantern, casting flickering light over the cobblestones. The scene felt surreal.

“Then all we can do is watch,” Colin said softly.

Therion ran a hand over his bristly beard. 

“We watch. We wait for the King’s next command.” He paused, eyes darting to the swirling towers overhead. “Or our God’s next command.”

They stood in silence for a moment. The faint ring of metal from an unseen armory reached their ears. No other sounds rose. Even the wind seemed subdued in this courtyard.

Finally, Therion nodded farewell, striding off with his men. Colin turned, noticing another figure approaching from a side arch. Dressed in half-plate, half-leather, with a helmet shaped like a bat’s skull. One of the Death Knights. Possibly Rodrik, though the bone helmet gave them all a similar look. The figure paused, glancing at Colin with empty curiosity, then continued on with slow strides.

Colin pulled his cloak tight. The oppressive cold seeped into his bones. Not the usual chill of a northern night, but that strange, deeper cold. It did not make his bones shiver, but it made his soul seem to long for sleep–if such a concept made even the remotest amount of sense. He looked around, noticing a thin sheen of frost forming on the courtyard stones. Another sign of magic at play, no doubt, but not by the Boner Lord; no, this was the work of Lady Little-Cloud, the Other, who swore fealty and loyalty to a god. 

He considered returning to his study. Then he thought of Jason Lee’s words. “I do not enjoy killing.”

And he wondered just how truthful that statement was. After all, what god was known for being particularly merciful?