The Bone King, Chapter 56

Daemon Blackfyre stood at the edge of the tent flap, staring into the dying light. A chill pressed against his cheeks, colder than the northern winds he recalled from campaigns past. He flicked his gaze across the camp. Fires burned low in pits ringed with hastily gathered stones. Men in mail and leather trudged about, eyes cast at the gloom that hovered over them like a veil. Horses stamped and snorted. The air tasted of smoke and boiled mutton. The damp earth gave off a faint, sour smell under the tread of a thousand boots.

He ran a hand over the pommel of Blackfyre at his hip, the sword he bore with pride. House Targaryen’s ancestral blade, older than most petty kingdoms. The metal seemed colder than usual. He withdrew his hand, flexing stiff fingers. Then he took a step back inside.

The tent was large and crowded with banners. Dragons, lions, falcons, stags. Even some smaller sigils from the more distant corners of the realm. The nobles who bore those sigils glared at each other across the crude wooden table. Their breaths fogged in the stale air. Torchlight flickered on their faces. They’d all come to see the North humbled. They’d all marched under Daeron’s call, believing in a swift subjugation.

Daemon glanced over the heads of these men and women. Lords from the Vale, from the Reach, from the Stormlands. A few from the Westerlands. Others from the Riverlands. All with eyes set on the spoils. The talk of conquest whispered in every gap of conversation. They wanted farmland, coin, or simple glory. A share of whatever the North had to offer once it was forced to kneel again.

He noticed a shiver running through Lord Oakheart, who stood by a sagging cot at the tent’s corner. The man folded his arms, rubbing his sides. Daemon raised an eyebrow. He himself felt that cold pressing in. Not the ordinary chill of northern nights. Something sharper. He let out a slow breath and cleared his throat. No one heeded him at first. Their bickering rose like the yapping of dogs.

“…a worthless patch of frozen dirt, yes,” a tall man in a green surcoat snapped, voice laced with scorn. “But it’s a matter of principle. We can’t let them just slip away. The Crown must keep them in line.”

Lord Tarly, Daemon recalled. A recent ally. The man’s words carried more heat than sense. Daemon took a step toward him.

“If we press them too hard,” said another voice, more measured, from across the table, “we risk a drawn-out war. The King wants a swift resolution.” 

That voice belonged to Lady Caron of the Stormlands. Her jaw was tight, her face blanched by the cold. “Besides, we’ve been marching for a month already. Fighting in a land as cold as the North would be a logistical nightmare.”

Daemon inclined his head. He caught the slightest flicker of flame from a torch behind Lady Caron. The light cast her features in half-shadow, highlighting the lines of fatigue. The entire army felt it. Marching in bitter cold, living on rations that grew more stale by the day. Men coughed through the night. Horses grew restive. Now they were near the Neck. The marshy ground sucked at boots and hooves. They had to set up camp daily, break it come dawn. All while that strange chill gnawed at them from dusk until morning.

He raised a hand. Slowly, the arguing lords fell quiet. Their eyes turned to him, some with reluctance. He glanced at the table. A rough map of the North lay pinned by daggers to keep it flat. Moat Cailin—no, they’d heard rumors it was renamed. Neverwinter, some said—loomed near the edge of the bogs. Past that lay Winterfell, seat of the traitor king, Brandon Stark. And behind him, Lord Jason Lee. The name carried all manner of whispers: necromancy, undead laborers, even dragons. Daemon found it hard to credit. Yet the reports from Bloodraven’s scouts seemed firm.

He honestly was not sure how he was to deal with two dragons should reports be true.

He cleared his throat again. 

“My lords,” he said, his voice low but steady. “We do not gather here to carve the North among ourselves. We gather to fulfill the King’s will. He seeks a swift and, if possible, bloodless end to this rebellion.” 

His gaze flicked across the circle. Some faces hardened in frustration. Others softened a little. 

“Let us not forget that,” he added.

A portly man in Lannister red frowned. “Bloodless? My lord Daemon, we’ve marched for weeks and we stand on the brink of a confrontation. If they do not yield, we must force them.”

Several heads nodded. Whispers followed. Daemon pressed his lips tight. He studied them. They were hungry for a fight. Targaryen or not, they saw him as a warrior to lead them. He felt their expectations like a weight across his shoulders.

Lord Tarly slammed a fist on the table. “We cannot allow a mummer with delusions of godhood to dethrone the Crown’s authority. I know not what tricks were used to sway Lord Stark’s court, but we cannot allow this disrespect to flourish–not without punishment.”

Daemon dipped his chin. That was the core of it. The Crown’s legitimacy stood at risk. But Daeron had made it clear—he wanted minimal bloodshed if possible. That was the King’s stance from the first. Daemon’s job was to ensure it. He placed his palms on the table, the chill biting his skin even through gloves.

“You speak of war as if it’s certain,” Daemon said quietly. “But remember, the King wants a solution that spares lives. If the North would lay down arms, so be it. We reclaim them with minimal strife.”

He glimpsed a man rolling his eyes. Another sneered. He recognized those signs of impatience. The southern lords yearned for glory, or land, or both. Daemon’s brow furrowed. He lifted a finger, a gesture that stilled some of the murmurs.

“You may say the North must be punished,” he continued, “but do we not owe them a chance to bend the knee? They have never been so open about rebellion. This is different. Perhaps there is more at work. We must see it for ourselves. The Starks have stayed true to the crown for generations; they deserve this much.”

A hush fell. Lady Caron bowed her head slightly. Lord Manderly—no, that wasn’t right, Manderly was from the North. Correction: A tall man in Tarly green exhaled sharply, apparently biting his tongue. Daemon nodded, satisfied for now. He could not silence them forever, but he could keep them from plotting open slaughter. At least until they saw the situation firsthand.

The tent flap stirred, and in walked a messenger. The boy’s boots clumped over the wet ground. A swirl of cold air swept in behind him, making torches flutter. He saluted, breath coming quick. 

“My lord,” the boy said, eyes darting to the lords who bristled at the title. “We’ve scouted ahead. The terrain worsens. The King’s Road is shattered and heavily eroded in many places; this will slow us down. It’ll be even trickier for the carriages to pass through.”

Daemon gave a brief nod. 

“Understood,” he said. The messenger bowed and hurried out, the tent flap slapping behind him.

He turned back to the table. The lords glared down at the map, at the drawn lines marking their route. Over a hundred thousand men massed behind them, soldiers from nearly every corner of Westeros, excluding Dorne. Even the Crown’s might had its limits. The distance from Dorne was too great, or so the letter had said. Now they faced the mire of the Neck. Days of slogging. Fevers. The unnatural chill that gnawed at their spirits. And at the end of it, the fortress of Moat Cailin—or Neverwinter, as rumored. The seat of Brandon Stark. 

The domain of Jason Lee.

Daemon realized then that his own breath came in shallow bursts. He forced himself to calm. In the corner, a brazier glowed weakly, offering meager warmth. He stepped toward it, letting the heat wash over his face. The cold still crept in, though, coiling around his shoulders like an unwelcome cloak.

He glanced at Lord Oakheart once more. The man’s hands shook. Others too showed signs of the chill. They rubbed their arms, hunched their shoulders. Daemon pressed his lips together. This was not the usual northern cold. It felt… tainted. One more reason to suspect that sorcery hovered about them.

“My lords,” he said, voice low but firm. “We will proceed at dawn. The roads ahead are treacherous, so keep your men in good order. Let no one stray far. We suspect that Brandon Stark’s scouts lurk in every shadow.”

“Crannogmen…” Lord Tarly gave a curt nod. “If they dare harass our columns, we’ll cut them down.”

Daemon’s eyes flicked to him. Tarly’s jaw was set in grim determination.

“We do this carefully, yes?” Daemon asked, meaning more than he said. Tarly shrugged but gave no retort.

He stepped away from the brazier, making his way out into the night. The conversation behind him carried on in hushed tones, but he’d heard enough. The tension in that tent was thick as pitch. He needed air, though the air outside offered no relief from the cold.

A swirl of snow gusted past the tent. He surveyed the vast camp under moonlight. Thousands of tents, a sea of canvas flecked with the sigils of many houses. Fires glowed in small circles, ringed by men who warmed their hands. Horses stamped and whinnied. Sentries paced with torches in hand. Every so often, a shape scurried at the edges, perhaps a stray dog or a desperate pilgrim. The swirl of wind carried scents of cooking stew, damp wool, sweat.

He walked among the tents, glancing at men who straightened at his approach. Some muttered, “My prince,” eyes flicking to the sword at his belt. Others stared at the ground, nervous. Daemon offered them slight nods. He was half-brother to the king, Daeron’s blood. Some might love him for his martial prowess, some might resent him for the same. None truly knew him. He felt their curiosity like pinpricks on his back.

At the camp’s perimeter, he halted. A ring of sentries stood at posts hammered into the ground. He saw wooden palisades starting to rise, though the marshy soil made it difficult. Beyond the palisade, the bog stretched out, dark and ominous. The moon cast pale light on pools of stagnant water. Mist curled above them, ghostly. Daemon squinted, noticing movement near a patch of reeds. Perhaps a crane or some swamp creature. Or maybe one of Brandon’s scouts, lurking. That the Crannogmen weren’t harassing them at every turn was… odd, but also welcome. Daemon had read the stories of the strange folk that ruled the bogs of the Neck; he had no wish to deal with them. 

Still… the silence was odd.

His hand drifted to Blackfyre’s hilt. He felt a faint jolt of comfort. He’d never faced an enemy quite like this. A traitor king with an undead legion and a living god. He exhaled softly, telling himself that steel was steel. That men bled. But were these foes men at all?

He turned back to the camp. The largest army in Westeros, drawn from almost every corner. They wore shining armor, or battered mail, or brigandine if they came from poorer houses. Some carried lances, some crossbows, some greatswords. Daemon had seen them drill, heard their boasts. They believed no force could stand against them. But the stories from the North gave him pause. A fortress raised in mere months, farmland reclaimed by arcane fire. Dragons that could freeze or burn entire fields. And Jason Lee, who commanded legions of skeletons–man and beast alike– without so much as a flinch.

He shook his head. The hush pressed in. The wind whispered around him, carrying that unnatural chill. Something deeper than winter. It gnawed at the edges of his mind. He flicked his gaze skyward, seeing the moon wreathed in thin cloud. He pictured a monstrous shape swooping across that moon, blotting out its light. He swallowed, forced the image aside.

Footsteps approached from behind. He turned to see Bloodraven himself, Brynden Rivers, emerging from the gloom. The man wore dark robes, a cowl pulled low, exposing only the pale angles of his face. Brynden paused, raising one brow in silent question.

“Nothing stirring but the wind,” Daemon said, his voice low. He studied Bloodraven’s expression. The man’s red eye—some said—saw more than mortal men.

Brynden inclined his head. 

“The lords are restless,” he said. “They hunger for battle. They think we can simply storm the Neck.”

Daemon sighed. “They might be right. The Crown’s forces are unmatched in number. But we know so little about what waits in that fortress. About the magic behind it. About Jason Lee.”

Brynden’s lips curved, faint scorn or amusement. Hard to tell. 

“Magic is a blade with two edges,” he said. “The question is who bleeds first. If our enemy truly wields magic as a weapon to the extent that all the North has bent the knee to him, then he is no mere acolyte.”

Daemon pressed his lips together. He glanced at the faint glow behind the lines of tents, where a bigger fire might burn near the supply wagons. “We need to proceed carefully. The King desires a swift resolution. No massacre. We can’t let the realm bleed for months. The lords might want their glory, but Daeron wants peace.”

Brynden tilted his head. “Peace might be a dream, my lord. The North kneels to no mortal king now. They kneel to a god, or so they say.”

The words landed heavily. Daemon exhaled, turning from Brynden to stare again at the bog. 

“I suppose we’ll see how divine that god truly is,” he said. “Men have played at godhood before. All have fallen.”

“The Royal Fleet is headed north to blockade White Harbor–maybe force it to surrender. Once that city is secured, we’ll be able to launch a two-pronged invasion and sweep across the North swiftly and with minimal casualties. That is–of course–assuming all goes well, which I’d assume it won’t. But, I pray to all the gods that all goes well.” Daemon finished.

Brynden shrugged, a small motion lost in the dark. His lips moved. And, for a moment, it seemed as though he wished to say something. But then that moment passed in silence. Brynden shook his head. “One can only hope. Those who wield magic can never truly be predicted. And this Jason Lee is a sorcerer unlike any other.”