The Bone King, Chapter 52

Part 3 of What?#1 (The Ghidorah one)

"Do you truly believe the Others will soon come for us, Great One?" Torrhen Stark, King of Winter, asked in a low voice. His breath turned to frost as it drifted on the icy wind. His dark eyes swept the horizon, narrowing against the glare of snow and endless white. Beyond the Wall, the frozen wasteland stretched out like the world's edge, stark and merciless. Somewhere out there, the unseen enemy stirred. Torrhen exhaled sharply, his gaze dropping to the figures below.


The Wildlings – no, the Free Folk – moved like dark specks against the snow as they raised homes and dug at the frostbitten earth. Smoke curled up from their crude chimneys, a mark of the fragile peace that now bound them to the North. Torrhen's jaw tightened. Many of his bannermen still cursed Jason Lee's decree, muttering their discontent behind closed doors. Yet none dared defy the Boner Lord and God Emperor of the East. Not when the golden shadow of Ghidorah could blot out the sun itself.


Torrhen had seen it once, the three-headed dragon. Even now, he felt his knees stiffen at the memory of wings vast enough to shroud entire valleys, and eyes that burned like molten gold. A single roar had split the air, louder than any storm, shaking the marrow in his bones. No Northern Lord – no man – could stand against such power and live, not even the Targaryens and their Dragons.


Then again, was it not only a few moons ago that Visenya Targaryen offered herself to Jason Lee to secure peace between the two nations? That meant the Targaryen dynasty only had two dragons now.


By the Emperor's will, the Wildlings now tilled Northern soil. They were no longer the enemy, but a protectorate of the North, their freedom bound to duty. It took quite a while to hammer out the details of that particular arrangement, but – by the will of Jason Lee – it was done. And now, a new power was rising in the North. Torrhen's lips pressed into a thin line. And all of it... because of a story. A tale of an ancient enemy, a night without end.


Beside him, Jason Lee stood silent, a figure of unyielding power. His dark coat, trimmed with the fur of some long-extinct beast, caught the wind. He stood still, unbothered by the biting cold, his eyes fixed on the snow-covered expanse beyond the Wall. His presence radiated something Torrhen could only call otherworldly. A force that did not belong in this world, nor feared it. There were those who believed that Jason Lee himself was far greater than Ghidorah, whose wings could flatten mountains. There were stories of his conquest from Essos, of Jason Lee uttering simple words and reducing entire cities to ashes or draining the lives of entire armies. It was said that he massacred the Dothraki with but a single word and sent their bones into the depths of the Dothraki Sea, with only a handful of them surviving to tell of it.


Jason's golden eyes gleamed faintly as Torrhen's question hung in the air. Finally, he spoke, his tone light, almost casual, but carrying a weight that pressed down like iron. "Yep."


The single word cut through the icy silence.


Torrhen blinked, startled by the simplicity of the reply. He opened his mouth, but Jason continued, his gaze unwavering. "The only god in this world that matters to me, the Great Other, stirs in its realm. It marshals its forces even now, like a little bitch."


Torrhen frowned, his shoulders stiffening. He glanced back toward the Wall, its ancient stones veined with frost. "Can we not strike first?"


Jason's lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. "No."


His hand rose, gloved fingers brushing the hilt of his blade, one he apparently discovered after venturing forth into the burning heart of Valyria. "Even with Ghidorah, I can't assail its territory. It's not a matter of power. It's a matter of the rules."


Rules. Torrhen's brow furrowed deeper. His hands clenched behind his back. He wanted to ask what rules, but the words stuck in his throat. He looked again to the horizon, seeing nothing, and yet feeling everything – the weight of the storm that had not yet come.


Jason's voice broke the silence once more.


"It will come for us soon," he said. His tone was steady, but his eyes flicked briefly to Torrhen, as if testing him. "And we shall be ready."


Torrhen straightened at that, his breath sharp in his chest. His mind raced to his people, to his children and the generations that would come after.


"And if we are not?" he asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them.



Jason turned to him, his golden eyes ageless and cold.


"Then your line will fall," he said simply. "But that's not your concern, mortal. Your descendants will face the storm, while you shall lay beneath the ground as bones. No, your concern is making sure you still have a line when the time comes."


The weight of those words settled like frost in Torrhen's bones. His eyes darted back to the Wall, his heart pounding harder now, though he kept his face still. Somewhere, far beyond that ancient barrier, the enemy gathered. The tales of the Long Night, of dead things that walked and winter that would not end, no longer seemed like stories.


Jason turned back to the horizon, his expression unreadable. Torrhen's fists clenched again, his knuckles white. Below them, the Wildlings worked on, toiling against the doom that threatened them all. They knew, firsthand, that the Others walked in the blinding snow. They knew and understood the threat. After all, it made little sense for Bran the Builder to create the Wall, a structure of ice and magic, to ward off just the Wildlings. No, it had to have been to ward off a far greater threat, like the Others, who brought with them a generation of night and darkness and cold. "I shall prepare the North, Great One. Dragon glass shall be prepared and stockpiled. When the Others come, my line shall not be extinguished."


The Great One patted him on the shoulder and chuckled. "Very good. I like the initiative. Keep it up and I might grant your kingdom another boon."


Torrhen bowed. "My daughter-"


"-Is safe and sound and right where she wants to be." Jason Lee interrupted. "Honestly. She came to me of her own volition and, just the same, she is free to leave whenever she wishes. Your daughter is no prisoner of mine. All the same, she's making quite the name for herself in the gladiatorial arenas. Perhaps, one day, you may visit and watch her fight; it's quite the spectacle."


Torrhen breathed a sigh of relief. "Then... perhaps I shall do just that, Great One."


"Good." Jason Lee smiled, but the warmth didn't reach his eyes. They darkened, a shadow creeping over the golden glow within them. "Now, I'm off to King's Landing. Time to remind the king and queen not to push their luck."


His smile twisted, sharp and humorless.


"The only reason I haven't reduced their whole kingdom to ash for that little stunt is Visenya. She's grown on me." His voice dipped, low and cold. "But even the incest lizards need a reminder every now and then."


Torrhen's brow twitched, the corner of his mouth tightening. Incest lizards. He swallowed his immediate reaction and instead focused on the man before him, his face carefully blank.


"Are you referring to the Merchant Fleet incident, Great One?" His voice carried the weight of careful respect, something Torrhen had to practice so that he may speak in the presence of Jason Lee, without being torn apart by the Great One's awesome power.


Jason's gaze flicked to him, his expression unreadable. Torrhen shifted, suppressing the urge to clear his throat.


News traveled sluggishly through the North, but it traveled nonetheless. The story had reached Winterfell just days prior, the tale carried in whispered tones over mead halls and hearth fires. A fleet of Dornish merchants – ships heavy with silks and spices – had been set upon and burned by the Targaryens, unaware of the trade pact that bound Dorne to the Empire of the East.


Many Northerners had braced for a storm of fire and fury, expecting Ghidorah's wings to darken the skies over the South. Yet, days turned to weeks, and King's Landing still stood. Torrhen had wondered why. Now, he knew.


Jason exhaled, a sound heavy with restraint. His gloved hand brushed the hilt of his sword, the faint creak of leather breaking the silence.


"I could've sent Ghidorah," he said, the words soft but carrying an edge that made Torrhen's stomach twist. "Could've turned King's Landing into a crater and left the ashes for the wind. It wouldn't even have taken my good boy a whole day to do that. Or any effort, really."


Torrhen's shoulders stiffened. He glanced at Jason's face, searching for a crack in his calm, but found none.


Jason's lips curled faintly.


"I didn't, though. Do you know why?" He didn't wait for an answer.


"Because Visenya knows how to play her hand. Clever girl, that one. Keeps her brothers in check. Aegon..." Jason waved a hand dismissively, as if the great Targaryen conqueror were no more than a bothersome fly. "Aegon doesn't concern me. Rhaenys... well, she's harmless. But Visenya..."


He trailed off, his eyes narrowing, distant. "She's the one who understands what I am. And, she's growing on me, the wife I never wanted or expected... but there's a ton of great chemistry there, honestly."


Torrhen nodded slowly, though he wasn't entirely sure he understood either. He cleared his throat, the cold air burning his lungs. "And the fleet, Great One? The pact?"


Jason's gaze snapped back to him, sharp and sudden. Torrhen's spine stiffened.


"The pact holds," Jason said, his voice like stone. "And they'll honor it, Torrhen. Even Aegon will learn."


His smile returned, faint and wolfish. "He just needs a reminder."


Torrhen didn't reply immediately. He stared past Jason, toward the southern horizon, imagining the chaos that would erupt when the Great One descended upon King's Landing. He could see it clearly – golden wings blotting out the sun, the roar of the three-headed dragon shaking the city's foundations, Ghidorah, whose bulk was so great it could flatten mountains.


Jason's voice broke his thoughts.


"They're lucky I'm patient." He looked back to the endless white of the North, his gaze thoughtful.


"Kindness," he said, almost to himself, "is often mistaken for weakness. I'll remind them that it isn't, because I think I've been too kind for too long."


Torrhen said nothing, though his jaw tightened. Somewhere, far to the South, a king and queen still ruled. But for how much longer, he wondered?






The streets of King's Landing bustled with their usual chaos. Merchants shouted over one another, peddling their wares in the crowded markets. Children darted between legs, chasing each other with shrieks of laughter. Rats scurried along the gutters, picking at scraps tossed from balconies. Above it all, the Red Keep loomed, its towers casting long shadows over the city below.


Boremund, a cobbler's apprentice, hunched over his workbench near Flea Bottom. His fingers were raw and cracked from stitching boots all day, but his mind drifted to thoughts of a hot meal. Maybe a bowl of brown, if he could pinch a few extra coppers from his master.


And then, the ground shuddered, faint at first, like a distant rumble of thunder. Boremund froze, needle in hand. A second tremor followed, stronger. A clay cup rattled off the edge of his bench, shattering on the dirt floor.


"What in the Seven Hells...?" he muttered, standing.


Outside, the usual din of the city faltered. Voices quieted, replaced by murmurs and the hurried thuds of boots. The trembling grew stronger. A low hum, deep and resonant, filled the air. It wasn't thunder.


It was a roar.


A scream cut through the streets, high and sharp, followed by another. Boremund rushed to the door, shoving it open just as a shadow passed over the city. He looked up – and his knees buckled.


The sky was gone.


A vast expanse of shimmering gold filled his vision. Wings, enormous and endless, spread out like storm clouds blotting out the sun. Wind howled through the streets as those wings flapped, the force so great it knocked carts over and sent loose tiles from rooftops crashing to the ground. Dust and debris choked the air.


People ran, their faces pale, eyes wide with terror. Mothers clutched their children to their chests, their skirts whipping around their legs. Merchants abandoned their stalls, their goods spilling into the streets.


"Run!" someone shouted. "The gods have sent a demon!"


Boremund's legs refused to move. He stumbled backward, pressing himself against the wall of the shop as a golden head, massive and crowned with jagged horns, came into view. Then another. And another. Three heads, each the size of a castle, swayed above the city, their eyes glowing like molten fire. Their mouths parted, revealing rows of teeth sharp enough to cleave stone.


The roar came again, deafening. Windows shattered in its wake. The sheer force of it knocked Boremund to his knees, his ears ringing.


In the distance, two smaller shapes rose into the air. Dragons. Balerion and Meraxes. Their dark forms darted toward the great beast, their wings beating furiously.


Ghidorah turned one head, as if noticing them for the first time. Its golden scales shimmered, catching the sunlight that managed to pierce the haze. A single flap of its wings sent a gale through the city, flattening hovels and hurling children off their feet.


Boremund's mouth went dry as the great dragon tilted its central head, releasing a torrent of lightning. The sky split open, blinding light engulfing Balerion. The Black Dread let out a piercing shriek, twisting in midair before spiraling down, smoke trailing from its scorched wings. For a moment, he thought the Black Dread had died, before it began flapping its wings once more, soaring into the sky – away.


Meraxes wheeled in panic, her screeches sharp and frantic. She flapped higher, desperate to escape, but another head followed her. Another arc of lightning cracked the air. Meraxes fled, vanishing into the clouds.


Boremund stared in disbelief as the two Targaryen dragons – the symbols of power, the beasts that had conquered Westeros – were reduced to fleeing shadows.


Ghidorah roared again, louder this time, a sound that shook the heavens. The golden beast hovered above the Red Keep, its wings casting a shadow so vast it swallowed the entire city. Boremund pressed his forehead to the ground, trembling. Around him, the people of King's Landing screamed, wept, and begged for mercy.


Above it all, Jason Lee stood upon Ghidorah's back, his dark coat whipping in the wind. He raised a hand, golden eyes gleaming as he surveyed the chaos below.


"Let this be your reminder," his voice boomed, carried over the wind. "You exist because I allow it. Nothing more."


Boremund closed his eyes, pressing his hands over his ears as the roar of the three-headed dragon echoed through the city, drowning out all else.





Visenya's eyes widened as she watched the twin shadows of Balerion and Meraxes fade, their massive forms dwindling until they disappeared into the shrouding clouds. She clenched the armrests of her throne, her fingers pale against the smooth surface. The dragons had fled, their roars of fury replaced by cries of fear. Her jaw tightened, and she exhaled slowly, releasing the tension inch by inch.



Her husband turned to her from his throne. It was a beautiful, impossible thing - crafted of ivory bound to Ghidorah himself through means that defied the natural laws of the world. The colossal dragon's movements never shook the construct, no matter how hard the winds howled or how the ground trembled. Her own throne, carved in similar fashion, stood not a foot away, equally steady.



Jason Lee smiled at her, his golden eyes aglow with amusement. He leaned back, utterly at ease, his gloved hand resting on the hilt of the blade he had carried back from the burning ruins of Valyria. His presence filled the room, even more than the enormous chamber of blackened stone should have allowed.



"Did you enjoy the show, my dear wife?" he asked, his tone light, almost playful.



Visenya's lips pressed into a thin line. Her eyes flicked back to the clouds where the dragons had disappeared, then to Jason. No doubt, Aegon and Rhaenys were panicking hard. Her shoulders relaxed.



"I did not," she said at last, her tone measured. She straightened in her seat, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "But I appreciate your restraint, dear husband. My brother can be... rash at times. Quick to wroth."



Jason shrugged, the motion casual, but there was a glint of steel behind his smile.



"And now, he won't forget the gap that exists between him and me." His gaze drifted to the windows, where the darkened sky still pulsed faintly with the lingering storm wrought by Ghidorah's presence. "Neither will the rest of Westeros."



Visenya inclined her head.



"No, they will not." Her voice was softer now, laced with something she didn't let rise to the surface - something between relief and resignation. She let her fingers trail along the edge of her throne, feeling the strange, unyielding smoothness beneath her touch.



Jason chuckled, the sound low and warm, yet carrying an edge that sent a shiver down her spine.



"It's not every day I get to visit this backwater continent," he said, rising fluidly to his feet. His coat shifted with the motion, its fur trim catching the faint light that spilled in from the high, arched windows. "Might as well enjoy the sights while I'm here."



He turned to her, his golden gaze locking onto hers. "Got a place you'd like to visit?"



Visenya blinked, caught off guard. She hadn't expected him to ask her, not so plainly. She looked away for a moment, her fingers stilling. "



I've always wished to see the vaunted labyrinths of black stone that sleep beneath the Hightower," she said finally, her voice thoughtful.



Jason's smile widened, showing the faintest glint of his teeth. He extended a hand to her, his movements smooth and deliberate. "Alright, then that's where we're headed."



Visenya hesitated for only a moment before rising to her feet. Her silken gown whispered against the stone as she stepped forward, her hand sliding into his. His grip was warm, firm but not crushing. She glanced up at him, catching the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes, and felt a strange, weightless sensation stir in her chest.