(Omake Chapter, feel free to skip)
King's Landing was ruined. The Red Keep was now little more than a smoking wreck, its walls reduced to a bubbling, burning lake of molten rock. The ground was cracked and torn, massive craters and blasted furrows as far as the eye could see. Any semblance of civilization had been torn down, now little more than smoking remnants on the ground. The Sept was gone, reduced to rubble. Hundreds of thousands of people dead, many of them roasted to death or flattened beneath their own homes. Much of the walls around the city remained upright, but that was only because the Necromancer's dragon hadn't bothered with it as much as it did with the rest of King's Landing.
Though, to be perfectly honest, calling that thing a dragon would be akin to referring to a lion as a cat – probably correct, but definitely not right either.
Where that thing was now, Otto did not know. The only consolation now, Otto figured, was the fact that Dragonstone and its surrounding lands apparently suffered the same fate. No doubt, the Necromancer's undead legions were dragging Rhaenyra and her court, in chains, straight to Necromancer himself, who'd now taken refuge atop a hill, sitting upon a throne of blackened bones. Otto had never seen the man, but – like everyone else – he'd heard the stories, the whispers. The smallfolk spoke of him as though he was a god. The faith spoke of him as though he were a demon from the seven hells.
Personally, any man who can raise the dead to do his bidding and tear down the walls of a fortress with but a wave of a hand was as close to an actual god as anyone could get in this world. And that was exactly what the Sorcerer did. Otto hadn't seen the act himself, but he saw the aftermath. The Necromancer tore down the walls of Highgarden after Lady Lara Tyrell, mother and regent of Lyonell Tyrell, insulted one of his companions and even, if the whispers were true, tried to seduce him. Outraged, the Necromancer unleashed his foul sorcery and now Highgarden had no walls – nothing but rubble. They were lucky in that regard. The Necromancer could've very easily chosen to storm the seat of House Tyrell with his army of the living dead and there would not have been anything they could've done to prevent their extinction.
So, the Necromancer was a man who showed mercy whenever he deemed it, whenever or wherever he saw fit. By all accounts, the Necromancer had no interest in any crown or any throne. He would've gone off to Essos if not for one of Rhaenyra's bastards, Jacaerys Velaryon, buggering him to join their side of the war. The bastard must've fumbled his attempt as the Necromancer sent him back to Dragonstone, lacking hair, which was how he neared the moniker of Jacaerys the Bald. Whatever the case, the bastard did something that forced the Necromancer into the conflict, bringing along his legion of undying soldiers and that thing that was pretending to be a dragon. If Otto had to take a guess, the reason for the Necromancer's interference was simple: annoyance.
And so, if his analysis of the man was even remotely close to the truth, then reason and diplomacy weren't off the table. There was nothing more to be done now. Whatever balance of power once existed in Westeros was now gone, now utterly dominated by the Necromancer who didn't care for power. This was a chance, Otto mused, to save what was left of his grandchild's kingdom and secure the future of both House Hightower and House Targaryen.
House Hightower wasn't in too much trouble, frankly. But House Targaryen was an entirely different story.
Every single Targaryen Dragon killed, their bodies torn to bits and scattered all over the countryside, boiling blackblood hissing and staining the soil as their flesh steamed and smoked. Every single dragon that belonged to either side. Otto was pretty sure he saw Vhagar's head in the fields outside of King's Landing, its massive tongue sticking out, smoke and steam rising from its bloody nostrils. The Necromancer's dragon attacked every other dragon in Westeros, brutalizing them with teeth and claw and emerald fire. It was said that not even Vhagar, largest and most powerful of all living dragons, stood a chance before the Necromancer's accursed monstrosity. And now, bereft of dragons, the Targaryens suddenly were little more than lost Valyrians, much like the Velaryons and the Celtigars or the myriad of white-haired miscreants on Lys. Without their dragons, the Targaryens were nothing. And, thanks to the Necromancer's efforts, they technically didn't even have a throne anymore. King's Landing was functionally destroyed.
Once again, the only consolation was the fact that the Necromancer did the same to Rhaenyra's side, killing all of their dragons in a one-sided massacre if the reports were to be believed.
As of this moment, Otto mused bitterly, there no longer existed a central power in Westeros. A part of him honestly admired the Necromancer for what he accomplished, no matter how vehemently disgusting his power over the dead was for Otto. No other, beyond Aegon the Conqueror himself, had accomplished so much in so little time. Honestly, if the Necromancer willed it, he could crown himself king, establish a new state religion, take on ten brides, and no one could stop him. The man had power beyond his dragon – detestable power, to be certain, but power nonetheless. None could challenge him. Not even the greatest Shadowbinders or Red Priests could claim to be capable of tearing down the walls of a castle with a wave of their hands alone.
There was a power vacuum in Westeros and it was only the Necromancer's presence that was halting the power grab that was sure to occur. Lords would rise up, sensing the weakness of the throne. Armies had already prepared to march for Aegon and Rhaenyra, cut short by the Necromancer's arrival. But now, they'd be marching for their lord – for power, for territory. After all, within the blood of lords was the lineage of the old kings of Westeros, from a time before Aegon the Conqueror, before the Seven Kingdoms ever came to be.
Despite claiming to have no interest in the acquisition of power, the Necromancer maintained a large following of living – men and women from White Harbor, no doubt, where he was first sighted. They called themselves the Death Knights. Whether or not they were truly knighted, Otto didn't know – or care. What he did know was that their weapons and armor were akin to Valyrian steel – only, instead of ripples, engraved upon the metal were faces, screaming in agony. Among those who escorted them now, armored – head to toe – in black plates, was a Death Knight, Ser Arthas of White Harbor.
"Please, I just need to know if my children are safe," Aegon II, formerly the King of Westeros, hands bound in chains and dragged by animated skeletons, pleaded with Ser Arthas. It was difficult not to sympathize with his grandchild. After all, Aegon did not desire the throne. The boy accepted his role only because he feared for the lives of his own children, fearing what Rhaenyra would do to them when she ascended the Iron Throne. That madwoman was not exactly known for her mercy... or restraint.
Ser Arthas raised a hand and the dead paused. The Death Knight, eyes glowing that same eerie glow that was present in the eyes of all those who followed the Necromancer, turned and nodded. The man exuded an aura of darkness that put everyone around him on edge. Otto's heart quickened in his chest. He was getting too old for this. "Your children are safe, Aegon II Targaryen. My lord has no interest in taking the lives of children. In fact, they're safer now than you will ever be."
Aegon nodded and lowered his head, now bereft of a crown. Walking alongside them, similarly bound by chains, were Aemond, Helaena, Daeron, and Otto's own daughter, Alicent.
"What will happen to us once we reach your lord, Ser?" Helaena asked. The girl looked pale, white as snow, hands quivering uncontrollably, even as Alicent, bless her heart, did her best to console her daughter.
Ser Arthas waved a hand and they resumed their march. "That is for my lord to decide – not I. But I believe that you will be judged for your sins against the world of men, just as he will judge Rhaenyra and her followers for theirs. Mind your words in his presence; they may be your last."
They were led to a large hill outside the city – a hill that wasn't there before. Otto noted that it was made almost entirely of blackened bones and roasted corpses. And built atop it was a macabre throne of skeletal remnants. Gathered around the foot of the... Corpse Hill were the other Death Knights, eyes ablaze with ghastly colors, which left faint trails in the air whenever they moved. And behind them stood the undead legions of the Necromancer, though his dragon remained elusive. Otto was glad, however, that that thing was nowhere close to them.
"Hail the Lord of Boners!" Odd title. A woman, whom Otto assumed was the Necromancer's direct vassal, declared for all to hear. She too, like all the others, wore black armor, upon which were imprinted screaming faces, though she carried no weapon. "Hail the Sorcerer Supreme! Kneel before Lord Jason Lee, King of the Living and the Dead! Ultimate Commander of the Unpaid Interns! Kneel, mortal fools!"
The Necromancer himself wore black robes that concealed much of his form, save for his face. Like his Death Knights, the man's eyes glowed a baleful blue-green hue. Unlike his followers, however, the Necromancer's presence was heavy. Otto didn't know what it was, but he felt the man's presence, looming over them. It was like standing next to a dragon. But the Necromancer was even greater and more potent. Though, Otto mused, he'd never heard of a House Lee before. And, surely, the Necromancer was no smallfolk. His bearing was regal and so was his face, an air of nobility about him.
Putting on a mask of calm, Otto knelt, hoping and praying to all the Gods that his grandchildren were wise enough to do the same. He glanced at them and, fortunately, they did as told, though it was clear that Aemond, ever the prideful one, did so with great rage. Foolish boy. Perhaps, the loss of one eye rendered him blind to many truths. He was nothing here. His lineage afforded him nothing, before the Necromancer, who commanded the living and the dead.
"Hail, Lord Jason Lee," Otto mirrored. "King of the Living and the Dead!"
That act, he noted immediately, garnered the approving nods and gazes of the Necromancer's followers.
"You're Otto Hightower, yeah?" The Necromancer spoke, standing from his throne of bones. "You may stand."
Otto did as told and did so, even as his knees ached and creaked like aged wood. "I am at your mercy, Lord Jason Lee."
"Yeah, I know," The Necromancer said, shrugging. He glanced at Otto's grandchildren, but did not speak to them. Instead, Lord Jason Lee turned to Otto once more. "I'll be honest with you. I get it. If power is there for the taking, then it's only natural that we'd grab it and take it. No problem with that. I get it. Such is the way of the world. Don't even try to explain it as you doing good for the realm; you did it because you wanted to cement your lineage upon the Iron Throne. And, again, I get it. You did what you did because you could. No problem with that. I gotta ask, though; do you think Rhaenyra would be a terrible ruler because she's a woman or is it because she's simply not equipped to be an actual ruler? Answer truthfully. You tell a single falsehood and I'll have your grandchildren cut up and used as fertilizer for the field of grain I intend to put here."
Otto swallowed thickly. Fortunately, however, the truth was simpler than most people believed. "King Viserys never trained her to rule. That woman sired bastards aplenty; she lives without restraint and follows only her own whims and fancies, thinking herself worthy of the crown. Once, I supported her claim and petitioned Viserys to give her more responsibilities to better prepare her; he refused. And so she grew fat and pompous and spoiled. Aegon, younger though he is, would've made a far better ruler than Rhaenyra. So, I did what I had to do for the future of my family and for what I knew was for the good of the realm."
"Two birds one stone, huh?" The Necromancer smiled. "Fair enough. I'd do the same in your shoes. Now, I suppose you're all wondering why I haven't kill you yet. Well, the truth is also a lot simpler than what you might believe; I actually have no idea what I want to do."
Otto's eyes widened as the Necromancer continued. "So, to make things easier for everyone; we're going to let the fate and chance determine how this day ends for you. Before I toss the dice, however, we're gonna wait for Rhaenyra to arrive with her fuckbuddies."
The flapping of wings from the sky brought everyone's heads up. Otto's eyes widened as it came from the heavens, gleaming crimson, like blood. But its scales, its hide, did not appear as scales. Instead, its whole body was covered in something akin to armor, segmented, crimson and shining, blazing like the sun. A crown of spikes sprouted around its head, at the center of which rested a queer emerald jewel. Actually, a myriad of gold and green spikes sprouted all over its body. It had six limbs, instead of just four, and possessed a head that was large enough to, by Otto's reckoning, swallow leviathans and krakens whole.
Actually, there was a leviathan between its jaws, bleeding and dead.
The rest of its body was larger than any dragon Otto had ever seen, dwarfing even Vhagar by quite a huge margin. It was, perhaps, even bigger than Balerion the Dread – twice as big.
"Ah, my little red lizard is here," The Necromancer smiled as he looked up. "Everyone, I'd like you all to meet Ddraig, the Red Dragon Emperor, my closest friend and ally. He's a bit of an asshole; so, I advice not getting killed by him. His stomach traps your soul."
The dragon descended and landed close to them, the weight of its gargantuan body causing the very ground to shake. It loomed over them and, honestly, it was easy to see why and how a creature of this magnitude was able to make short work of the Targaryen Dragons. The Necromancer waved at his dragon. "Wassup, big dog?"
There came a deep and terrible rumbling from the dragon's throat as it swallowed the leviathan in its mouth. And then, it spoke – its voice like thunder. "Sup."