What if? #6 Requested by the Commissioner
The torches in the Great Hall of the Twins flickered, casting dancing shadows across stone walls. The Freys feasted with abandon, goblets of sour wine in every hand. Their laughter carried an ugly edge, loud and careless. They bantered about the "festivities," recalling the dagger thrusts and spilled blood of that infamous wedding. Servants scurried across the floor, trays piled high with roast meats and fresh bread. Scraps littered the long tables, along with congealed gravy and greasy bones.
In one corner, a young serving maid kept her head low, trying not to listen to the Freys' boasts. Walder Frey, perched at the high table, smacked his lips with each sip of wine. His brood gathered around him, vying for his approval. The old man leered at them with watery eyes, mocking those who still trembled at the memory of the Stark boy's throat being slit. Several sons guffawed at the recollection, describing each spurt of crimson as though it were some grand show. Walder grinned, baring yellowed teeth, his jowls quivering.
A thunderous sound shook the ground. The table rattled, slopping wine onto the rushes. The youngest Freys blinked, arms flailing as they tried to steady themselves. Walder's mug tipped over, and he thrust out a hand to catch it. The tremor intensified. One of the support columns groaned. Dust sifted from the vaulted ceiling. Men stood abruptly, eyes darting. Some reached for swords belted at their hips. A cousin with spindly legs staggered forward, bracing against the table.
The tremors came again, deeper this time. Servants screamed and scrambled toward the walls. The entire hall seemed to quake, sending dishes clattering to the floor. In the courtyard beyond, frightened neighs of horses cut through the night. Walder rose, knuckles white on the edge of the high table. His throat bobbed. He parted his lips to speak.
The floor cracked beneath his feet. A slow, agonizing moan reverberated through the stone. Walder's eyes went wide. A nephew near him cursed under his breath. Another tremor tore along the floor, splitting the tiles. The hall erupted in chaos. People stumbled, some falling to their knees. A Frey guard tried to shout an order, but the words died in his throat as something burst through the cracks.
Skeletal hands, twisted and half-wrapped in shreds of dried flesh, clawed up from beneath the stones. A stench rose, gagging those close by. Gasps of terror hissed across the hall. Another hand erupted, then another, followed by forearms and shoulder bones, as if the very dead crawled from their graves. Soon, the floor was a graveyard of shriveled remains, each figure crawling from the black depths. Some wore scraps of corroded armor; others had only the tatters of rotted clothing. Their jaws hung slack, empty eye sockets scanning the living.
Walder clung to the table, mouth working noiselessly. Sons and daughters shrank behind pillars, pressing themselves flat. The undead advanced, bony fingers flexing in a silent march of death. Panic crashed through the hall. Freys shoved each other in a frantic attempt to flee. The doors, heavy and barred, rattled. Suddenly, the gates to the castle burst open beyond the hall, as if shoved by an invisible force. More figures—soldiers clad in dark plate—flooded the corridors, pressing into the Great Hall with shield and blade in hand. Their expressions were grim, eyes steeled with purpose.
A tall, slender warrior in black plate seized a Frey guard by the collar, slammed him to the ground, and forced his wrists behind his back. Others did the same, pinning each member of the Frey household they could reach. Screams filled the air. Mothers clutched their children, only to be dragged apart and thrown facedown against the tiled floor. A swarm of undead soldiers spread through the hall, manacles clinking as they bound wrists and ankles. Old Walder hissed and flailed, but a gauntlet crashed into his rib cage, knocking the wind from him. He coughed, tears filling his eyes. Sons, daughters, grandsons, and granddaughters were herded together, eyes wild with fear. Not one found an escape.
Walder's voice shook when he finally spoke.
"Who dares?" His words ended in a rasp.
Motion stirred at the rear of the hall. The dim light struggled to pierce the gloom, but the soldiers parted. A figure in a heavy, dark coat strode forward. Its collar bristled with tufts of some foreign beast's fur. His boots tapped gently against the bloodstained floor, ignoring the writhing remains at his feet. He halted before Walder, who had been forced to his knees. The old man's face contorted with a mix of terror and confusion. The tall figure said nothing at first. He merely gazed down, his eyes flickering gold in the torchlight.
Walder swallowed, his jowls trembling.
"You—" he began.
The man, Jason Lee, shifted his head slightly. A hush fell. Even the sounds of the undead rummaging through the corners of the hall seemed to ebb. Walder's breath caught. One of his grandsons tried to shuffle forward, but an undead guard jabbed a blade at his throat.
Jason glanced at the trembling Freys, his expression calm, almost indifferent. He turned away, stepping toward the dais. In a soft voice that still carried across the hall, he spoke. "All of them."
A soldier bowed his head.
"Yes, Great One." His voice dripped with finality.
Jason paused at the threshold, not bothering to look back. "Leave none alive."
Walder's eyes darted around in panic. He mouthed wordless pleas. Blood roared in his ears. One of the skeletal hands latched onto his calf. With a horrific yank, the old man toppled sideways, mewling like a frightened hound. The rest of House Frey erupted into wails and screams. Flesh parted from bone. Blades sank into throats. Limbs thrashed, scattering chairs and tankards. A wave of undead crashed upon the kneeling prisoners, dragging them to the floor. Floorboards split under the sudden weight. Torch flames guttered and spat. The Great Hall turned into a slaughterhouse.
Jason continued forward, exiting the hall, leaving a swirl of chaos in his wake. A stray beam of moonlight illuminated his face, its calm lines undisturbed by the carnage behind him. Soldiers parted to allow him through the gate. He stepped over the shattered timber and out into the courtyard. Around him, the castle yard quaked with more skeletal hands erupting from muddy ground. Horses stampeded in a blind frenzy, eyes rolling, the stench of rot thick in the air.
He paused only once, glancing back at the fortress that housed so many traitors. The screams inside echoed like a dirge. Another tremor rippled through the stone, toppling an archer's tower. Men on the ramparts lost their footing and fell, their cries cut short against the jagged rocks below. Jason exhaled, shoulders set, then turned his gaze to the road.
His punishment was done. House Frey had been judged.
Rows of highborn ladies and lords thronged the courtyard of the Red Keep. The day was bright, the sun uncomfortably hot, reflecting off polished steel and jewel-encrusted gowns. The gathered audience formed a loose circle around a makeshift stage, where costumed fools reenacted the events of the Red Wedding. A jowly actor in a wolf's pelt staggered about, clutching at a fake wound, while the crowd tittered with forced amusement. King Joffrey lounged on a cushioned seat, perched in the shade of a canopy. He sipped from a golden chalice, wearing a smug grin. By his side, Queen Cersei tapped her nails against her armrest, her eyes fixed on her son's every whim.
The performance continued, crossing the line from farce into cruelty. The crowd's uneasy laughter and whispered remarks floated in the stifling air. Some averted their eyes, remembering the actual horror of that night. Joffrey's mood remained high, though. He pointed and shouted orders at the pantomime actors, demanding they bleed more or die more dramatically. A hush rippled through the assembly when the actor playing Lord Walder Frey stepped onstage, chuckling in an exaggerated old-man voice.
Joffrey's eyes narrowed with glee. He clapped his hands.
"Yes, yes!" he yelled. "Show me how you sever the wolf's head. My guests must learn the cost of disloyalty."
The actor in the Frey costume seized a prop dagger and held it to the pantomime of Robb Stark's throat. The crowd murmured, some half-smiles curling at the corners of their lips. Others looked away, brows knitted. The false Frey jerked his wrist, pantomiming a savage cut. A hush followed.
Suddenly, the Robb Stark actor stopped mid-wail. His eyes bulged. He dropped to his knees, clutching at his throat with both hands. An eerie rasp left his lips. The crowd exchanged wary glances, uncertain if this was part of the act. A strangled cough echoed across the courtyard. The man collapsed face-first onto the stage, his limbs spasming. Several people in the front row stepped back, eyes darting to each other. Whispers rose.
Joffrey's brow furrowed. He leaned forward.
"What's he doing?" he snapped. "Get up! I want more blood."
A swirl of wind tore through the courtyard, rustling silk dresses and rattling the banners overhead. The temperature seemed to drop. Guards at the perimeter shifted their weight, unsure. Something rustled behind the stage curtains. Footsteps. Soft and measured, as though made by a lone figure. A hush fell over the crowd. Cersei half-rose from her seat, her eyes darting toward the dais. She pressed her lips together. A chorus of hushed gasps rippled as a presence emerged.
Jason Lee stepped onto the stage, each movement deliberate, his coat trailing behind him like a living shadow. His gaze swept the crowd, taking in their widened eyes and trembling lips. The leftover breeze swirled around him, lifting dust into golden motes in the sunlight. Joffrey's knuckles whitened around the stem of his chalice. Servants nearest the stage took hurried steps backward, nearly tripping over their own feet.
No one cheered. No one laughed. They recognized him instantly: the man who'd resurrected armies from dust, who'd toppled empires in Essos, who'd commanded monsters beyond any mortal's comprehension.
The Necromancer Lord. King of the Bone Zone.
Jason stopped next to the limp body of the Robb Stark actor. The man groaned quietly, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Jason lowered a gloved hand, hovering it over the actor's chest. A faint flicker of greenish energy sparked between his fingertips. The actor's struggles ceased. A hush thick as grave dirt descended.
Joffrey scowled, pressing himself up from his chair.
"You dare interrupt my feast?" Spittle flecked his lips. "You—whoever you think you are—"
Jason's gaze drifted to him, calm and unflinching. The faint swirl of power around him crackled, causing the stage boards to splinter. Joffrey's tirade faltered. He tried to speak, but a dryness stilled his voice.
Jason turned, addressing the king in a cool, measured tone.
"I've tolerated your antics long enough, little king." He paused, eyes flicking over the trembling courtiers. "This is your last warning."
Joffrey's face reddened. His free hand clenched into a fist. He drew in a breath as if to shout again, but Cersei grabbed his forearm, her nails digging into his flesh. He jerked away from her. A cluster of Kingsguard stepped forward, swords half-drawn, forming a barrier between Jason and the royal seats.
Jason ignored them, his voice carrying effortlessly over the courtyard.
"Leave the Starks alone. You have meddled enough. Release Sansa." He lifted his chin, gaze cold.
Several lords and ladies stirred. Some turned to each other, confusion and caution in their eyes. Sansa stood at the edge of the crowd, her hands clutched together, lips parted. She shifted, surprise and fear warring across her face. Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths.
Joffrey lifted his chin, glaring with that haughty tilt he used to mask his youth. "She belongs to me. She's mine to torment. Besides, I am the King. I will not be threatened."
A soft snarl formed on Jason's lips. He flicked a hand. One of the Kingsguard collapsed to his knees, sword clattering away. The onlookers recoiled, stepping back in alarm. Even Cersei's eyes widened, her posture rigid. Joffrey bristled, but he faltered when Jason's stare settled on him again.
"You waste your last chance," Jason said. "So be it."
A rumble rolled through the courtyard. The ground vibrated, shaking the stage. Several nobles stumbled. Dust fell from the battlements. People cried out, grabbing each other for support. The tremors intensified, stronger than the aftershocks of any typical quake. Across the yard, a stable collapsed in on itself, sending frightened horses running. The floor buckled in cracks, some of them zigzagging dangerously close to the royal dais.
Then the ground ripped apart. A massive shape burst up from beneath the stone. Chunks of masonry and dirt soared into the air. A serpentine body shot high, its length spanning the entire courtyard and beyond. Screams erupted in every corner of the castle. Scales glistened in the sunlight, each one as large as a shield. The creature's head loomed, wedge-shaped, with curved fangs the size of spears.
Joffrey stumbled backward, nearly toppling from his seat. Cersei's face went pale, her eyes darting between the ground and the monstrosity rising above the keep. The Kingsguard, battered by flying debris, tried to shield the royal family, but it was useless. The beast soared on columns of shifting earth, moving as though the stones themselves were water.
Guards shouted from the walls, loosing crossbow bolts at the creature, but the arrows bounced harmlessly off those iron-hard scales. The monster roared, producing a sound that rattled every window in the Red Keep. A tail slammed into a tower, crumbling its stone like dry bread. The name whispered in corners of Essos: Dalamadur. A dragon, but no wings. A serpent drake that slithered along the land and broke mountains beneath its coils.
AN: Chapter 58 is out on (Pat)reon!