Rebuilding a castle, or building one from scratch, was the kind of endeavor that normally devoured decades, swallowing whole lifetimes in its construction. It required hundreds, sometimes thousands, of workers, teams of laborers hauling stone and timber, masons carving each block to fit. Mountains of gold vanished into wages, materials, and the endless logistics of feeding and housing everyone involved. Even with careful planning, history was littered with half-finished keeps, abandoned when the lord's coffers ran dry or their ambitions faltered under the weight of reality. In the North, where winters stretched long and bitter, and the land itself seemed to resist the touch of man, such undertakings were rarer still.
But that was how things usually went. That was how things always went, at least, according to historical records. There were a few exceptions here and there, structures that simply could not be explained – castles that'd loomed over the land for thousands upon thousands upon thousands of years, so old no one knew anything about them, made of fused black stone. But, aside from the unusual subjects, castles and keeps all usually went through the same endeavors.
Jason Lee, God of the North, the self-proclaimed Lord of Life and Death, was anything but usual. His skeletal workers moved like clockwork, devoid of hesitation or the weariness of flesh. They did not complain. They did not pause. Under Jason's command, they tore into the ruined remnants of Moat Cailin with a precision and efficiency no living crew could match. Sunlight glinted off their exposed bones as they dismantled ancient walls stone by stone, scraping moss and centuries of grime from each block, uprooting overgrown trees or cutting down grass. Their empty sockets seemed to focus on the task, as if driven by an unseen force far more potent than muscle or will.
Colin stood on a rise overlooking the worksite, hands on his hips, his jaw tightening as he took in the spectacle. Skeletal workers moved in seamless lines, hauling stones on crude sleds fashioned from dead trees stripped of bark. Each movement was purposeful, unerringly precise. Colin leaned forward in awe, the gold links of his Maester's chain clinking faintly.
It was strange. It was terrifying. It was genius.
One skeleton marched past him with half of a keystone balanced on its bony shoulder. Its hollow skull turned toward him briefly, its jaw clicking open and closed as if to acknowledge his presence. Colin stepped back, his boots crunching in the loose gravel, and muttered a quiet prayer to the Seven. He wasn't sure if it was habit or desperation that made him invoke them. Honestly, what with Lord Jason Lee's fantastical abilities, Colin was honestly starting to doubt if the Seven even existed, because a man who could bring the dead back to life, reanimate the bones of long dead creatures, heal the sick, and kill a man with but a gesture, was closer to godhood than any scripture.
Behind him, the faint rustle of parchment drew his attention. Jason Lee, tall and utterly unconcerned with the chaos he orchestrated, held out a rolled sheet of paper. His smirk was as infuriatingly casual as ever and he looked far too pleased with himself. His retinue was here, somewhere, likely assisting in the deconstruction or just training with their new abilities. Lord Jason's death knights were known to linger in the dark and so they were probably hiding in the nearby woods, waiting for sundown; there were only three of them at the moment, but there were thousands who vied for the honor of becoming a Death Knight, nobles and peasants alike. Lady Halga said something about learning how to coordinate entire regiments of undead.
"Colin," he said, his voice carrying a lilt that made the Maester's stomach tighten, "tell me this doesn't look like something out of one of your fancy architecture books."
Colin hesitated, then took the paper, unrolling it carefully. His fingers froze mid-motion, and his eyes narrowed as they skimmed the rough sketches. He tilted the sheet toward the sunlight, his lips pressing into a thin line. What the hell.
"This," he said, holding up the parchment, eyes narrowing, "is ridiculous... my lord."
Jason leaned closer, his grin widening. Oh, he knew that it was ridiculous and did not even bother to hold back. "Ridiculously brilliant, you mean."
"No, my lord," Colin said firmly, jabbing a finger at one particularly ambitious spire. "Ridiculous as in physically impossible. This tower? Too high, with too narrow a base. It'll topple in the first storm. And why are there spikes everywhere? That's too much of a safety hazard, especially for guests."
Jason waved a dismissive hand, turning back toward the skeletal laborers below. "Details, details. That's why you're here, isn't it? To make sure my vision doesn't crumble like... oh, I don't know, everything else in this swamp."
Colin's jaw tightened further, but he bit back a retort. Instead, he glanced down at the workers again, marveling at their efficiency. Without complaint, they dismantled crumbling battlements and ancient gatehouses, stacking the stones neatly in organized piles. Nearby, one skeleton stirred a bubbling cauldron of mortar, its movements unnervingly precise. And it was able to do so without the need for protective equipment, because it was already dead.
"My lord is lucky that he does not have to pay his... err... interns," Colin muttered. The word still felt foreign, but Lord Jason used it often enough that figuring out its meaning wasn't too hard – some form of slavery.
Jason chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder.
"That's the beauty of it, isn't it? No wages, no food, no sleep. Just pure, unfiltered productivity. If I had a gold dragon for every time someone told me this wouldn't work..." He trailed off, gesturing vaguely toward the skeletal horde.
Colin shot him a sideways glance. "You'd have enough to pay for a living crew, my lord?"
Jason barked a laugh, stepping past him to observe the workers. "Oh, Colin. If I had that much gold, I'd probably build something even more ridiculous. A floating castle, maybe."
"Like Deepwood Motte," Colin muttered and shook his head, his grip tightening on the plans. He followed Jason's gaze to where the main keep once stood, its silhouette a jagged ruin against the horizon. The stones were ancient, worn smooth by centuries of rain and wind. They were ugly, battered things, but Jason had insisted on reusing them. "Why waste perfectly good material?" he'd said, grinning like a boy with a shiny new toy.
Colin sighed. "You're sure about this, my lord?"
"Absolutely," Jason replied, his arms crossing over his chest.
"Moat Cailin deserves better than to rot in the muck. Besides," he added, his grin returning, "it's not just about building a castle. It's about making a statement."
"A statement, my lord?" Colin asked flatly. True enough, the most memorable castles were the ones built to match an ego that was almost as great, like Winterfell – or Harrenhal, before it was burned down by an even bigger ego with a dragon.
Jason nodded. "The North is strong, unyielding. And under my protection, it'll be unshakable. This isn't just a castle, Colin. It's a symbol."
Colin pinched the bridge of his nose, his chain clinking softly with the motion. "A symbol that'll fall apart if you don't listen to me about those spires."
"Fine, fine," Jason said, throwing up his hands. "You're the expert. Just make sure it looks intimidating, will you? I want visitors to take one look and think, 'Oh gods, we shouldn't have come here.' Or just piss and shit their pants and die."
Colin snorted despite himself, rolling the plans back up. Below them, the skeletons continued their tireless work, their movements methodical and precise. For all its absurdity, Jason's vision was coming to life. The bones of Moat Cailin's past were being reshaped, reborn into something new, something unmistakably his.
And, Colin thought with a faint shiver, it was only a matter of time before the rest of the realm took notice. Actually, if their spies were to be believed, then the King already knew about their secession and had called the banners in secret. Not that it mattered. Unlike the Targaryen Dynasty of today, the God of the North had two dragons. And these weren't normal dragons either; Nightfury's flames burned hotter than the flame of any dragon in recorded history, putting even Balerion the Dread to shame, while White-Shadow brought winter and cold with its breath. If the crown decided to send an army, then the North wouldn't have to do anything. Lord Jason Lee himself, his Death Knights, and his apprentice, the Dark Lady Halga, could easily deal with them.
Then again, according to their spies, the call to raise the banners was sent out only a week ago or so. It'd take months before an army was properly raised and months more to work out the logistics of an expedition to the North – especially to the North. There was... almost nothing to worry about. The Kingdom of the North was ready to stand on its own, under the leadership of the King of Winter and the protection of its new god.
"Have you thought up a name for this new castle, my lord?" Colin asked, mostly out of curiosity. And partly because Moat Cailin was a name that no longer commanded respect – not as it once did. Its reconstruction and rebirth warranted a new name – at least, in Colin's opinion. Names also held symbolic significance. As much as he might've disagreed with Lord Jason's design choice, Colin did agree with the fact that symbolism was necessary – presentation and showmanship. An ugly castle was never going to command as much respect as a monstrous one, like Winterfell or Dragonstone.
Lord Jason Lee grinned, a twinkle in his eyes. "When this new castle is built, it shall be known forevermore as Neverwinter."
Becoming a Death Knight, Bowen mused as he shifted his grip on the quarterstaff, was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Better than the birth of his son. Better than the day he'd married his wife. Certainly better than the years he'd spent scraping together coin as a sellsword in Essos, killing men to buy bread for a family long since buried.
He gritted his teeth as Rodrik's strike descended, fast and brutal. Bowen brought his staff up to meet it, the impact rattling through his arms, echoing in his very bones. He stumbled back, his feet digging into the soft forest floor. The force behind the blow was unreal, like trying to hold back a boulder rolling down a mountain. If that strike had been aimed at his head, even a steel helmet wouldn't have saved him.
Rodrik didn't pause, didn't gloat. He pressed forward, his quarterstaff a blur of motion. Bowen rolled to the side, leaves and dirt scattering as he narrowly avoided another crushing strike. He came up to his feet in a crouch, his body coiled like a spring. His chest heaved, his breaths sharp, but his lips curved into a thin smile.
He had one edge. Just one. Rodrik, for all his strength and speed, lacked the finesse of a man who'd spent his life fighting for survival. Bowen's years in Essos hadn't been kind, but they'd taught him the craft of combat, the art of reading an opponent's movements, exploiting every opening. That's why he'd been chosen to stand among the Death Knights. It wasn't much of an advantage, but it was enough to keep him in the fight.
For now.
Rodrik advanced again, his steps slow but deliberate, his staff held at an angle that would allow him to strike or defend at a moment's notice. Bowen matched the motion, circling him, his eyes scanning for an opening. They exchanged a quick flurry of blows, the staves clashing with thunderous cracks that echoed through the forest. Each strike sent vibrations jolting up Bowen's arms, but he kept his movements sharp, his counters precise.
The air was thick with tension, the space between them shrinking with each pass. Rodrik's strikes came faster now, his strength bending the wood of Bowen's staff with every impact. Bowen darted to the left, his staff whipping toward Rodrik's exposed side. Rodrik blocked it with ease, the force of his parry sending Bowen stumbling back a step.
The next blow shattered Bowen's staff.
Rodrik's quarterstaff tore through the wood with a sound like a splitting tree trunk, the broken pieces scattering across the ground. Before Bowen could react, the strike followed through, slamming into his chest. The impact lifted him off his feet and sent him hurtling backward. He crashed through a tangle of branches, snapping them like dry twigs, and landed hard on the forest floor, dirt and leaves cushioning his fall.
His ribs screamed in protest, but the pain faded as quickly as it came, his body mending itself with an almost unsettling ease. He pushed himself upright, brushing dirt from his tunic, and raised a hand in surrender.
"Victory is yours, Brother Rodrik," Bowen said, his voice even despite the lingering ache in his limbs.
Rodrik approached, his staff resting casually on his shoulder. He smiled, a rare expression for the usually stoic Death Knight, and extended a hand. "Your skills continue to impress, Brother Bowen. I felt that counter in my bones."
Bowen chuckled, gripping Rodrik's forearm in a warrior's clasp. "You hit like a battering ram. I doubt my skills would mean much against that."
The snap of twigs drew their attention. Jon emerged from the shadows, his grin as wide as the antlers of the stag he dragged behind him. The creature kicked wildly, its eyes rolling in fear, but Jon's grip on its legs didn't falter. He hauled it forward with an ease that belied the beast's size.
"Shall we dine, brothers?" Jon asked, his voice light, as if he'd brought back a loaf of bread rather than a living, thrashing animal.
AN: Chapter 53 is out on (Pat)reon!