Brandon Stark led his retinue out of Winterfell at dawn.
They rode under gray skies, clouds heavy with unshed snow. The wind bit at their cheeks, carrying the distant scent of pine and cold earth. In front, the standard-bearer held aloft the sigil of House Stark—direwolf on a field of gray. Behind him, a second banner fluttered: Lord Jason Lee's mark, a white skull over crossed swords on a black field. Brandon's gaze flicked to it now and then, a reminder of how much the North had changed.
They followed the old King's Road. Snowbanks rose on either side, heaped high by undead workers who tirelessly cleared the path each night. Every so often, they passed fields turned green in defiance of the lingering cold. Fields that once lay barren now stood vibrant, nurtured by the Boner Lord's gifts. Farmers waved in passing, their breath visible in the chill air, their faces creased with weary gratitude. Brandon offered nods and brief smiles, but he said little.
His traveling companions included several northern lords. Lord Manderly's girth filled his saddle, his cloak of rich blue swirling behind him. Next came Lord Glover, broad-shouldered and silent, his eyes narrowed against the wind. Lady Cerwyn rode with them too, her posture stiff, her gloved hands tight on the reins. A handful of Stark guards trailed behind, wrapped in furs to ward off the cold, weapons rattling gently against saddles.
They saw traces of Lord Jason's work everywhere. Hollow-eyed skeletons repairing a small bridge over a creek. Undead stooped in ditches, clearing rubble that once clogged the roadside. The living and the dead toiled in uneasy partnership, yet it functioned. Brandon caught glimpses of farmers chatting at length with reanimated corpses, the conversation entirely one-sided but filled with strange camaraderie. Such sights had become almost normal now.
By midday, they paused at a small hamlet for rest. Smoke rose from a thatched hut where an undead worker chopped logs into neat piles. The hamlet's headman greeted them with a bow. He offered fresh bread and salted fish, the best he had. Brandon thanked him, allowed his men to eat quickly, then pressed on. The day was short. They wanted to reach Moat Cailin—no, Neverwinter—before nightfall.
The landscape changed as they traveled south. Marshy ground gave way to firmer terrain where Jason's dragons had come. Charred stumps littered the roadside, testament to White-Shadow's icy blasts and Nightfury's scorching flames. Between those stumps, new life grew. Sprigs of hardy grass and patches of clover thrived in the ashen soil. Brandon's brow furrowed when he saw them. His chest tightened with a mix of awe and nervous wonder. Magic had reshaped the North in a matter of months.
Mid-afternoon light slanted low. The sky took on a pale hue, threatening snow. The retinue pressed on, hooves squelching through muddy patches. Lord Manderly wiped sweat from his brow, muttering about the cold. Lady Cerwyn's jaw set, her breath coming in tight bursts. They all felt an undercurrent of tension. They were about to see something that, rumor said, defied all reason.
A scout rode ahead, returning in a hurry. He reined in his horse beside Brandon. The man's eyes were wide, his face pale. His lips pressed together, as though struggling to find words.
Brandon cleared his throat. "Speak."
The scout swallowed. "My lord, we can see it from half a league away. It's… tall."
That was all he said. But it was enough. Brandon exchanged glances with the northern lords. Their faces reflected a mixture of curiosity and unease, brows drawn tight, lips pursed. Brandon nodded and spurred his horse forward. The rest followed, silent but alert.
They crested a gentle rise. On the other side, the land sloped gently down to a wide plain that had once been a swamp. Now, it lay drained and solid, dotted with skeletal workers in the distance. Far beyond them, dominating the horizon, rose a shape that made Brandon's heart stutter. He pulled the reins, halting his horse. The retinue halted behind him. A hush fell among them.
Neverwinter stood in stark contrast to the flat plain around it. A fortress of dark stone, its walls black as midnight, towers spiking up into the sky like spears. The central tower soared impossibly high, vanishing into the low-hanging clouds. Great spires jutted at odd angles, bristling with menacing spikes. A dozen smaller towers encircled the main keep, each crowned with sharp battlements that looked more decorative than practical.
Lord Manderly let out a low whistle. Lady Cerwyn's mouth opened slightly, eyes wide. Lord Glover's knuckles whitened on his reins. Their physical reactions spoke volumes. Brandon felt his own pulse hammering. The sheer scale was like something from a nightmare or a fever dream. Castles weren't built that tall. No mortal mason could carve such sweeping angles without scaffolding, without a lifetime of labor. Yet here it stood, a testament to power unconstrained by mortal limits.
The black stone glinted with an unnatural sheen, almost glassy, reflecting the pale daylight in ominous ripples. At intervals along the walls, swirling patterns interrupted the smoothness, as though Jason had commanded the stone to warp and twist. Long spines jutted outward, forming shadowed arches that cast bizarre silhouettes on the ground. Each tower ended in a wicked point, ready to pierce the sky itself.
Brandon swallowed hard. He wondered how many skeletons had labored to raise those stones. He imagined them crawling over half-finished battlements, guided by Jason's silent will, carving monstrous gargoyles and serpentine designs that now adorned the parapets. The structure pulsed with an aura of dread. It was neither beautiful nor hideous, but something else entirely. Something beyond normal aesthetic. A creation of magic and will, not of mortal craft.
He urged his horse forward, leading the group closer. As they approached, details emerged. Windows shaped like elongated triangles dotted the towers, their frames reinforced with iron. Balconies jutted precariously, guarded by spiked railings. Bridges spanned from tower to tower, high above the courtyard, forming a network of walkways. The entire castle seemed alive, bristling with malicious grace.
At the main gate, a wide causeway stretched over a newly-dug moat that glowed faintly with shifting lights. Brandon felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. He noticed swirling lines etched into the stone beneath the water's surface, faint pulses of magic that kept the moat from freezing over. The reflection of the fortress in those dark waters twisted with the motion of shifting illusions.
They drew up to the gatehouse. Skeletal sentries stood at attention, their eye sockets flickering with pale-blue fire. They held long spears topped with wicked barbs. Their armor was a patchwork of black steel, strapped securely to their bony frames. Each one bore a pennant emblazoned with Jason Lee's sigil—a skull over crossed swords—flapping in the wind. The effect was daunting. No living guard towered like these reanimated husks did, with posture unbent by fatigue.
Brandon signaled for a halt. His heart thudded. The northern lords drew their horses in a tight cluster, whispering to each other in hushed tones. Some eyebrows rose, others had their lips parted in silent awe. Brandon took a breath, urging calm. This was Jason Lee's domain. They were expected, presumably welcomed. He glimpsed a banner above the gate, large and rippling, stitched with the words Neverwinter in white lettering. Another bold statement, as if the spires alone weren't enough.
A skeleton stepped forward. It clacked its jaw once, a hollow rattle that might've been a greeting. Then it turned, beckoning them inside. The portcullis before them stood raised, revealing a newly cobbled courtyard beyond. Brandon hesitated only an instant. Then he spurred his horse gently, guiding it under the arch. The rest followed, eyes darting warily.
Inside, the courtyard sprawled far larger than Moat Cailin's old layout had allowed. Jason must have reshaped the grounds significantly. The ground here was smooth stone, interspersed with patches of dark soil where twisted shrubs or small trees sprouted, each surrounded by a ring of ash. Skeletal workers roamed in orderly lines, hauling tools, clearing debris, or adjusting scaffolding around the half-finished towers. The air smelled of mortar dust and faintly of magic—an ozone tang Brandon recognized from witnessing Jason's spells.
At the courtyard's center rose a massive statue. It depicted a figure in a triumphant pose, cloak billowing, a staff in one hand, a dragon's skull in the other. Brandon squinted, realizing with a jolt that it was a likeness of Jason Lee himself—the Boner Lord—carved from a single block of black stone. The statue's eyes glowed with faint green motes, as though watchers from within observed those who approached.
Lord Manderly let out a breathless exclamation. Lady Cerwyn's lips parted, a flicker of awe flitting across her face. Even Lord Glover, usually stoic, showed parted lips and widened eyes as he stared up at the towering monument. The statue's base bore inscriptions in some unknown script, likely the same arcane language Jason used to command the dead.
Brandon guided his horse around the statue, his gaze drifting up the main tower. It soared overhead, vanishing into a swirling bank of clouds. Spines jutted along its length like a monstrous spine, and every so often, he caught glimpses of openings—perhaps windows or balconies. It made him dizzy to contemplate the engineering, or rather, the magic behind it.
Two skeletons in darker armor approached. Their spears were crowned with dragon-shaped tips. One gestured for Brandon and his group to dismount near a large stable area. The "stables" themselves were odd—cavernous arches in the castle's outer wall, fitted with iron bars and arrays of hooks. Dead and living horses stood side by side, undead grooms tending to them with silent diligence.
Brandon slid from the saddle, heart thumping. He steadied his horse with a pat, then turned to address his companions. Lady Cerwyn was dismounting with a grim set to her jaw. She nodded to him, lips thinning. Lord Manderly wheezed slightly, face flushed with the exertion of the ride and the sheer spectacle around them. Lord Glover said nothing, just offered a curt nod. Brandon took that as readiness.
Skeletal attendants moved to take their horses. The attendants' empty sockets flickered with faint blue flame, but they proceeded gently, guiding the animals toward stalls. The living horses neighed, ears pinned back, eyes showing white. The calmness of the undead grooms, however, seemed to soothe them eventually.
Brandon surveyed the courtyard once more. Above them loomed an archway leading inside the fortress. Strange glyphs shimmered along its curved stone, forming a swirling pattern of runes. A subtle hum of power vibrated in the air, like a distant chorus of whispers. He felt his skin prickle, and a small knot twisted in his gut. This was no ordinary keep. This was a testament to the deity who had created it.
He stepped forward, boots clicking on the smooth stone. The retinue followed, glancing around with eyes that jumped from one eerie sight to another. Undead workers drifted past, carrying slabs of black stone, sometimes passing mere inches from them without so much as a word. Their cold presence brushed the living men and women, raising goosebumps on many arms.
At the entrance, they paused. A single skeleton stood guard, this one clad in heavier armor etched with swirling runes. Its helm bore a crest shaped like a dragon's open maw. It inclined its head, a silent greeting. Then it raised a bony finger, pointing inward, beckoning them through the arch.
Brandon inhaled. The air smelled of old stone and fresh mortar, tinged with a sharp undertone of raw magic. He led them in, crossing the threshold. Torchlight flickered along the interior hall, revealing a passage far grander than Moat Cailin's old corridors. The ceiling soared overhead, supported by columns carved to resemble twisting serpents. In the spaces between the columns, dark alcoves held silent effigies of creatures—dragons, direwolves, ghouls, and more. Each one glimmered with faint sparks of sorcery.
Their footsteps echoed, the hall swallowing their sounds in an almost reverent hush. Brandon caught Lord Manderly blinking rapidly, mouth half open. Lady Cerwyn gripped the hilt of her dagger, knuckles white. Lord Glover's brow knitted, his pace slowing as he took in every detail. Brandon's own heart pounded. He realized his palms were damp under his gloves. The scale of this place challenged sense. It felt like walking through the dream of a mad sculptor.
They came upon a large set of doors fashioned from some dark metal, filigreed with swirling designs that mirrored the serpentine columns. Two undead sentinels stood at either side, each with a halberd in hand. Their hollow eyes flickered with an eerie orange glow. In unison, they turned and pulled the doors wide.
Light poured out from the chamber beyond, a vast circular space with a high domed ceiling. Brandon blinked, letting his eyes adjust. The floor was polished black stone, inlaid with swirling patterns of green crystal that pulsed in slow, steady rhythms. The walls curved upward, ringed by balconies accessible via narrow staircases. Each balcony was adorned with angled spikes and fierce gargoyle-like statues. At the center of the chamber, a raised dais formed a circle of steps leading to a seat of black iron. That seat stood empty, but it radiated presence.
Brandon heard a faint hum reverberating through the room, as though the fortress itself breathed magic. No living soul appeared to greet them. Only the occasional skeleton drifted along the balconies above, peering down with empty sockets. The quiet pressed in, thick and unsettling.
Lord Manderly's breath came loud through his nose. He shifted from foot to foot, casting wary looks around. Lady Cerwyn straightened her spine, her chin lifting, defiance in her stance. Lord Glover's jaw clenched, tension carving lines in his face. They all seemed uncertain whether to advance or wait. Brandon cleared his throat softly. "Well, it seems that Lord Jason Lee certainly knows how to make a statement."
"You're goddamn right," Brandon Stark recognized the voice of Lord Jason Lee, somehow appearing right behind all of them. He turned and fell to a knee, for what was a King to a God? The rest of his retinue turned and bowed with him.
Lord Jason Lee himself, Boner Lord, the God of the Living and the Dead, stood there, wearing… small clothes?
"Hey guys," Lord Jason Lee said, before turning to a nearby skeleton. "Has anyone seen Colin? No? Damn, I might've built way too many rooms."
He then turned to address Brandon and his retinue. "Oy, all of you. Stand. I've got a demonstration to perform that I believe you should all witness, because an army from the south, which should arrive in a few days or so, is headed right for this place and I suddenly feel the need to show off. Should be funny."
AN: Chapter 59 is out on (Pat)reon!