Brandon Stark's breath caught in his throat as his eyes fell upon the vast army of the undead that now swarmed the fields surrounding Winterfell. The sight was unlike anything he had ever imagined. Thousands of skeletal hands clawed at the frozen ground, their gaunt frames moving with tireless precision, digging deep ditches, plowing fields, and tilling the hard, unforgiving soil of the North. There was a rhythmic efficiency to their labor, an unrelenting energy that no living being, no matter how hardened by life in the North, could ever match. They toiled without pause, without hunger, without thirst – without any of the burdens of mortal existence.
It was grotesque and miraculous in equal measure.
Where once Lord Jason Lee, the so-called Boner King, had commanded only a few hundred reanimated corpses – mere shadows of men – now, Brandon beheld legions. Thousands. And not just the bones of men, either, but horses, wolves, dogs, bears, cats, and birds, and all sorts of creatures that fell within the domain of the Boner King.
The dead worked in silence, their hollow eye sockets trained upon the earth beneath them, a silent, endless march of industry. Where there had been desolation, fertile fields now promised life. Crops would grow where the earth had once been barren and hostile. The rotting flesh of the dead, shed from their bones by a mere gesture of Lord Jason Lee would meld with the soil. And all of it – this impossible feat – was accomplished not by living hands, but by the dead.
"Unpaid Interns," Lord Jason Lee had called them. The term still rattled Brandon's mind, foreign and strange. The sorcerer had explained it to him once, some esoteric title from a distant land, referring to servants who worked without coin, without the promise of reward. A term that belonged in some faraway place and time, alien to Westeros. Yet, here they were—these Unpaid Interns—working tirelessly to expand the farmlands, preparing the North for a future where it could feed itself, where it might no longer depend on the South for survival when winter came.
Winter was coming. The North had always prepared for it, but never before had they been able to prepare like this.
Brandon's heart swelled with a mixture of awe and trepidation as he surveyed the scene. His mind raced through the implications. A bountiful harvest, grown from the cold, northern soil. With these tireless servants, the North would be able to produce enough food to sustain its people through even the longest and harshest of winters. They would not need to rely on the fickle trade from the Reach, nor bend the knee to southern kings to secure the grain and produce that kept their people alive when the world froze over.
The possibilities were staggering.
It would be a boon unlike anything the North had ever known.
But as miraculous as it was, it was also horrifying. The dead, working the fields like mindless beasts of burden. To see them like this – so obedient, so loyal, so... unnatural – it chilled Brandon to his very bones. There was something wrong about it, about the way they moved without will or want, their every action commanded by the dark sorcery of Lord Jason Lee. He had granted Jason the power to raise the dead for the good of the North, believing that it was a necessary evil to ensure their survival.
And now... now he saw what that power truly meant.
Brandon's eyes narrowed as they swept over the fields, taking in the full scope of the transformation that had come to his land. Where once there had been life and death in their natural cycles, there was now only the cold, unyielding presence of Jason's undead servants. They did not rest, did not eat, did not drink. They simply worked. And they would keep working until the soil itself gave way to their relentless efforts. Already, ditches and rows were built, massive rocks were crushed into pebbles and powders, and old trees were cut apart and pulped and added to the soil, forming the beginnings of what would become a sprawling farmland.
This is what it means to have power over life and death, Brandon thought, his jaw tightening. He could feel the weight of his own decisions pressing down upon him like a heavy mantle. He had agreed to this. He had allowed this. And now, as the smallfolk and the lords of the North watched in awe, there was no turning back.
Already, whispers had begun to spread among the people. They spoke of Lord Jason Lee in hushed tones, reverent and fearful. They called him Gravelord now, a title given by the common folk, who saw in him a figure of immense power, a god among men. To appease the fears of the masses, Jason had even taken to healing the sick and the dying, working his strange miracles to prove his divinity. He had cured illnesses thought incurable, restored the broken and the weak, and even raised the dead – not as servants, but as living, breathing men and women once more.
And the people believed. They believed that he was no mere sorcerer, no simple necromancer, but something far greater – a god made flesh. They flocked to him, bringing their loved ones to be healed, their sick to be made whole again. Brandon had seen it with his own eyes – the way the crowds had gathered before Jason, their eyes wide with hope and terror. And Jason had granted their wishes, one by one, his power displayed for all to see.
The lords, too, had begun to whisper. Some called him the God of the Living and the Dead, a being greater than the Old Gods, greater than the Seven. A living god, walking among them. And Brandon could no longer deny it. He had seen too much, witnessed too many wonders and horrors alike. Jason Lee was no ordinary man. His powers were real, tangible, and far beyond anything Westeros had ever known.
Even now, Brandon felt the pull of that power, the promise of a future where the North could be free from the Iron Throne, where his descendants could once again be Kings of Winter. A future where the North would be strong, where they would kneel before no southern king, but instead before a god. A god who walks among us, Brandon thought, his heart quickening at the vision of what could be.
Lord Jason Lee, the Sorcerer Supreme. Boner King. Gravelord. Father of Dragons. And now, God of the Living and the Dead.
The titles were not merely for show. Jason had earned every one of them. He commanded the dead, bent them to his will, and with his powers, he had brought dragons back to life. There were no more doubts, no more uncertainties. Jason was more than a man. He was a god. And Brandon Stark knew what he had to do.
As Brandon stood there, watching the legions of the dead work the soil, he felt the weight of the North behind him. His people, his lords, his bannermen – they all looked to him for leadership. And in this moment, he knew that there was only one path forward.
The North must kneel, not to a king, but to a god.
Brandon Stark, Lord of Winterfell, knelt before Jason Lee, the God of the Living and the Dead. And behind him, the lords of the North – both great and small – followed suit, dropping to their knees in unison. From the highest lord to the humblest bannerman, all bowed before the new god-king of Westeros, the man who had brought life and death to heel beneath his will.
Even Lysa Mormont, fierce and proud, knelt, her head bowed in reverence. She had sailed from Bear Island to be here, to witness this moment of transformation.
Jason stood tall, flanked by Lady Little-Cloud, the pale, otherworldly being who served him, and Lady Halga, the first of his Chosen. Beside them stood Rodrik, the first of the Death Knights, his black armor gleaming in the cold northern light.
Brandon's voice trembled as he spoke, the words heavy with the weight of history.
"In the name of my father, and his father before him, and all the Starks and the Kings of Winter who came before me, I hereby forsake the oaths of House Stark to the Iron Throne and those who claim to sit upon it," he began, his voice echoing through the silent courtyard. "I hereby pledge my house, and all the power, riches, and responsibilities bound to it, and all my descendants and their descendants after them, to the rule of the God of the Living and the Dead, God-Emperor Jason Lee, until my line ends or is extinguished."
One by one, the Lords of the North gave their vows, binding themselves and their houses to the new god-king. No longer would they swear fealty to the Iron Throne. Their oaths were now made to something far greater – an immortal power that walked among them, flesh and blood, life and death entwined. And it felt right. No greater oath could be given, Brandon thought, than an oath to a god.
The age of kings had ended. The age of gods had begun.
Around them, thousands upon thousands of smallfolk were similarly upon their knees, on the cold ground. Many of them traveled great distances just to be here, just to glimpse upon their living god.
"Arise," Lord Jason Lee said. His voice reverberated like a chorus, as though hundreds spoke at once. His power awesome and terrifying to behold. "All of you. There is much work to be done and little time to do it. We must look to the future and beyond. I accept your oaths and welcome you into my... err... embrace. I hereby grant Brandon Stark the title of the King of Winter, the first of many kings who shall kneel before me as the God-Emperor of Mankind – new title, someone write that down."
Rodrik pulled out a scroll from somewhere and did just that. "Already did, my handsome lord."
Lord Lee continued. "The southern spies will, no doubt, report to their lords what they've heard here today. And those white-haired, inbred cunts will most definitely march Northward. But you shall not meet them."
Brandon's eyes widened. "Know this. As my first act as this world's greatest and most handsome Lich-King ripoff-"
There the Lord Lee went again, making use of magical arcane words that only he knew. The knowledge and power he wielded so casually was awe-inspiring. His presence dwarfed them. Lord Jason Lee was not overly tall, but seeing him now... the living divine appeared almost gigantic. "-I and by my power alone shall force their army to route. And you, all the lords and ladies of the land shall be there to witness the spectacle that is my glorious self."
Brandon... was not sure what to think about that, but then... with an army of the living dead and two dragons... anything was possible.
"Realistically, my lords, with proper crop rotation and irrigation," Maester Colin began, unfurling several scrolls before the eyes of the gathered lords of the North. All of them were present – all the Great Houses and all the Lesser Houses. After all, it was only a few days ago that the Shattering of the Mortal Oaths occurred, when the noble lords shed their oaths to the crown, in favor of their oaths to the living god, that thing that wore the skin of man and paraded itself as a being of divinity. Though, truth be told, Colin had no idea just what Jason Lee actually was, but he was going to find out, even if the truth took his life.
Still, before any of that, he had a task to perform. And, unlike the very House he served, his oaths to men were not so easily broken or bent. He swore to serve House Stark and he'd do so until his dying breath. "-and assuming the honorable Lord Jason Lee grants the same boon to every lordly holding within the North, and assuming that he'll spend the necessary undead workforce to work this new fields, we could be seeing an increase of our yields of up to 600% for the next eight to ten years. That is more than enough food to feed the north for the entirety of winter and there would still be leftovers by the time spring arrives."
"I predict, discounting those who live in the remotest areas, none of the smallfolk would ever need to fear the clutches of hunger ever again." After all, in the cold north, the greatest enemy was and always has been hunger – not Wildlings, not even the cold itself, but hunger. And now, their new liege had found a way around that particular problem – tireless slaves, reanimated to do his bidding, some form of Necromancy that eclipsed any other that came before, equaled only by stories of the Long Night and the Others... stories that were probably true by virtue of the Other, Little-Cloud, who served Jason Lee.
Gasps, murmurs, and whispers all came from the gathered lords, their faces filled with wonder and joy. Colin hadn't been lying about the numbers. But he hadn't been telling the full truth either. And there were going to be problems, down the line, if they relied too much on the dark sorcery of Jason Lee. For one, the excess food could lead to a population boom, which would put them in a position of greater dependence upon the sorcerer as he'd be the only one capable of feeding them then, up until their population grew large enough to work the fields created by the dead.
"In the coming years," Colin continued. "Hunger may become a thing of the past entirely. And the North won't have to import grain from the south ever again."
"That is good! Damn all the other gods! Ours grants us food!" Brandon Stark, now the King of Winter, said, his voice loud enough for all the gathered lords to hear. Lord Jason Lee might've been a god to them, but men always looked to other men for leadership. And the lords looked towards Brandon Stark as their leader and therein lay the difference. Lord Jason Lee never really gave commands; instead, he laid out goals and plans, like a god, expecting his mortal followers to step up and do what was necessary to achieve those goals. Unlike the Seven, however, Lord Jason Lee gave tangible blessings, such as the new farmlands he was creating. "Never before has the North been granted such a boon. Winter is coming, but it'll be a while before it does. We have time to prepare. We must prepare."
Lord Glover nodded. "Indeed, we'll soon be at war with the rest of Westeros. Preparations are necessary, though – with two dragons and an army that requires no food, no drink, or sleep – I truly believe Lord Jason Lee is more than capable of repelling the Southrons if they march north."
Lord Bolton nodded as well. Maester Collin noted that Rikard Bolton held no enmity for the Starks, unlike his father and grandfather. "I do not believe it necessary to call the banners immediately, but it may be prudent to man the walls of Moat Cailin as soon as possible, perhaps after the first harvest. We may even be able to spend the necessary manpower to actually rebuild its walls."
The other lords grumbled in agreement. No one really had a point to argue against Lord Bolton's opinion. King Brandon Stark agreed as well, nodding. Maester Colin had considered that possibility many times before, likely as the other Maesters did before him and, like his predecessors, came to the conclusion that it'd be too costly and that Moat Cailin, in times of peace, was pointless. Now, however, they might just be able to spare the coin and manpower to rebuild the ancient keep with rock and stone.
Especially with war on the horizon. Jason Lee was impossibly powerful, but Collin had a feeling the living god had no interest in fighting every single battle. His presence would surely turn the tide of any war, however.
And then, Lord Manderly spoke, "Regarding Lord Jason Lee's request to gather the best champions in the North to join his Death Knights, perhaps it is best to host a tournament, something I know we Northmen are not fond of, but I – for one – see it as the best method of selection. Just a melee would do."
Colin's eyes narrowed at that. There was only one Death Knight at the moment, a former member of Meera Stark's retinue named Rodrik. The title of Death Knight was no mere title, however, because anyone with working eyes would see that Rodrik was no longer just human. His eyes now glowed a ghastly red hue and his skin was as pale and as cold as death, and yet he lived. Unlike the dead who moved at Jason Lee's command, Rodrik still ate, drank, and slept. The only difference now being his enhanced strength and speed, and a hatred for sunlight that baffled Colin.
Daylight didn't quite hurt him, but it did annoy him. Was this a feature of becoming a Death Knight? It was impossible to tell with just one subject. It was a fascinating thing to ponder, however, especially as Rodrik's transformation was not a secret. And there were many who wished to prove themselves worthy of the honor of becoming one of Jason Lee's Death Knights.
Lady Halga was a special case. She wasn't stronger or faster than any man. And neither was she a particularly good fighter or strategist. And yet, somehow, she held Jason Lee's favor more than any other. And Colin had a theory as to why and it was rather simple, actually. Despite the rumors, it appeared that Jason Lee and Halga engaged in no carnal activities. Instead, they were friends. It was just that simple. The same was true for Lysa Mormont, who had Jason Lee's support.
King Brandon Stark nodded. "Very well. We shall host a melee tournament for all those in the North who dare call themselves warriors."
AN: Chapter 49 is out on (Pat)reon!