FrenzyAren
patreon
SLW Chapter 26 : The Monarch’s Ultimatum.
🕑 Added 2025-02-10 21:39:59 +0000 UTCThe Twins :
The Great Hall of the Twins, all dim and foul with dampness and the stench of old meat, their lord sprawling in his chair, hunched up like a vulture, a parchment clutched in his wrinkled hand, which he waved as he read from it in a wheezing voice that was barely audible.
"'The Shadow Monarch is coming for Westeros. Bend the knee or be my eternal loyal servants.'"
He let out a choked cackle, slapping a hand down on the armrest of his chair.
"Hah! What nonsense is this? Some bloody fool thinks he can threaten me? ME?" He shrilled the voice high and shook the letter in the air. "I've lived through six kings and I'll outlive this bloody fool too. He wants me to bend the knee?" The man scoffed. "The only thing i bend is my wives over there"
Those in the hall that were gathered of the Freys laughed nervously, though some looked uncomfortable.
"What is this 'Shadow Monarch' anyway?" one of his sons muttered. "Some trickster from the east?"
"what can a bloody shadow do haha!, " another laughed.
Walder Frey snarled, spat upon the ground, crumpled the letter in his hand into a ball. "Tell whoever sent this that I'll bend my arse before I bend my knee!"
He had barely cast the parchment aside before the torches in the hall began to dance, wild. Laughter and murmurs died as an unnatural chill swept over the room. And then, from the darkest corner, it emerged.
A shadow soldier moved forward, liquid darkness twisting into the form of a man. Its eyes shone like eerie blue lanterns. The Freys scrambled, some drawing swords, others frozen in terror.
"What is this?!" Walder Frey shrieked, grasping for the arms of his chair. "Kill it!"
His sons leapt forward with their swords, but the shadow moved like mist, evading their blades. One after another they fell-Their throats were slit, their chests stabbed-all before they could even think of reaching for their swords.
Walder tried to rise, his legs shaking, but the shadow was upon him. It reached out, a cold hand wrapping around his withered throat. His breath hitched, his face contorting in terror.
"N-no, wait!" he gasped, his voice cracking. "I-I’ll—"
The grip of the shadow tightened. A sickening crunch echoed through the hall. Walder Frey slumped lifelessly in his chair, eyes wide in frozen shock. His mocking laughter was silenced forever.
The shadow melted away as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving only stunned silence in its wake.
"What. what in the name of the Seven just happened!?" one of the remaining Freys whispered.
Nobody had an answer.
*****
Harrenhal :
Tywin Lannister sat at the long table in the great hall of Harrenhal, his sharp golden eyes scanning the parchment before him. The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows across his face, but his expression remained unreadable.
Kevan Lannister, seated across from him, cleared his throat. "Is it another report from the Riverlands?"
Tywin didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back slightly, rereading the letter. Then, in a measured tone, he spoke:
"Tywin Lannister, you might already be informed, and for that, I will not waste words." He tapped a finger against the paper. "‘When the time comes, when I take these realms, I would want a powerful man such as yourself as my Hand. I am not cut out for politics, but I have power that the realms will soon witness.’"
Silence hung over the room.
Kevan furrowed his brow. "A bold claim."
"A foolish one," Tywin corrected, setting the letter down. "Whoever this 'Shadow Monarch' is, he speaks as if ‘his’ conquest of Westeros is inevitable." He reached for his wine, swirling it in his goblet. "A delusion shared by many before him."
Kevan nodded but hesitated. "You don’t seem surprised by this."
Tywin’s lips twitched slightly, a ghost of a smirk. "Because I’m not. The rumors out of the North have been… interesting. Theon Greyjoy took Winterfell, yet was driven out by something neither Stark nor Greyjoy. And the old letter that we received spoke of something similar, i beleive its the same man." He paused, his fingers tapping the wooden table. "And Now, I receive a letter from a supposed conqueror who does not seek my death, but my service."
Kevan’s eyes narrowed. "And what do you intend to do?"
Tywin exhaled through his nose, setting the goblet down. "That depends." He looked at the letter again, his gaze lingering on one particular line.
‘I would want a powerful man such as yourself as my Hand.’
It was not a demand. It was an offer.
Tywin’s mind raced, weighing the possibilities. Whoever this ‘Shadow Monarch’ was, he was not an ordinary fool. Most would seek to destroy House Lannister, not recruit him. That meant one thing—whoever sent this letter knew exactly how Westeros worked.
"He is no king," Tywin finally said. "But he is not a fool either that i can tell. And that is what makes him dangerous."
Kevan looked at him, awaiting further orders.
Tywin steepled his fingers and smirked. "Let’s see what happens next."
*****
Kingslanding :
the Small Council chamber ever full of tension, the flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows against the stone walls. At the head of the table, Tyrion Lannister, acting Hand of the King, sipped his wine and pinched the bridge of his nose as Varys, the Spider, read aloud from the latest raven’s letter.
"To the rulers of Westeros," Varys began, his smooth voice carrying a hint of amusement. "The True Lord of the Seven Kingdoms is coming, and it is neither a Stark nor any of the petty Five Kings. Tell your false king this: the Shadow Monarch is coming for you. Bend the knee, or become my eternal loyal servants."
The room fell silent for a brief moment before Joffrey Baratheon burst into laughter, an obnoxious, high-pitched cackle that grated on everyone’s nerves.
"What kind of fool wrote this!" Joffrey sneered, slamming a golden goblet onto the table. "Some peasant thinks he can make demands of his king HIS KING?" He turned to Cersei, expecting her agreement. "Mother, shall I have this fool flayed alive when he dares show his face?"
Cersei Lannister barely glanced at her son, swirling her own goblet with mild interest. "Another pretender. What else is new, shall we call this the sixth king now?"
"I must admit," Littlefinger chimed in, his smirk barely concealed, "‘Shadow Monarch’ is a more creative title than ‘King in the North’ or ‘The Usurper's Dog.’" He chuckled, tapping his fingers against the table. "But it's all the same. Someone with delusions of grandeur, making threats he cannot enforce."
"Indeed," Varys agreed, though his smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Yet, it is curious that Maester Luwin, a man known for his wisdom, would send such a message on behalf of someone. Either he has lost his mind… or he has seen something."
"Oh, please!" Joffrey scoffed, kicking his feet up on the table with all the arrogance of a boy who had never fought a day in his life. "These old fools are easily swayed by superstition. 'Shadow Monarch,' hah! Let him come. I'll have his head on a spike before he can crawl out of whatever hole he came from."
Tyrion, however, remained silent. Unlike the others, he wasn’t so quick to dismiss the letter. His sharp mind turned over the words carefully, dissecting their intent. ‘Bend the knee, or become my eternal loyal servants…’ That part unsettled him. It did not sound like mere conquest—it sounded absolute.
He opened his mouth to speak, to raise a word of caution—
And then the torches in the chamber flickered violently, casting wild shadows across the walls.
A chill swept through the room.
The air turned heavy, pressing against their chests like an unseen force.
Then—it appeared.
A shadow soldier stepped forward from the darkest corner of the chamber, its form shifting like liquid midnight. Its eyes, two burning embers, locked onto the table of the most powerful people in the realm.
The guards at the doors reacted first, drawing swords and stepping forward, but the creature barely acknowledged them. Instead, it moved fast—too fast—gliding toward the table without a sound.
Joffrey shrieked, stumbling out of his chair. "Kill it! Kill it!"
The Kingsguard surged forward, their blades slashing through the air—but they cut through nothing. The shadow moved like smoke, slipping between their attacks effortlessly.
"What sorcery is this?!" Cersei gasped, rising from her seat, her face pale with fear.
Tyrion stood frozen, his mind racing, trying to comprehend what was happening.
The shadow ignored them all.
It had one target.
Joffrey screamed, scrambling backward as the shadow lunged at him. The boy-king fell over his own feet, his golden crown tumbling to the floor with a hollow clink.
"NO! NO, I AM THE KING!" Joffrey shrieked, his voice cracking. "YOU CAN'T—"
The shadow’s hand wrapped around his throat.
Joffrey gagged, clawing at the air, his eyes bulging as the life was drained from his body. The entire chamber watched in horror, frozen in place. His kicks grew weaker. His struggles turned feeble.
And then—SNAP.
His body went limp.
The shadow dropped him like a discarded ragdoll. The once-proud King of Westeros lay dead on the floor, his eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling.
The shadow turned its gaze on the Small Council as if daring any of them to move. but None did.
Then—just as quickly as it came it vanished.
Silence. For what felt like an eternity, no one spoke.
Then, finally, Cersei shattered the stillness with a scream so raw, so full of grief and rage, that the very walls of the chamber seemed to tremble.
"MY SON!" She lunged forward, cradling Joffrey’s lifeless body in her arms, her golden hair disheveled, her face contorted in anguish.
The Small Council was paralyzed, their faces drained of color.
Varys was stone-faced, though his hands trembled slightly.
Baelish’s smirk had vanished entirely, replaced by something much more rare on it—unease.
Tyrion swallowed hard, his mind whirling. He had seen many things in his life, but this? This was something else.
Slowly, he looked down at the fallen letter on the table.
"The Shadow Monarch is coming for you."
Tyrion exhaled sharply.
"Seven hells."
