Chapter 131 Aerial Encounter
Above the North, a blizzard raged.
This was already a human forbidden zone, and the cold current was like an invisible sharp blade, covering even the scales of the dragons with a thin layer of white frost.
Daenerys was tightly pressed against Drogon's back, her hands and feet almost numb with cold; even the Targaryen Family's heat-resistant physique seemed fragile in the face of the extreme cold of the far North.
If not for the continuous high temperature emanating from Drogon's body, she would have frozen solid long ago.
"How much longer?" she silently asked herself.
Just then, Drogon suddenly let out an alert growl.
It sharply turned sideways, its massive wings carving a rapid turn in the air.
Rhaegal and Viserion, following closely behind, also spread out, adopting a battle formation.
Daenerys looked up, and through her crystal goggles, she saw a scene that would forever be etched in her memory.
In the clouds below, a colossal dark shadow was moving at high speed. It was not a dragon, nor any known creature.
Was it a ship?
No, it was a ship flying in the sky!
It was a steel airship—the Black Death—modified by Qyburn, equipped with giant hot air balloons and primitive propeller thrusters.
Its hull was emblazoned with the massive three-headed Targaryen sigil, and its bow mounted a monstrous wildfire cannon, glowing with an eerie green light.
And on the airship's deck, a man in black dragon-scale armor stood proudly.
He did not hide in the cabin but stood in the gale, hands on the railing, his gaze piercing through the wind and snow, accurately locking onto Daenerys in the sky.
That was Aegon Targaryen.
Their gazes collided thousands of meters in the air.
One was a "pre-modern" queen riding a true dragon.
The other was a "modern" tyrant commanding a black-tech warship.
This was their first true meeting, yet it occurred in such a desperate situation.
Drogon let out a threatening roar, red and black dragonflame already gathering in its mouth.
It sensed the threat from that steel monster, an instinctive hostility.
"Don't attack!" Daenerys commanded loudly in Valyrian.
Though shocked, she had not lost her reason. She clearly saw the airship's direction—due North.
Aegon had evidently seen her too. He did not order to fire but made a gesture.
He pointed North, then to his heart, and finally made a fist.
Daenerys understood.
The gesture meant: even if it means death, they must go there.
The airship's engines roared deafeningly, black smoke spewing from its rear, propelling it to accelerate through the clouds. It flew even faster than a dragon!
"Catch up!" Daenerys's competitive spirit was roused.
Two vastly different forces, at this moment of the Long Night's arrival, had reached a strange tacit understanding.
They were no longer mortal enemies vying for the throne but allies rushing towards the same battlefield.
Bear Island, Mormont Castle.
The last few candles had burned out. The great hall was plunged into darkness, only embers still emitting a faint red glow.
Sansa Stark leaned against a cold stone pillar, her consciousness beginning to blur.
Blood loss and the bitter cold were slowly draining her life force. She felt as if she were sinking into a bottomless black lake, surrounded by endless cold and silence.
"Your Grace... don't sleep..."
Torren's voice sounded distant, as if from another world.
"If you sleep... you won't wake up..."
Sansa tried hard to open her eyes, but her eyelids felt impossibly heavy.
"I'm not sleeping..." she murmured, "I'm just... wondering... if I die... will Arya scold me...?"
"She won't." Torren's voice choked. "She'll be proud of you."
Just then, a strange tremor came.
It wasn't the loud crash of battering rams against the gate.
It was a deeper, grander vibration.
As if the sky itself was trembling.
"Listen..." Sansa suddenly became clearer. "Did you hear that?"
Torren paused, then listened intently.
"It sounds like the wind?"
"No, louder than the wind."
Immediately after, the sound became distinct.
It was a "ROAR—"
It was a sound all Northerners had heard, etched into their bones.
It was... "A dragon's roar?!"
Sansa's eyes snapped open. She found strength from somewhere, struggling to stand.
"It's dragons!!!"
"BOOM—!!!"
A tremendous roar erupted directly above the castle!
But this was not an attack.
Instead, a scorching, red pillar of light descended from the sky, instantly piercing through the thick black mist surrounding the castle!
The entire courtyard was instantly illuminated!
That was real fire!
That was the fury of a dragon!
Sansa stumbled to the casement window and pushed it open.
A wave of heat washed over her, dispelling the biting cold.
She saw it.
In the pitch-black night sky, three massive fire dragons were swooping down!
Drogon, Rhaegal, Viserion!
They opened their colossal mouths, spewing destructive dragonflame onto the army of Wights besieging the castle!
The black earth instantly transformed into an ocean of lava!
Tens of thousands of Wights howled, melted, and vanished into ash in the dragonflame!
The once impregnable encirclement, before the true dragons, was like ice encountering boiling water, instantly dissolving!
"It's Daenerys..." Sansa's tears streamed down, "She really came..."
But this was not the end.
Even as the dragons wreaked havoc, a colossal black steel monster suddenly burst from the clouds!
The Black Death airship roared as it tore through the blizzard!
"Fire!!!"
The familiar, domineering voice came through the loudspeaker.
"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"
The airship's side cannons roared!
Not ordinary cannonballs.
But high-explosive shells loaded with "wildfire"!
Green explosions bloomed wildly behind the army of Wights!
Red and green flames intertwined at this moment, painting the far northern night into the most magnificent, yet also the most brutal, panorama of hell.
Chapter 132 Hell Descends
Amidst the roar of the dragon, the world outside Mormont Castle instantly flipped.
One moment it was a silent, freezing hell where only the blizzard howled, and the next it was ripped in two by two completely different types of fire.
High above was the red dragonflame brought by Daenerys, pouring down like a waterfall of magma from the clouds, carrying the ancient majesty and destruction of the Targaryen Family;
And lower in the sky was the green wildfire spewed by Aegon's steel airship, the pinnacle of alchemy, a more sinister and explosive chemical fire.
These two flames intertwined in mid-air, yet did not merge; instead, due to their different natures, they repelled and agitated each other, generating even more terrifying waves of hot air.
The perpetual snows of Bear Island were instantly vaporized; the white steam had barely risen before it was consumed by the flames, turning into scorching hot mist.
The hundred thousand strong army of Wights, which had been silently surrounding the castle like statues, finally made a "sound."
It was the sizzling of flesh being scorched, the crisp cracking of bones shattering under extreme heat, and the silent wailing of countless souls being forcibly ripped from their vessels.
Sansa Stark lay pressed against the vent, ignoring the scorching heat wave rushing toward her, watching everything with greedy intensity.
Her face was smeared with tears, soot, and blood, but at this moment, her expression was one of ecstasy.
She watched the once arrogant ghouls struggle and writhe in the sea of fire, watching their proud immortality turn to ash before absolute power.
"Your Majesty! That is..." Centurion Torren behind her also leaned closer, too stunned by the sight to speak coherently.
"That is 'Hope'." Sansa stared intensely at the black airship hovering low; she saw a familiar shadow in the man standing on the deck.
Although separated by the blizzard and the firelight, and despite him wearing heavy windproof goggles, she knew who it was.
That was her ally, her "Tyrant," and the only man in the world who would set the entire sky ablaze for her.
In mid-air, on the deck of the airship "Black Reaper."
Aegon Targaryen gripped the railing with one hand and held a megaphone with the other, his black cloak flapping violently in the gale.
He showed no pity for the carnage below; on the contrary, his eyes held only cold killing intent.
"Qyburn! Lower the altitude by another hundred meters!" he commanded loudly, "Fire every single wildfire bomb! I want to burn a 'quarantine zone' around the castle! Don't let those filthy things get near my woman!"
"Yes, Your Majesty! But it will be bumpy!" Maester Qyburnfrantically worked the complex levers and valves in the cockpit, a morbidly fervent smile on his face.
This airship was his masterpiece, and now was the perfect moment to test its truth.
The airship let out a dull roar, its massive propellers churning the flying snow as it dove downward with an unstoppable momentum.
The side cannons fired again, and a series of green fireballs landed precisely in front of the gates of Mormont Castle, blasting the mountainous pile of corpses there into flat ground.
Simultaneously, Daenerys in the sky noticed the airship's maneuvers.
She steered Drogon, carving an elegant yet deadly arc in the air. Although she was surprised by the flying "iron ship," she understood the current situation better.
"dragonflame!"
Daenerys commanded loudly.
Drogon understood, and its massive body plunged downward, spewing a hundred-meter-long stream of fire not far from the airship.
This dragonflame not only burned the right flank of the undead attempting to regroup but also provided flank cover for the airship's descent.
In this moment, the two Targaryens—one relying on magic and bloodline, the other on technology and knowledge—executed a perfect collaboration without any prior rehearsal.
"Prepare for rope descent!" Seeing that the open ground in front of the castle gate had been cleared, Aegonimmediately tossed the megaphone aside.
He walked to the edge of the deck and clipped on the specialized zip-line harness. "Golden Company elite, follow me down! The rest stay on board and continue fire suppression!"
"Your Majesty, this is too dangerous!" A Golden Companyofficer tried to dissuade him.
"Enough talk! My Queen is down there!" Aegon kicked off the ship's railing, and like a black falcon, he rapidly slid down the steel cable toward the ground.
On the ground, high temperatures scorched the earth, and the air was thick with the smell of burning.
Aegon's feet landed heavily on the soil of Bear Island, which had been scorched into a glassy slag.
The moment he landed, the Blackfyre sword in his hand was already drawn.
Behind him, twenty fully armed Golden Company elites slid down immediately after, quickly forming a defensive circle around him.
"Sansa!" Aegon shouted toward the tightly closed, scorched city gate.
But just then, a black shadow darted out from the side shadows.
The speed was astonishing, carrying a suffocating chill of death.
"Clang!"
Aegon instinctively swung his sword to block; Blackfyre collided with the opponent's weapon, scattering a stream of dazzling sparks.
The massive impact forced Aegon back half a step. He looked closely, and his pupils instantly contracted.
Standing before him was a "person" wearing tattered mercenary leather armor, half of its face revealing bare white bone.
Those eyes, once full of charm and mockery, now held only two globes of icy blue ghost fire.
"Daario?" Aegon's voice dropped low.
The "thing" did not reply. It merely tilted its head, as if recalling something, but was immediately overcome by the instinct for slaughter.
It brandished the twin swords in its hands—valyrian steel weapons Aegon had gifted him—and launched another furious attack.
"You damned fool." Aegon gritted his teeth, a complex fury rising in his heart. "I sent you to protect her, not to turn into this monstrosity and block my path!"
Aegon held nothing back. Although his swordsmanship was not as refined as Daario's, he possessed something Daario did not—he was alive, he had reason, and he held "Blackfyre."
Man and ghoul engaged in a fierce duel amidst the sea of fire.
valyrian steel against valyrian steel; every collision produced a sharp, ringing sound.
Daario was tireless and felt no pain, fighting every move as if to die together; but Aegon was more cunning, using the surrounding terrain and the cover of the Golden Company soldiers to continuously wear down his opponent.
Just as Daario leaped high, preparing to deliver a fatal strike, Aegon suddenly drew a short-barreled pistol from his waist—a prototype gun he had secretly developed in King's Landing, loaded with dragonglass powder bullets.
"Bang!"
Daario's movement froze in mid-air.
A large hole had been blasted in his chest; the dragonglass powder instantly detonated inside him, destroying the ice magic that sustained his movement.
The King of Mercenaries who once dominated Essoscrashed heavily to the ground.
The blue light in his eyes flickered a few times, took one last look toward the castle, and was extinguished completely.
Aegon stepped forward, looked at the corpse, and was silent for a second.
"Rest in peace, bastard."
He holstered the gun, raised his head, and saw the scorched gate slowly opening.
In the shadow of the doorway, Sansa Stark leaned on her sword, covered in blood, yet still held her head high.
When she saw the man in black armor standing in the firelight, stepping on corpses, her tightly strung nerves finally snapped.
She dropped the sword in her hand and stumbled out, crashing into Aegon's embrace.
"You're late..." she cried, her voice filled with grievance and release. "You bastard, you're late!"
Aegon dropped the Blackfyre sword in his hand and held her tightly.
He felt the coldness and trembling of the body in his arms, looked at her scorched red hair and the wounds covering her, and the killing intent in his heart boiled to its peak.
"I'm here," he whispered softly in her ear, his voice terrifyingly gentle. "It's over. Close your eyes."
"Why?" Sansa looked up, her eyes blurred with tears.
"Because the scene that follows," Aegon raised his head, his gaze sweeping over Sansa's shoulder toward the darkness in the distance, "will be very bloody."
At the edge of the firelight, beyond the quarantine zone burned by the dragonflame, white mist was beginning to gather again.
And deep within that mist, a figure riding an undead warhorse slowly emerged.
The Night King.
He neither fled because of the dragon's arrival nor was he moved by the destruction of his vanguard.
He simply stood there silently, holding a crystalline, translucent ice spear that radiated extreme cold.
He raised his head, his emotionless eyes locking onto Drogon, the black dragon circling in the sky.
Chapter 133 The Shattered Sky
The appearance of the Night King froze the air across the entire battlefield once again.
Even though they were surrounded by fiercely burning dragonflame and wildfire, everyone felt a chill that pierced their bones in that moment.
That was not a drop in temperature; it was terror originating from the depths of the soul.
Daenerys in the sky felt it too.
Drogon let out an uneasy roar, beating its wings violently in the air, instinctively trying to gain distance.
As the pinnacle of magical creatures, Dragons were most sensitive to this extreme aura of evil.
"Who is that?" Daenerys asked from the Dragon's back. Although no one could answer her, she already had the answer in her heart.
The Night King did not give her time to think. His arm, pale as bone, slowly lifted, and the ice spear in his hand refracted a strange light under the glow of the fire.
His movement appeared slow, but in reality, it contained immense power.
"Watch out!!!" Aegon on the ground abruptly pushed Sansa aside and screamed at the sky with all his might, "Climb! Climb higher!!!"
He knew what the Night King was about to do.
In the original course of fate, that single spear had directly killed a Dragon!
Although Daenerys could not hear Aegon's shouts, her superior battle instincts saved her.
The instant before the Night King threw the spear, she violently pulled the reins, forcing Drogon into an extremely dangerous barrel roll.
"Whoosh---!!!"
A piercing sound of tearing air ripped through the sky.
The ice spear flew past, grazing Drogon's wing like a bolt of blue lightning.
Although it did not hit directly, the terrifying cold carried by the spear instantly froze a small patch of membrane on Drogon's left wing.
"Roar!" Drogon roared in pain, losing balance in the air and nearly plummeting.
Fortunately, its strength was immense, and it forcefully flapped its wings, stabilizing itself again.
But Rhaegal, behind it, was not so lucky.
Although the spear missed Drogon, its momentum was not spent, and it flew straight toward Rhaegal, the green Dragon circling behind.
"No!" Daenerys screamed.
Luckily, the distance was too great, and Rhaegal was moving at high speed; the spear ultimately only grazed the scales on Rhaegal's abdomen, drawing a spray of hot Dragon blood before disappearing into the deep clouds.
Although it did not inflict a fatal wound, this earth-shattering blow completely intimidated everyone.
Even a Dragon was nearly killed in a single strike—this was the power of the Night King.
"Damn it..." Aegon watched from the ground, cold sweat streaming down his face.
He knew that air superiority was no longer absolute safety. The Night King was a mobile anti-air missile launcher.
"Everyone! Retreat! Retreat now!" Aegon stopped fighting, grabbed Sansa, and yelled, "Get back on the airship! Hurry!"
"Wait! Arya is still out there!" Sansa gripped Aegon's hand tightly, her eyes filled with desperate pleading. "She's still outside! She was locked out when she saved me! She might be..."
Aegon's heart sank. Being locked outside in that tide of corpses meant the chance of survival was nearly zero.
"Where is she?!" Aegon roared.
"Over there! Under that pile of ruins!" Sansa pointed to the base of a collapsed wall to the left of the gate, where bodies and rubble were piled high.
Just then, a faint but stubborn wolf howl emerged from the pile of ruins.
Immediately afterward, the seemingly lifeless pile of corpses shifted.
A small figure, covered in blood and barely recognizable as human, crawled out of the pile of bodies.
It was Arya Stark.
She was still alive. Relying on the stealth techniques of the Faceless Man and her tenacious vitality, she had found a blind spot in the tide of corpses, covered her scent with bodies, and stubbornly held out until the Dragons arrived.
But her current condition was extremely poor; her left leg appeared broken, and she only held the broken half of "sewing needle" in her hand.
And not far in front of her, the petite "Wight," Lyanna Mormont, was climbing back up from the ground.
The previous explosion had not completely destroyed her; it had only blown off one of her arms.
She was still clutching the dragonglass dagger and staggered toward Arya.
"Damn it!" Aegon didn't hesitate, raising the short-barreled firearm in his hand and firing a shot at Lyanna.
But this time, perhaps because the distance was too great, or perhaps because the blizzard was too heavy, the bullet went wide, only hitting Lyanna's shoulder. The undead feel no pain, and her movement did not slow down at all.
"Arya!" Sansa tried to rush over but was held back tightly by Aegon.
"I'm going!"
Aegon pushed Sansa toward the Golden Companysoldiers behind him. "Protect her! Get her onto the airship!"
Having said that, Aegon grabbed Blackfyre and rushed recklessly toward Arya's location.
But it was not fast enough. Lyanna had already reached Arya, the dagger in her hand raised high. Arya no longer had the strength to dodge; she could only watch in despair as the dagger descended.
"Whoosh---!!!"
Just in this critical moment, a stream of green dragonflame descended from the sky!
It was Rhaegal! The injured green Dragon, under Daenerys's command, endured its pain and dove down.
Its precise dragonflame, like a wall, instantly engulfed Lyanna Mormont.
This time, even the undead could not resist. Lyanna's tiny body instantly turned to ash in the dragonflame.
This brave Bear Island girl finally found eternal peace.
Aegon seized the opportunity, rushed to Arya's side, scooped her up from the ground, hoisted her onto his shoulder, and ran back.
"Hold tight, little wolf pup!" Aegon roared.
"...You were too slow," Arya weakly complained near his ear, but her hands gripped Aegon's armor tightly.
At this moment, the blizzard in the sky suddenly intensified.
The Night King clearly did not intend to let these prey escape.
He raised his hand again; the black mist that had begun to dissipate reformed, and visibility instantly dropped to nearly zero.
The airship, the "Black Death," shook violently in the blizzard. Qyburn's voice came down through the loudspeaker, filled with terror: "Your Grace! The engines are icing up! Lift is dropping! We must take off immediately, or we will crash!"
"Come down! A little lower!" Aegon, carrying Arya, rushed to the designated evacuation point.
The airship wobbled down to just a few meters above the ground and dropped several thick rope ladders.
Golden Company soldiers had already pushed Sansa and the remaining dozens of survivors up.
"Hurry up!" Aegon hooked Arya onto the rope ladder and gave her a forceful push.
Just as Aegon himself was about to grab the ladder, he suddenly felt a chill run down his spine. That feeling of being locked onto by a top predator made his scalp crawl.
He whipped his head around.
Through the swirling snow, he saw that the Night Kinghad already picked up a second ice spear.
But this time, his target was not the Dragons in the sky, but the airship that was slowly ascending!
The Night King was smart. He knew Dragons were hard to hit, but this clumsy airship, filled with flammable gas, was a massive sitting target.
"Shit!" Aegon swore under his breath.
If that spear hit the airship's gasbag or the wildfireammunition depot, the entire vessel, along with Sansaand Arya aboard, would instantly turn into a fireball.
In this moment of life and death, Aegon made a desperate decision.
He let go of the rope ladder he was holding.
"Your Grace?!" Arya, hanging above, looked back in terror.
Aegon ignored her. He unclipped his last specialized high-explosive wildfire grenade from his belt.
He did not throw it at the Night King. Instead, he pulled the pin, gripped it tightly in his hand, and waved at Drogon in the sky, shouting:
"Burn me!!!!"
Daenerys froze for a moment in the air. But she immediately understood Aegon's intention.
Aegon was wearing valyrian steel armor, and he was a Targaryen; although not completely immune to fire, he had extremely high resistance to high temperatures.
He planned to use the high heat and shockwave of the dragonflame to create a barrier—or rather, a decoy!
"dragonflame!"
Drogon unleashed a blast of dragonflame, but not directly at Aegon, but at an empty spot fifty meters in front of him.
At the same time, Aegon violently smashed the wildfiregrenade in his hand onto the ground!
"Boom!!!"
The green wall of fire produced by the wildfire explosion collided with the red wall of dragonflame. The massive thermal current generated a powerful upward thrust.
Aegon used this thrust to propel himself backward, barely managing to grab the end of the last remaining rope dangling from the airship.
And almost simultaneously, the Night King's spear arrived.
The spear, capable of piercing steel, tore through both layers of fire. But due to the refraction caused by the high-temperature airflow, the spear's trajectory suffered a tiny deflection.
"Pffft!"
The spear grazed the bottom of the airship's gasbag and flew past, tearing a slit, but it was not fatal.
If not for the interference of those two walls of fire, that spear would absolutely have struck the center of the gasbag.
"Ascend! Full power ascent!!!" The narrowly escaped Qyburn frantically pulled the controls.
The damaged airship trembled violently in the storm, like a wounded giant beast, spewing black smoke, yet stubbornly gaining altitude and breaking through the Night King's blizzard blockade.
Aegon hung suspended in mid-air, gripping the rope with one hand, his body swaying in the fierce wind.
He looked down, and the fires on the ground grew smaller and smaller.
In that burning ruin, the Night King still stood, his hands empty.
He looked up at the departing airship and Dragons, his icy face devoid of any expression.
But the army of the undead behind him had already begun to reassemble.
Aegon knew this was only the first round.
Although they had rescued Sansa and Arya, Bear Islandwas lost, the Wall had fallen, and the gates to the North were wide open.
This was a pyrrhic victory.
Or rather, this was merely the beginning of a great retreat.
He climbed forcefully upward and finally tumbled into the gondola.
Sansa and Arya were slumped inside, clinging tightly to each other, trembling all over.
Aegon collapsed beside them, gulping down ragged breaths.
He looked at the two scarred girls, then glanced out the window at the three Dragons flying alongside them.
"Alright, girls."
He wiped the blood from his face, revealing a tired yet grim smile.
"Welcome to the real war."
Chapter 134 The Wolves and Dragons of Winterfell
The black death airship sailed steadily above the clouds, its huge propellers slicing through the swirling snow, emitting a dull, rhythmic roar.
On either side of the airship, three dragons, like loyal guards, occasionally flapped their wings, exhaling a puff or two of breath to disperse the approaching cold air.
This was a scene worthy of being recorded in the annals of Westeros: technology and magic, steel and flesh, achieving a brief and peculiar symbiosis in the face of a common enemy.
Inside the airship, in the temporary medical bay.
The air was filled with the smell of alcohol, burnt flesh, and a faint scent of blood.
The airship did not have a dedicated medical room; this was originally a cargo hold for storing wildfireammunition, but now it was filled with injured people.
Sansa Stark lay half-reclined on a cot, her face as pale as paper.
Qyburn, the 'necromancer' scorned by the mainstream Citadel of Westeros, was now displaying extremely skilled surgical techniques.
He was carefully tending to the penetrating wound on Sansa's left shoulder.
"Bear with it, Your Majesty," Qyburn said, holding a sterilized scalpel, his tone as calm as if he were dissecting a frog, "Although the wound was cauterized by high heat, stopping the bleeding, I must clear out the necrotic tissue inside, otherwise it will become infected."
Sansa bit down on a clean white cloth, cold sweat beading on her forehead.
With Qyburn's movements, she let out a suppressed groan, her body trembling violently.
A cold, rough little hand reached out and tightly grasped Sansa's uninjured right hand.
Sansa opened her eyes with effort and saw Arya.
Arya Stark sat on a small stool by the bed, looking even more disheveled than Sansa.
Her leather armor had turned dark red, her left leg was in a makeshift splint, and there was a long bloodstain on her face, extending from her forehead all the way to her chin—the last mark left by Lyanna Mormont's dagger.
"If it hurts, scream it out," Arya's voice was hoarse, devoid of emotion, "There are no outsiders here; you don't need to act like a queen."
Sansa looked at her sister, spat out the white cloth from her mouth, and smiled weakly: "If it were the old Sansa, I would have cried myself unconscious long ago. But the me now... this pain is nothing."
She paused, her eyes becoming a little distant, "Compared to watching Lyanna being crushed, this pain... it's really nothing."
At the mention of Lyanna, both sisters fell silent.
That small figure, that girl who roared like a mother bear, had stayed in those ruins forever to buy them time.
"I will kill him," Arya suddenly said, a wolf-like ferocity glinting in her eyes, "That ice man on horseback. I will dig out his heart."
"We all will."
The cabin door was pushed open, and a cold wind rushed in. Aegon Targaryen strode in.
He had already shed his heavy valyrian steel armor, wearing only a black wool shirt, carrying two bottles of Arbor gold wine from King's Landing.
He looked exhausted, his eyes sunken, but his spirit was in a state of extreme excitement.
"How is it, Qyburn?" Aegon glanced at Sansa's wound.
"She won't die, Your Majesty," Qyburn was performing the final stitches, "House Stark's vitality is always very tenacious. However, this hand... I'm afraid she won't be able to perform very strenuous movements with it in the future."
Aegon nodded, walked to the bedside, handed a bottle of wine to Arya, and opened the other one for himself, taking a big gulp.
"Is this your 'magic'?" Arya didn't take the wine, but instead warily surveyed the surrounding dashboards and pipes that gleamed with metallic luster, "This flying ship, and that green lightning that can kill a whole group of people. Are you a wizard?"
"I am an engineer, and a part-time king," Aegon sat down on a nearby ammunition box, looking at Arya, "And, if it weren't for me, this 'wizard,' you would both be those blue-eyed monsters by now."
Arya was silent for a moment, then took the wine bottle, pulled out the stopper, and took a large swig like an experienced mercenary. The spicy liquor made her cough a few times, but it certainly warmed her up a lot.
"Thank you," she said in a low voice. For the proud Arya, this was already her limit.
"You're welcome," Aegon shrugged, then his gaze turned to Sansa, his eyes softening a little, "Can you still hold on?"
Sansa looked at the man. A few hours ago, he was still in King's Landing, thousands of kilometers away, still engaged in a power struggle with her.
And now, he was like a hero descended from the heavens, pulling her back from hell.
"Where are we going?" Sansa asked, "Back to King's Landing?"
"No," Aegon shook his head, pointing through the porthole at the vast white land below, "In this weather, it's too dangerous for the airship to fly back to King's Landing, and we don't have enough fuel. Besides, someone is waiting for us down there."
"Who?"
"Your other 'brother,'" Aegon's lips curled into a playful smile, "And my 'rival.'"
Sansa froze for a moment, then reacted: "Jon? We're above Winterfell?"
"To be precise, we'll land in ten minutes," Aegon stood up, adjusted his collar, "Get ready, Miss Stark. Although it's a bit disheveled, it's still coming home, so you should have some presence."
He walked to the door, then suddenly stopped and looked back at the giant dragons flying alongside outside the window.
"Moreover, Winterfell will be very lively today. Wolves, dragons, lions... and me, this 'monster.' All the pieces are in place."
Winterfell, main courtyard.
The snowstorm of the North seemed to have paused here slightly, but the chill was still bone-piercing.
Jon Snow stood on the city wall, wrapped in a thick Night's Watch cloak, a symbol he was unwilling to shed even after becoming King in the North.
Beside him were 'Onion Knight' Davos Seaworth, as well as Brienne, Podrick, and other loyal knights.
And in the courtyard below the city wall, thousands of Northern soldiers and Knights of the Vale were gathered.
They were originally conducting defensive drills, preparing for the impending army of Others, but at this moment, everyone stopped what they were doing, looking up at the sky in stunned silence.
"What is that...?" Davos rubbed his eyes, incredulously pointing at the growing black shadow in the clouds, "A giant... iron bird?"
"No," Jon's hand rested on the hilt of Longclaw, his brow furrowed, "That is Aegon's weapon. I've seen descriptions in intelligence reports, but I never thought it was real."
"Rumble—"
The airship's engine roared, shaking the ancient city walls.
The colossal object slowly descended, its shadow covering half of Winterfell, giving a strong sense of oppression.
The Northmen had never seen such a spectacle; many superstitious soldiers were already kneeling in prayer, thinking it was the Old Gods manifesting or devils descending.
But then, something even more terrifying happened.
"Roar—!!!"
Three clear dragon roars tore through the sky.
Behind that airship, Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion burst through the clouds.
They did not land, but circled above Winterfell, their massive wings obscuring the sky, their dragon scales gleaming like jewels in the faint sunlight.
"Dragons!! It's dragons!!"
"Run! The Targaryen are here to burn us!"
The courtyard instantly erupted into chaos. For the Northmen, there were only two memories of dragons: one was the Field of Fire three hundred years ago during 'Aegon the Conqueror's' conquest, and the other was the tragedy of Mad King Aerys burning Rickard Stark alive.
Dragons, in the North, were synonymous with destruction.
"Silence! All of you, be silent!" Jon drew Longclaw, roaring loudly, trying to maintain order, "Hold your formation! Archers, prepare!"
Although he gave the order, everyone knew that ordinary arrows were a joke against three adult dragons.
Just then, the black death airship had completed its landing on the snowy plain outside the city. The huge airbags slowly deflated, and the landing gear sank deep into the snow.
Chapter 135 The Night King's Arrival
The hatch opened.
Aegon Targaryen walked out first. He supported a weak Sansa, followed by a limping Arya.
When these three figures appeared before the gates of Winterfell, the previously tense atmosphere suddenly became strange.
The gates slowly opened. Jon Snow rushed out with a squad of guards.
When he clearly saw the two blood-covered girls, the sword in his hand clattered onto the ground.
"Sansa? Arya?"
Jon's voice was trembling. He didn't even care about the fully armed Aegon standing in the middle, nor did he care about the dragons in the sky. He rushed over like a madman.
"Jon!" Arya broke free from Aegon's support and threw herself into Jon's arms.
The girl who had always considered herself a cold-blooded assassin finally dropped all her defenses and burst into tears upon seeing the "brother" who loved her the most.
Sansa also walked over. Although she did not lose control like Arya, her tears flowed relentlessly.
Jon opened his arms and held his two sisters tightly in his embrace.
In this moment, House Stark was finally reunited.
Although Bran was absent, Rickon was absent, and Robband their parents were also gone, the remaining "wolves" had finally returned to their den.
Aegon stood aside, quietly watching the scene.
"Ahem."
An awkward voice broke the touching reunion. Ser Davosstepped forward, looking warily at Aegon, then up at the dragons in the sky.
"While I hate to interrupt this beautiful moment, I am Davos the Onion Knight, and I dare to ask..." He pointed at Aegon, "Who is this?"
Jon released his two sisters. He wiped his tears and straightened up. His gray eyes looked over Sansa's shoulder, fixed firmly on Aegon.
He recognized the face. From portraits in King's Landing, and from wanted posters.
"Aegon Targaryen," Jon said in a deep voice. "The King of the... iron throne."
"You can call me Aegon." Aegon flicked away cigarette ash and offered a typical, slightly rogue smile. "If you find the word 'Your Grace' difficult to pronounce."
"What are you doing here?" Jon's hand reached for his sword hilt again. "With your army, and... those dragons?"
"A correction," Aegon pointed to the sky. "Those dragons are not mine. Their owner has a much worse temper than I do."
Before he finished speaking, a gust of wind struck.
Drogon's massive body landed with a roar, right in front of everyone. The snow instantly melted from the heat, and the ground shook violently.
The black dragon lowered its head, its golden vertical pupils staring coldly at Jon, as two plumes of sulfurous smoke puffed from its nostrils.
Daenerys slid gracefully from the dragon's back. Dressed in a white fur coat, her silver hair braided into complex plaits, she appeared noble and untouchable.
She ignored Aegon and walked directly toward Jon.
Their gazes met in the air.
This was fate.
The true melody of the Song of Ice and Fire.
"I am Daenerys Targaryen." She lifted her chin slightly. "stormborn, the Unburnt, mother of dragons."
Jon looked at her. He should have felt anger, felt caution, as she was a Targaryen, a descendant of the family that had burned his grandfather. But the moment he looked into her eyes, Jon felt an inexplicable sense of familiarity.
"I am Jon Snow." He tried to keep his voice steady and respectful. "The King in the North."
"The former King," Daenerys corrected. "Torrhen Starkonce bent the knee to my ancestor. If you want my help against the Dead Ones, you must do the same."
The atmosphere instantly dropped to freezing point. The surrounding Northern soldiers drew their weapons, glaring at the arrogant "Southern Queen."
"Hey, hey, hold on."
Aegon walked between the two of them. He tossed the cigarette butt onto the snow and ground it out with his toe.
"I say, Your Graces." He spread his hands, looking helpless. "We just crawled out of a pile of zombies that wanted to eat us alive. Can we put aside this childish game of 'who kneels to whom' for a moment?"
He pointed to Sansa and Arya behind him.
"Bear Island is gone. The Wall has fallen. The Night King, with a hundred thousand troops and resurrected giants, is heading this way. They'll probably be here for breakfast at Winterfell in a few days."
Aegon's expression turned serious, and he exuded an aura of kingship no less potent than Daenerys's.
"The reason we are still alive is that we ran fast. But Winterfell cannot run."
He looked at Jon, then at Daenerys.
"I am a pragmatist. I don't care who among you is legitimate, who is a bastard, who has dragons, or who has wolves. The situation is simple now: we either fight together, or we die together."
"Sansa." Aegon turned to Sansa. "Tell your brother what we saw on Bear Island."
Sansa took a deep breath. She stepped forward, pale but resolute.
"Jon, it's true." She looked into Jon's eyes. "There are far more Dead Ones than we imagined. And they are not just beasts. The Night King, he has intelligence; he is targeting us. If we don't unite, the North won't last three days."
Jon fell silent. He looked at his sister, covered in wounds, and the last shred of doubt in his heart vanished.
"Open the gates!" Jon ordered loudly. "Let the wounded inside! Prepare hot soup and fires!"
He turned around, looking at Aegon and Daenerys.
"Winterfell welcomes everyone willing to fight the Long Night. Whether he is a Targaryen or a Lannister."
"A wise choice." Aegon smiled, patted Jon on the shoulder, and then lowered his voice. "By the way, you really look like an old acquaintance of mine."
Jon frowned, not understanding what he meant.
Winterfell, the Great Hall.
Night fell, and roaring fires were lit in the hall.
Although the atmosphere outside remained tense
G
Northern soldiers, the Golden Company, the Unsullied, and Dothraki, armies that should have been fighting each other were now crowded into one castle, making friction inevitable.
But inside the Great Hall, a small council, one that would decide the fate of mankind, was being held.
At the head of the long table sat Sansa Stark.
As the Lady of Winterfell, though wounded, she insisted on presiding over the meeting. Jon sat to her right, and Arya sat to her left.
On the other side of the long table were Daenerys and her advisors
G
Jorah Mormont and Missandei.
Aegon, meanwhile, sat at the far end of the long table, the position usually reserved for guests. Behind him stood Qyburn and several Golden Company officers.
"We need to discuss defensive deployment," Jon pointed to the map on the table. "If the Night King's speed is as fast as Sansa described, their vanguard might reach Last Hearth in three days and Winterfell in seven days."
"My dragons can intercept them from the air," Daenerysinterjected. "dragonflame is the bane of wights."
"But the Night King has ice spears," Aegon reminded her coldly. "And his blizzard can obscure visibility. If your dragons get lost in the storm or are forced to fly low, they become sitting targets. I nearly lost an airship on Bear Island, and one of your dragons was almost shot down."
Daenerys glared at him but offered no rebuttal. She had witnessed the power of that ice spear firsthand.
"We need to turn all the dragonglass into weapons," Joncontinued. "I have the mining rights to Dragonstone..."
"The entire Dragonstone is mine now," Daenerysstressed.
"Fine, yours," Jon conceded. "But we need craftsmen, and we need time."
"I have them ready." Aegon snapped his fingers. Qyburnproduced several blueprints and spread them on the table.
"What is this?" Davos leaned over to look.
"Dragonglass shotguns, dragonglass landmines, and... dragonglass grenades," Aegon pointed at the blueprints. "These are a hundred times more efficient than the arrowheads you hammer out. Provided you supply the raw materials, my craftsmen can arm every defensive line of Winterfell to the teeth within three days."
Jon and Davos exchanged glances. They didn't understand the blueprints, but it sounded impressive.
"What do you want?" Daenerys looked at Aegon warily. "You won't provide this for free."
"Of course." Aegon leaned back in his chair, his gaze sweeping over everyone present. "I want command."
"Impossible!" Daenerys and the Northern lords shouted simultaneously.
"Don't be so quick to refuse." Aegon waved his hand. "I'm not asking to command your men. I mean that in this defensive battle, the placement of fortifications and the allocation of firepower must follow my orders. When it comes to fighting, perhaps you are better at charging into battle; but when it comes to killing efficiency, how to eliminate the most monsters at the least cost..."
He pointed to his head.
"This contains wisdom thousands of years ahead of yours."
Just as the two sides were deadlocked, the door to the Great Hall was suddenly pushed open.
A young man in a wheelchair was pushed in by The Hound, Sandor Clegane, who had also just arrived.
That was Bran Stark.
Or rather, the Three-Eyed Raven.
His appearance instantly silenced the hall.
Sansa and Arya excitedly stood up, wanting to rush over, but Bran's rolled-back eyes made them stop.
Bran did not look at his sisters, nor did he look at Jon. His gaze passed straight through the crowd, landing on Aegon and Daenerys.
"You are all wrong."
Bran's voice was ethereal and emotionless, as if coming from another dimension.
"Fighting for command is meaningless."
"Because the Night King is not coming directly to Winterfell."
"What?" Jon was stunned. "Sansa clearly saw..."
"That was a feint," Bran said slowly. "He showed his strength on Bear Island to scare you all here. To concentrate the dragons, the armies, and all resistance forces in Winterfell."
"Then where did he go?" Aegon frowned, an ominous premonition rising in his heart.
Bran turned his head, looking out the window toward the dark south.
"He divided his forces."
"The majority of the wights are marching toward Winterfell. But the Night King himself, riding the 'ice dragon' he just resurrected..."
"He bypassed this place."
"He went to King's Landing."
"Boom
G
"
Aegon jumped up abruptly, knocking the chair beneath him to the floor.
"What did you say?!" Aegon's face instantly turned ashen.
"Because there is something he desires there." Branlooked at Aegon, his gaze seemingly piercing his soul. "There are the millions of tons of wildfire you buried. That is the ultimate 'fire'."
"If he ignites that wildfire and uses his ice magic to transform it..."
"The entire Southern Westeros will instantly become a dead zone. He will create an army of the Dead there a hundred times larger than the one in the North."
A deathly silence.
Aegon's fists cracked audibly. He had calculated every possibility, even using the "scorched earth plan" to threaten the Night King, but he never expected the Night King would actually covet that wildfire! And want to claim it for himself!
"Tyrion is still there," Aegon ground out.
"And a million people," Varys added from the corner, his voice trembling.
Aegon took a deep breath. He looked at Daenerys, then at Jon.
"The plan has changed."
He picked up the map again and violently tore it in half.
"You hold Winterfell. Don't let those riffraff go south."
"I'm going back to King's Landing."
"I'm going to... blow up my capital."
Chapter 136 The Mad King's Legacy
"You are leaving?"
The voice of Daenerys Targaryen echoed in the hall, carrying a hint of unbelievable fury.
She suddenly stood up, and Jorah Mormont immediately gripped the hilt of his sword behind her.
"You retreat at a time like this?" Daenerys glared at Aegon. "After tricking us all into this icy northern land, after making us face a literal mountain range of Dead Ones, you intend to run back to your southern castle like a coward?"
The surrounding Northern lords also began to whisper, the feeling of anger spreading through the crowd.
Lord Glover even spat on the ground, gripping his battle-axe tightly in his hand.
"Put away your cheap provocation, Daenerys."
Aegon Targaryen was not angered by these accusations.
He merely looked coldly at his aunt. While skillfully piecing the map, which had been torn in half, back together, he said without turning his head:
"A coward would take his army, but I will not."
He turned around, his gaze sweeping over everyone in the hall, finally resting on Harry Strickland, the commander of the Golden Company.
"Harry."
"Here, Your Grace." The long-exiled knight stepped forward, smoke stains from the recent battle still visible on his armor.
"The entire Golden Company stays." Aegon's command stunned everyone. "Even if you fight until the last man, you must keep the Dead Ones outside the walls of Winterfell. This is a death order."
"...As you command." Although Harry Strickland was surprised, he immediately beat his chest in acceptance of the order.
For the Golden Company, contract and command were above all else, even if the order meant their death.
"Qyburn." Aegon looked toward the sinister old Maester again.
"Your Grace?"
"You stay too." Aegon pointed to the blueprints for the dragonglass weapons on the table. "Bring your technical team and instruct the Northern craftsmen. I want you to get that smelting furnace glowing red hot within three days, turning every piece of dragonglass into a lethal weapon. If you fail, you will fill the furnace yourself."
"It is my honor." A fanatical light shone in Qyburn's murky eyes. For a madman obsessed with necromancy and modification, this place was paradise.
Having arranged everything, Aegon looked back at Daenerys, a curve of mockery forming on his lips.
"Now, tell me, am I a coward?"
Daenerys was silent. She looked at the man, her expression complicated.
He had left his most elite infantry and his core technical personnel. This was equivalent to giving up all his leverage in the North.
"You're going back alone?" Jon Snow couldn't help but ask. "How will you go back? The airship needs maintenance, and... what can you do by yourself?"
"Who said I was alone?"
Aegon walked to the window, pushed it open, and the cold wind, carrying snow, rushed in.
He pointed to the behemoth resting on the snowy plain outside the castle—the black death.
"That ship still holds the last of the supplies I brought—fifty tons of concentrated and purified wildfire fuel."
Aegon's voice became deep and dangerous.
"The Night King wants the wildfire in King's Landing? Let him go take it. But he will find that 'legacy' belongs not only to Mad King Aerys, but also to me, Aegon Targaryen."
He turned around, no longer looking at anyone, and strode toward the door. As he passed Sansa, he stopped.
Sansa sat on the chair, her face still pale, but her eyes were much firmer than before. She did not try to dissuade him, nor did she weep. She simply reached out her good right hand and gently grasped Aegon's sleeve.
"That is your home," Sansa whispered. "Do not let it become ruins."
Aegon looked down at her, the coldness in his eyes melting for an instant.
He reached out his hand, and his rough thumb gently brushed the streak of blood on Sansa's cheek.
"If it turns into ruins," he leaned in and whispered in her ear, "then I will build you a new one on the ruins. Bigger and warmer than the Red Keep."
Having said that, he abruptly pulled his hand back, his large red cloak sweeping out a curve of resolution behind him.
"I'm leaving!"
The great doors of the hall slammed shut behind him... Half an hour later, on the walls of Winterfell.
Everyone was gathered here, watching the steel airship named "black death" start up again.
The huge propellers began to spin, kicking up a sky full of wind and snow.
Blue flames shot out from the jet ports, pushing the behemoth slowly into the air. It then accelerated rapidly, like a black arrow released from a bowstring, piercing the thick clouds of the North and speeding toward the distant South.
"He really left." Arya stood beside Sansa, leaning on her cane, her tone carrying a hint of imperceptible admiration. "He's a bastard, but he's certainly a bastard with guts."
"He has gone to face something far more terrifying," Bransaid, sitting in his wheelchair, his sightless eyes fixed on the South. "The Night King... riding an ice dragon. That is a creature older than Drogon."
Daenerys stood not far away; hearing the words "ice dragon," her hand instinctively stroked Drogon's neck beside her.
Drogon seemed to sense something too, letting out a restless growl.
"We have our own battle to fight."
Jon Snow drew Longclaw, pointing the blade towards the pitch-black forest in the North. There, countless blue eyes were lighting up in the darkness.
"Prepare for battle! The Dead Ones are coming!"
Meanwhile, in King's Landing.
Although winter here was not as severe as in the North, this year was exceptionally abnormal.
The sky presented a sense of leaden gray oppression, and snowflakes, like the skin flakes of Dead Ones, drifted sparsely over this massive city of a million people.
The Red Keep, the Tower of the Hand.
Tyrion Lannister held a glass of Dornish red wine, but he had not taken a sip.
He stood on the balcony, overlooking the city he had once fought desperately to protect, later came to hate deeply, and now had no choice but to protect again.
The streets were empty, most commoners shivering in fear inside their homes.
Before leaving, Aegon had issued a "curfew." Anyone appearing on the streets after sunset would be arrested by the City Watch.
Although cruel, this maintained a minimum level of order at such a time.
"My Lord."
Bronn pushed the door open and walked in. The current Commander of the City Watch had lost his usual casual demeanor.
He brushed the snow off his body, his expression grim.
"What is it?" Tyrion turned around. "Is someone causing trouble in Flea Bottom again?"
"Much worse than that." Bronn walked to the table, poured himself a cup of wine, and drained it in one gulp. "It's the weather."
"The weather?"
"The Blackwater Rush has frozen over," Bronn said heavily. "Just now. It was still flowing half an hour ago, and now it's frozen solid enough to ride a horse across."
Tyrion's hand trembled, spilling a few drops of red wine from his glass.
The Blackwater Rush is located in the South of Westeros, and even in the coldest winter, it rarely freezes completely. Unless...
"There's worse," Bronn pointed outside the window. "Look at the clouds over there."
Tyrion hurried to the window and looked north.
In the direction of the Gods Eye, the originally leaden gray sky had now turned pitch black.
That was not the blackness of night; it was a pure, light-devouring darkness.
That darkness was advancing toward King's Landing with astonishing speed, like a massive tsunami.
As the darkness approached, the air temperature began to drop sharply.
The iron railing on the balcony instantly coated itself in white frost, and the warm air Tyrion exhaled turned into white mist.
"It's here," Tyrion's voice trembled. "That damned prophecy."
"What prophecy?"
"winter is coming," Tyrion gave a bitter laugh. "But I didn't expect winter is coming to arrive in a carriage, traveling so fast."
"What do we do now?" Bronn's hand rested on his sword hilt. "Shouldn't we bring out the wildfire cannons?"
"Bring them out." Tyrion took a deep breath, a flicker of resolve—the unique madness of House Lannister—flashing in his mismatched eyes. "Also, activate the 'Mad King Protocol.'"
Bronn was stunned: "You mean... the plan His Grace mentioned before he left, the one about 'blowing up the city if I don't return'?"
"Yes." Tyrion turned and walked into the room, retrieving the Hand of the King pin from a secret compartment in the bookshelf and fastening it to his chest. "If this city is destined to become a playground for the Dead Ones, I would rather see it turn to ash."
"Go, Bronn. Tell the men to open the lid of every barrel of wildfire."
"Today, we are going to throw a grand bonfire party for these 'guests' who have traveled so far."
Half an hour later.
Darkness devoured the walls of King's Landing.
There was no sound of battering rams, nor the blare of horns. Only a bone-chilling silence.
Then, there was a massive shadow.
It broke through the clouds and appeared directly above the Red Keep.
It was a dragon. But it was no longer a living creature.
Its body was composed of rotting flesh and pale bones, icicles hung from its tattered wings, and a ghostly blue fire burned in its chest cavity.
Seated upon the back of this undead behemoth was a figure wearing a crown of ice crystals.
The Night King.
He looked down at the prosperous city below him.
In his eyes, this was not merely a fortress built of stone and wood; it was a massive slaughterhouse filled with the scent of the living.
What excited him even more was the furious energy buried beneath the city.
wildfire.
If he ignited it and guided it with ice magic, that green fire of destruction would transform into blue necromantic fire.
He could instantly convert those million people into his army.
At that point, let alone Winterfell, the entire world would tremble beneath his feet.
"ROAR—!!!"
The ice dragon opened its massive mouth and let out a mournful roar. But what it sprayed was not fire, but a blue, intensely cold blast of dragon breath.
This dragon breath struck Maegor's Holdfast in the Red Keep directly!
"BOOM!"
The sturdy stone tower was fragile before the dragon breath, collapsing instantly. The cold spread, freezing the ruins into an ice sculpture.
"FIRE!!! All anti-air cannons! FIRE!!!"
On the city walls, Bronn roared hoarsely.
Before leaving, Aegon had deployed dozens of modified "wildfire anti-air cannons" on the walls of King's Landingand the towers of the Red Keep.
These weapons were originally intended to counter Daenerys's dragons, but unexpectedly, they were now being used against the Dead Ones.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Green glowing projectiles, trailing fire, soared into the sky, weaving a dense net of fire in the air.
But this ice dragon was more agile and more resilient than Drogon.
It rolled and dove through the air. Although the wildfireprojectiles tore open gaps in its rotting body, they could not stop its movement.
It felt no pain.
The Night King steered the ice dragon, tracing an eerie arc in the sky, completely ignoring the anti-air barrage, and dove toward the slums of King's Landing—Flea Bottom.
That area was the most densely populated.
It was also one of the wildfire caches.
"He's going to detonate the wildfire!" Inside the Tower of the Hand, Tyrion watched the scene and cried out in despair.
Just as the ice dragon was about to unleash its breath and ignite the underground wildfire cache—
"WENG—!!!"
A strange, sharp sound of something slicing through the air came from the Southern horizon.
That was not a dragon's roar.
That was the roar of machinery.
A black bolt of lightning pierced the darkness at supersonic speed.
The black death had arrived.
But the airship did not slow down or open fire. Like an out-of-control meteor, it slammed violently into the side of the ice dragon in a suicidal maneuver!
"Aegon?!" Tyrion gasped.
In mid-air.
Aegon Targaryen stood in the airship's control room, gripping the joystick tightly. His eyes were bloodshot, and his body trembled—side effects caused by the wildfirestimulant.
"You want to blow up my city?"
Aegon looked at the gigantic skeletal frame drawing nearer, looking into those icy blue eyes.
He violently slammed down all the power throttles.
"Then you'll have to step over my corpse first!!"
"BOOM—!!!!"
Steel and bone collided most violently above King's Landing.
The airship's nose slammed into the ice dragon's flank. The immense kinetic energy, combined with the fully loaded wildfire fuel, triggered an earth-shattering explosion at the moment of impact.
A massive green mushroom cloud rose into the sky above King's Landing, illuminating the night as brightly as day.
A powerful shockwave swept across the entire city, shattering countless windows and ripping off numerous rooftops.
In that blinding light, people seemed to see the black steel behemoth and the white undead dragon tangled together, like two falling stars, trailing long tails of flame as they plummeted toward the frozen surface of the Blackwater Rush... falling.
Chapter 137 The Duel on the Blackwater River
The world was burning.
That was the first thought Aegon Targaryen had when he regained consciousness.
In his ears were the groans of twisting metal and the crackle of burning wildfire.
He felt as if his body had been trampled by a stampede of wild oxen; every bone screamed in protest.
If it hadn't been for the shock-absorbing armor—a custom blend of valyrian steel and modern composites designed for him by Qyburn—the impact just now would have been enough to turn him into a puddle of flesh.
"Cough, cough..."
Aegon struggled to push away the console debris pressing down on him.
The cockpit was completely warped, and the ballistic glass was shattered into a spiderweb pattern. He looked out through the cracks at a bizarre and fantastical sight.
The wreckage of the black death lay across the thick ice of the Blackwater Rush, burning fiercely.
Green wildfire spread across the ice, illuminating the night like a ghost realm.
Not far away, the undead ice dragon was in an even more miserable state—half of its wing had been severed by the airship's propeller. Its massive skeleton lay twisted on the ice, the spectral fire in its chest flickering, clearly having lost the ability to fly.
But the figure riding upon the dragon's back was still standing.
The Night King.
He slowly descended from the ice dragon's broken spine, stepping onto the burning wildfire without sustaining any damage.
The green flames, capable of instantly melting steel, seemed like nothing more than common creek water beneath his feet.
As he walked, the burning flames began to extinguish, replaced by spreading layers of white frost.
"What a... tough nut."
Aegon gritted his teeth and crawled out of the hole in the cockpit.
He collapsed onto the ice, the acute pain nearly causing him to pass out.
He felt his waist; the blackfyre sword was still there, but the dragonglass firearm had been lost in the impact.
He staggered to his feet and spat out a mouthful of bloody spittle.
"Hey! Popsicle!"
Aegon's voice echoed across the desolate frozen river, carrying a hint of mad mockery.
"Is that all you've got? Can't even hit the brakes?"
The Night King stopped.
He turned his head, his emotionless, icy blue eyes locking onto Aegon.
He did not react with anger to Aegon's provocation; he simply raised his hand, and a massive, broken rib suddenly shot out from the wreckage of the ice dragon behind him.
The rib was quickly covered in frost mid-air, transforming into a gigantic ice spear.
"Whoosh—"
The ice spear came whistling!
Aegon's pupils violently contracted. He dove sideways at the last possible second.
"Boom!"
The ice spear embedded itself where he had just been standing, piercing through half a meter of ice and shattering into a circle of icy spikes around the impact zone.
"Now I'm in trouble," Aegon muttered as he rolled across the ice and scrambled awkwardly to his feet.
He knew that in a one-on-one fight, he was absolutely no match for this eight-thousand-year-old monster.
Even with the blackfyre sword and modern combat skills, they were a joke in the face of such absolute power and magic.
But he had to stall him.
"Bronn! Are you just watching the show, you bastard?!" Aegon screamed hoarsely toward the Red Keep.
On the city walls, Bronn was watching the entire scene through a spyglass.
Hearing the King's curses, he flinched, immediately turning and shouting at the gunners behind him: "Did you hear that? The King is swearing! Depress all the wildfirecannons! Target—that blue-eyed bastard on the Blackwater Rush! Fire!!"
"But, my lord, His Majesty is still out there..." the adjutant hesitated.
"His Majesty said, even if you blow him up along with the monster, we cannot let that thing enter the city! Fire!!"
"Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!"
From the walls of King's Landing, dozens of modified wildfire cannons roared simultaneously.
Green projectiles rained down like a meteor shower, pouring onto the ice of the Blackwater Rush.
The Night King looked up at the green harbingers of death flying toward him.
He raised his hand again, and a massive surge of cold air erupted from his body, instantly forming a gigantic ice shield above his head.
"Bang, bang, bang, bang—"
The wildfire projectiles smashed against the ice shield, exploding into bursts of dazzling sparks.
Although most of the attacks were blocked, the concentrated barrage of firepower certainly made it impossible for him to advance.
Aegon seized the opportunity and ran like a madman toward the Kingswood on the opposite bank.
He wasn't running away. He was kiting the monster.
The Night King saw the running figure through a crack in the ice shield.
He knew who that was.
That was the other source of "Fire," the variable mentioned in the prophecy.
If he didn't kill him, this war would never end.
The Night King dismissed the ice shield, and the crystal ice spear in his hand reformed.
He ignored the cannon fire from the walls and started walking, pursuing Aegon.
His steps seemed slow, but each one covered an enormous distance. He was the embodiment of death; nothing could impede death's advance.
"Come on! Come and catch me!"
Aegon ran and taunted simultaneously, looking back over his shoulder. His lungs felt like they were burning, and every breath tasted of blood.
Almost there. Just a little further.
Ahead was the central area of the Blackwater Rush.
Beneath the ice there lay the "final dish" Aegon had prepared for the Night King.
Just as the Night King was about to catch Aegon, his ice spear already raised—
Aegon suddenly stopped.
He turned around, facing the terrifying figure. Instead of drawing his sword, he pulled a delicate metal remote control, engraved with the three-headed dragon sigil, from his pocket.
The familiar, sinister grin belonging to the "black heartKing" spread across his face.
"Checkmate."
He pressed the red button.
"Click."
Time seemed to stand still at that moment.
The center of the Blackwater Rush, the ice sheet directly beneath their feet, suddenly emitted a muffled roar.
It was not the sound of cracking ice.
It was a roar from hell.
Over the past month, Aegon had tasked Tyrion and Bronnwith more than just building cannons; they had done something far crazier.
They had wrapped King's Landing's entire stock of wildfire barrels in waterproof tarps and, by chiseling through the ice, buried them deep in the riverbed of the Blackwater Rush.
Two thousand barrels, exactly.
Right beneath their feet.
"BOOM— — — — — — — —!!!!"
A pillar of green light, over a hundred meters in diameter, burst through the ice and shot straight into the sky!
This wasn't an explosion. This was an eruption!
It was as if a green volcano had erupted from the river bottom!
The immense shockwave instantly shredded everything. The ice, the water, even the silt at the river bottom, were vaporized before this world-ending energy.
The Night King's perpetually frozen face finally showed a flicker of expression—one named "dismay."
He tried to suppress it with ice magic, but in the face of this sheer magnitude of wildfire, even a god would be powerless.
The green flames instantly consumed him.
As for Aegon... he had been thrown clear by the massive energy surge the moment before he pressed the button.
Although he was at the edge of the explosion, and despite wearing valyrian steel armor, the shockwave was still enough to be fatal.
He traced an arc through the air, crashing violently into the still-frozen river hundreds of meters away.
The icy river water instantly swallowed him.
Darkness descended... The Red Keep, the Tower of the Hand.
Tyrion Lannister clung to the windowsill, watching the scene dumbfounded.
The entire Blackwater Rush had been turned into a burning green ribbon.
The flames reached dozens of meters high, casting a sickly green glow on the buildings along both banks.
The massive heat wave even reached the walls of the Red Keep.
"Madman..." Tyrion muttered to himself, crushing the wine glass in his hand, "A complete and utter madman..."
He knew Aegon was ruthless, but he never imagined Aegon would be so ruthless to himself. This was a true mutual destruction.
"Quick! Send boats to rescue him!!" Bronn roared from the walls, though he knew the chance of survival at the epicenter of that explosion was virtually zero.
Just when everyone thought the war had ended with that massive boom—
A figure slowly emerged from the towering column of green fire.
His armor was shattered, and he was covered in burning green flames.
His skin was charred black, and in some places, bone was exposed. Yet he was still standing.
The Night King.
He wasn't dead.
Although wildfire was powerful and could restrain the undead, facing the avatar of the "Cold God," it still failed to completely destroy him.
But he was injured.
This was the first time in eight thousand years he had suffered such severe wounds.
One of his arms had been completely blown off. His icy armor was entirely shattered. In those eyes, which had once been cold and indifferent, a furious, unprecedented rage now burned.
He stood on the burning river surface, the surrounding wildfire forced back by the intense coldness erupting from his body.
He looked up toward the Red Keep.
Since that "spark of fire" had been extinguished.
Now, this city would pay the price.
He raised his remaining left hand toward King's Landing.
"Humm..."
A low-frequency vibration resonated throughout the entire city.
The civilians who had been killed by the blast, the soldiers who had fallen in battle, even the dry bones buried in the cemeteries... all opened blue eyes at that moment.
Inside King's Landing, the Dead Ones resurrected.
They weren't attacking from outside the walls.
Instead, they erupted from within, from every dark corner, from every warm household.
"The Long Night..."
Tyrion watched as the guard in the courtyard below, who had just been killed by stray shrapnel, suddenly staggered to his feet, drew his sword, and struck down his comrade.
He closed his eyes in despair.
"The Long Night has truly arrived."
Chapter 138 The Last Dragonborn
A few kilometers downriver from the Blackwater Rush.
A black figure lay on a piece of floating ice.
Aegon Targaryen.
His armor was completely deformed, hanging on him like scrap metal.
His breathing was so faint it was almost imperceptible.
The icy river water had soaked his clothes, slowly draining away his last bit of body heat.
He was not dead, but he was not far from it.
In his hazy consciousness, he heard the city's screams and saw the soaring flames in the distance.
"Did I fail..."
He gave a bitter smile in his heart.
Even after using every calculation and all the technology, was he still unable to kill that monster?
This truly was a messed-up world.
Just as his consciousness was about to sink completely into darkness, he felt something approaching.
It was a heat source.
A familiar, warm heat source.
"...Splash."
The sound of water rang out.
A huge, red dragon head emerged from the water.
Was it Rhaegal? No, Rhaegal was green.
Was it Drogon? No, Drogon was black.
So this was a red dragon?
Aegon struggled to open his eyes.
By the faint light of the fire, he saw a smaller dragon whose scales shone like brilliant rubies.
It was watching him with its golden eyes, warm air puffing from its nostrils, seemingly confirming his identity.
"Who are you?" Aegon asked weakly.
The dragon did not answer.
It merely lowered its head, gently bit the shattered breastplate on Aegon's back, and lifted him from the icy river water as if carrying a hatchling.
Then, it spread its wings and soared into the sky.
A figure sat upon its back.
A figure Aegon never would have dreamed of seeing.
It was a woman with silver-gold hair, but she was not Daenerys.
She wore ancient black riding clothes bearing the Targaryen sigil.
Her face bore the marks of time, yet she was still breathtakingly beautiful.
"Hold tight, child."
The woman spoke, her voice husky and magnetic, carrying the composure of one who had endured great hardship.
"My foolish niece is still playing in the snow up North, so it seems I, this old woman, must clean up the mess."
Aegon's pupils suddenly dilated.
He remembered the name Varys had once mentioned.
The legend who was believed to have died long ago, or been missing for many years.
The person Melisandre said had "received a gift and was preparing a return gift."
"...Sela?"
No, that was wrong.
Varys had spoken of "the widow."
"I am Saera," the woman turned her head and gave a mysterious smile. "If you like, you can call me... Grandmother."
"The Iron Bank of Braavos owes me a great favor."
"And that priestess Melisandre told me my grandson was about to get himself killed."
She pointed toward King's Landing below.
"Look down there, little one.
Your city is burning, and your subjects are turning into monsters."
"Do you intend to just lie there and wait to die?"
Aegon looked at the hell below.
Anger, resentment, shame... all these emotions transformed into a new strength, injecting vitality into his broken body.
"No."
He gritted his teeth and struggled to sit up.
"I will kill that bastard."
"Good."
Saera Targaryen nodded in satisfaction.
"That is the spirit of the True Dragon."
She patted the red dragon beneath her—this dragon was clearly not one of Daenerys's three, but of a more ancient, mysterious bloodline.
"Go, Tyrant."
"Give that ice-face a taste of what we can do."
"Tell him that the Targaryen Family... is not extinct yet!"
---
"Your Grace...?"
Tyrion Lannister slumped weakly on the stone steps of the Red Keep, tightly gripping an axe whose blade was already chipped and dull.
Beside him, Bronn leaned against the corner of the wall, breathing heavily.
His golden armor was saturated with black blood; it was impossible to tell if it belonged to the enemy or himself.
The defenses of Maegor's Holdfast had collapsed.
The Dead Ones crawling out from underground—soldiers who were once the City Watch, servants who were usually docile, even nobles who hadn't managed to escape—they had all now become blue-eyed monsters.
They knew neither fatigue nor pain, assaulting the final line of defense like a tide.
"It's over..." Tyrion watched the headless corpse slowly walking out of the shadows.
That was Ser Boros Blount, the former Kingsguard; although his head had been blown off by wildfire long ago, his body still swung its longsword, mechanically reaping lives.
"At least we'll die like men," Bronn spat a mouthful of bloody saliva, struggling to his feet. "Too bad, that brothel madam still owes me a free service."
Just as the headless corpse raised its longsword, preparing to deliver the fatal blow to the two final resistors—
"ROAR— — — — — —!!!"
A dragon roar, never heard before, sounding as if it came from the ancient wilderness, suddenly exploded above the Red Keep!
The sound was so high-pitched and resonant that it drowned out the screams across the city and the explosions of wildfire.
It was not filled with the savage dominance of Drogon's roar, nor was it sharp like Rhaegal's; it carried a royal majesty, an arrogance fit for ruling the world.
The next second, a column of golden-red fire descended from the sky!
Chapter 139 Crimson Wrath
This was no ordinary dragonflame.
The flames displayed an eerie, flowing golden hue, and upon contact with the ground, they didn't immediately spread but adhered to the Dead Ones like viscous lava.
"Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle—"
The headless corpses didn't even have time to react before instantly vaporizing in the golden-red flames.
Yes, not burning, but direct vaporization! Not even ashes were left!
Tyrion looked up in horror, seeing a colossal figure slowly descending amidst the sky-high smoke and fire.
Its wingspan was even wider than Drogon's, and its entire body was covered in scales as brilliant as rubies, shimmering with an ominous glow under the firelight.
A row of black barbs grew on its spine, like the spikes on a crown.
"That is…" As a well-read Lannister, a name flashed through Tyrion's mind, a name that only existed during the Targaryen Family's most glorious period, "Meleys? The Red Queen?"
No, this was impossible. Meleys had died in battle during the Dance of the Dragons.
But this dragon, both in size and its signature golden-red dragonflame, was uncannily similar to the legendary Red Queen.
The giant dragon landed with a thud, its massive claws directly crushing the fountain in the courtyard.
It lowered its noble head, snorting a breath of hot air at the surrounding Dead Ones attempting to approach.
The scorching airflow instantly ignited a dozen corpses.
On the dragon's back, an old woman in black riding attire swiftly dismounted.
Though her hair was silver, her movements were as agile as a twenty-year-old warrior.
Closely following her was the man, Aegon Targaryen, who, despite being covered in wounds, still stood firm.
"Grandma, your pet seems to have a bad temper," Aegonsaid with a wry smile, clutching his broken ribs and watching the red dragon furiously tearing at the Dead Ones.
"Its name is Morningstar," Saerella Targaryen said faintly, her valyrian steel dagger dancing between her fingers, "It's been cooped up in the Shadow Lands of Asshai for too long; now it just wants to stretch its limbs."
She turned and looked at the stunned the imp.
"You are Tywin's clever little son?" Saerella scrutinized Tyrion, "You don't look like much, but I hear your mind is sharp. Aegon is alive today thanks to you."
"You… you are…" Tyrion stammered.
"Who I am isn't important," Saerella interrupted him, pointing to the sky, "What's important is, we have a big guy to deal with."
Following her finger, Tyrion saw a desperate sight.
Atop the Red Keep's tower, the one-armed Night Kingstood there.
Dense cold air swirled around him, and the ice crystal spear in his hand re-coalesced.
And behind him, countless black shadows were gathering—these were all the Dead Ones in King's Landing, surging towards this place.
The Night King was expressionless, but in his ice-blue eyes, for the first time, there was a hint of apprehension.
He looked at the red dragon.
He could feel that the flame power within this dragon was purer and more ancient than that of the previous three.
This was a power that could truly threaten his existence.
"Aegon," Saerella's voice grew serious, "Your wildfireblew off one of his arms, preventing him from throwing those deadly spears. This is our only chance."
"I know." Aegon took a deep breath, enduring the intense pain, and drew his blackfyre sword again. Though the blade already had cracks, it was still sharp.
"Morningstar will take care of the foot soldiers and keep his cold magic in check," Saerella commanded, "You go, drive that bastard off my castle."
"Me?" Aegon pointed to himself, "Grandma, I can barely walk right now, and you want me to duel the Night King?"
"You are not alone." Saerella suddenly reached out and pressed her hand to Aegon's chest.
A warm, even scorching, current flowed from her palm into Aegon's body.
Aegon was surprised to find that his broken ribs no longer hurt as much, and his weary muscles were re-filled with strength.
"This is Blood Magic," Saerella whispered, her face instantly paling a few shades, "I lent you a bit of Morningstar's life force. Only ten minutes. After ten minutes, you'll be too weak to kill even a chicken."
"Ten minutes…" Aegon clenched his fist, feeling the surging power within him, "That's enough."
"Roar!"
The red dragon Morningstar let out a roar, furiously flapping its wings, creating a gust of wind that blew all the surrounding Dead Ones away.
Then it soared into the sky, unleashing a golden-red stream of dragonflame at the Night King on the tower!
The Night King had no choice but to raise his remaining left hand, creating a massive ice shield to block it.
In that instant, Aegon moved.
He was no longer the "black heart King" who relied on technology and calculations; at this moment, he was like a true Targaryen knight, stepping on the red dragon's spine, using its diving momentum to leap high into the air!
"I've been practicing this 'Leap of Faith' for a long time for this moment!"
Aegon roared in the air, his blackfyre sword ablaze with fierce flames.
"Die!!!"
The Night King had just blocked the dragonflame when he saw a black shadow descending from the sky.
He tried to dodge, but the red dragon's suppression left him nowhere to escape. He could only barely turn his body, using the ice shield to take the sword blow head-on.
"Crack!"
The blackfyre sword struck the ice shield heavily. This time, valyrian steel combined with ancient Blood Magicfinally shattered the indestructible ice.
The longsword continued its descent, fiercely cutting into the Night King's left shoulder!
"Hiss— — — —!"
The Night King let out an inhuman shriek. Black blood gushed out, and golden flames burned at the wound, preventing his self-healing.
The immense impact sent both of them crashing down from the top of the tower.
They grappled and fought in the air, finally falling heavily into the rubble-strewn courtyard.
Aegon was badly shaken, but he immediately scrambled to his feet, raising his sword to deliver a finishing blow.
But the Night King was the Night King after all. Even severely wounded, even with one arm severed, even burned by magical flames, his reactions were still astonishingly fast.
A violent blizzard suddenly erupted centered around the Night King. Countless ice shards shot out like flying knives.
Aegon was forced to raise his sword to block, pushed back a dozen steps.
When the blizzard cleared, the Night King was gone.
"He ran?" Tyrion peered out from behind cover.
"No." Saerella stood on the dragon's back, looking at the distant sky, "He is retreating. But he took his 'spoils of war'."
Everyone looked up.
Above King's Landing, the army of Dead Ones that had been besieging the Red Keep suddenly stopped their attack, as if having received some command.
They began to pour out of the city, forming a black torrent.
And at the forefront of that torrent, the Night King, riding a new undead warhorse, turned back to cast a deep look in the direction of the Red Keep.
There was no anger in his eyes, only a chilling indifference.
Though he lost this duel, he gained the capital for war.
King's Landing's one million inhabitants, excluding those who died in the wildfire explosion and the recent battle, the remaining hundreds of thousands of corpses, had now all become his soldiers.
He led this vast army north.
Towards the final battlefield—Winterfell.
"Did we win?" Bronn asked, somewhat uncertainly, watching the retreating Dead Ones.
Aegon leaned on his sword, kneeling on one knee.
The borrowed strength was fading, and the intense pain returned.
He looked at the ravaged King's Landing, at the still burning ruins and the scattered corpses.
This once prosperous capital had now become an empty city.
A ghost town.
"No." Aegon spat out a mouthful of blood, struggling to his feet, "We just… didn't all die."
He turned and looked at Tyrion and Bronn, then at the legendary "Grandma" who had dismounted from the dragon's back.
"Pack up," Aegon's voice was weak but firm, "All the weapons, food, and gold we can take. Take it all."
"Where are we going?" Tyrion asked, "We can't hold this place anymore."
Aegon looked up, his gaze fixed on the distant North.
"We go to Winterfell."
"Since he prepared a grave for us there."
"Then we'll go see who buries whom."