Chapter 140 King of Ruins
Dawn did not arrive as expected.
The sky over King's Landing was still covered by thick, leaden-gray clouds, and the air was filled with the pungent smell of sulfur and the stench of burnt flesh.
The once bustling heart of Westeros was now as silent as a massive tomb.
Only the occasional sound of ice cracking on the Blackwater Rush reminded the survivors of the earth-shattering battle of last night.
The Red Keep, Throne Room.
Miraculously, it had not collapsed in the clash of ice and fire, but the massive stained-glass window had shattered, and cold wind, mixed with snow and ash, poured in, covering the red carpet leading to the iron throne.
Aegon Targaryen limped into the hall, using a makeshift longsword as a crutch.
His valyrian steel armor was ruined, and his body was covered in blood-soaked bandages, which Bronn and the few remaining maesters had applied overnight.
He stopped at the foot of the steps, looked up, and gazed at the lump of iron—the iron throne—forged from a thousand swords.
For this chair, Westeros had bled for three hundred years.
For this chair, he had also manipulated hearts and moved cautiously, step by step.
But now, in this empty, dead city, this chair seemed so ironic, so lonely.
"It doesn't look as comfortable as the legends say."
An old but robust voice came from the shadows.
Shayla Targaryen sat on a nearby stone step, holding a piece of dry, hard bread she had found in the ruins, breaking it into small pieces to feed the tiny red hatchling on her shoulder.
"It's certainly not comfortable." Aegon turned around, sat with his back to the iron throne, and said, "It's full of thorns, and sitting on it for too long will make your back ache. And now, it just looks like a pile of scrap metal."
"Exactly." Shayla clapped the breadcrumbs from her hands, her murky but sharp eyes fixed on Aegon. "The true throne isn't made of iron; it's made of people. Now that everyone's dead, this is just garbage."
Tyrion Lannister and Bronn entered from a side door.
The two men looked as if they had just crawled out of a coal heap, their faces covered in soot, only their eyes still bright.
"Your Majesty." Tyrion's voice was hoarse. "The count is in. Inside King's Landing... there are almost no living people left. Besides a few hundred servants and nobles hiding in Maegor's Holdfast's cellar, and a thousand Gold Cloakssurviving under Bronn's command, the remaining million people..."
He paused, seemingly unwilling to continue.
"All went with the Night King." Aegon finished for him, his tone terrifyingly calm. "A million Dead Ones. What a 'dowry' that is."
"We have to go." Bronn interjected, anxiously looking at the sky outside the window. "Is that red dragon rested? We can't stay here. This place is now a giant morgue, who knows if there are any stray zombies hiding in the sewers."
Aegon nodded, then struggled to stand, leaning on his sword.
"Take everything we can. Food, weapons, and all the good wine left in the cellar." He glanced at Tyrion. "Don't leave it for the Dead Ones; they don't appreciate fine wine."
"What about this city?" Tyrion looked at the familiar stone walls around them, a hint of reluctance in his eyes. "Just abandon it?"
"This isn't abandoning it."
Aegon walked to the hall's entrance, taking one last look at the iron throne, which now appeared incredibly desolate.
"This is'scorched earth'."
"Since the Night King wants this city, we'll give him an empty one. When we win, I'll come back and rebuild it. If we lose..."
He let out a cold laugh, pushed open the great doors, and stepped into the swirling wind and snow.
"Then let these ruins be the final tombstone of human civilization."
...Three days later, in the North, Winterfell.
If King's Landing was a silent ruin, then Winterfell at this moment was a powder keg ready to explode.
The castle walls were packed with various armies from the Seven Kingdoms.
The Stark's wolf banners, the Arryn's falcon banners, the Lannister's lion banners, the Targaryen's three-headed dragon banners, and even the Dothraki's horse-whistles and the Unsullied's spears.
Soldiers who spoke different languages, had different customs, and were even mortal enemies a week ago, now had to huddle around the same campfire for warmth.
Friction and brawls were frequent, and the air was thick with anxiety and fear.
"We're running out of food."
At the military council in the great hall, Sansa Starkslammed a thick ledger onto the table.
Her left arm was in a sling, and though her face was still pale, her aura was increasingly sharp.
"The Dothraki's horses consume half of our hay reserves daily.
Though the Unsullied don't complain, they are also people and need to eat.
At the current rate of consumption, even if the Night Kingdoesn't come, we'll start eating warhorses in half a month, and people in a month."
Daenerys sat on the other side of the long table, her white fur coat particularly striking in the dim firelight.
"My warriors are here to help you fight, not to starve." Daenerys responded coldly. "And my dragons need meat. Lots of fresh meat."
"Then let them eat the Dead Ones!" Arya, equally short-tempered, retorted from nearby. "There are plenty outside the city."
"How dare you insult my children?" Daenerys abruptly stood up, and Jorah and Grey Worm immediately placed their hands on their weapons.
"Enough!"
Jon Snow sat at the head of the table, painfully rubbing his temples.
He felt that governing a kingdom was ten thousand times harder than killing wildlings beyond the Wall.
"Arguing won't conjure food." Jon looked at the two strong queens. "Our primary task now is defense. Bransaid..."
At the mention of Bran, everyone fell silent.
The Three-Eyed Raven, sitting in his wheelchair, now had his eyes closed, as if dozing.
But his hand was tightly gripping the armrest, his knuckles white.
"They're here."
Bran suddenly opened his eyes, his milky white gaze reflecting some terrifying sight.
"Who? The Night King?" Jon stood up nervously.
"No." Bran's voice was still ethereal. "It's 'fire'. Fire with scars."
Just then, a deep dragon's roar pierced through the thick stone walls and echoed into the hall.
But this sound did not belong to Drogon, Rhaegal, or Viserion.
It was older, heavier, like a dying king's final sigh.
Everyone rushed out of the hall into the courtyard.
The clouds in the sky were forcibly torn apart, and a massive dragon, covered in dark red scales, slowly descended.
It looked very tired, with several torn wounds on its wings, and even stumbled upon landing, kicking up large clouds of snow.
That was "Morning Star."
On the dragon's back, several figures dismounted.
The first among them, though leaning on a crutch and covered in bandages, showed no diminution of his arrogant swagger.
"Oh, everyone's here."
Aegon Targaryen smiled and waved, though the smile looked somewhat comical due to the bruises on his face.
"Looks like I haven't missed dinner."
"Aegon!" Sansa was the first to rush over, completely disregarding her queenly demeanor. She even forgot her own pain at that moment.
Next were Tyrion and Bronn, who had been brought back by another dragon.
But Daenerys did not move. She stared intently at the red dragon, then at the old woman who was the last to dismount from its back.
It was an ancestral connection from deep within her bloodline.
Shayla Targaryen patted Morning Star's neck, comforting the old companion, then turned, her gaze sweeping past everyone and landing precisely on Daenerys.
Two Targaryens, one old and one young, stared at each other across thirty meters of snow.
"You're Rhaegar's sister?" Shayla squinted, sizing up Daenerys. "You certainly resemble your mother, Rhaella. But that outfit... are you going to a ball or to war?"
"Who are you?" Daenerys felt an unprecedented pressure. Her proud 'true dragon blood' felt strangely suppressed in front of this old woman.
"By lineage, you should call me great-great aunt." Shayla walked over with steady steps, and the surrounding Northern soldiers unconsciously made way for her. "But I prefer to be called Shayla."
"Shayla...?" Daenerys had no memory of that name.
"Don't bother, it's not in the family tree." Aegon limped over to mediate. "Let me introduce you, this is the Targaryen Family's 'hidden gem,' and the savior who pulled us out of that pit of the Dead Ones in King's Landing."
He looked around at the stunned crowd, the smile on his face gradually fading.
"Alright, enough with the pleasantries."
Aegon walked up to Jon and clapped his 'cousin' on the shoulder.
"Call everyone to the war room. All the lords, all the commanders."
"We're going to have a meeting. A meeting that will decide whether the human race can continue to exist."
Chapter 141 The Gathering in the North
In the war room at Winterfell, the atmosphere was even heavier than the blizzard outside.
On the huge map table, the black pieces that once represented the Night King's army had now become a large black smudge, almost covering the entire Neck southwards.
"The situation is worse than we anticipated."
Aegon stood before the map, pointing with a wooden stick.
"The Night King didn't just get a million fresh corpses in King's Landing; he also got something even more troublesome."
"What?" Davos asked.
"Equipment." Aegon sighed. "The armory in King's Landing contained thirty thousand sets of plate armor, five thousand crossbows, and a large number of siege engines that I had prepared for the Golden Company. Now, all these things are in the hands of the Dead Ones."
A collective gasp echoed through the hall.
If the wights were previously just tireless beasts, now, clad in plate armor and wielding weapons, they were an undead iron legion.
"Can dragonflame still burn through plate armor?" Jonlooked at Daenerys.
"Yes," Daenerys nodded, "but it requires continuous spewing. And... if there are a million enemies in plate armor, my dragons will get tired."
"And don't forget, he also has an Ice Dragon," Bransuddenly spoke. "Although it was injured by Aegon, it didn't die. The Night King is repairing it with magic. When it reappears, it will be stronger than before."
A sense of despair spread.
A million well-equipped undead, plus the terrifying Night King and an Ice Dragon. On their side, at most, there were less than a hundred thousand allied forces, and supplies were severely insufficient.
"We can't hold it." Jaime Lannister looked at the map, tapping the table with his golden hand. "No matter how high Winterfell's walls are, against a million tireless besiegers, we won't last three days."
"Who said we were going to defend to the death?"
Shayla Targaryen sat in a chair in the corner, toying with her valyrian steel dagger.
"When the disparity in power is this great, conventional tactics are suicide."
"Then what do you mean?" Jon asked respectfully.
"Decapitation." Aegon took over, his eyes gleaming with a mad light. "The Night King is the nexus of all wights. Kill him, and all the wights will fall like puppets with severed strings."
"We all know that," Arya interjected. "But the question is how to kill him? He's surely surrounded by hundreds of Others bodyguards, and that dragon."
"We need a lure."
Aegon looked at Bran.
"A lure that he cannot resist, and must personally come to kill."
On Bran's expressionless face, a rare hint of approval appeared.
"He wants to erase the memory of this world," Bran said softly. "I am the Three-Eyed Raven, I am the guardian of memory. As long as I live, he can never truly bring the Long Night."
"So, he will definitely come for me."
"Godswood." Jon immediately understood. "The terrain there is open, suitable for an ambush."
"No." Aegon shook his head. "The Godswood is too small; we can't maneuver. And once we're surrounded, we're finished."
He forcefully jabbed his wooden stick at a point on the map.
"We will have our decisive battle on this open ground."
It was the snowfield outside Winterfell.
"Are you mad?" Sansa exclaimed. "Give up the advantage of the walls to fight the Dead Ones in the open?"
"Walls protect the weak, but now they are also a cage that restricts us," Aegon explained. "We need to let the dragons fly, let the cavalry charge. Most importantly..."
He looked at Tyrion.
"Have my 'little toys' arrived?"
Tyrion gave a wry smile: "They have. Although only half, it's enough to turn Winterfell upside down."
"Very good."
Aegon surveyed everyone, his voice strong and clear.
"We will build a massive'slaughterhouse' here, using a network of dragonglass mines and wildfire traps."
"Dothraki cavalry and the Golden Company will form the two flanks, responsible for cutting through the tide of corpses."
"The Unsullied and Northern infantry will form a phalanx, to face them head-on."
"And all the dragons, all the valyrian steel wielders..."
He drew his chipped blackfyre sword.
"We will form a commando unit."
"The moment the Night King appears, no matter what price we have to pay, no matter how many of us die."
"We will be like a sharp knife, plunging directly into his heart."
This was not just a tactic.
It was a gamble.
An all-in bet on the fate of humanity.
A long silence fell over the hall.
Everyone was weighing their options, feeling fear, and also... their blood boiling.
"I agree." Jon Snow was the first to stand up. "The King in the North is willing to join the commando unit."
"I grew up in this wretched place." Arya toyed with her dagger. "I'm going too."
"My sword belongs to you." Brienne stood behind Sansa, but her gaze was fixed on the battlefield.
"And me." Jaime Lannister raised his left-hand sword. "I only have one hand, but I still owe this world a debt."
"My khalasar fears no death."
Finally, Daenerys stood up. She looked at Aegon, no longer with hostility in her eyes, but with a shared understanding of fellow conquerors.
"Targaryen never hide behind others."
Aegon smiled.
Even in this desperate winter, human courage, once ignited, was like wildfire, impossible to extinguish.
"Then, sirs and ladies."
He raised his wine cup.
"Let's give that ice-faced man a funeral he'll never forget."
...That night, the bells of Winterfell rang.
Not an alarm, but a signal to gather.
On the castle walls, countless torches lit up, turning the night into day.
Warriors sharpened their blades, artisans laid mines, and maesters distributed the last potions.
Aegon stood at the highest point of the castle wall, looking at the dark forest to the north.
The wind stopped.
The snow also stopped.
This eerie calm often presaged the fiercest storm.
"What are you thinking about?" Shayla walked up to him and handed him a flask of hot wine.
"I'm thinking if I die this time too, will you save me again?" Aegon took the wine and took a sip.
"No." Shayla mercilessly shattered his illusion. "Dawn's vitality is also running out. If we lose this time, we will truly be nothing more than a few lines in history books."
"That's not bad either."
Aegon looked into the distance, vaguely seeing a slowly moving black line on the horizon.
It was the tide of death.
It was the prelude to the end.
"At least, this chapter will be written brilliantly."
He drew his sword and, facing the endless darkness, made his final declaration:
"Come, Night King."
"winter has come."
"But we..."
"Are the fire!"
Chapter 142 The Roar of Winter
The snowfield outside Winterfell, once a pristine white expanse, had now transformed into a gaping black maw waiting to swallow lives.
The darkness before dawn was at its thickest, making it impossible to see one's hand in front of their face.
A cold wind howled across the wilderness, like the cries of countless vengeful spirits.
The hundred-thousand-strong allied army stood in formation outside the city walls. No one spoke, and even the warhorses seemed to sense the oppressive aura of death, restlessly pawing at the frozen ground, white mist puffing from their nostrils.
Aegon Targaryen stood on the high platform of the frontline command tower, gripping the modified detonator tightly in his hand.
Beside him were Tyrion and Bronn, who was responsible for relaying orders.
"Can you see anything?" Tyrion stood on tiptoes, trying to pierce through the thick darkness with a telescope.
"Nothing at all," Aegon's voice was somewhat ethereal in the wind. "But I can smell it. It's the scent of decay, the smell of graves being unearthed."
"Thump."
A dull, heavy thud, as if the earth's heartbeat had skipped a beat.
"Thump."
Followed by a second thud, closer, heavier.
Small pebbles on the ground began to bounce. The long spears in the hands of the front-line soldiers began to tremble slightly.
That wasn't the sound of drums; it was the sound of footsteps. The resonance caused by a million feet simultaneously treading on the frozen ground.
Suddenly, the darkness at the edge of the horizon surged like a tide.
Two points of eerie blue light appeared.
Then four points, eight points, a hundred points, ten thousand points... In the blink of an eye, the edge of the vision was filled with countless eyes burning with ice-blue ghost fire.
They were dense and overwhelming, like the Milky Way pouring down onto the mortal world, except this starlight represented despair, not hope.
"Gods..." Bronn's sword-wielding hand was slick with sweat. "This is ten times more than King's Landing, damn it."
The tide of wights paused about two kilometers from the allied defense line, as if gathering strength, or perhaps mocking the tiny living beings.
Then, a piercing shriek tore through the Long Night.
"ROAR——————!!!"
The black tide broke, and they charged.
Not an organized march, but a wild, beast-like sprint.
They were like an avalanche, roaring towards Winterfell's defenses with an unstoppable momentum.
"Hold the line! Everyone hold the line!"
Commanders of various formations roared themselves hoarse. Dothraki cavalry gripped their arakhs, Unsulliedraised their shield walls, and Northern soldiers drew their bowstrings taut.
Fear spread, heartbeats quickened.
Facing such a terrifying sight that defied the laws of nature, human instinct was to flee, but behind them was their last home; there was no retreat.
Aegon watched the black line of death drawing ever closer, silently counting the distance in his mind.
1500 meters.
1000 meters.
800 meters.
That was the "death zone" he had marked on the map.
That was where he, Qyburn, and Tyrion had spent three days and three nights burying all the dragonglass landmines and wildfire pots from their inventory.
"This is the greeting of the industrial revolution, you bastards."
Aegon took a deep breath and pressed his thumb firmly on the red button.
"Detonate!!!"
"BOOM RUMBLE RUMBLE RUMBLE————!!!"
In an instant, the snowfield outside Winterfell turned into an erupting volcano.
Thousands of dragonglass landmines detonated simultaneously, the massive shockwave completely overturning the permafrost layer.
The wildfire pots mixed within shattered, and green demon fire, like venomous snakes, furiously snaked through the explosion's cracks.
Tens of thousands of wights at the very front were instantly engulfed by this destructive power.
Mangled limbs flew everywhere, green flames and black earth intertwined, forming a wall of deathly fire dozens of meters high.
Propelled by the explosion, dragonglass fragments became the deadliest shrapnel; even a slight graze would cause the wights to instantly disintegrate into a pile of dry bones under the magic of the dragonglass.
"Awooo awooo awooo—"
A continuous wailing came from the wight horde, if it could even be called wailing.
The previously unstoppable charge was abruptly cut off, leaving a huge vacuum in the middle.
"Well done!" Tyrion excitedly pumped his fist.
"Don't celebrate too soon." Aegon didn't relax, his gaze still fixed on the sea of fire. "This amount of power will only trim their nails."
Indeed, although the green wildfire was still burning, it didn't last very long.
The wights behind paid no heed to the deaths of their companions, or even the flames.
They surged forward, treading over the scattered remains, over the still-burning bodies, one after another.
They extinguished the flames with sheer numbers!
"Archers! Loose!"
Jon Snow roared, commanding the Northern allied army on the left flank.
"Whoosh whoosh whoosh—"
A rain of flaming arrows, trailing oil, streaked across the night sky, falling into the dense wight horde.
But against an enemy of this magnitude, the arrow rain was like raindrops falling into the ocean, barely stirring a ripple.
"They're coming! Prepare to engage!!!"
"For the North! For the living!!"
"Boom!"
The black tide crashed violently into the allied army's first line of defense.
It was a fortification built with wooden stakes, iron chevaux de frise, and deep trenches.
But under the impact of the wight horde, these defenses lasted only a few seconds before being filled in.
They were filled in with bodies.
The wights at the front fell onto the chevaux de frise, allowing the spikes to pierce their bodies; the wights behind them charged over their backs.
They built bridges of flesh and blood leading to slaughter.
"Kill!!!"
Grey Worm roared, his spear flashing like lightning, piercing a wight's throat.
The Unsullied phalanx beside him was like a precise killing machine, shields absorbing the impact, spears uniformly thrusting, withdrawing, and thrusting again.
But the pressure was too great.
Every shield had to withstand the pushing of three or four wights.
Those wights were not only strong but also insane. They bit at shields with their teeth, and used broken arm bones to stab at soldiers' eyes.
On the right flank, the Dothraki were in an even more difficult situation.
Cavalry lost their greatest advantage without space to charge.
Although their arakhs were still sharp and their horses still strong, they were mired in a sea of wights.
Warhorses shrieked and fell as wights pulled at their legs; once a rider fell, they would instantly be torn to shreds by countless rotten mouths.
"Hold the line! Don't retreat!!"
Jaime Lannister swung his left-hand sword, cutting down a wight attempting to climb the earthen wall.
His golden hand now served as the best shield, blocking deadly scratches again and again.
Brienne was beside him, Oathkeeper a blur of silver light, like a lighthouse protecting the surrounding soldiers.
The battlefield became a meat grinder.
Every second someone fell, every second a wight was hacked apart.
Blood stained the snow, then quickly froze into black ice shards.
"It's our turn."
In the sky, Daenerys watched the stalemated battle below, a flicker of reluctance in her eyes, but more so, determination.
She rode on Drogon's back, followed by Rhaegal and Viserion.
"dragonflame!!!"
The three giant dragons simultaneously dove down.
Three scorching streams of dragonflame carved three paths of destruction across the battlefield.
Wherever the dragonflame passed, whether wights or snow, all turned to ash. The high temperature even scorched the ground into a glassy state.
The addition of the giant dragons greatly relieved the pressure on the ground forces.
Although the wights feared no death, they had an instinctive dread of dragons.
The previously impenetrable offensive showed a slight loosening.
"Now!"
Shayla Targaryen, riding the red dragon "Morning Star," burst from the clouds.
Although this old dragon's stamina was not as great as the three younger dragons, her combat experience was extremely rich.
She didn't blindly breathe fire but precisely used her dragon claws to snatch the "big ones" mixed in with the wight horde—resurrected giant wights and mammoths—carrying them high into the sky, then smashing them to pieces.
"Roar—"
A plate-armored giant wight was smashed into a pulp, flattening dozens of surrounding wights along with it.
It seemed the situation had stabilized.
The allied army, relying on fortifications and dragon support, had managed to withstand the first, most violent assault.
But Aegon knew this was just the appetizer.
The true "main course" had not yet arrived.
Suddenly, the wind on the battlefield shifted.
Chapter 143 The Welcome Ceremony in Hell
What was once a chaotic cold wind now became a regular, knife-like blizzard.
The temperature plummeted.
The burning torches began to flicker and die out.
Even the flames spewed by the dragons seemed to dim in the face of this cold current.
In the sky, thick dark clouds began to swirl, forming a massive vortex.
And in the center of that vortex, a colossal shadow slowly descended.
It was a dragon.
But it was even larger than Drogon.
Its body was no longer flesh and blood, but composed of blue solid ice and pale bones.
Its wings were tattered, yet they could still fan out deadly cold winds.
There was no fire in its chest, only a cluster of eerie blue ghost flames flickering.
The Ice Dragon.
The Night King's mount.
And on the back of the Ice Dragon, the Night King, holding an ice crystal spear, coldly overlooked the battlefield.
His severed arm had grown back—a new arm condensed from black solid ice, looking even more ferocious, even more dangerous.
"He's here."
Bran sat beneath the Heart Tree in the Godswood, his eyes rolled back as he looked at the sky.
He was surrounded by Ironborn and guards; this was the final bait point.
Theon Greyjoy gripped his bow, his hand trembling slightly, but he did not flinch.
The Night King did not directly attack the Godswood.
He looked at the fire dragons rampaging in the sky, a hint of mockery flashing in his eyes.
He abruptly pulled the reins.
The Ice Dragon opened its massive maw and let out a piercing shriek.
"Whoosh——————"
A stream of blue dragon's breath erupted.
That was not fire; that was extreme cold.
It was absolute zero, capable of freezing souls.
This dragon's breath was not aimed at the army on the ground, but swept towards Viserion, who was circling at a low altitude.
Viserion was focused on burning the wights on the ground and had no time to dodge.
"Get out of the way!!" Daenerys screamed.
But it was too late.
The blue cold current instantly engulfed Viserion.
There was no explosion, no burning.
Only freezing.
The golden giant dragon transformed into a massive ice sculpture in the sky.
It still maintained its fire-breathing posture, but the flames were frozen in its throat.
Its wings were stiff, its gaze frozen.
"Bang!"
Gravity took over everything.
Viserion crashed heavily to the ground.
Like a piece of glass falling from a great height.
Shattering sound.
It broke into countless pieces of ice shards.
"No!!!!"
Daenerys let out a heart-wrenching cry.
That was her child.
The battlefield fell silent.
Everyone was stunned by this scene.
A dragon, just like that, shattered?
The Night King did not give them time to grieve.
He raised his hand again.
The blizzard in the sky became even more violent.
Visibility instantly dropped to less than five meters.
Both the ground troops and the dragons in the air were engulfed in a white mist.
Communication was cut off, and vision disappeared.
This was the Night King's domain.
In a blizzard, only the Dead Ones can see the way.
"This is his tactic."
Aegon stood on the command tower, his face ashen.
"First, use cannon fodder to deplete stamina, then use the Ice Dragon to precisely eliminate airborne threats, and finally use the blizzard to divide the battlefield and defeat them one by one."
"A typical special forces decapitation tactic."
He threw away the detonator in his hand.
That thing was useless now.
Now, it was time for the last card.
"Light it."
Aegon said to Bronn beside him.
"Light what? There's fire everywhere." Bronn didn't understand.
"The beacon."
Aegon pointed in the direction of the Godswood.
"Tell everyone."
"The bait is in position."
"Assault team, prepare for action."
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
Three urgent drumbeats pierced through the blizzard.
That was the signal to attack.
It was also the signal for a suicidal charge.
On the outskirts of the Godswood, Jon Snow wiped black blood from his sword.
He heard the drums.
He glanced at the members of the "assault team" beside him—
Jaime Lannister, Brienne, Jorah Mormont, and the always elusive Arya.
And Daenerys, who had just jumped off a dragon's back, her eyes burning with vengeful fury.
"He will come," Jon whispered. "He will come to kill Bran."
"Then let him come."
A figure in black armor, holding the blackfyre sword, emerged from the snowstorm.
It was Aegon.
He was not riding a dragon, nor was he hiding in the command tower.
He had counted himself among this doomed assault team.
"We only have one chance."
Aegon looked at everyone, his gaze finally resting on Daenerys.
"Avenge Viserion."
Daenerys drew the dragonglass dagger from her waist and nodded fiercely.
"Before that…"
Aegon suddenly smiled, pointing to the dark storm center above their heads.
There, the Ice Dragon was circling, and the Night Kingwas looking for an opportune moment to dive.
"We have to drag that bastard riding in the sky down first."
"Shayera!" Aegon shouted at the sky.
"Coming, kid."
Above the clouds, an aged response came.
Immediately after, a dazzling red light, like the sun, exploded in the center of the blizzard!
The red dragon "Morninglight" burned its last life force.
Like a falling sun, it crashed recklessly into that arrogant Ice Dragon!
This was the clash of two generations of dragons.
This was the final elegy of fire and ice.
"Boom——————!!!"
A tremendous roar echoed in the sky.
Countless ice shards and fiery rain fell.
Two massive figures entangled, tumbling, biting, falling from high altitude.
They slammed heavily onto an open space less than five hundred meters from the Godswood!
The earth shook violently.
The dust settled.
The Night King fell off the back of the Ice Dragon.
He stood up somewhat disheveled, dusting himself off.
His Ice Dragon was severely wounded, its wings broken, temporarily unable to fly.
And the red dragon was even more on its last breath, wailing in a pool of blood.
The Night King looked up.
He saw ahead.
At the entrance of the Godswood.
Seven humans holding valyrian steel weapons were quietly waiting for him.
Like a trial of the Seven Gods.
Or like a welcome ceremony from hell.
The Night King showed no expression.
He drew the ice crystal longsword from his back.
It was the first time he had drawn his sword on the battlefield.
Behind him, countless figures of White Walkers emerged in the snowstorm.
Aegon raised the blackfyre sword, its tip pointing directly at the Night King.
"Game over."
"Now."
"It's Boss Battle time."
Chapter 144: Blood Stains the Godswood
A blizzard formed a natural barrier at the entrance of the Godswood, isolating it from the noisy battlefield outside.
Here, there were no roars from thousands of wights, nor the thunderous flames spewed by dragons; only deathly silence and the sharp whistling of wind and snow against armor.
The Night King stood at the center of the blizzard, with twelve White Walker generals fanned out behind him.
These intelligent, high-ranking undead wore ice crystal armor, wielded chilling ice blades, and their blue eyes all held contempt for the living.
Opposite them, the last seven human warriors stood shoulder to shoulder.
Aegon Targaryen stood in the middle, his blackfyre sword trembling slightly from the prolonged battle, but the fighting spirit in his eyes burned to its extreme.
To his left were Jon Snow, holding longclaw, and Daenerys, clutching a dragonglass dagger;
To his right were Jaime Lannister, who had lost an arm, Brienne, Jorah Mormont, and the elusive Arya Stark.
"Seven people against thirteen," Aegon exhaled a white mist mixed with blood, a grim smile playing on his lips. "That's what you call fair."
The Night King said nothing superfluous, nor did he make a gesture to attack. He simply took a step.
This step was like the tolling of death's bell.
The twelve White Walkers moved simultaneously!
They did not charge mindlessly like wights but displayed extremely high tactical prowess, instantly fanning out like twelve white lightning bolts, sweeping towards the human formation.
"Charge!!!"
Jon Snow roared, longclaw carving a silver arc in the air, as he was the first to meet a tall White Walker.
valyrian steel and a magical ice blade collided in the air, emitting a piercing screech.
It was a violent reaction between ice and fire at a microscopic level, and the splashing sparks even ignited the surrounding air.
The battle erupted instantly and immediately entered a white-hot stage.
"Protect the Queen!" Jorah Mormont shouted, his Heartbreaker dancing into an impenetrable web of swords, firmly blocking two White Walkers attempting to rush Daenerys.
Daenerys did not hide behind; although not a master swordsman, her exile in Essos and the baptism of several battles had given her a warrior's intuition.
When a White Walker tried to bypass Jorah for a sneak attack, Daenerys suddenly crouched down, her dragonglass dagger accurately piercing the gap in the creature's knee.
"Crack!"
The White Walker's body instantly covered in cracks, then disintegrated into a pile of shattered ice.
"Well done, khaleesi!" Jorah shouted excitedly, but his distraction allowed another White Walker's ice spear to graze his shoulder, staining his chainmail instantly with blood.
On the other side, Jaime and Brienne displayed astonishing synergy.
Although Jaime only had one hand, his golden hand became the hardest shield.
He used his golden hand to directly block a chop from an ice sword, and though it rattled his bones, it created a perfect opportunity for Brienne beside him.
"For honor!" Brienne roared, Oathkeeper a red lightning bolt that directly severed the White Walker's head.
However, not everyone could be so lucky.
These White Walkers were extremely powerful warriors in life, and after being converted, their strength and speed were terrifyingly amplified.
Aegon faced the siege of three White Walkers alone.
Though his blackfyre sword was sharp, two fists are no match for four hands.
"Clang! Clang! Clang!"
Amidst a series of dense impacts, Aegon was forced back step by step.
He gained several new wounds, and the blood had not even flowed out before it froze on the gashes.
"Damn it, these guys are too strong!" Aegon gritted his teeth, and after a side roll to dodge a fatal blow, he suddenly pulled out the last remaining wildfire grenade from his waist.
"Taste this!"
He didn't pull the pin; instead, he directly cut open the grenade's metal casing with his blackfyre sword, then flung the extremely unstable green gelatinous substance at the White Walkers in front of him.
"Boom!"
The wildfire reacted violently the moment it touched the White Walkers' extremely cold bodies.
Green flames instantly engulfed the middle White Walker, the high temperature melting its ice armor and turning it into a burning torch.
Taking advantage of the enemy's disarray, Arya emerged like a ghost from Aegon's shadow.
The dragonglass dagger in her hand carved an eerie angle in the air, accurately piercing the back of another White Walker's neck.
In the blink of an eye, the humans had eliminated five White Walkers, and the battle seemed to be turning in their favor.
But everyone had overlooked one person.
The Night King.
He had not made a move. He simply stood silently in the blizzard, watching his subordinates being killed, his icy blue eyes showing no ripple of emotion.
His gaze swept over the chaotic crowd, locking firmly onto the weirwood tree deep within the Godswood.
Bran Stark sat there.
That was the memory of the world.
Finally, he moved.
He did not draw a sword; he merely extended his hand and made a grabbing motion in the air towards a White Walker currently entangled with Jorah.
The White Walker's body suddenly exploded, transforming into countless sharp ice shards that shot out indiscriminately in a fan shape!
This was an extremely cruel sacrificial tactic.
"Watch out!" Jorah's eyes widened in horror; without thinking, he immediately spread his arms, using his broad back to shield Daenerys.
"Thud thud thud thud—"
Countless sounds of ice shards piercing flesh rang out. Jorah's plate armor was as fragile as paper against these magically imbued ice shards.
He grunted, his body trembling violently, and blood gushed from his mouth and nose.
"Jorah!" Daenerys cried out in terror, catching the falling old knight, tears instantly blurring her vision.
"Don't... don't cry, khaleesi." Jorah struggled to lift his hand, wanting to touch Daenerys's cheek, but his arm fell limply halfway up. "I... I kept my oath."
With a final contented smile, the exiled, misunderstood, yet ever-loyal knight closed his eyes forever.
"No!!!" Daenerys let out a mournful wail.
She snatched up the dragonglass dagger from the ground and, like an enraged lioness, charged recklessly towards the culprit—the Night King.
"Don't go! Daenerys!" Jon cried out in alarm, wanting to stop her, but he was firmly entangled by the remaining White Walkers.
The Night King looked at the charging Daenerys, a hint of disdain flashing in his eyes.
When Daenerys was five meters in front of him, he merely waved his hand.
An invisible, immense force, like a wall, slammed hard into Daenerys.
She flew backward, crashing heavily onto the snow, her dagger flying from her hand.
The Night King didn't even glance at her, stepping over her body and continuing deeper into the Godswood.
"Stop! You ice-face!"
Aegon, having dealt with his immediate enemies, stood with his blackfyre sword, blocking the Night King's path.
His breathing was heavy like an ox, and he was bleeding all over, but he still stood perfectly straight.
"If you want to pass, you'll have to step over my corpse."
The Night King stopped, looking directly at this human for the first time. He slowly drew the crystal-clear ice longsword from behind his back.
"As you wish."
This was the first time the Night King had spoken, his voice like the shattering roar of a glacier, exploding directly in Aegon's mind.
The next second, their figures collided.
No fancy moves, just a pure clash of strength and speed.
"Clang!"
blackfyre sword and ice crystal longsword met, emitting a soul-shaking clang.
Aegon felt as if he had been hit head-on by a mammoth; the web between his thumb and forefinger tore, and he slid back over ten meters before he could barely stop.
Too strong.
This was simply not a force humans could contend with.
The Night King held his sword in one hand, approaching step by step.
Each of his sword strikes seemed slow, yet it sealed all of Aegon's retreat paths.
Aegon could only passively parry, and each collision sent a shockwave through his internal organs.
"Is that all you've got?" Aegon spat out a mouthful of blood, forcibly provoking him with words, trying to distract the Night King. "Your swordsmanship is as stiff as your face!"
The Night King ignored him, suddenly accelerating and thrusting his sword towards Aegon's heart.
Aegon barely managed to turn sideways, the ice sword grazing his ribs, opening a wound deep enough to expose bone.
But this was the opportunity Aegon had been waiting for!
He abruptly threw away the shield in his left hand and grabbed the Night King's wrist!
The gauntlet of his valyrian steel armor scraped against the Night King's ice armor, making a harsh sound.
Aegon endured the cold that nearly froze his blood, and with his right hand, he swung the blackfyre sword in a backhand upward slash, aiming directly for the Night King's throat!
"Die!"
Chapter 145: The Long Night Ends
The sword strike was as swift as lightning and at an extremely close range, making it impossible to dodge.
But the Night King did not dodge.
He released the ice sword in his hand, letting it fall, and then his free hand, at an incredible angle, directly grabbed the blackfyre sword's blade!
"Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle—"
The valyrian steel sizzled in the Night King's hand, and black smoke rose.
But the Night King seemed to feel no pain; his skeletal hand gripped the blade tightly, preventing Aegon from advancing an inch.
Then, he fiercely kicked Aegon in the chest.
"Crack!"
Aegon heard the sound of his sternum breaking.
He flew out like a kite with a broken string, crashing heavily against an ancient weirwood tree, and the blackfyre sword flew out of his hand, embedding itself in the snow in the distance.
"Aegon!" Jon and Arya, not far away, wanted to rescue him, but the remaining Others frantically held them back, clearly under a death order.
The Night King picked up the ice sword from the ground, ignoring the incapacitated Aegon. For him, killing was not the goal; erasing memory was.
He turned and walked into the core area of the Godswood.
There, Theon Greyjoy stood with a spear, guarding Bran's wheelchair.
Piles of wight corpses lay around him, and his arrows were all spent.
Seeing the nightmare-like figure approach, Theon's body trembled uncontrollably.
But he did not retreat a single step.
He looked back at Bran, who still had his eyes closed.
"Bran..." Theon's voice was choked with tears, "I..."
Bran opened his eyes. They were no longer rolled back but had returned to their original clarity.
"Theon," Bran said softly, "You are a good man. Thank you."
These words seemed to unbind Theon from a lifetime of shackles.
He was no longer Reek the betrayer; he was Theon of the Iron Islands, the adopted son of the Stark family.
Theon took a deep breath, and the fear in his eyes vanished.
He let out a desperate yet brave roar, raised his spear, and charged resolutely towards the invincible deity.
"Thud!"
There was no suspense. The Night King's ice sword easily broke the spear and pierced Theon's body.
Theon fell to his knees, his blood staining the white snow.
He looked at the Night King, a smile of relief on his lips, then slowly collapsed.
Now, only two people remained in the Godswood.
The Night King, and the Three-Eyed Raven.
The Night King walked to the wheelchair. He looked down at the crippled boy sitting in it.
Eight thousand years of pursuit were finally coming to an end at this moment.
He slowly raised the sword in his hand, preparing to sever the last memory in this world.
Bran looked up, quietly watching the Night King.
There was no fear on his face, only a compassionate understanding that had long seen through everything.
"You're too late," Bran suddenly said.
The Night King's hand stopped mid-air.
"You thought you drew all the main forces to the front lines, you thought you suppressed the sky with your Ice Dragon, and you won?"
Bran's lips curved slightly upward.
"Don't you see that shadow?"
The Night King suddenly realized something; he wanted to turn around.
But at that very instant, a gust of wind blew.
It wasn't a cold wind; it was a wind carrying the smell of blood and gunpowder.
From the canopy of the weirwood tree behind the Night King, a dark figure descended from above!
It wasn't Arya.
It was Aegon.
He had climbed the tree at some unknown point, holding not a sword, but a strangely shaped weapon with a very short barrel.
It was his last secret weapon developed in King's Landing: a large-caliber, short-barreled shotgun loaded with high-explosive dragonglass rounds, named "Judgment."
When he was kicked away earlier, he hadn't lost combat capability; instead, he used the momentum to roll behind the tree, endured the severe pain, and climbed to the treetop.
"Surprise, you bastard!"
Aegon roared in mid-air, the muzzle almost pressed against the back of the Night King's head.
"Bang!!!"
A deafening roar echoed throughout the entire Godswood.
The immense recoil sent Aegon flying backward, crashing onto the snow again.
As for the Night King... his head did not explode as expected.
In that split second, a thick layer of ice armor had grown on the back of his head!
The bullet shattered the ice armor, but most of its kinetic energy had been expended.
The Night King staggered forward two steps, smoke rising from the back of his head, blue blood flowing out, but it was not fatal.
He slowly turned around, and finally, anger appeared in his eyes.
A true anger, desiring to destroy everything.
He raised his hand, aiming at Aegon, who lay motionless on the ground.
An ice spear condensed in his hand.
"It's over."
Just then, an unexpected voice broke the stalemate.
"dragonflame."
The voice was faint, not like a human's, but more like the low moan of some dying beast.
The Night King suddenly looked up.
Above the Godswood, through the dense branches and leaves, he saw a small, red figure.
It was Shayla's young dragon, Dawn.
During the previous great battle, although it was severely wounded and its size was insignificant compared to an adult dragon.
But it was still a dragon, still flowing with magical blood.
It had climbed to the top of the tree at some unknown time, and now, facing the Night King below, it opened its small mouth.
It could not breathe the destructive dragonfire.
What it spewed was a viscous, magma-like red liquid.
That was the dragon's vital essence, and its last spark of life.
This flame was not large, but it landed precisely on the wound at the back of the Night King's head, where his defense had been broken by the bullet!
"Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle——————"
It was like hot oil poured into snow.
It was like magma injected into the sea.
The Night King let out an unprecedented scream! The sound was so piercing that all the surrounding Others stopped their movements, covering their ears in pain.
The red dragon blood flame drilled into his wound, igniting his icy body from within!
"Now!!!" Aegon roared with his last ounce of strength.
He didn't actually need to shout.
A petite figure had already burst through the wind and snow.
Arya Stark.
She picked up the valyrian steel dagger that had fallen to the ground.
In his pain, the Night King instinctively turned to grab Arya's neck, just as he would in the future timeline.
But this time, he was slow.
Because of the dragonfire burning in his head.
Arya slid on her knees, dodging the Night King's grab, and with the dagger in her hand, she thrust it upward with extreme cunning, fiercely plunging it into the gap in the Night King's chest armor!
That was also the old wound Aegon had left with the blackfyre sword!
"For Winterfell!"
"Thwack!"
The valyrian steel dagger plunged deep into the Night King's chest, straight to his icy heart.
Time stood still at this moment.
The Night King's movements ceased.
He looked down at the dagger in his chest, then at the blood-stained Stark girl in front of him.
The blue light in his eyes began to flicker violently, and finally... shattered with a crash.
"Crack... crack..."
Cracks spread from the wound, instantly covering the Night King's entire body.
The next second.
"Bang!"
This agent of the cold god who brought the Long Night to the world, under the gaze of countless people, exploded into a sky full of ice crystals.
Like a brilliant fireworks display.
At the same time.
The Other generals in the Godswood also made cracking sounds at the same moment, turning into ice shards.
Outside the city walls, the tidal army of wights, like machines cut off from power, instantly lost all momentum, falling to the ground in unison, once again becoming piles of lifeless carrion.
The wind stopped.
The snow ceased.
The first ray of Dawn penetrated the thick clouds, shining upon the scarred Winterfell.
The Long Night, had ended.
Chapter 146: Dawn and Embers
The sound of ice crystals shattering echoed through the Godswood, a crisp and pleasant yet heart-pounding sound, like thousands of glass goblets falling simultaneously.
The Night King vanished.
The deity who brought endless fear to Westeros, who commanded death and winter, thus turned into a sky full of ice dust.
As the wind blew, these glittering particles shimmered faintly in the morning light, then completely dissolved into the air.
Arya Stark remained kneeling in her assassination posture.
The valyrian steel dagger slipped from her hand, falling onto the snow with a dull thud.
She gasped for breath, her lungs burning as if on fire, and the expression on her blood-stained face gradually changed from ferocious to bewildered.
She won? We won?
...Hey, little wolf cub.
A weak and teasing voice broke the deathly silence.
Not far away on the snow, Aegon Targaryen struggled to roll over, lying on his back, facing the sky.
His chest was still heaving violently, each breath accompanied by the excruciating pain of broken bones grinding, but he still grinned, revealing his blood-stained teeth.
Next time... could you act earlier? Even one second earlier... I might have two fewer broken ribs.
Arya turned her head, looked at the disheveled man, and suddenly laughed.
As she laughed, tears streamed down her face.
She didn't care about the dirt on the ground, collapsing into the snow, looking up at the sky where the dark clouds were gradually dispersing.
You talk too much, Arya retorted in a hoarse voice.
At this moment, deafening cheers erupted from outside the Godswood.
The sound was faint at first, like incredulous whispers, then quickly gathered into a roaring tide.
It was the shout of survivors, thousands of them, after confirming they were alive.
Jon Snow sheathed longclaw, staggering to the center of the Godswood.
A body lay there—Theon Greyjoy. His spear was broken beside him, his chest was pierced, and his blood had frozen.
Bran remained in his wheelchair, quietly looking at Theon's body.
Was he a good man? Jon asked softly, his voice choked.
He was Theon, Bran said softly, his gaze calm and profound. He was the son of the Iron Islands, and the son of Winterfell. He has come home.
Jon nodded, took off his Night's Watch cloak, and gently covered Theon's body.
On the other side, Daenerys Targaryen knelt in the snow, cradling Jorah Mormont's increasingly cold body.
This proud mother of dragons was now crying like a helpless little girl.
I'm sorry... I'm sorry... she repeated endlessly, her fingers trembling as she stroked the old knight's weathered face.
Aegon managed to stand up with Arya's support.
He watched this scene and did not go forward to disturb them.
Wars always claim lives, and the cost of victory is often heavier than that of defeat.
Hey, old woman, Aegon turned his head, looking at the largest weirwood tree.
At the top of the tree, Shayla Targaryen was sliding down the trunk. She held the small red dragon, Morning Star, in her arms.
But the dragon was no longer moving.
It had exhausted its last trace of vitality to spit out that drop of vital blood-fire that ignited the Night King's soul.
At this moment, its body was undergoing a strange transformation—its red scales were losing their luster, gradually turning into grayish-white stone.
It had turned into a stone statue.
Shayla stumbled when she landed, almost falling.
Her face, which always wore a cynical smile, was now filled with desolation.
She gently stroked the cold stone dragon in her arms, as if stroking her own child.
It's tired, Shayla said softly. It was originally a remnant of the old era, forcibly staying in this world for this moment. Now that the Long Night is over, it's time for it to sleep.
Aegon was silent for a moment, then walked over, pulled out the empty Judgment Shotgun from his Huai, and handed it to Shayla.
This thing is for you. Though not as useful as a dragon, it can still kill.
Shayla glanced at the gun, scoffed, and took it, tucking it into her waist: Forget it, this noisy toy is only suitable for you young people. I prefer something quieter.
Although she said that, her eyes were slightly moist... When the first true ray of sunlight pierced through the clouds and shone on the walls of Winterfell, the whole world seemed to come alive.
The gloom that had shrouded the North for months finally dispersed, and the sky displayed a pristine blue after being washed clean.
The sunlight hit the snow, reflecting dazzling golden light.
Although the temperature was still cold, the suffocating scent of death in the air had disappeared.
Outside the city walls was a scene of carnage.
Black bodies piled up like mountains, some places even higher than the city walls.
These were the wight army that had fallen after losing their magical support.
And amidst these mountains of corpses and seas of blood, the surviving allied soldiers either embraced each other, knelt and wept, or stared blankly at the rising sun like fools.
Jaime Lannister leaned against a broken shield, his golden hand deformed, damaged when he used it to block a giant's attack.
Brienne sat beside him, holding Oathkeeper tightly in her hand, her head resting on Jaime's shoulder, already asleep.
Grey Worm took off his helmet, looking at the sparse Unsullied formation beside him—the original eight-thousand-strong army now had fewer than two thousand standing.
But he didn't shed tears, merely silently raised his spear and saluted the sun.
Most of the Dothraki warhorses were dead; these proud children of the plains had lost their legs and now had to search for surviving tribesmen on foot amidst the piles of corpses.
We... survived.
Tyrion stood on the city wall, still holding the empty wine flask.
He looked at the tragic scene below, feeling as if he were dreaming.
Yes, we survived, Sansa Stark stood beside him.
Her left arm was still in a sling, her face pale, but under the sunlight, her red hair shone particularly brightly. But this is just the beginning. Cleaning the battlefield, disposing of bodies, treating the wounded... these tasks are more tiring than fighting.
This is the victor's punishment, Tyrion said with a bitter smile. Sometimes I think, the dead have it easier.
Just then, the city gates opened wide.
Aegon, Jon, Daenerys, Arya, and others walked out.
Everyone's eyes were fixed on them.
The soldiers, no matter which house they belonged to, no matter which faction they were from, spontaneously made way and bowed their heads to these heroes who had ended the Long Night.
There was no cheering, only awe.
Aegon walked at the front, and although he limped and was covered in blood, his kingly aura was stronger than ever.
He stopped in the center of the battlefield, looking around.
I know you are tired, in pain, and want to lie down and sleep for three days and three nights.
Aegon's voice, amplified, spread across the entire battlefield.
But now is not the time.
He pointed to the mountains of corpses.
If we don't deal with these things, plague will kill faster than the Night King. If we don't repair the city walls, any group of wildlings could plunder us. If we don't carry the wounded inside, they will freeze to death tonight.
So.
Aegon drew the chipped blackfyre sword, pointing it at the sky.
Everyone, get moving! For the brothers who didn't see today's sun, clean up this damned place!
Then—
His tone suddenly shifted, revealing a long-lost hint of the black heart King's rogue charm.
Tonight, we're having the biggest victory feast in all of Westeros! Bring out all the wine from Winterfell's cellars! We won't go home until we're drunk!
Roar—!!!
This time, what answered him was genuine cheering. It was an emotional outburst after long suppression, a hymn to life from the living... Night fell, and the great hall of Winterfell was brightly lit.
Long tables were pushed together, laden with food that, though not lavish, was warm enough—roasted horse meat, stewed potatoes, black bread, and barrels of ale and wine.
No one cared for etiquette, no one distinguished between noble and common.
Lannister knights and Northern barbarians slung arms around each other, Dothraki warriors and Unsulliedcompeted in drinking, and even the usually serious Knights of the Vale drank until their faces were flushed.
At the high table, the atmosphere was slightly subtle.
Aegon sat in the middle, with Sansa and Jon on his left, and Daenerys and Tyrion on his right.
Shayla didn't want to join the fun and went to the library alone with a wine flask.
To Jorah Mormont.
Jon Snow was the first to raise his glass, breaking the silence. He was a true knight.
To Theon Greyjoy, Sansa continued, her eyes a little red. He was a Stark.
To Lyanna Mormont, Arya raised her cup, her voice choked. She was... a giant slayer.
To Edd, Samwell quietly added from the corner.
To Daario Naharis, Aegon raised his cup, glancing at Daenerys beside him. Although he was a bastard, he was a bastard with guts.
Daenerys was silent, raising her glass and draining it. Her eyes were red and swollen, her expression weary, having lost her usual sharpness, making her appear particularly fragile.
To ourselves, too.
Tyrion finally raised his glass, standing on his chair, and declared loudly: To these madmen, fools, and drunkards who survived the end of the world! If it weren't for us bastards coming together, this world would have ended long ago!
To the bastards!
To the madmen!
To living!
The atmosphere in the hall reached its climax.
After three rounds of drinks, Aegon felt a bit stifled.
His wounds still ached faintly, and the numbing effect of the alcohol was wearing off. He quietly got up, left the noisy hall, and went out onto the city walls.
The cold wind blew, clearing his head considerably.
He leaned against the battlements, lit a cigarette, and looked at the bright, clear moon in the sky.
What are you thinking about?
A voice came from behind him; it was Daenerys.
She was wearing a thick cloak, holding two wine glasses, and walked up to Aegon.
Thinking about... what to do next, Aegon exhaled a smoke ring without turning around. The Long Night is over, the Dead Ones are defeated. Next, it's time for the living to torment each other.
Daenerys was silent for a moment, then handed one of the wine glasses to Aegon.
King's Landing is ruined, she said, looking south. That's your home.
That's where the iron throne is located, Aegon corrected. Home is where the people are. As long as the people are still there, anywhere can be home.
You saved me, Daenerys suddenly said. In the Godswood, if it weren't for your crucial shot, the Night King might have killed me.
Don't misunderstand, Aegon smiled. I just wanted to steal a kill. Besides, if I also died, who would stop you from becoming the next 'Mad Queen'?
Daenerys paused, then gave a bitter smile: Am I that terrifying?
You have the potential, Aegon turned around and looked into her eyes. You have power, ambition, and that particular Targaryen stubbornness. If no one checks you, you will burn everything that stands in your way.
Like you burned King's Landing? Daenerys countered.
No, Aegon shook his head, his gaze deepening. I burned King's Landing to save people. But you... sometimes you can't distinguish between justice and conquest.
The two looked at each other, a complex emotion filling the air. They were kin, allies, and destined rivals.
So now what? Daenerys asked. Are you going to kill me? Or make me kneel to you?
You, now? Aegon looked her up and down. Daenerys, without dragons or an army, looked like an ordinary girl next door. You're too weak now. And...
He pointed in the direction of the great hall.
Jon Snow. Or rather, Aegon Targaryen VI.
Daenerys's face instantly changed.
You know?
Bran knows everything, Aegon shrugged. He is the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna, the first in line to the iron throne. By law, his claim is above ours.
But he doesn't want it, Daenerys said eagerly. He's a Northman, he just wants to be a Night's Watchman or King in the North.
Power isn't about whether you want it or not, Aegonflicked his cigarette butt, watching it arc red through the darkness. When that secret becomes public, power will automatically find him. The North will support him, the Vale will support him, and even your advisors... Varys, is probably already writing letters.
Daenerys clenched her wine glass, her knuckles white.
So, this is the next war?
Perhaps, Aegon stretched, aggravating his wound and making him wince. But that's tomorrow's business. Tonight, we are just two relatives who survived this messed-up world.
He raised his wine glass, gently clinking it against Daenerys's.
And, I have a better idea. About how to deal with this mess.
What idea?
Aegon smiled mysteriously, leaned close to her ear, and whispered a few words.
Daenerys's eyes widened, and she looked at Aegon in disbelief: You... you're serious? This is simply... this is simply a betrayal of thousands of years of tradition!
Tradition? Aegon scoffed, turning to walk back to the hall. Look at the bodies everywhere, look at that dead Ice Dragon. This world has changed, Daenerys. If we don't change too, we'll truly just become dust in history books.
He waved his hand at Daenerys's back.
Go to bed early, Aunt. Tomorrow morning, we have a meeting. About... how to build a new world.
Daenerys stood on the city walls, watching Aegon's retreating figure, motionless for a long time.
The wind and snow had stopped, and the moonlight was like water. The night in Winterfell finally became quiet.
But beneath that seemingly calm surface, a new era was quietly germinating amidst the ruins and ashes.
Chapter 147: The Wheel Breaker and the New World
The great hall of Winterfell, once a witness to countless feasts, trials, and bloody murders, today hosted an unprecedented meeting.
The long table had been rearranged into a giant 'mouth' shape.
There was no distinction between host and guest, no hierarchy.
The people seated at the table included representatives of almost all the remaining factions in Westeros:
Jon Snow, King in the North; Sansa Stark, Duchess of Winterfell; Daenerys Targaryen, mother of dragons; Aegon Targaryen, who proclaimed himself 'Guardian of the New Order'; the last Lannister; representatives of the Knights of the Vale; and even Asha Greyjoy, representing the Iron Islands.
Of course, there was also an undeniable presence—BranStark, seated in a wheelchair in the corner, and the great deity Shayla Targaryen, who, though not at the table, weighed on everyone's minds like a mountain.
She was sitting by the fireplace, peeling an apple, watching the young people with an amused expression.
The air was thick with tension, more palpable than on a battlefield.
"So, this is the result of us fighting tooth and nail to defeat the Night King?"
Lord Yohn Royce, that stubborn lord of the Vale, was the first to break the silence.
He pointed at Daenerys and Aegon, who were sitting opposite him, his beard trembling with anger.
"We lost so many lives, shed so much blood, just to snatch that damn iron chair from one Southern tyrant and hand it over to another Targaryen tyrant? Whether it's that dragon-riding woman or this man spouting strange words, we in the Vale will not accept it!"
"Mind your words, Lord Royce." Grey Worm's hand rested on his spear, his eyes cold. "Her Majesty saved you."
"And we saved her!" Sansa retorted coldly. "Without the North's defenses, without Aegon's sacrifice, Drogonwould already be the Night King's mount."
An argument instantly erupted.
The Northmen wanted independence, the Valemen didn't want to pay taxes, the Dothraki wanted land, and the Unsullied wanted promises.
The alliance, once united for survival, crumbled over the distribution of interests the moment the existential crisis was resolved.
"Enough!"
Jon Snow slammed his hand on the table.
He looked exhausted, a weariness that seemed to emanate from his very bones, making him appear ten years older.
"We're not here to argue. King's Landing is destroyed, the Wall has fallen, and half the population of Westeros is gone. We should be discussing how to survive, not who gets to be that broken king!"
"You're right, Jon."
Aegon Targaryen leaned back lazily in his chair, twirling a quill.
"Since no one wants to talk about who's king, let's talk about the 'elephant in the room'."
He looked at Samwell Tarly, the plump maester who was sweating profusely while clutching a pile of ancient scrolls.
"Sam, tell everyone what you know. About the true identity of our 'Jon Snow' adult."
The hall instantly fell silent.
Daenerys's face turned pale; she seemed to have a premonition, her fingers gripping the armrest of her chair tightly.
Sam glanced at Jon, then at Bran, and after receiving a nod from Bran, he took a deep breath and stood up.
"Jon... he is not Ned Stark's bastard." Sam's voice was trembling but clear. "He is the legitimate son of RhaegarTargaryen and Lyanna Stark. His true name is... Aegon Targaryen."
"Boom—"
Although rumors had circulated, when this truth was definitively spoken in public, it still hit like a depth charge.
The Northern lords were stunned.
Their bastard king, a true dragon's bloodline?
Daenerys closed her eyes.
Her worst fear had come true—she was no longer the last Targaryen, nor even the first in line of succession.
"How ironic." Tyrion took a bitter sip of wine. "At this table, we have three Targaryens. Rhaegar's son, Rhaegar's sister, and Rhaegar's... uh, whoever that is."
All eyes focused on Jon.
Now, he held dual claims to both the North and the South.
He was the embodiment of ice and fire, the legally undisputed King of the Seven Kingdoms.
"I don't want it."
Jon's first words stunned everyone who was ready to support or oppose him.
He stood up, unbuckled longclaw from his waist, and placed it on the table.
"I don't want to be king. My greatest wish in life was to be a Stark, even a bastard. I fought for the living, not for that thorny chair. Now that the Night King is dead, my mission is over."
He looked at Sansa: "The North is yours, Sansa. You are more suited for it than I am."
He then looked at Daenerys: "If you want that position, take it. I won't contend with you."
"Do you think this is a game of 'yielding pears'?" Daeneryssuddenly opened her eyes, her voice sharp. "As long as you live, as long as that secret exists, even if you hide beyond the Wall, those who oppose me will use you as a banner! Whether it's Varys or the nobles of Westeros, they will always prefer a male heir!"
"Then let them have no choice."
Aegon suddenly interjected. He stood up and walked to the open space in the center of the hall.
"Everyone, let me tell you a story."
Aegon surveyed the room, the modern man's confidence and the conqueror's dominance perfectly blended in him.
"Three hundred years ago, Aegon the Conqueror, riding Balerion the Black Dread, forcibly molded seven independent kingdoms into one. He forged the iron throne with dragonflame and established the Targaryendynasty."
"He thought he was establishing order, but in reality, he was creating a ticking time bomb."
"Why?" Aegon pointed at Tyrion. "Lord Tyrion, you're well-read, you tell us."
Tyrion paused, then understood Aegon's meaning: "Because that order was built on the absolute military might of 'dragons'. Once the dragons are gone, or a Mad King appears, the entire system will collapse."
"Bingo!" Aegon snapped his fingers. "Correct. The history of Westeros is a cyclical history of 'good kings building houses, bad kings burning them down.' And whether it's the Starks, Lannisters, or Targaryens, we're all bound to this giant wheel, being crushed over and over."
He looked at Daenerys: "Aunt, you once said you wanted to break the wheel. But if you merely sit on the iron throne, you haven't broken it; you've just become the one pushing the wheel. When you die, or your heir goes mad, the wheel will continue to turn."
"Then what's your brilliant idea?" Daenerys asked coldly. "What do you intend to do? Kill all the nobles?"
"No, that's too crude and impractical." Aegon shook his head. "My suggestion is—smash the axle of that wheel."
He took a deep breath and presented the plan that had shocked Daenerys last night.
"I propose abolishing the title of 'King of the Seven Kingdoms.' Abolishing the supreme rule of the iron throne."
The entire hall erupted in uproar. This was nothing short of treason.
"Silence!" Shayla tapped her cane in the corner, and the hall quieted down again.
Aegon continued:
"We establish a new nation, a federation. I've even thought of a name: The United Territories of Westeros."
He drew a large circle in the air.
"The North, the Vale, the Westerlands, The Reach, Dorne, The Stormlands, the Iron Islands... you will still have autonomy. The Starks will still be the Dukes of Winterfell, the Lannisters will still be the Lords of Casterly Rock. Within your own territories, you will still have the power to legislate and collect taxes."
"But there will be no supreme king who can arbitrarily strip you of your titles or order you to fight unwinnable battles."
"Then who will be in charge?" Sansa keenly grasped the main point. "Who will be responsible for diplomacy, trade, and defense?"
"A council." Aegon pointed to the long table. "Like the one we're sitting at now. Representatives elected from the Seven Territories, plus representatives from the Citadel and the Faith, will form the'Supreme Council.' All major decisions will be put to a vote. The minority will abide by the majority."
"And above the Council, we will establish a Head of State, or Protector. He will not be a king and will not have hereditary rights. He will be elected by the Council for a term of ten years. He will be responsible for overall coordination but will be constrained by the Council."
Aegon finished, looking at the stunned crowd.
This was a concept beyond its time, a hybrid of constitutional monarchy and federalism.
In this medieval world, it was utterly fantastical.
"This... this is impossible." Count Royce shook his head. "If there is no king, who will guarantee peace? What happens if two territories start fighting?"
"That is when you need an arbitrator."
Aegon looked at Daenerys.
"This is the Targaryen position in this new world."
"Daenerys, you are still a queen. But not the Queen of Westeros. You are the Queen of Dragonstone and Slaver's Bay, the mother of dragons. Your dragons will become the nuclear weapons of this federation—the ultimate deterrent force."
"If anyone dares to break the peace of the federation, if anyone dares to start a civil war, if anyone dares to swing the butcher's knife at the common people."
"You will ride your dragons and teach them a lesson."
Aegon looked into Daenerys's eyes and spoke sincerely:
"You are no longer a ruler; you are a protector. You are the Sword of Damocles hanging over the heads of all ambitious people. This is far nobler and much freer than being a king who spends all day reviewing petitions and worrying about being poisoned."
Daenerys fell silent.
She looked at her hands, the hands that once wanted to tightly grasp power.
But along the way, she had lost too much. Drogon and Rhaegal were still here, but Viserion was dead, Missandeiwas dead, and Jorah was dead.
Did she really have to kill more people for that thorny chair?
"What about Jon?" Arya asked. "What does he do?"
"Jon?" Aegon smiled. "He is the perfect candidate for the first Lord Protector."
"Me?" Jon quickly waved his hands. "I said I don't want to..."
"Precisely because you don't want it, it must be you," Tyrion suddenly interjected, his eyes lighting up. Clearly, Aegon's theory had deeply impressed the political genius. "A person who craves power turns into a tyrant, but a person who resists power yet possesses a sense of responsibility is the best leader. Furthermore, you are the combination of ice and fire, the bridge connecting the North and the Targaryens. No one is more suitable than you."
"As for me..." Aegon pointed to himself. "I am an engineer and a merchant. I will be responsible for rebuilding King's Landing, fixing roads, and making sure everyone has food. Of course, I'll also charge a small technology transfer fee."
He spread his hands and looked at everyone.
"This is my proposal, the Shattered Wheel Plan."
"Those who agree, raise your hands. Those who disagree..." He glanced at Drogon, who was yawning outside the window. "...can go outside and talk to the dragon."
The hall fell into a deathly silence.
Everyone was calculating the odds.
For the Great Lords, this was undoubtedly good news—they gained the autonomy they had always dreamed of and no longer had to worry about the King in King's Landing.
Although they would have to accept the constraints of that "Council," it was still better than being burned alive by the Mad King.
"I agree." Sansa was the first to raise her hand. This was most beneficial to the North; not only did they gain de facto independence, but her brother also became the nominal supreme leader.
"House Lannister agrees." Tyrion raised his hand.
"The Vale... seconds the motion." Count Royce thought for a moment and raised his hand as well.
Next came Dorne, the Riverlands... Finally, all eyes turned to Daenerys.
Her vote was the key. Because she had dragons, and if she wanted to overturn the table, no one could stop her.
Daenerys sat there, remaining silent for a long time.
She looked at Aegon, the "nephew" who had broken all the rules since his appearance.
"What if I disagree?" she asked softly.
"Then we'll just have to fight another battle right here," Aegon said, unyielding. "The likely outcome is that we all die, and Westeros turns into ruins. Is that truly what you want? The one who breaks the wheel?"
Daenerys closed her eyes.
She remembered the vision in the House of the Undying in Qarth—she walked up to the iron throne but didn't sit on it because she heard the sound of dragons roaring outside the walls.
Perhaps, this was destiny's hint.
She opened her eyes and stood up. The aggressive aura vanished, replaced by a sense of relief.
"I agree."
"But I have one condition." She looked at Jon. "If you fail, if this new world becomes as terrible as the old one... I will return."
"With fire and blood."
...And so, three days after the end of the Long Night, a document known as the Winterfell Charter was born.
It marked the end of the feudal dynasty in Westeros and the beginning of a new era.
Although this new system was still full of intrigue, the council argued daily, and the nobles remained greedy... at least the mad era of "a million corpses at the whim of a rage" was over.
After the meeting concluded, Aegon went alone to the Crypts of Winterfell.
He walked up to the statue of Lyanna Stark. Next to Lyanna, a small new statue had been erected.
It was Lyanna Mormont.
Aegon placed an Iron Rose in front of the statue, forged from scrap valyrian steel salvaged from the ruins of King's Landing.
"Hey, little one."
He stroked the cold stone statue.
"We did it. The world wasn't destroyed, and while it hasn't gotten much better, at least we can manage."
"Daario didn't leave a body, so I won't erect a monument for him. Anyway, someone like him could probably thrive even in hell."
Footsteps sounded behind him. It was Shayla.
The Targaryen ancestor looked at Aegon with complicated emotions.
"You didn't actually tell the whole truth, did you?" Shayla suddenly said.
"What truth?"
"You completely removed yourself from the picture." Shayla exposed him. "You gave the honor to Jon, the deterrent force to Daenerys, and the power to the Council. What about you? What do you want?"
"Me?" Aegon smiled and pulled something out of his chest pocket.
It was a nautical chart. A chart depicting the sea west of Westeros, across the "Sunset Sea."
That was one of the pieces of knowledge he brought from the modern world.
"This world's map is only half complete. Westeros is too small and too old."
Aegon looked at the chart, his eyes gleaming with the light of an explorer.
"I've never really liked playing the game of thrones. It's too tiring, and the scope is too small."
"Since things here are settled, I want to go see the end of the world."
"They say over there, there are new continents, things that can fly without magic, and... the future."
Shayla was stunned for a moment, then burst out laughing. She laughed so hard she doubled over, tears streaming down her face.
"Hahaha! Good! Excellent!"
She clapped Aegon hard on the back, nearly snapping his recently healed ribs again.
"Now that's a true Targaryen! We are dragons, and dragons shouldn't be trapped in a cage, even if that cage is made of gold!"
"Take me with you," the old woman suddenly said.
"Huh?"
"I said, take me with you. I don't have many days left anyway, and dying in bed is too boring. Dying on a ship heading to the new world, now that sounds exciting."
Aegon looked at the crazy old woman, shook his head helplessly, and then extended his hand.
"Deal."
...Three months later, Starry Harbor in Oldtown.
A massive fleet was ready to sail.
The fleet flew a brand new banner—not the three-headed dragon, nor the wolf or the lion, but a golden compass against a black starry background.
The "black death" airship had been repaired and modified, and was secured onto the largest flagship.
The docks were crowded with people.
The newly appointed Lord Protector Jon Snow, Warden of the North Sansa, Queen Daenerys, Prime Minister Tyrion... all the major figures were present.
Arya Stark, carrying her pack, was the first to jump onto the deck. She was going too, because only by following Aegon could she see a more interesting world.
"You'll come back, right?" Sansa stood on the dock, watching the man directing the sailors, her eyes full of reluctance.
Aegon Targaryen stood at the bow, the sea wind blowing through his long hair. He did not look back, merely waving his hand to the crowd.
"If I discover a new continent, I will name it after you."
"Goodbye, Westeros."
With a long blast of the steam whistle, the fleet slowly sailed away from the harbor, heading toward the Sunset Sea, a place no one had ever conquered.
The sunset painted the sea surface gold.
In the distant East, great dragons soared through the clouds;
In Winterfell in the North, people were rebuilding their homes;
Over the ruins of King's Landing in the South, wildflowers were blooming.
Winter had passed.
Spring had truly arrived.
(End of Novel)