Chapter 190 – The Night King's Trump Card
Along with the army of the dead came a suffocating cold—snow swirling wildly through the air, blurring vision and swallowing detail. Even Drogon couldn't clearly pinpoint the exact position of the Night King.
From his back, Daenerys stared at the marching horde below. Against the raging blizzard, the undead moved with eerie steadiness—completely out of place, like something that did not belong to this world.
More unsettling than she had imagined.
Drogon circled the massive army once, scanning carefully.
No sign of the Night King.
He was likely hidden somewhere deep within the center of that endless tide—protected by hundreds of thousands of corpses.
If he couldn't find him…
Then there was only one way to draw him out.
"Hold tight."
Without warning, Drogon folded his wings and dove straight toward the edge of the undead army.
Daenerys tightened her grip on his neck spines, eyes wide, refusing to miss even a second of what was about to happen.
As he plunged from the sky, Drogon opened his jaws—
A torrent of dark, violet-black dragonfire erupted downward.
The effect was absolute.
The wights didn't even have time to react. They were reduced instantly to brittle, charred bone fragments that crumbled and scattered across the ground. Compared to living men, they burned even more completely.
In a single breath, a massive gap was carved into the tightly packed ranks.
Seeing the devastation, Daenerys felt a surge of exhilaration.
If Drogon's flames were this effective, then Rhaegal and Viserion would surely be just as lethal against the dead.
As Drogon continued to unleash fire, he kept a constant watch on the army—searching for any sign of movement, any reaction that might reveal the Night King's position.
Nothing.
For three full minutes, he burned through thousands of wights.
Just as he began to wonder if the Night King wasn't even present—
A faint sound tore through the wind.
A sharp, almost imperceptible whistle.
Drogon reacted instantly.
He surged upward, twisting his massive body midair—
A spear of pure ice sliced past them.
So close it nearly grazed Daenerys.
Her breath caught.
She watched in shock as the crystalline projectile streaked across the sky, vanishing into the distant horizon without losing speed.
That… was no ordinary weapon.
She had seen the power of scorpion bolts during Drogon's training sessions with the others—but compared to this, they were nothing.
"This… is his power?"
Realization hit her.
Her mind flashed back to Meereen—to the day Drogon had returned wounded, a chunk of flesh torn from his leg despite being nearly impervious to blades.
At the time, she had wondered what kind of weapon could possibly harm him like that.
Now she knew.
What else in this world could have wounded him like that?
Only now did she truly understand why Drogon had always been so cautious… and why he hadn't wanted her to come.
After evading the first spear, Drogon's confidence surged.
As long as he could roughly locate the Night King and keep his distance, the threat of those ice spears would be manageable.
He was no longer the same dragon who had once flown north. His speed, strength, senses, and control over his body had all grown tremendously.
At long range, even the Night King would struggle to hit him.
And now, with a clearer idea of his position, dodging became even easier.
Drogon continued strafing the battlefield with dragonfire—slaughtering wights while deliberately drawing the army toward the northeast.
The second spear came quickly.
He dodged again.
Two misses in a row.
This time, the Night King did not throw a third.
Instead, he began moving—stepping out from the center of the army toward its edge.
Seeing this, Drogon immediately pulled back, widening the distance. With Daenerys on his back, he wouldn't take unnecessary risks.
The Night King advanced for a short distance, reaching for another spear from one of his lieutenants—only to see Drogon already retreating beyond range.
He stopped.
And simply watched.
From high above, Drogon hovered, studying him in return.
For a brief moment, he thought he saw something—almost like a faint crease forming on that cold, sculpted face.
A hint of emotion.
Drogon knew better than to mistake the Night King for a mindless commander. He wasn't just directing an army—he was thinking.
Planning.
From Jon's account of the fall of the Wall, Drogon could already infer it.
During the first assault, the Night King likely didn't yet possess the Horn of Winter.
But by the second assault, he had obtained it.
Yet even then, he hadn't used it immediately.
Instead, he allowed the wights to continue their suicidal climb—burning under the Wall's magic, engaging the defenders in close combat.
Only at the perfect moment did he sound the horn—shattering the Wall's defenses and catching everyone off guard, even leading to Stannis Baratheon being mortally wounded.
That wasn't brute force.
That was strategy.
And as for emotion—Drogon remembered clearly.
In another timeline, after standing unharmed beneath dragonfire, the Night King had actually smiled at Daenerys.
A cold, mocking smile.
Looking at him now, Drogon even felt the urge to test it—to see if his current flames could finally burn him.
But he restrained himself.
Not because Daenerys was on his back—though that mattered.
Even alone, he wouldn't risk it lightly.
His massive body, no matter how fast, still couldn't guarantee evading a spear at close range.
The risk wasn't worth it.
Below, the Night King resumed advancing slowly, his White Walkers following. The entire army shifted with him.
After a few dozen meters, he reached out again.
Drogon narrowed his eyes.
Still not giving up?
But this time… something was different.
The Night King took the spear—
Then paused.
His left hand rose to his neck, removing a strange, spearhead-shaped pendant.
Drogon froze for a fraction of a second.
That object… felt familiar.
Like the enchanted necklace worn by Melisandre—the one that preserved her youth.
Without it, she would wither into a frail old woman.
That meant—
This was no ordinary ornament.
It was a magical artifact.
Before Drogon could fully react, the Night King had already gripped it in his hand.
He closed his eyes.
Spread his arms.
Drogon's instincts screamed.
He didn't hesitate—beating his wings hard and surging upward into the sky.
Below, the Night King's aura exploded.
Cold radiated outward in waves. A blue glow seeped through the seams of his armor, and even the ice spear in his hand became coated in a shimmering aura.
Then—
His eyes snapped open.
He hurled the spear.
Drogon had been watching for exactly this.
He climbed higher, already adjusting his trajectory—but the moment he saw that glowing spear streak toward his chest, he knew—
Too fast.
He twisted midair, raising a wing and shifting his body just enough—
The spear tore past him with a sharp hiss.
A storm of scales was ripped away in its wake.
Pain exploded across his chest.
Drogon nearly roared.
But he didn't slow down.
Without even checking the damage, he pushed himself harder—flying farther, faster, putting as much distance between them as possible.
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