Date/Time: Castle Black — Hours after Chapter 46's meeting / Vaes Meereen — Later
Triss Merigold — Third Person
The fire crackled. The room settled into the tense silence of people preparing for difficult conversation.
Triss was about to speak when movement caught her eye. In the far corner of the room, pressed against the wall behind Jon Snow's chair, a shape stirred. White fur, low to the ground, red eyes catching the firelight.
A direwolf. Massive — larger than any natural wolf, its coat the color of fresh snow, its eyes burning crimson. It watched the room from its corner, ears flat, body coiled away from Jon rather than pressed against him.
Triss's breath caught.
The animal was avoiding its master. A bonded direwolf should have been at Jon's side, pressed against his leg. This one crouched in the farthest corner, red eyes tracking Jon with wariness instead of loyalty.
"Lord Commander," Triss said. "Your direwolf."
Jon glanced at Ghost. Something complicated moved across his face. "He's been like that for weeks. Won't come near me. I don't know why."
Triss did.
She looked at Melisandre. The former Red Priestess met her gaze and gave a single, fractional nod. They'd discussed this possibility during the flight north — Angelus had warned them that the Three-Eyed Raven's influence on Jon was likely, and that detection would need to happen before any real diplomacy could begin.
"Before we get down to business," Triss said, "there's something we need to address first."
She stood. The movement drew every eye in the room. Jon tensed. Stannis's hand moved toward his sword.
The incantation for Mass Hold Person was fourth-level Enchantment — more demanding than the Warding Wind, but Triss had drilled it under Lysara's watch until the syllables were carved into her reflexes. She drew on Enoch's reserves through the rider bond, felt the green fire of his essence amplify the spell's reach, and released it in a single focused pulse.
THOOM.
Jon froze mid-reach for his weapon, the Valyrian Steel sword Longclaw gifted from Jeor Mormont. Stannis locked in place, his fingers an inch from the pommel of his sword Lightbringer. Davos went rigid behind him. The younger brother who had escorted Aemon stiffened against the wall.
Their eyes moved — frantic, furious, terrified — but their bodies refused to answer.
Triss had excluded four people from the spell. Shireen pressed against her mother, both of them staring. Aemon sat motionless at the table, his restored purple eyes moving between the frozen men and Triss. Melisandre was already moving.
She crossed the room to the satchel she'd placed by the door when they entered. From it, she withdrew a crystal sphere no larger than her fist — its surface swirling with patterns of golden light that shifted and reorganized as she carried it toward Jon Snow.
Triss addressed the room. "Nobody is being harmed. Nobody is being attacked. What we're about to do may save Lord Commander Snow's life." She looked at Jon's frozen face, his grey eyes rolling with fury. "Jon, your direwolf won't come near you. That should tell you something is wrong. We're going to fix it."
Melisandre held the crystal near Jon's temple. The golden patterns inside the sphere pulsed once, then began spinning faster — agitated, urgent, responding to something nearby.
"It's here," Melisandre said. "Deeper than Robb Stark's was. Older threads. He's been under influence for years."
She placed the crystal against his skin and closed her eyes. The flames along her forearms flared to brilliant orange-gold — not her usual crimson fire but something borrowed. Angelus's power, channeled through the Soul Link network, filtered through Melisandre's Draconian fire element into the golden light that could burn psychic influence like fire through cobweb.
Jon's eyes went wide.
His body convulsed against the Hold Person spell — muscle fighting magic, will fighting enchantment. The golden light blazed from the crystal, pouring into Jon through the point of contact. His mouth opened in a silent scream.
"He's fighting it," Melisandre said through her teeth. "The influence — it's resisting. Stronger than Robb's. Much stronger."
Triss stepped forward and placed her own hands on Jon's shoulders, pushing raw mana into the purge. Green fire and golden light braided together around Jon's head. The crystal sphere spun in Melisandre's grip, its patterns going haywire as the Three-Eyed Raven's psychic threads fought back.
CRACK.
A sound like ice breaking. Jon's body arched against the chair, veins standing out in his neck, his frozen jaw locked open. Ghost lunged from his corner, snarling, red eyes fixed not on Triss or Melisandre but on something invisible around Jon's head.
Then the golden light flared white — a single blinding pulse — and went dark.
Triss released the Hold Person spell.
Jon collapsed forward onto the table, gasping. His hands scrabbled at the wood. His breathing came in ragged heaves that shook his entire body.
Ghost was at his side in three bounds. The direwolf pressed his massive head against Jon's arm, whining, his whole body trembling. Jon's hand found the white fur and gripped.
"What —" Jon's voice was raw. "What did you —"
"We removed a psychic parasite that has been manipulating your thoughts and decisions for years," Triss said. She kept her voice calm, clinical. "A being called the Three-Eyed Raven — his real name is Brynden Rivers, also called Bloodraven. He's a Targaryen bastard over a century old who has been sitting in a cave beyond the Wall, using greensight and psychic manipulation to control events across Westeros."
Stannis was rubbing his wrists, his face thunderous. "You held us. Like prisoners. Without —"
"Would you have let us touch Jon Snow's head with a magical artifact if I'd asked politely?" Triss met his stare. "The parasite would have made him refuse. That's how it works — the influence protects itself by making the host resist any attempt at removal."
Davos was staring at Ghost. The direwolf had pressed his entire body against Jon's leg, tail moving in slow sweeps, red eyes blinking with an expression that looked like relief.
"The animal knew," Davos said.
"Animals often do. Magical creatures especially." Triss sat back down. "This same entity manipulated Robb Stark for months — pushed him toward decisions that would have destroyed his family. You've heard of the Red Wedding?"
Jon's head came up. "The Red Wedding?"
"That's what it was going to be called. Walder Frey and Roose Bolton had planned to massacre Robb, his mother, his wife, his bannermen, and everyone who attended the feast under the protection of guest right. Crossbowmen in the galleries. Bolton soldiers in the corridors. The signal was The Rains of Castamere."
The silence was absolute.
"Angelus — the ruler of the Wyrmborne — learned of the plot and sent a team to intervene. Arya Stark led that team." Triss looked around the table. "They freed Robb from the Three-Eyed Raven's influence and warned him. Instead of the Red Wedding, what happened at the Twins is now called the Wolf's Feast — because Robb turned the trap around. Three hundred Northerners with concealed weapons, ready for the betrayal. Walder Frey, Roose Bolton, and Black Walder were executed that night."
Jon's hand was white-knuckled on Ghost's fur. "Robb is alive?"
"Alive, free of influence, and ruling the North from Winterfell. Your sister Arya is with him. Your sister Sansa was just extracted from Littlefinger's custody in the Vale three days ago. Your family is gathering, Jon."
Something broke open in Jon Snow's face. He pressed his forehead against Ghost's skull and breathed.
"Without Angelus's intervention," Triss continued, quieter, "the Red Wedding would have been one of the worst atrocities in Westerosi history. In the intelligence we have, the details are — specific. Robb would have been decapitated. His direwolf Grey Wind would have been killed and its head sewn onto Robb's body, mounted on the feast-hall chair while the bodies of his allies and his mother surrounded him. A mockery and a message."
Jon made a low, guttural sound. Ghost pressed harder against him.
"The Starks broke guest right," Stannis said, his voice clipped. "That's what the reports say. They attacked their hosts."
"Their hosts were planning to murder them under the roof where bread and salt had been shared. The Starks struck first because they were warned." Triss held his gaze. "You can call it breaking guest right if you want. I'd call it surviving an ambush that would have ended with every Stark at that feast dead in the hall. The reputation cost is real, but it's a price worth paying compared to the alternative."
Aemon's restored eyes moved between the faces at the table. "Brynden Rivers," the old man said quietly. "I knew him. Before he was sent to the Wall. He was Hand of the King." A pause. "I did not know he was still alive. Or what he had become."
"He's been pulling strings for decades," Triss said. "Manipulating who rises, who falls, who marries whom, who dies and when. Your family, Jon — the Starks — were specifically targeted. The Three-Eyed Raven's endgame involves your brother Bran becoming a vessel for Bloodraven's consciousness. A boy who can see through time, controlled by a mind a century old, sitting on a throne. The perfect puppet king."
"Bran," Jon whispered. "Where is Bran?"
"We don't know. But we're looking." Triss leaned forward. "Which brings us to the other reason we held you — and the other thing Maester Aemon accidentally let slip during his reunion with Daenerys."
Aemon's restored purple eyes widened. His thin fingers tightened on the table's edge. "I... spoke carelessly. About Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark."
"You did." Triss looked at him without judgment. "And since the cat is already out of the bag, I might as well say it."
She turned to Jon. His grey eyes — Stark eyes — met hers. She could see it now: the recognition that had been building since Aemon mentioned Lyanna, the pieces clicking into place in a mind that had spent its whole life feeling like a question without an answer.
"Jon, you likely already know somewhat. But you are the firstborn child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Daenerys's nephew. Your true name is Aegon Targaryen."
The room erupted.
Stannis surged to his feet, his chair scraping backward across the stone. "That is a lie. Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped Lyanna Stark — every account confirms —"
"Every account was written by the victors of Robert's Rebellion," Triss said without raising her voice. "Who had every reason to frame the relationship as abduction rather than what it was."
Jon hadn't moved. Ghost pressed against his leg, whining softly. The young man's hands were flat on the table, his head bowed.
"Ned Stark claimed you as his bastard to protect you," Triss continued, speaking directly to Jon. "Robert Baratheon would have had any Targaryen heir killed. Your uncle — the man you called Father — sacrificed his own honor to keep you alive. He let the world believe he'd fathered a bastard rather than risk Robert discovering the truth."
"Father never..." Jon's voice cracked. "He never told me."
"He couldn't. The secret dying with him was the price of your survival."
Davos looked at Jon, then at Aemon, then back at Jon. His weathered face went blank — then his eyes narrowed, recalculating.
Stannis was still standing, his jaw grinding. "If this is true — and I am not conceding that it is — then Jon Snow has a claim to the Iron Throne that supersedes my own."
"He does," Triss said. "Though whether he pursues it is entirely his choice." She paused. "And before that thought sends anyone into a spiral — Daenerys Targaryen has made it clear that she has no interest in the Iron Throne."
The silence that followed was different from the others. This one had confusion in it.
"She doesn't want the throne?" Davos said.
"No. Neither does Angelus." Triss folded her hands. "Their position is that the Iron Throne is a monument to idiocy. A chair forged from a thousand swords that cuts the people who sit on it. A seat that offers the illusion of power while every house in the realm schemes to take it from you. Your word means nothing unless you have serious military force to back it, and the throne itself is literally covered in rust and edges that have given more than one king blood poisoning. Maegor the Cruel. Aerys. Robert, who was so miserable on it he drank himself to death while his wife ran the kingdom into the ground behind his back."
Jon looked up. Something in his expression had shifted — from shock to something quieter.
"She doesn't want the throne," he said. Testing the words.
"Daenerys is building something better. An empire based on competence and loyalty rather than bloodline feudalism. The Iron Throne is a symbol of everything she's trying to move beyond." Triss held Jon's gaze. "If you want to claim it, Aegon, that's your right. But you should know what you'd be claiming — a chair that's killed more kings than it's crowned, in a city full of people who will smile to your face and plot your death over dinner."
Stannis sat down. His hands gripped the table's edge. Behind the rigid Baratheon discipline, thoughts were moving fast — but his face gave nothing away.
They're lying, Stannis thought. They want the throne for themselves. Everyone wants the throne. Nobody walks away from that kind of power willingly.
But the Targaryen girl's words echoed through the communication crystal. The way she'd spoken to Aemon. The warmth. The tears. That hadn't been a conqueror performing for an audience. That had been a young woman finding family.
He crushed the thought before it could develop.
Jon poured himself water from the pitcher on the table. His hands were steadier now, but he kept one on Ghost's fur.
"The wildlings attacked Castle Black two months ago," he said. "Mance Rayder's army — a hundred thousand, give or take. We held them, barely. Stannis's arrival broke the siege."
"Casualties?" Triss asked.
"Heavy on both sides." Jon's jaw tightened. "I spent time among the wildlings before the attack. Infiltrated them on Jeor Mormont's orders. Learned their culture, their fears. They're running from the same thing we are."
"The White Walkers."
"Aye. Mance wanted to get his people south of the Wall because whatever is gathering up there terrifies them." Jon stared into his cup. "And during the battle, there was a woman. Ygritte. A wildling I cared about. She was killed during the fighting."
The fire popped. Nobody spoke.
"The Night's Watch has fewer than six hundred men," Jon continued, his voice flattening into the register of a commander delivering a report he didn't want to give. "We lost nearly a hundred in the battle. Stannis brought four thousand, but they're southerners — half of them are already sick from the cold. Supply lines stretch back to Eastwatch and the ships are iced in. By spring, we'll have lost a quarter of them to frostbite and fever."
"And the bodies from the battle?" Triss asked.
"Gone. Wildling and Watch alike. We burned what we could, but the ones we didn't reach — hundreds of them — they disappeared overnight. Scouts found nothing. The dead are just gone."
"Taken," Melisandre said from her position against the wall. "The White Walkers are building an army from your dead."
The room went cold.
Melisandre — Third Person
She found them in the room Stannis had claimed as his quarters — a spartan chamber barely warmer than the corridor, furnished with a cot, a table, and two chairs. Stannis stood at the window, staring at the Wall. Selyse sat on the cot with Shireen pressed against her side. Davos stood near the door.
"May I?" Melisandre asked.
"You may as well," Stannis said without turning. "Your friend already frozed me in my chair and you told me my entire life's purpose is built on a lie. What's left?"
Melisandre entered and closed the door. The flames along her forearms dimmed to embers.
"I owe you an explanation," she said. "And an apology."
"You owe me considerably more than that."
"I do." She moved to stand where Stannis could see her without turning. "When I left Dragonstone, I did so because I discovered that everything I had told you — the prophecies, the visions, the assurances about your destiny — was built on a framework I no longer trusted. The visions were real. The power was real. But my interpretation of them was catastrophically wrong."
"You told me I was Azor Ahai reborn."
"I was wrong."
"You told me R'hllor had chosen me."
"I was wrong about that too. I was wrong about most things, Stannis. The power I wielded was real, but the story I wrapped around it was a lie I told myself." Her red eyes were bright, wet at the edges. "I manipulated you with inaccurate prophecies. I pushed you toward a destiny that didn't exist. And a version of me — in a different timeline — helped you burn your own daughter alive as a sacrifice to a god who may or may not even hear prayers."
Shireen made a sound — small, sharp. Selyse's arm tightened around her.
"I am sorry," Melisandre said. "For the manipulation and the abandonment. For all of it."
Stannis turned from the window. His blue eyes were ice.
"Sorry," he repeated. "You come back wearing a monster's skin, serving a dragon across the sea, and you say you're sorry." His voice rose. "I sailed to the Wall because of your prophecy. I brought my wife and daughter to the edge of the world because you told me this was where destiny waited. And now you tell me it was all wrong?"
"Yes."
"Get out."
Melisandre held his gaze for three heartbeats. Then she inclined her head and left.
The alert came four hours later.
Melisandre was in the courtyard, running fire-element exercises with Enoch's heat as an anchor against the cold, when the scream cut through the night air. Thin, high, terrified.
Shireen's voice.
Melisandre moved. Draconian speed ate the distance between the courtyard and the guest quarters in seconds — faster than the Watch brothers who were already turning toward the sound, faster than Davos who was sprinting from the opposite direction.
She hit the door with her shoulder and it exploded inward.
Stannis stood in the center of the room. Selyse was on the floor against the wall, blood running from a cut on her temple where he'd struck her. Shireen was backed into the corner, her eyes huge with terror.
Stannis held his sword in both hands. The blade was raised.
Davos crashed through the doorway behind Melisandre. "Your Grace — stop!"
"The sword must be tempered in the blood of a willing sacrifice!" Stannis's voice was ragged, his eyes fever-bright. "Azor Ahai plunged Lightbringer into the heart of his beloved to forge the weapon that would save the world! If I use both — wife and daughter — the power will be greater! The Red Priest told me — the one who came north from the exiles — he said the old texts were clear —"
"What Red Priest?" Melisandre said, and the ice in her voice stopped him mid-sentence.
"Father Moqorro. He found me three days ago. He said the prophecy was still true — that you had lost your faith but the truth remained. That if I forged Lightbringer according to the ancient rite —"
Stannis raised the sword and stepped toward Selyse.
Davos lunged. Stannis backhanded him with his free hand — the blow catching the Onion Knight across the jaw and sending him staggering into the wall.
That gave Melisandre one second.
She crossed the room before the sword completed its arc.
Her hand closed around the blade.
CLANG.
The steel bit into her palm and stopped. Her crimson scales held — Draconian skin harder than the best castle-forged steel, the fire element's heat making the metal whine against her grip. Stannis stared at her hand wrapped around his sword, blood that should have been flowing conspicuously absent.
Melisandre ripped the blade from his grip. The sword clattered across the stone floor.
She seized Stannis by the throat and lifted.
His feet left the ground. His hands clawed at her wrist — human fingers against Draconian scales, futile and desperate. His face went red, then purple.
"You would have killed them," Melisandre said. Her voice was quiet. The flames along her arms were burning white-hot, and the heat radiating from her body made the air shimmer. "Your wife and your daughter. For a prophecy fed to you by an exile with a grudge."
She reached into his mind with her precognitive ability — not forward this time, but backward. Diving into the timeline of his recent past, reading the probability streams that had led to this moment. The threads were tangled, deliberate. Someone had pulled them.
She found it. A meeting from three days ago. A man in red robes, dark-skinned, intense. Father Moqorro — the last and most principled of the exiled Red Faith members. Except this wasn't principled. This was calculated. Moqorro had fed Stannis exactly what a desperate man would want to hear — a path to power through sacrifice, wrapped in theological language that sounded like revelation.
He did this on purpose, Melisandre thought. He wanted chaos. He wanted Stannis to destroy himself and his family, to discredit everything the Scarlet Wing represents.
She looked into Stannis Baratheon's bulging eyes.
He had been a hard man. A just man, by his own rigid standards. But the rigidity had been his prison, and when the bars broke, what was inside had been ugly enough to raise a sword against a child.
Melisandre's grip tightened.
CRACK.
She dropped him.
Stannis Baratheon hit the floor and did not move.
Shireen was crying. Selyse had pulled her daughter against her chest, one hand pressed to the bleeding cut on her own temple, the other wrapped around Shireen so tightly the girl could barely breathe.
Melisandre knelt beside them. The fire along her arms dimmed to warm embers — golden and gentle. She placed one hand on Selyse's temple and channeled a trickle of healing fire. The cut closed.
"He was going to —" Shireen's voice broke.
"He's not going to do anything anymore." Melisandre kept her voice low and steady. A calming spell — subtle, barely a whisper of mana — settled over the room, easing the raw terror without erasing it. "You're safe."
Davos pulled himself up from the wall, rubbing his jaw. His eyes found Stannis's body on the floor, then Melisandre, then the sword lying against the far wall.
"He hit me," Davos said. The words carried the dull shock of a man processing betrayal. "He hit me. In fifteen years of service... he never once..."
"He wasn't himself. An exile from the Order of the Scarlet Wing — a man named Moqorro — found Stannis and fed him a false prophecy designed to produce exactly this. The sword tempered in blood. The sacrifice of family for power." Melisandre's red eyes were hard. "Moqorro will answer for this."
Davos stared at the body for a long time. Then he looked at Shireen, still crying against her mother's chest.
"What do we do now?" he asked.
Melisandre reached through the Soul Link network. Past the ambient mana field, past the connections between bonded Wyrmborne, until she found the thread she needed — ancient, massive, burning with a fire that made hers look like a candle.
Angelus. Stannis Baratheon is dead. He attempted to sacrifice his wife and daughter based on false prophecy planted by Father Moqorro. I stopped him. Shireen, Selyse, and Davos Seaworth are alive and unharmed. As part of what you've mentioned before, I'll bring them to the Wyrmborne for their safety.
The response came in two heartbeats. Excellent. Protect them Melisandre. And find Moqorro and end him when you get the chance.
Melisandre turned back to Davos, Selyse, and Shireen.
"I contacted my commander for permission to offer you sanctuary with the Wyrmborne Empire. She's agreed." Melisandre kept her voice warm, practical. "You've seen what we are — the scales, the fire, the magic. The Wyrmborne offers a process called conversion that transforms humans into Dragonborn or Draconians. It would make you stronger, healthier, and grant abilities beyond what you have now."
"More monsters," Selyse whispered. Her arms tightened around Shireen.
"Not monsters. Changed. The way Maester Aemon's eyes were changed." Melisandre looked at Shireen. The girl was watching her through tear-streaked eyes, her gaze fixed on the crimson scales along Melisandre's arms. "The conversion rebuilds the body from the ground up. It cured Jorah Mormont of greyscale when he underwent it."
Shireen went still. Her hand moved to her scarred cheek.
"It cures greyscale?" the girl whispered.
"It rebuilds the body entirely. The greyscale wouldn't survive the process." Melisandre reached out and gently touched Shireen's scarred cheek. "The conversion is your choice. All of you. If you'd prefer to remain as you are, you're welcome among the Wyrmborne as human affiliates — you won't receive the same physical abilities, but you'll be treated well and protected."
"I want it," Shireen said. Her voice was small but certain.
"Shireen —" Selyse started.
"Mother, she saved us. And I — I've been watching her since she arrived. The scales and the fire and..." Shireen looked at Melisandre's face, her red eyes, her flame-threaded hair. "I want to be like that. I want the greyscale gone. I want to be more."
Davos looked at the girl, then at Stannis's body, then at Melisandre. His weathered face settled into something that looked like decision.
"If the girl wants it," he said quietly, "I'll go with her. Someone should watch out for her, and it seems like the watching-out business just changed neighborhoods."
Triss Merigold — Third Person
They flew beyond the Wall at dawn.
Enoch carried Triss and a squad of Scarlet Wing members. Mikhail flew ahead, her white scales blending with the grey sky, Melisandre riding between her neck ridges. The remaining Scarlet Wing followed in formation behind Enoch — twelve fire-element Draconians in crimson-and-gold vestments, their combined heat creating a thermal column that kept the worst of the Arctic cold at bay.
The land beyond the Wall was a wasteland of frozen forest and empty sky. Mile after mile of snow-choked pines, broken by rivers that had frozen solid and hills that were little more than white lumps against a white horizon. No movement. No sound except the wind and the creak of ice.
They swept east, then north, using a combination of Triss's magical sensing and Melisandre's precognitive ability to triangulate the source of the disturbance that Jon Snow's scouts had been reporting for months.
Two hours in, Mikhail banked sharply.
Something ahead, the white dragon's mental voice carried. Large magical signature. Structured. Not wild — organized.
Triss leaned forward in the harness and pushed her mana outward, casting a detection web into the frozen air. What came back made her blood go cold.
Not one signature. Hundreds. Thousands. Organized in patterns that read like military formations — rank and file, support positions, command nodes. And beneath them, woven through the ice itself, a magical infrastructure that pulsed with a cold so fundamental it made the northern wind feel like summer breeze.
"Down," Triss said. "Low altitude. Below the tree line."
They dropped into the forest canopy and flew between the pines, frost shattering off branches as Enoch's wings beat through the narrow gaps. Mikhail folded her wings and landed, crawling forward through the trees, her massive white body vanishing against the snow.
The tree line ended at a ridge. Below, a valley spread out — and what filled it stopped every voice in the formation.
An army.
Not the shambling horde of undead that the Night's Watch had described. This was a military force. White Walkers moved in organized columns, their blue-white armor catching the light in geometric patterns that suggested craftsmanship. They carried weapons — ice-forged, crystalline, each one unique. They spoke to each other in a language that carried across the frozen air like cracking glaciers, harsh and alien but undeniably language.
And they weren't just marching. They were building.
Structures rose from the ice — walls, towers, barracks, fortifications. The construction was methodical, disciplined. Wights moved in labor gangs, directed by White Walkers who gestured with the commanding authority of foremen and officers. Beyond the construction zone, more formations drilled — combat exercises, shield walls, flanking maneuvers. Organized. Professional.
Among the ranks, Triss spotted creatures that didn't belong to any Westerosi bestiary. A pack of ice-corrupted Ghouls from the Continent, their eyes burning blue. Something that might have been an Endrega Queen, its carapace coated in frost, its movements jerky and wrong. A group of creatures she couldn't identify — large, armored, four-legged things that moved in formation like war beasts.
Witcher monsters. Recruited — or raised — into the army of the dead.
"This isn't what the reports described," Melisandre whispered. "This is an empire."
"Keep moving," Triss said. "Find the center."
They crept along the ridge. The valley widened, the fortifications growing more elaborate, the formations larger. Then Mikhail stopped.
There.
At the valley's heart, on a rise of natural ice that had been shaped into a platform, sat a throne.
It was carved from ice so dark it was nearly black — obsidian ice, compressed until it was harder than steel, its surface crawling with patterns of frozen light. And on the throne sat a figure that made Triss's breath stop.
Heavily armored. The armor was dark, ornate, layered with plates that bore the suggestion of skulls and ruin. Massive spiked pauldrons rose from the shoulders. A helm with a crown of ice-forged horns framed a face of terrible, ancient purpose — pale skin stretched over features that were no longer human, eyes that burned with icy blue-white light like cold stars.
And beside the throne, driven point-first into the ice, a sword. A greatsword of impossible proportions, its blade a spiral of ice and dark metal, runes crawling along its length in patterns that hurt to look at. The weapon radiated cold so intense that frost formed on surfaces ten feet away.
The Night King.
He sat motionless on his throne, surveying the army that filled the valley below. His icy eyes swept across the construction, the drilling formations, the growing infrastructure of an invasion force that was being assembled with patience and intelligence and terrible purpose.
Then those eyes moved.
They snapped upward to the ridge where Triss and Melisandre crouched behind the tree line, and the cold that poured from that gaze hit Triss like a physical blow. Her breath stopped. Her mana reserves shuddered. Every fire-element enchantment on her body flickered.
He saw them.
"Go," Triss said. "GO!"
Enoch and Mikhail launched from the trees. The Scarlet Wing formation broke and scattered skyward. Behind them, a sound rose from the valley — deep, resonant, ice shattering under tremendous pressure.
CRRRAAAACK!!!
A bolt of ice-magic lanced upward from the throne, splitting the sky in a line of frozen lightning that narrowly missed Mikhail's left wing. The white dragon rolled, her Frostfire breath erupting in a defensive burst that melted the incoming projectile into a spray of frozen mist.
They ran full speed, wings beating with desperate force, climbing altitude until the valley was a white smear below and the cold had faded to merely Arctic rather than supernatural.
When they were safe — or what passed for safe — Triss and Melisandre reached through the Soul Link simultaneously.
Angelus. We found the White Walkers. What we found is — it's not what anyone expected.
Triss sent the mental image. The valley. The army. The construction. The throne.
The Night King.
Angelus — First Person
The image hit my mind like a sledgehammer.
I was in my personal study, reviewing Tyrion's first set of analytical reports on Westerosi power structures, when the mental transmission from Triss blazed through the Soul Link with enough urgency to knock the documents off my desk.
The Night King. On a throne of dark ice. In armor that —
What the hell.
I stood up so fast my tail swept three stacks of parchment off the table behind me. The image burned in my mind's eye. The spiked pauldrons. The skull-motif plate. The helm with its crown of horns. And the sword — the greatsword driven into the ice beside the throne, its spiraling blade radiating cold like a small sun radiates heat.
That's not the Night King from the show. That's the fucking Lich King!
I paced. Three steps one direction, three the other, my tail lashing behind me in the agitated rhythm that my inner circle had learned to associate with "Angelus is recalculating everything."
No. Calm down. Think.
The armor was similar. The sword — the sword looked very much like Frostmourne from World of Warcraft. But similar didn't mean identical. The Conjunction had merged multiple worlds, and the fusion had produced hybrid creatures and artifacts that drew from multiple source templates. This Night King had been empowered by the fused world's ambient magic, Triss's report confirmed that. He'd absorbed elements from the merged reality — including, apparently, aesthetic and functional elements from a different fictional universe's most iconic death knight.
He's not Arthas. The power signature Triss described doesn't match what the Lich King could do at his peak. But that sword is dangerous, that army is organized, and the fact that he's BUILDING rather than just marching means he's smarter than the show version by orders of magnitude.
I sent back through the link: How much time do we have?
Triss responded through the link. Based on the construction pace and the forces already assembled — years. Possibly three to five before they're ready for a full offensive. They're not rushing. They're preparing.
That's both good and bad. Good because we have time. Bad because when they come, they'll come with an army that knows how to fight rather than a mindless horde.
Agreed, Melisandre added. The Witcher monsters among their ranks concern me. If the Night King can corrupt and raise creatures from multiple merged worlds, his army's composition will be unpredictable.
Come back to Vaes Meereen. Report in full when you arrive. And Triss — well done. Both of you. Getting that intelligence without taking casualties is exactly what I needed.
The link dimmed.
I sat back down. Stared at the scattered parchment. Stared at the image still burning in my mind.
Then I pulled out a blank sheet and started writing.
Triss Merigold — Third Person
They returned to Castle Black by midday.
Mikhail separated from the formation an hour south of the Wall — her massive head turning east, golden eyes locking onto something Triss's senses couldn't reach.
I've been tracking a signature since we crossed the Wall, Mikhail's mental voice carried. Apostle-level. Large. Cold-adapted. East of here, in the mountain passes.
"What is it?" Triss asked.
Something I want to kill. Mikhail's mental voice sharpened. Primate-type. Massive — forty to fifty feet standing height based on the mana displacement. Ice element. Strong.
"Don't get killed."
I'm Level 4 and I ate a Balrog and a giant Ice Elemental. This thing is dinner. Mikhail banked east without waiting for a formal dismissal.
Triss watched her go. Then she turned Enoch toward Castle Black.
Triss spread the rough map across Jon's table and pointed.
"Here," she said. "A valley, approximately eighty miles north-northeast of Castle Black. The main staging area."
"How many?" Jon asked.
"Tens of thousands in the valley alone. There may be more." Triss pressed both hands flat on the table. "They're organized, Lord Commander. Combat formations. Shield walls. Flanking drills. They're building fortifications — walls, barracks, towers. And they're speaking to each other."
"Speaking?"
"In a language. Alien, but structured. These aren't mindless dead shuffling south. This is a military preparing for war."
Aemon's restored eyes were wide. "An organized army of the dead. In all the histories of the Long Night, there is no record of such a thing."
"The Night King himself —" Triss paused. "He's different from any description we've seen. Armored. Armed with a weapon that radiates cold strong enough to freeze the air at ten paces. He sensed us watching from half a mile away and nearly brought down one of our dragons with a single strike."
Jon leaned back. His face was grey. "Years, you said."
"Three to five, based on what we observed. You have time, but you need to use it."
"Allies like the Wyrmborne."
"That's part of why we're here." Triss stood. "We'll reinforce the Wall's magical defenses before we leave. The existing enchantments are ancient, but they ward against magical beings — which means they'll resist us. We'll need to find workarounds."
The work took three days. Triss and the Scarlet Wing detachment worked the Wall's surface in shifts, testing the ancient wards, mapping their architecture, finding the gaps where new enchantments could be layered without triggering the old ones. By the third evening, Triss could barely keep her eyes open.
But the enchantments held. Fire wards over ice wards. Detection matrices woven into the existing network. Early-warning systems that would pulse through the Watch's communications if anything with a White Walker's signature crossed within five miles.
Mikhail returned on the second day, carrying something.
The creature was massive even in death — a forty-foot hulk of white fur and frozen muscle, its massive arms ending in claws that could shear through castle walls. An ice-adapted primate, Apostle-level, its body still radiating cold even after Mikhail had killed it. She'd placed it in magical stasis, the preservation spell keeping the body intact for transport.
For my collection, Mikhail said when Triss raised an eyebrow. I'll consume it when the time is right. Right now I want it studied first.
On the morning of departure, Melisandre found Jon alone in the courtyard. Ghost stood at his side — properly at his side now, pressed against his leg, red eyes calm. The purge had fixed whatever the Three-Eyed Raven's influence had done to their bond.
"Lord Commander," Melisandre said. "Before we go."
She held out a small object — a pendant, no larger than a coin, on a thin chain of Wyrm-Forged metal. The surface was dark, unreflective, etched with a single rune that pulsed once when Jon's fingers touched it.
"Wear this," she said, low enough that only Jon and Ghost could hear. "Always. Promise me."
Jon looked at it. "What is it?"
"A gift. Don't take it off."
"But what does it —"
"Promise me, Jon."
He studied her face — the crimson scales, the red eyes, the expression that brooked no argument. Then he slipped the chain over his head and tucked the pendant beneath his furs.
"I promise."
Melisandre nodded once and walked away without looking back.
Arya Stark — Third Person
A day passed in Winterfell.
Arya finished the story — all of it, everything that had happened since she'd left King's Landing as a girl with a stolen sword and a list of names. Sansa listened through the night and into the morning, asking questions that were sharp and specific and revealed more about what she'd learned under Littlefinger's tutelage than any confession could have.
When it was done, Sansa sat in silence for a long time.
"You've found a place," she said finally.
"I have."
"Then go back to it." Sansa reached across the table and gripped Arya's hand. "But come back. Whenever you can. We've spent too many years apart."
"I will."
The goodbyes were brief — Robb's hug, Catelyn's fierce kiss on her forehead, Grey Wind pressing his head against her knee one final time. Sansa stood in the great hall's doorway and watched as Yennefer built the portal, the violet-white light reflecting off the snow.
The portal locked onto Angelus's magical signature across the Narrow Sea. Through it, Arya could see sunlight and warm stone — Vaes Meereen's courtyard, and a familiar crimson-scaled figure waiting.
She stepped through.
Angelus — First Person
The portal opened in the main courtyard, and Arya came through first.
She looked tired. But her eyes were bright, and when she saw me standing in Dragonborn form at the courtyard's center, something in her expression softened.
Yennefer, Jhogo and Artoria followed. Legna and Aethon swept down from the sky and landed beside their respective partners.
"Job well done," I said. "All of you. Sansa is safe, the Vale situation is contained, and Littlefinger is no longer a variable." I looked at Arya. "I heard you dealt with that last part personally."
"He earned it."
"He did."
I turned to Yennefer. "Report to Daenerys. She'll want the full picture on the Vale political aftermath." Yennefer nodded and departed, Legna gliding behind her. Jhogo melted into the compound without a word — impressive for someone covered in poison-green scales. Artoria departed to the training grounds to polish her skills while Aethon follows her while walking.
That left Arya.
"Walk with me," I said.
We crossed the courtyard into the compound's inner garden — the same space where I held private conversations that were too important for the Council chamber and too personal for the public areas. The garden's enchanted crystal lighting cast warm golden patterns on the flagstones, and the fountain at its center provided the white-noise that made conversations feel private.
I stopped beside a stone bench. On it, resting on a cloth of dark silk, was an egg.
It was smaller than a dragon egg — about the size of a large melon, its shell a deep cobalt blue threaded with veins of pale frost that pulsed with inner light. Cold radiated from it in gentle waves, and the shell's surface bore a texture that suggested scales rather than the smooth surface of standard dragon eggs.
Arya stared at it.
"That one's yours," I said. "Don't let it die."
Her amber eyes moved from the egg to my face and back. "What is it?"
"A Lunagaron." I sent her a mental image.
A wolf. But wrong — cobalt blue scales instead of fur, lean and powerful, with fangs longer than Needle and red eyes that burned like embers. Walking on all fours through a frozen forest, then rising to stand on two legs as something challenged it — a bipedal predator sheathing itself in ice armor, claws frosting over, fast enough to blur.
Arya's breath caught.
"Moonlight Nocturn," I said. "Walks like a wolf. Fights like a demon. Ice element — coats its body in armor, freezes its claws for close combat." I watched her face. "It suits you."
Arya's hand reached toward the egg. Her fingers stopped an inch from the shell.
"A wolf with dragon scales," she whispered.
"You're a Stark who became a Dragon Witcher. The Lunagaron is a wolf that was born a wyvern." I paused. "One more thing. I ran a diagnostic on you while we were talking."
Her eyes snapped to mine.
"Your element is crystallizing. Ice and Shadow — both of them, forming together. You've been developing it for weeks. The cold stopped bothering you. Your movements in low light got faster." I nodded at the egg. "The Lunagaron's ice element will sync with yours. Two predators hunting in total silence."
Arya's hand closed the gap. Her fingers touched the shell.
The egg pulsed. The frost veins flared bright blue, then settled into a steady rhythm — matching, Arya realized, her own heartbeat.
Her composure broke.
She crossed the distance between us in two steps and wrapped her arms around me. Tight. Fierce. Her face pressed against my shoulder and her fingers dug into my back.
"Thank you," she said against my shoulder. Her voice was thick.
I returned it. Wrapped my arms around her, pulled her close, and pressed my lips to her forehead.
"You're welcome," I said.
Arya pulled back. Her cheeks were flushed — crimson creeping up from her neck toward her ears — and her hand went to the spot on her forehead where my lips had touched, as if checking whether the warmth was still there.
Yennefer, passing through the garden on her way to the administrative wing, caught the entire exchange. Her violet eyes met mine over Arya's shoulder. One eyebrow rose fractionally.
She said nothing. Kept walking.
"Go," I told Arya. "Find a warm spot for the egg. It'll hatch within the week if you keep it near you."
Arya collected the egg from the bench, cradling it against her chest. The cobalt shell pulsed against her armor, its heartbeat already synchronizing with hers. She left the garden walking fast, her head down, the flush still visible on the back of her neck.
I watched her go. Then I turned toward the private wing of the compound.
Triss's group arrived two hours later.
Enoch landed first, his massive green form settling onto the courtyard platform with the controlled grace that his Level 3 evolution had given him. Triss slid down his flank, exhaustion written in every line of her body. Melisandre followed, her crimson scales catching the afternoon light.
Behind them, Mikhail landed with considerably more noise — and considerably more cargo. The preserved Apostle-level creature strapped to her underbelly drew stares from every Wyrmborne in visual range. Forty feet of frozen primate, still radiating supernatural cold despite the stasis spell, its massive arms and ice-coated claws testament to what Mikhail had killed alone in the northern mountains.
Davos Seaworth, Selyse Baratheon, and Shireen descended from Enoch's harness looking windblown and shell-shocked. Melisandre gestured to two Scarlet Wing members, who guided the three newcomers toward the compound's interior.
"The conversion pools," Melisandre told them. "Supervised by our medical staff. Take your time."
Shireen looked back once, her scarred face alight with something that had replaced the terror of two days ago. Anticipation.
Then Triss and Melisandre were in front of me. Triss talked. Melisandre filled in the gaps. I listened.
"Moqorro is still out there," Melisandre said when the debrief was done. "He fed Stannis the false prophecy deliberately."
"Jhogo's network will have a lead within the week." I looked at Triss. "The Wall enchantments?"
"Holding. Layered and tested. Early-warning system is operational — anything with a White Walker signature crossing within five miles triggers Castle Black's alert."
"Good." I looked at Triss. She was trying to stay upright through sheer willpower, her green-gold eyes heavy with exhaustion. "Come here."
She stepped forward. I cupped her face in both hands — my crimson-scaled fingers against the crimson scales along her jaw — and kissed her. Slow and warm. She melted into it, her hands finding my waist, the bond between us humming with shared warmth.
When I pulled back, her eyes were brighter. Some of the exhaustion had receded behind a flush that had nothing to do with fire magic.
"Go sleep," I said. "That's an order."
"Yes, my lady." She smiled — the real one, the one that reached her green-gold eyes — and left.
I turned to Melisandre.
She stood at attention, her crimson scales gleaming, her red eyes holding that complicated mixture of devotion and desire that had been building since her conversion. I stepped close — close enough that she had to tilt her head to meet my gaze — and kissed her. Harder than Triss's. One hand at the back of her neck, the other sliding down to grip and slap her ass.
SMACK!
Melisandre gasped against my mouth. The sound melted into something softer, her body pressing against mine, the fire element between us creating a heat that had nothing to do with ambient temperature.
"I'm going to claim you and Kinvara soon," I whispered against her ear. "Both of you. Properly."
Melisandre's breath stuttered. Her red eyes went dark with want.
"Yes, Mistress," she whispered back.
"Go."
She went. Walking slightly unsteadily, the flush on her scales visible even at a distance.
The private wing of the compound was quiet.
I closed the door behind me and crossed to the incubation alcove — a temperature-controlled niche in the wall, heated by ambient enchantments, where a single egg rested on a bed of golden silk.
This egg was different from the Lunagaron's cobalt shell or the dragon eggs I'd created before. Its surface was a deep bronze-gold, layered with textures that suggested overlapping scales, and its size was considerable — larger than a standard dragon egg, closer to an ostrich egg in dimensions. Golden light pulsed within it, visible through the shell's surface, and the warmth it radiated was not fire-warmth but something richer. Deeper. The warmth of gold heated by a forge. The warmth of abundance itself.
The egg was cracking.
I sat down in front of it and watched. My heart rate was elevated. My tail was doing the involuntary curl-and-uncurl that my inner circle called my "tell."
A Kulve Taroth. The Elder Dragon of Gold.
The crack widened. Golden light spilled from within — not fire, not magic, but the pure radiance of precious metal heated to incandescence. The shell fell away in large pieces, revealing the creature within.
She was small. Hatchling-sized, barely larger than a house cat. Four stubby legs ending in golden claws. A broad, heavy body covered in dark grey-bronze scales with golden edging. And from her head — already prominent, already magnificent even in miniature — a pair of spiraling ram horns, golden from base to tip, their surfaces grooved with the characteristic pattern that would, in time, develop into one of the most distinctive silhouettes in draconic biology.
Her eyes opened. Amber-gold, huge in her small face, blinking against the light of a world she was seeing for the first time.
She looked at me.
I looked at her.
Her tiny mouth opened. A sound came out — not a roar, not a cry, something between a chirp and a metallic hum, like a finger drawn across the rim of a golden bowl.
Then she wobbled forward on unsteady legs, crossed the silk-lined alcove, and pressed her head against my hand.
I lost it.
"Oh," I said, and my voice came out approximately three octaves higher than my usual Dragonborn register. "Oh, you are perfect."
I scooped her up. She fit in both hands, her golden horns bumping against my wrist, her tiny claws kneading my palm. She was warm — warmer than a fire-element hatchling, with a deep, steady heat that felt like holding a bar of gold fresh from the forge. Her amber eyes found mine and held them with an intensity that was frankly absurd for a creature that had existed for less than thirty seconds.
"I'm going to take such good care of you," I murmured, tucking her against my chest. She chirped again — that metallic resonance, like tiny bells — and her stubby tail curled around my forearm.
I stood, cradling the Kulve Taroth hatchling against my armor, and walked out of the private wing into the afternoon light. The compound's main corridor stretched ahead, warm and golden with enchanted crystal lighting.
The hatchling's amber eyes took in everything — the walls, the light, the distant sound of Wyrmborne going about their business. Her tiny golden horns caught the light and threw it back in scattered patterns across the corridor ceiling.
My newest daughter. My golden one.
She chirped against my chest, and the sound echoed through the corridor like a promise.
Date/Time: Tywin's Office — One day after Arya's team arrived back to Vaes Meereen.
Tywin Lannister — Third Person
He was currently filing away a report on the continuing rumors of what the Lightning Champion Zyrenna had said. Along with the backlash from Tyrion's failed execution via Angelus snatching him. Soon a Raven arrives at his window. He approached it to take the letter wearing one of his gloves, unseals it and started reading it. It was from one of his informant placed at the Royce manor.
The letter reads. An unknown individual approached the guards at the manor and started a fight with them. They took down the gate guards along with more of them when they came to stop them. The knight defeated them very easily using only their sword without even drawing their shield before soon leaving without a word. No casualties among the guards other than a few injuries. The knight said nothing during the fight but going by the armor, we assume it's a male knight. And a detail that got Tywin's attention is the fact that the knight's armor is lion themed. A lion sword, a lion shield that they were able to notice and even the armor bore resemblance of a lion.
The other thing that was reported is that they found Littlefinger dead with his throat cut. For some reason outside of the manor and that Alayne Stone is currently missing. They suspect that the assassin either killed her and took the body or kidnapped her for ransom. Tywin checks the letter for any hidden messages or foreign influences before tossing it into the fireplace along with his gloves and sat down on his desk chair to ponder.
Littlefinger dead outside his mansion. He thought disdainfully. Idiot. He should've known better. The knight was either a distraction for the assassin to sneak in or it was a very bad coincidence. Either way, now with him dead, the Small Council will be in uproar and we'll have to assign a new Master of Coin. At least we can get to work on taking control of any businesses and operations that Petyr Baelish had, which might help us with this debt that the fool Robert left us prior to his death. He paused for a moment.
And this 'Alayne Stone' was likely the Stark girl that was missing when Joffrey was poisoned. I already suspected her identity and that Petyr was involved but I couldn't confront Petyr about it without strong evidence. Say what you will of him, one thing that Petyr was good at was being slippery like a snake. Sometimes made me wonder if he was secretly Dornish with how often he manipulated the chaos around him. 'Chaos is a Ladder' as I would hear him would often say. The fool loved chaos until it swallowed him. He thought than continued.
Still... A Lion Knight. He sips the coffee on his desk. Either he's a distant Lannister relative who came after hearing about the situation in Westeros or it's an aspiring knight seeking to join the Lannister family. Likely either through marriage, sword arm or both. Whatever reasons they have, gaining another ally, especially a skilled knight would be welcome. The question is how to get their attention.
He taps his finger on the chair's arm for a few moments before stopping. His eyes widened slightly.
A Tourney. He thought. Hosting a Tourney might draw him to us. If he challenged those guards out of nowhere without the goal of killing them, it's likely he was seeking to prove his skills. Possibly even challenging other warriors or wandering knights in preparation for a Tourney.
His eyes gleamed. If he wants a Tourney, then he'll get one. One where he can prove his skills and join the Lannister house. Might even be a good time to host one since the truce with the Starks are still holding, allowing us to use the event to boost morale among our forces, improve our standings among the sheep while also using the opportunity to foster relationship with more houses and gain money to lessen our debt from Braavos.
He sips the coffee again and walks to the window, staring out into the night sky. One hand behind his back, coffee in the other. Cersei is still mourning over Joffrey's death like the useless mother she is when she should be focusing on Tommen's kingship along with Myrcella's safety who is still in Dorne. And Jaime's allegiance is in question ever since that dragon Angelus restored his hand. Now people wonder if he's going to turn on them if Angelus ever decides to collect on her debt from him with a request they won't like.
He sees a bird flying past his window. I need more loyal tools and this Lion Knight might be the perfect one since the Mountain is dead, the Hound is still missing. Also likely dead, Ser Barristan is allied with the Wyrmborne like Angelus told us and the rest of the Kingsguards are too incompetent. Leaving Jaime the only one who's the most reliable with his sword arm restored.
He sips the coffee and realizes the cup is empty. He looks at his desk and sees that he doesn't have anymore and grumbles. One of the things I can agree on about the Wyrmbornes that I like, is this coffee. Makes me almost wish it was Angelus on that throne instead of Tommen. Cause if something as trivial as a beverage is this good and effective. It makes you wonder what else they got in their kingdom. He thought reluctantly.
He heads to his desk and rings a bell. A servant comes in and bow. Tywin order. "Fetch me another pack of coffee beans." The servant bows again and leaves. Tywin sits back on his chair and resumes reading the report. This time about the recent development with the Faith Militant.
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End of Chapter Forty-Seven
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Author's Note: The ending part with Tywin was something I thought of adding since it wasn't in the original chapter and since I included Artoria in the Sansa extraction mission with Arya (which also wasn't in the original chapter because I forgot about her Oath to Catelyn) I felt it would make for a interesting scene for Tywin to find out about her existence because of the Lion Knight armor theme she has going. I wasn't expecting it to be this long. I hope I got Tywin's personality down somewhat cause I really like him as a character, even if I hate some things about him.
And regarding the Stannis situation, I kind of wanted to get the Wall arc over with so I can introduce the Night King who is now basically the Lich King and get to some of the main stuff I wanted to focus on. So sorry if the Stannis scene was too short and fast paced. I have some big things planned for future events and I didn't want to waste too much time with this. Also, I can't remember all the Wall events anyway.