New students start from 'Game of Thrones'

Chapter 83 The Dragon Falls

On the Narrow Sea, beyond the Fingers.

A vast fleet sailed across the waves. Sea winds billowed the great sails, driving the warships forward at speed, even without oarsmen's labor.

"Lord Tyrion, where is our queen?" Ser Davos Seaworth asked, standing at the prow and glancing down at the dwarf beside him.

Every soldier loyal to House Targaryen was aboard these ships: the Unsullied, the Dothraki horsemen, and the lords who had pledged fealty since their landing in Westeros.

"Mind your tongue, Ser Davos," Tyrion said, sipping from a wine cup. "It is our queen. And when the Targaryen host lands on the eastern shore, you and your Baratheon king will bend the knee—before dragonfire." His voice brimmed with faith in Daenerys, and a healthy fear of her dragons.

"That is a matter for later," Davos replied, his face impassive. To this knight of unwavering honor, as long as Stannis had not surrendered, he remained a knight of House Baratheon—and Stannis's chosen Hand of the King.

"Hah!" Tyrion scoffed at the old man's stubbornness. "You have no idea how terrifying dragons are. While we drift across this sea, your Jon is flying to the Wall with the Targaryen queen—riding a dragon. By the time we arrive, that so-called Night King will be nothing but a puddle of slush, melted by dragonfire."

Davos said nothing. He had felt the awe of seeing a dragon fly firsthand, and now his heart was heavy with worry. He knew Stannis's pride all too well.

"You mean Daenerys took Jon to the Wall?" Owen's voice cut through Tyrion's boasts, coming from behind him.

"Obviously," Tyrion said with a snort. "Haven't you noticed the three dragons aren't circling the fleet?"

"Damn it," Owen muttered, his brow furrowed. "Davos, find the maester. We need to send a raven to Lord Stark and King Stannis—tell them to brace for a White Walker attack. Evacuate if necessary. The Wall might not hold."

"I'll go at once," Davos said. He did not understand Owen's urgency, but the gravity in the half-god's voice left no room for doubt. He trusted Owen implicitly.

Owen kicked himself inwardly. Bored on the ship, he had sent his falcon soaring freely—over King's Landing, where he'd spotted the fabled Golden Company; over the Iron Islands' fleet; even across the Narrow Sea to the Free Cities. That moment of indulgence had made him overlook Daenerys—the madwoman with the Mad King's blood.

"Ah, you're worried the queen will attack your little alliance?" Tyrion said, mistaking Owen's concern. "No need—"

"I don't care about your queen," Owen snapped, cutting him off. "Her entire Targaryen army is nothing to the alliance. Even those three dragons you worship? They're just overgrown lizards to me."

"Even for the Sword of the North, that's quite the boast," Tyrion said, his tone mocking—until a wave of raw power washed over him.

Owen's expression hardened. Unfathomable power surged from his body. In an instant, a sea of flame materialized above the entire fleet— ing in midair like a inferno. The heat was searing; bare skin tingled, almost burning.

"That's why I boast, Tyrion," Owen said, looking down at the dwarf, now the deck, his face ashen. He glanced at Grey Worm, the Unsullied commander, and Missandei—both frozen in shock. "I've never feared those lizards. But even I must fight the Night King with all I have. Do you really think your queen can defeat him... with them?"

"Didn't you hear me?" Owen snapped at Missandei. "Tell the maester to send the raven—to Castle Black. If you don't want your queen dead at the Wall, order the fleet to sail faster." He turned and walked back to his cabin, leaving behind the fools who blindly trusted their dragons.

"I'd hurry, if I were you," Davos said. He had seen Owen face the Night King; he was far less shaken by the display. "Your queen might not survive otherwise."

"When did he learn magic?" Tyrion asked, finally recovering, his voice trembling as he looked to Davos.

"I don't know," Davos said. "All I know is he's a half-god walking the earth. The only one who can stand against the Night King."

The breath of winter took physical form beyond the Lands of Always Winter. Drogon's scales glinted like molten gold in the blizzard. Daenerys could feel the fury roiling in her mount's chest; Rhaegal and Viserion followed close behind. Jon clung tightly to Rhaegal's scales, his knuckles white with tension. When they broke through the clouds, the ground below was a sea of faint blue lights—like sapphires scattered on obsidian: a hundred thousand wights.

Owen had been right. Daenerys had brought Jon to the north of the Wall, determined to use her dragons to kill the White Walkers... and end the Night King.

"Dracarys!" Daenerys's scream cut through the wind. Golden flame erupted from Drogon's jaws— a fire spear from the gods—carving a blackened trench through the wight horde. The stench of burning rot rose, only to be twisted into a spiral of black smoke by the wind from Drogon's wings. Rhaegal unleashed emerald fire to the right, trapping a vanguard of White Walkers in a ring of flame.

The Night King stood on an altar in the center of a frozen lake. A whirlwind of snow swirled above him, a hundred feet wide. When Daenerys dive-bombed for the third time, the ancient Walker lifted his bone-white hand. The blizzard froze instantly, forming a mirror of hexagonal ice crystals—refracting the three streams of dragonfire into a rain of flames.

"Climb!" Jon shouted, his voice drowned out by the crackle of ice. But Drogon reacted quickly, surging upward with Daenerys, narrowly avoiding the refracted fire.

Viserion, the smallest dragon, fared worse. His wings felt heavy as lead; the reflected flames scorched his scales black, searing his wing membranes. He faltered, his ascent slowing.

The Night King pulled a spiral ice spear from the altar—three meters long, its tip glinting colder than Valyrian steel. Time seemed to thicken. Rhaegal, still climbing, let out a warning roar; Drogon spat a curtain of fire. But Viserion's damaged wings had cost him precious speed. His climb stalled—fatally.

The Night King threw the spear with the force of a glacier calving. As it left his hand, the snow in its path turned to tiny ice blades, leaving a pale blue trail in the air. Viserion's golden eyes shrank to pinpricks. A deafening dragon's wail echoed in Daenerys's mind.

"No!!" Daenerys screamed, a sharp pain lancing through her chest. Her nails split as she dug them into Drogon's scales. The ice spear tore through Viserion's wing membrane with a sound like breaking crystal. The barbed tip did not stop—piercing straight into the dragon's heart.

Viserion's eyes faded to frost white. The golden veins that had once glowed like fragments of the sun were now crisscrossed with icy cracks. The dragon fell like a broken kite, crashing into the frozen lake. Instead of water, a thousand shards of sharp ice exploded upward.

"ROAR!!"

The remaining dragons screamed—rage and grief echoing across the Lands of Always Winter. In that moment, the eternal night felt colder than ever.