Ice and Fire: Reign of the Dragon.

Chapter 457 The Battle of the Long Night (Part 1)

Aegon slammed his fist down on the oak table, knocking over the candlesticks and causing wax to drip like blood and tears.

"I am the heir to the throne! I have the right!" His voice echoed through the halls of Bronze Gate City. "Sir Cedric! I command you, open the gates!"

Sir Cedric Bookler remained unmoved: "If I may be so bold, Your Highness, you are not yet king. My duty is to ensure you live to see the coronation. So, I apologize."

Duncan shrank to the side like a shrimp, forcing a smile and saying, "Lord Cedric, please let us go."

“No.” Cedric said firmly, “Your father entrusted you to Bronze Gate City before his death. His Majesty the King, the Prime Minister, and Lord Bloodraven all gave the same order: unless the King or Dragon's Nest issues a personal order—”

Aegon suddenly laughed, a laugh that sent a bad feeling through the young knight. The prince pulled two still-wet letters from his robes and slammed them heavily against the other man's chest.

"Then just wait to receive the mail. You wouldn't even let me deliver the mail, would you?"

Cedric shook his head helplessly: "That's your prerogative, but I'm warning you, in this awful weather, the ravens might not be able to fly very far."

"It's ok."

Aegon confidently waved his finger: "Just give the letter to the raven."

That ominous premonition crept up Sir Cedric's back again.

He suddenly remembered that legend.

Lord Blood Raven has one thousand and one eyes.

Winterfell.

The bustling army set up camp in Winterfell, which is now overflowing with people, with hundreds of thousands gathered on this rare geothermal ley line in the North.

This is actually unreasonable. Under normal circumstances, this army would be at its most powerful south of the Neck, but that would also mean bringing destruction to Westeros's grain-producing regions.

Therefore, shifting the battle line northward was a last resort.

Brinden opened his single, blood-red eye.

“The little prince wants to be a hero,” he murmured to himself in the empty room. Suddenly the door was pushed open, and Hoffa burst in, bringing with him a gust of cold wind. His icy blue eyes gleamed in the shadows. “Father says it’s time to make a decision.”

"You've seen it too, haven't you, Hofa? What's Lord Igor's opinion?"

Blood Raven asked calmly, "Do you know what will happen to the Seven Kingdoms if this child dies during the dragon taming process?"

“I know.” Hoffa unsheathed his sword and placed it on the table, saying wearily, “But you know better than anyone that if he doesn’t go, even if he lives to be crowned, he will always be a weakling who needs protection. With Daenerys preparing to tame dragons, it’s not a good thing for Prince Aegon, as the heir to the throne, to just sit around doing nothing.”

Crows cawed shrilly outside the window. Suddenly, Brynden grabbed his sword and threw it back at Hoffa: "Prepare the dragon. We're going to Bronze Gate."

"Aren't we waiting for my father to decide?"

He will agree.

When Brinden no longer hesitated.

Igor was brushing the old dragon's scales. The increasingly shorter days were making the dragons uncomfortable, and the presence of dragon riders made things much better. Even Daenerys Targaryen, who hadn't yet tamed a dragon, Queen Adele, and Queen Sirius were helping to care for the dragons at their roost. After listening to Othris's report, Igor didn't even look up: "Tell Bran I agree. Never mind, he already knows I agree."

"Your Majesty, Reg—"

“Reg doesn’t have time for this.” Igor finally turned around and said calmly, “The throne needs a true dragon, not a hothouse flower.”

Osiris hesitated, then bowed deeply. As he left Vomisol's habitat, he could still faintly hear Igor whispering to Vomisol, "Prepare, old friend. The final battle is coming."

At dawn, Cedric was awakened by shouts from the battlements. As he rushed up the walls, two enormous dragons stood out starkly in the morning mist.

Star Song was too big to land on the castle, so Blood Eye landed on the city wall instead.

Brynden leaped from the dragon's back, ice crystals falling from his black cloak: "By order of the King and the Hand of the King, I escort His Highness Aegon Targaryen to King's Landing."

Cedric opened his mouth, then finally knelt on one knee: "Yes, sir."

Aegon, wearing leather armor that had been altered overnight, ran out of the city gates, Duncan following behind. As the prince grabbed Bloodeye's dangling saddle chain, Bloodraven suddenly pressed down on his shoulder: "Think carefully, once you're in heaven, there's no turning back."

Aegon's response was to simply climb onto the dragon's back.

Hoffa shook his head with a smile and pulled Duncan onto Xingge: "Hold on tight, big guy, don't throw up on my dragon's back this time."

The last rays of the setting sun were swallowed by dark clouds, and the dragon's lair resembled the skeleton of a colossal beast in the twilight. Aegon Targaryen walked alone through the archway, his boots grinding over charred gravel. The wind whipped ashes against his face, carrying the scent of sulfur and blood.

Then, he saw it.

Dream Fire.

The enormous blue dragon coiled in the center of its lair, its scales a deep, dark blue in the dim light, its jagged bone spurs on its back standing like a crown. Its eyes, burning with ancient flames, locked onto Aegon the moment he stepped in.

And behind him are Xingge and Xueyan.

“My father is dead.” Aegon’s voice was soft, yet it echoed clearly in the dragon’s lair. “So I must take over his responsibilities, Grandmother Dreamfire. Will you join me in fighting the Long Night?”

A wisp of smoke billowed from Dreamfire's nostrils, and sparks landed at Aegon's feet, scorching the tips of his boots. He did not retreat.

“You remember me, don’t you?” He stepped forward, his violet eyes fixed on the dragon. “You’ve carried many Targaryen dragon riders.” His voice trembled slightly. “You also carried my father, when he was young.”

The dragon roared, a sound like muffled thunder from the earth, sending pebbles tumbling down. Its tail slowly swept across the ground, leaving a scorch mark.

Aegon did not stop.

“I’m not here to order you around.” He raised his hand, palm up, just as his father had taught him when he was a child. “I’m here to make a request.”

Meng Huo lowered its head slightly, its dragon eyes narrowing into slits. It was scrutinizing the young man whose eyes held a resolute determination beyond his years. Then, it moved.

The dragon's neck shot out like a snake, its fangs only inches from Aegon's face, its scalding breath burning his skin. Aegon did not close his eyes, nor did he flinch; he simply stared intently into those burning eyes.

“Now,” he said softly, “it’s my turn.”

The next second, he grabbed the edge of the dragon scale.

Dreamfire abruptly raised its head, violently lifting Aegon's body off the ground. His fingers dug into the gaps in the scales, his nails breaking and bleeding, yet he did not loosen his grip. The dragon soared into the air, bursting through the wide gates of its lair.

A wave of heat washed over him, and Aegon's sleeves instantly burst into flames. Gritting his teeth, he used all his strength to flip onto the dragon's back, his legs clamping tightly around Dreamfire's thick neck. Dragonfire exploded around him, scorching his skin, but he simply lowered his body, pressing himself against Dreamfire's scales.

"Dracarys!"

His roar was torn apart by the gale, but Dreamfire heard it.

The dragon's struggle suddenly stopped, as if time had frozen. Aegon could feel its muscles tense and hear a deep resonance emanating from the depths of its chest—a call from its very blood.

Aegon heard Dreamfire's inner thoughts.

It was ecstatic.

Then, Meng Huo roared to the sky.

The giant blue wings unfurled fully, carrying Aegon into the cloud-covered sky. Snow mixed with rain began to fall, extinguishing the flames burning on Aegon's body, and mingling with blood as it slid down his cheeks.

Brinden and Hoffa exchanged a relieved glance, but soon, a look of resolute determination crept onto their faces.

The decisive battle is about to begin.

The daylight of the North was utterly shattered by the music of the Song of Ice.

The sun, if it can still be called the sun, is something that can no longer bring warmth to people. It struggles to appear for only two or three hours each day in the gray sky, like a dying ember, so dim that it can't even cast a shadow. The sky is no longer blue, but a sickly leaden gray, as if some invisible force has slowly drained its color.

North of the Great Wall, life has vanished.

The direwolves that once roamed the frost and snow are now nothing but skeletons covered in rotting flesh, ghostly blue flames flickering in their empty eye sockets as they stagger forward with the White Walker army. The pine forest is long dead, its branches twisted like the fingers of a dying man, black sap seeping from the peeling bark, exuding a putrid stench.

Deep within these desolate forests, the original weirwood trees are withering away.

Melisandre stood atop the tower of Castle Black, her gaze piercing through the flames as she looked at the largest and oldest weirwood tree. Before the long night, its leaves were a blood-red hue, but now they were withered and curled, like parchment burned by fire. The face etched into the bark eight thousand years ago was melting, its once benevolent features twisted into an expression of agony, and black sap seeped from its eyes like tears.

The White Walkers are casting evil spells around it; its roots are withering and its life is fading.

“They can’t hold on any longer.” The Great Shadowbinder Quiro said hoarsely beside the red-robed woman, “The Song of Ice is devouring the power of the Old Gods, after all, they are of the same origin.”

“Our time is almost up, Great Shadow Master, my mentor.”

Melisandre said resolutely.

“It’s not your time yet,” Quello said with a sigh. “We underestimated Vareses’ warning, so Assassin paid the price. So, I’ll go first.”

The Great Shadowbringer stood before the woman in red: "Winterfell still needs your flame, woman in red."

The flames gradually died down.

Melisandre could no longer see the withered ancient weirwood.

A biting wind blew by, and the last red leaf of the weirwood fell, shattering into ashes in mid-air.

Deep underground, the last children of the forest huddled among the veins of the world's roots. They were smaller than human children, their skin rough like tree bark, and their large, golden eyes reflected the fading sunlight.

The three-eyed raven pressed its roots against the bare tree roots, its cracked beak opening and closing slightly:
"The roots remember."

His voice was like the rustling of withered leaves, low and broken.

"The roots continue."

The other children of the forest joined in the chanting, their language so ancient that even the wind had almost forgotten it. As the incantation continued, the roots of the weirwood trees, which had slumbered for thousands of years, began to glow faintly, infusing the last vestiges of life into the bodies of these last guardians.

The Green Prophet raised his head, his golden eyes piercing through the withered ancient trees, gazing south. There, the shadow of the Wall was crumbling, and the ghostly blue flames of the White Walkers spread like a tide.

“Let’s go,” he said to his people, “to gather strength, for we will need the strength of our ancestors for the final battle.”

One by one, they sank into the roots as if sinking into a lake. The three-eyed raven grinned as it inserted its roots and branches into the massive, ancient roots.

It severed the roots of the world here.

The two great mages of the Great Wall sensed something amiss in the north. The ancient weirwood tree was dead, and the last remaining force in the north capable of restraining the Long Night was gone. This could only mean one thing.

The long night has come.

The final battle has begun.

Melisandre's red robes fluttered in the wind. The brazier in her hand burned fiercely, illuminating her solemn face.

“The long night has come,” she whispered to Demion Vareses beside her, “but the fire has not yet been extinguished.”

Demion gazed at the increasingly dark northern horizon, while the crimson-red Shair growled uneasily behind him. Reflected in his dragon eyes was the approaching, eerie blue tide and the faint, ethereal silhouette of an ice dragon within it.

"Let's begin the retreat," Ray said softly.

(End of this chapter)