Ice and Fire: Reign of the Dragon.

Chapter 480 The War of the Defenders (Thirteen)

The cold wind howled incessantly in the land of eternal winter beyond the Great Wall, like the panting of a dying beast.

The Frozen Throne, the last stronghold of the White Walkers, stands atop the shattered glaciers of the Heart of Winter, pale as bones. Its walls are ancient, unyielding ice, harder than diamonds, colder than the eternal night. It was once the royal court of the ancient White Walker lords who commanded their armies of the dead, an insurmountable iceberg. Now, it is riddled with holes, illuminated by dragonfire and the light of dawn.

The twelve Children of the Forest stood atop the roots of the world, their skin cracked like tree bark, their eyes gleaming with ancient wisdom. The eldest, the Green Prophet, raised his withered hand and stroked the obscure runes on the Dawn Machine.

After recovering their strength at Thousand Faces Isle, the Children of the Forest immediately returned to the Land of Everwinter, where they felt the long night receding and the White Walkers weakening.

Now, they're here to kick a man when he's down.

The dragon riders have taken flight, ready to deliver the final blow to the White Walkers. Before that, Igor smeared the blood left by Longzel on the Dawn Machines.

“We were once the singers of this land,” the elder’s voice sang like a leaf in the wind, “and now we will be its death knell.”

The remaining eleven Children of the Forest stood silently in a circle, their fingertips oozing emerald blood that dripped onto the runes of the Dawn Machine. The machine began to tremble, emitting a deep hum, like the heartbeat of the earth's depths.

"For the dawn," the elder whispered, raising the obsidian dagger in his hand.

Twelve obsidian daggers pierced their chests simultaneously.

In an instant, emerald blood spread like vines across the machine's surface, and runes lit up one by one, changing from dark red to golden yellow, and finally turning into dazzling white. Three beams of light shot into the sky, tearing through the eternal night. The next moment, the intense light at the top of the Dawn Machine changed direction, like three spears thrown down by gods, piercing straight into the walls of the Frozen Throne.

boom!
The world seemed to freeze for a second the moment the beam of light struck the ice wall.

Immediately afterwards, the ice began to scream.

It wasn't just the sound of melting; it was some ancient, terrifying collapse, as if the glacier itself was howling. The ice walls twisted and cracked in the intense heat, finally collapsing like fragile glass. The melted ice water transformed into a raging torrent, washing over the battlefield, and steam rose like thick fog, obscuring the entire sky.

The elder's body turned to ashes in the light, and his last words dissipated in the wind:
"Please remember our darlings of the Song of Fire."

A huge shadow spiraled down from the steamy mist.

Vormisor descended from the heavens, its wingspan enough to obscure half the battlefield. Its scales glowed a molten, dark red in the intense heat, its eyes like two burning suns. Though old and slow, Vormisor was unmistakable when it descended. On its back, Igor Vareses's silver hair flew, his hand gripping the Silverblood Sword, his gaze sharp as a blade.

"Dragon Flame!" Igor's roar pierced the battlefield.

Vomisol took a deep breath, his chest heaving like a furnace, the firelight in his throat turning the surrounding mist blood red.

Then came another earth-shattering roar.

The dragonfire was no longer just flames, but liquid destruction. Blazing white flames cascaded down like a waterfall, pouring into the melted breach in the Frozen Throne. The ice crystals in the tower vaporized directly in the intense heat, the entire castle's structure began to collapse, and massive ice pillars fell like swords, smashing the remaining ghoul legions below.

Igor steered Vomisol low through the air, its dragon claws tearing at the crumbling tower.

“One more time!” he roared.

Vormisor spewed dragonfire once more, this time the flames pierced straight through the core of the throne, and the dragons followed suit, pouring down dragonfire of various colors.

The Frozen Throne collapsed in flames, like a slow avalanche, eventually turning into a pool of boiling ice water.

When the steam dissipated, only a charred ruin remained on the battlefield, along with the last ice mage lord standing atop the wreckage.

His icy scepter was broken, and his pale face was as cold as a sculpture.

"Humanity will eventually forget," his voice whispered like the wind and snow.

“But you will be forgotten first,” Igor said calmly. The ice mage’s body shattered in the sunlight, turning into millions of ice crystals that dissipated in the wind.

As Vormisor destroyed the Frozen Throne, the human army arrayed themselves on the icy plains, their armor and spears gleaming coldly in the dim light. Before them, the ruins of the Frozen Throne still burned, melting glaciers forming raging torrents that washed over the battlefield. But the White Walkers had not yet crumbled; thousands of wights surged like a tide, the Pale Maidens raised their ice crystal staffs high, and the Icecallers chanted chilling incantations, the icy mist condensing into sharp ice blades in the air.

The dragons were the first to attack.

The madman Sendralos led the charge with his dragon, its flames like a molten lava torrent, instantly engulfing the pale maidens who were casting spells. Their ice magic crumbled in the flames, their pale bodies turning into charred remains.

"Dragonfire clears the way!" Igor Vareses's voice echoed across the battlefield.

Starsong swept past from the flank, its dragon wings whipping up a hurricane that tore a gap in the ghoul formation. Its breath was a blazing white dragonfire, like starlight, melting the ghouls it touched like wax figures. Silverwing, meanwhile, glided low with an elegant yet deadly grace, its dragonfire precisely sweeping across the Icecaller's ranks. Before the freezing spells could be uttered, the casters were reduced to ashes, followed by the dragonfire of the other dragons.

Dragonfire paved the way for human armies.

Humanity's charge began.

Tywin Lannister rode a warhorse clad in golden armor, his green eyes beneath the lion's helmet cold and sharp. His sword drew a deadly arc in the cold light. Three wights lunged at him simultaneously, their rotting fingers reaching for his saddle. Tywin flicked his wrist, his sword slashing horizontally, and three heads fell almost at the same time. "Lannister!" he growled, his voice devoid of youthful naiveté, only the cold cruelty of a lion. His squires followed closely behind, spears piercing the wights' chests, the golden lion banners fluttering in the wind and snow. Beside him, Robert Baratheon led the charge. "Come on!" he roared, smashing the ice armor of a White Walker knight with his hammer, shards of ice scattering everywhere. A second White Walker attacked from the side, an ice spear aimed straight for his throat. Robert dodged, and with a backhand strike, the enemy's head exploded like a watermelon. His warhorse was dragged down by the wights, but he landed still gripping his warhammer, roaring as he smashed the knees of two undead men before crushing their skulls with a single blow. "Baratheon! Charge!" His roar thundered, inspiring the knights of Stormlands. Brandon Stark followed closely behind on a grey warhorse, frost clinging to his sword. He had brought Robert a new steed.

A pale woman attempted to freeze his blood with ice magic, but Robert had anticipated this. He hurled his warhammer, shattering her skull, and then Brandon charged forward on horseback, severing her body with a single stroke.

“Well done, Buck.” He growled, and with a swift stroke of his sword, ghouls fell like stalks of wheat.

Barristan Selmy, the "Fearless," had his cloak stained crimson with blood, yet his swordsmanship remained impeccable. Three White Walker knights attacked him simultaneously, their ice swords clashing against his steel blades, sparks flying. He sidestepped, swiftly piercing the first knight's throat with a backhand strike, then spun and severed the second's kneecap, finishing with a final upward slash that cleaved the third's breastplate. "For the Seven Kingdoms!" his voice was as steady as iron. Fighting alongside him, Brynden Tully, the "Blackfish," charged on foot, his twin swords swirling like a whirlwind. His fighting style was as agile as a fish, the wights' claws always a step behind. An Icecaller attempted to freeze his feet, but Brynden leaped up, his twin swords slashing in a cross pattern, sending the enemy's head flying into the air. "House Tully! Forward!" he roared, and the warriors of the Riverlands roared in response.

As the cavalry tore through the enemy lines, the infantry advanced like an iron wall.

Lord Jon Arryn, raising the blue banner of the falcon, commanded his archers in a volley, a rain of arrows blanketing the wight's ranks. Prince Arthur Dayne's Dawn shone like stars in the chaos, each strike severing the spines of the dead with pinpoint accuracy. Oberyn Martell's twin serpent spears whirled through the enemy ranks, wights falling in droves. Hoster Tully's voice echoed like a war drum: "Crush them! Leave no one alive!"

The remaining few thousand ghouls collapsed under the advance of the human army; their bodies were pierced by spears, chopped by battle axes, and trampled into rotting flesh and broken bones by iron boots.

The last White Walker was surrounded and killed by ten human warriors, the moment his ice sword shattered.

The sun has risen.

The long night thus came to a complete end.

The battlefield fell into a brief silence, with only the gentle flow of melting snow.

Igor Vareses leaped from Vormisor's back, his bronze armor scorched by dragonfire. He gazed at the crumbling Frozen Throne and slowly uttered a single sentence:

"ended."

But no one cheered.

They stood silently, watching as dawn finally pierced the long night sky.

This long night has finally come to a complete end.

The price was immeasurable deaths and the ruins of Essos.

The Great Grass Sea of ​​Dothraki and the surrounding habitable hills were destroyed by ghost grass, and a third of Essos was swallowed by shadow.

After this night, Essos was no longer bountiful.

Perhaps this is the price to pay.
(End of this chapter)