Darkness and cold shrouded the far north; near the White City, the sky glowed a blood-red hue. Drogon beat his massive, heavy wings, lifting his mountain-like body and flying straight into the cloud of ravens as if to swallow the heavens and the earth whole.

  The dragon frantically spat pillars of brilliant fire into the swarm. Thousands of ravens ignited violently, streaking to the ground like a rain of fire. Below, the surviving soldiers fled in a panicked frenzy, their ranks shattered. Only the Emissaries and the Ecclesiastic Guard remained chillingly calm. It seemed they knew no fear, whether of dragonfire or frost.

  Lyana stepped through the Dragon Gate, heading toward the soldiers and the Old Gods Cult. Her hands glowed with a rolling, searing flame. With every step she took, the snow beneath her feet erupted into brilliant light.

  The lead Emissary watched her approach, a faint smirk hidden behind his mask. He reached a cold hand—clad in a raven-feather gauntlet—behind his back, gripped a hilt, and drew it slowly. His companions followed suit like automatons. A sharp, crystalline crackle rang out, like the breaking of ice. The Emissary lunged forward, pacing deliberately toward Lyana. In his hand, he brandished a strange sword; its blade was thin and sharp, flickering with a ghostly blue light. It was unmistakably made of ice—a true ice blade. A weapon not seen in Westeros since the Battle of Winterfell nearly 300 years ago.

  High above, the rain of fire from the burning ravens continued to fall upon the snow. The vast landscape was illuminated, revealing the White City standing tall in the black night, just as it had endured for countless centuries.

  There were too many ravens. They swarmed Drogon, attacking the titan with talons sharp as razors and beaks hard as cold steel. The air filled with the clanging sound of metal on metal. Drogon roared in fury, breathing a ring of fire around his body. The ravens shrieked, catching fire and falling like meteor showers. Yet, as one layer fell, another surged forward, desperate to gouge the flesh of the centenarian dragon. Looking up, Drogon was submerged in a sea of ravens, swallowed by the impenetrable blackness. From within the cloud, flashes of fire pulsed rhythmically, and the dragon’s roars made the world tremble violently.

  The distance between Lyana and the Emissaries closed. Lyana’s face shone with pride in the radiant firelight. Facing her, the masked Emissaries approached like ghosts—slow and soulless. In their hands, the ice blades remained cold and lethal.

  "In the name of the Lord of Light, I cast the darkness back to hell!" Lyana bellowed, springing forward into the fray. Blades flashed, swinging up and down with sounds that tore through the air.

  Lyana dodged the falling shadows of the blades, thrusting streams of fire at the Emissaries. Several ignited like torches, their swords falling to the ground and shattering into a hundred liquid shards. Strangely, they did not utter a single cry, as if death held no terror for them. Perhaps someone had severed their nerves or cut out their tongues. But even tongueless, they should have groaned before being consumed by the sacred flames.

  Above, the ravens grew even more numerous, carpeting the sky. Drogon shrieked in rage, continuously breathing fire. His wings flapped incessantly, creating gales that pushed the swarm back. But the ravens were like frenzied ants, throwning themselves into certain death to cling to his body, clawing and pecking beneath his hard scales. They burrowed into the gaps where his flesh was unprotected, using beaks sharp as swords to tear away pieces of meat. Drogon roared in agony. In desperation, the dragon breathed fire onto his own body to shake off the ravens clinging to him like leeches. But as he torched the right, the left swarm lunged; as he torched the left, the right surged. Thus, the dragon sank deeper into the cloud, exhausted. Occasionally, a flash of fire would flicker and then die out.

  Below, Lyana glanced anxiously at the sky but remained focused on the Emissaries, who were as relentless as the ravens above. As some fell in swirling flames, others rushed forward, swinging paper-thin ice blades to claim the Red Priestess’s life.

  Lyana gasped for breath, her body covered in wounds. The regal red dress she wore was now a tattered ruin, exposing flesh torn by the icy blades. She fought like a knight amidst the circle of Emissaries, under a torrential rain of steel. Her fire grew dim, flickering like a lamp in the cold northern wind.

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  A horrific roar erupted, followed by a violent shuddering of the earth. Drogon fell from the sky, his wings tattered and full of holes. The old dragon’s body was a map of scars; his iron-like scales had peeled away, revealing glimpses of white bone. His red eyes burned with a renewed fury as he struggled to regain his balance. He retreated into a nearby massive cavern to shield himself, opening his maw to unleash a final wall of fire toward the sky.

  The ravens charged on, braving the wall of flame. The number of charred carcasses grew, raining down incessantly. The acrid stench of burning feathers filled the air, clinging to every branch and stone.

  Lyana fought her way back toward the dragon. Now, they could only rely on each other to survive the onslaught.

  Seeing this, the lead Emissary stepped toward Lyana, intent on ending the struggle. The terrified northern soldiers turned to flee toward the Wall, but they didn't get far. Their former allies, the ravens, dove down and slaughtered them all. The swarm wanted no survivors. Over ten thousand northern soldiers and the Knights of the Vale were wiped out in a manner no one expected: burned by a dragon and pecked by ravens.

  As the sun began to peek over the eastern mountains, the valley beneath the White City had turned pitch black, dotted with rising columns of smoke. Lyana, drenched in blood, struggled to reach Drogon. Only a few dozen Emissaries remained, still aggressively surrounding her.

  In the sky, the ravens had thinned. They no longer blotted out the sun but lay dead, staining the white snow black. Millions of carcasses created a scene both epic and tragic. Drogon panted heavily, still glaring at the sky. His body was broken, his wings in ribbons. He turned his head to look at Lyana. She was like him—her strength nearly spent.

  The lead Emissary moved with lightning speed, swinging his ice blade in a downward arc across Lyana’s shoulder. She cried out in pain but suddenly swung a fist cloaked in sacred fire, striking him in the gut. The Emissary recoiled, the fire swirling around the impact site. He let out a savage growl and, along with the others, rushed toward the spot where Lyana had collapsed.

  Lyana looked up at the approaching shadows and flashed a triumphant smile. She dropped low to the ground. From behind her, the massive dragon head lowered, its eyes full of ancient hatred. The Emissaries froze for a heartbeat. From behind their masks, blue eyes stared into a colossal torrent of fire that erupted from the dragon’s maw, engulfing them entirely.

  "Caw!" The ravens above shrieked in mourning, circling the spot where the Emissaries had been incinerated.

  Drogon stared into the sea of fire. From the flames, a figure emerged. The lead Emissary was unscathed; his clothes and mask had burned to ash. He was tall, with shimmering platinum hair and skin as pale and withered as a mummy. He stared at the dragon with piercing blue eyes, his breath cold and misty.

  Drogon stared back. The dragon had faced this once before, nearly 300 years ago. Then, it had been the Night King—one who could not be killed by dragonfire. The dragon's gaze held surprise, but no fear.

  The Emissary raised his sword to his ear. With a swift motion, the hilt lengthened, transforming the weapon into a sharp javelin. He narrowed his eyes, aimed at the dragon, and threw with all his might.

  The ground beneath him suddenly surged. A blood-red shadow moved with its last ounce of strength. A dagger was clutched in her hand—the very dagger that had once pierced Dany’s heart. Now, it was in Lyana's grasp.

  As the spear flew toward the dragon, the dagger sank deep into the Emissary’s body. He realized with horror that his body was beginning to crackle like breaking ice. An explosion followed, and his form shattered into thousands of tiny ice crystals that showered over Lyana. Above, the ravens shrieked and burst into ice as well, falling like rain.

  The spear struck home, burying itself halfway into Drogon’s throat before exploding into water. The dragon let out a final cry of agony. He thrashed, then collapsed, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His vision blurred as he looked toward the east—toward where his mother, Dany, had gone.

  With his last bit of life, Drogon let out one final roar. It was a long, seemingly endless sound that made the earth tremble. His head slowly lowered to the ground. Drogon exhaled a final breath as blood pooled from his wounds. His eyes slowly closed. In that moment, he remembered it all.

  Every land he had flown over; every rich taste he had savored; every battle where he had struck terror into the hearts of his enemies. He remembered Viserion; he remembered Rhaegal. Above all, he remembered his mother—Dany. He craved the feeling of her hand gripping the spikes on his back; he remembered her spirited command: "Dracarys." Everything was now fading into an eternal night.

  Drogon’s vision went dark, and he felt his body merge with the infinite shadow. His final sensation was that of a small, warm hand touching his skin.

  Lyana used the last of her strength to limp toward Drogon, blood dripping from her wounds. She reached out to touch the dragon as he slipped into death. She smiled, taking a deep breath. Her eyes closed, her lips moving in a whispered incantation. Her entire body suddenly flared with the brilliance of a flame. The hexagonal ruby at her throat cracked and shattered into a thousand pieces. With a tender look at the dragon, she slowly collapsed, a beautiful smile still on her lips.

  "Sleep, Drogon," Lyana finished her final words.

  A blizzard swept in with sudden violence, as if to drown the far north in its frantic, white swirl. Drogon and Lyana lay there together, slowly disappearing beneath the snow.