It was night, and the cold wind bit into the air. The Wall stood ablaze, illuminated as brightly as day. Beyond its perimeter lay the smoldering remains of the dead, charred and twisted. It looked as though flames from purgatory were still rising from the earth.
Great Hall, Castle Black.
"The Night King has escaped, and no one knows where he's gone," Aemond said, his voice grim, radiating a coldness that kept everyone at a distance.
"We should be grateful we managed to drive off the White Walkers," Roderick Dustin declared in his gruff voice, pacing the hall. His heavy footsteps echoed off the stone walls.
Cregan Stark sat with the lords of the North, nodding in agreement. The memory of the White Walkers' invasion was still fresh—an army of darkness, the pale White Walkers themselves fearless and relentless. Without the dragons in the sky, it was hard to imagine the Wall holding against such an unstoppable force.
Aemond snorted, clearly unimpressed by any talk of relief.
At the head of the hall, Rhaegar sat silently, his head bowed.
"The wound is stubborn. You must be careful," Maester Tru said, his rotund figure bent over as he examined the king's shoulder. An ice spear had pierced through, fracturing the bone and tearing the muscles. The wound refused to heal, as though some unknown force lingered within it, and Rhaegar's entire right arm had turned pale and bloodless.
"Besides the wound, is there anything else?" Rhaenyra asked softly, half-squatting beside him, her hands gripping his trembling arm.
Rhaegar's eyelids drooped. An unnatural flush had spread across his face, and his body shook uncontrollably. His breath was hot and labored.
"I'm fine. Just a minor issue," he muttered, his voice raspy as he struggled to control his breathing. The wound had gone numb, leaving him with no feeling in his arm. But his body's abnormalities were growing clearer, like a cold that crept deeper each moment.
For a Targaryen, however, this was unnatural. They were known for their resistance to illness, especially colds. Rhaegar had never even caught a cold in his life.
Rhaenyra's gaze fixed on Maester Tru, her eyes full of worry. The maester wiped sweat from his brow, his large sleeves trembling as he dabbed his forehead. He hesitated before speaking. "Your Grace's symptoms resemble the tremors that plagued the realm during the Old King's time."
"Can it be cured?" Rhaenyra's voice tightened, her concern palpable. Medicine in Westeros was rudimentary at best—thanks only to the Citadel, it barely matched the knowledge of Essos. Many illnesses, especially the more obscure ones, were considered terminal.
Grayscale, puerperal fever, and shivering sickness were some of the most feared.
Maester Tru shook his head gently, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Shivering sickness was a mysterious illness that emerged last century. It gradually vanished, but only after most of the infected had succumbed."
The Citadel still knows very little about it.
Daenerys Targaryen, eldest daughter of the Old King, was taken by it when she was barely seven or eight. Despite being carefully raised, she never survived.
Rhaenyra's eyelashes fluttered, her face pale with fear as she looked up at Rhaegar. Though he appeared calm, there was an unspoken tension in the air.
Rhaegar glanced at his wound. Slowly, a layer of translucent film spread over his body, covering the wound and the right side of his body. It was the shimmering skin of a sea dragon.
One knows their own body best, he thought grimly.
'Open the system panel.'
[Rhaegar Targaryen]
Talents: Dreamer (Gold)
Bloodline: Dragonborn (64%) – Frozen
Runes: Bronze (Green) [Broken], Serpent (Blue), Dream-Eating Toad (Purple)
Blood Sorcery: Bat Worm (Blue), Dance of Dragons (Purple)
Relics: Fire and Blood, Dreamscape, Protection of the Sea Dragon
Special Items: Necklace of Space, Dragon's Horn (Exclusive)
Assessment:
The ice magic is eroding you, and your blood is gradually losing its warmth.
'My bloodline is eroding' There's something wrong with the root,' Rhaegar muttered under his breath, feeling the chill creeping through his veins. It was a sensation unlike anything he'd ever experienced before—a negative state that had never plagued him.
The Bronze Rune was completely shattered, and the Sea Dragon's protective skin was damaged, reducing its effectiveness against threats.
It's all from that cursed ice magic on the spear, Rhaegar thought grimly. Knowing the cause, he picked up a bandage, intending to wrap the wound himself.
"Your Grace, please…" Maester Tru rushed forward, attempting to stop him.
"Just wrap it. Don't be nervous." Rhaegar's voice was calm, but it held a finality that left no room for argument.
He refused any medication, knowing ordinary remedies couldn't heal the effects of the Night King's dark magic. The source of his condition was beyond the reach of typical cures.
"But your condition…" Tru hesitated, his anxiety growing as he saw the pallor of the king's face, the involuntary tremors shaking half his body. How could a simple bandage suffice?
Rhaegar's cold glare silenced him, a low hmm escaping from his throat.
Reluctantly, Maester Tru obeyed, quickly bandaging the wound, tying the bandage into a neat bow, though his face twitched with worry.
Rhaegar tested his right hand, trying to clench his fist. There was a response, but it was sluggish, as if something within him was fighting for control. His hand shook uncontrollably, disobeying his will. Whether it was a tremor or a deeper complication, he couldn't tell.
"How do you feel?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice trembling with concern as she held his other hand tightly.
"I'm fine," Rhaegar replied, his voice steadier than his body. He twisted his neck, then forced himself to stand, rising from the chair with effort.
"Be careful," Helaena's soft voice broke the silence, her fair face creased with concern as she rushed forward to help steady his arm.
Rhaegar shook his head gently, whispering, "Don't show weakness."
With his left hand, he gently pushed away her touch, his expression firm. He gave a quick glance to Aegon and Aemond across the hall, signaling for them to follow his lead. Turning away, he guided his sisters from the table, his movements purposeful.
If there's a problem, solve it. If the bloodline is weakening, find a way to break the curse.
He knew better than to discuss such matters in the open, especially in front of vassals. Exposing his vulnerability would shake the morale of those who depended on him.
On the way back to his chambers, Rhaegar kept his head down, deep in thought. The image of the Night King, powerful and untouchable, weighed heavily on his mind. Dragonfire had failed to harm him, which meant the only option left might be direct combat.
With a Valyrian steel sword, perhaps he could find the opportunity to kill him. But his right hand remained cold and numb, affecting his ability to think clearly.
Raising his hand, Rhaegar's purple eyes flashed with determination. If he was going to defeat the Night King, he would need to bridge the gap in knowledge and strategy.
Daemon was already on his way to find the Heart Tree and the Greenseer, but that might not be enough.
Should we prepare for something more? Rhaegar's mind wandered to the enigmatic witch Quaithe, her cryptic warnings echoing in his thoughts. Perhaps in Asshai, there's a way to undo the Blood Sorcery that has frozen my bloodline.
The illness couldn't be allowed to fester. If left unchecked, it would consume him.
And that, he realized grimly, was exactly what the Night King would want.
...
The night grew darker over the Haunted Forest. Beneath the shadowy canopy of trees, the army of corpses surged forward in thick, unrelenting waves.
A bright moon broke through the dark clouds, casting a pure white arc of light over the snow-covered ground.
The Night King strode ahead, his face expressionless and cold. His pale skin remained unscathed, untouched by battle, but his ancient silver-grey armor was blackened by Dragonfire.
Behind him, the dull thud of footsteps echoed through the forest. The Night King's sharp ears caught the sound, and he glanced back.
A pale White Walker had stopped, kneeling on one knee. His wrinkled face was solemn, his expression determined—he was silently asking for permission to continue the assault on the Wall.
Ha...
The Night King's lips parted slightly, and a cold mist of white frost escaped from his mouth. His ice-blue eyes, gleaming with cold wisdom, met the White Walker's gaze. Slowly, he raised one sharp finger and shook it gently, a silent refusal.
He exuded an air of grace and authority, as dignified and commanding as the ruler of the night.
The White Walker frowned, rising to his feet without protest.
The Night King turned, his gaze shifting toward the distant east. His sharp finger pointed in that direction, toward Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.
There were too many dragons at Castle Black, too many threats to his forces. But Eastwatch was different—sparsely populated and a potential blind spot for a new assault.
Without rest, the army of White Walkers continued their march, a silent and relentless procession in the dead of night.
The Night King led them, his movements steady, though his gaze briefly flickered to the north.
The sky was dark and starless, offering no guidance. He stared at it for a moment, as if calculating, weighing the pros and cons of his next move.
...
Two days later.
The Haunted Forest, far north beyond the Fist of the First Men, stretched for thousands of miles, running from the south to the frozen north. In the land near the Milkwater River, light snowflakes drifted down, cold enough to raise goosebumps on the skin.
"Roar..."
A huge, scarlet serpent-like creature weaved through the trees, gliding on its wide, leathery wings. Its long, sinuous tail swayed, sweeping ice crystals from the pale tree canopies.
"Land, Caraxes!"
A command, sharp and magnetic, cut through the air, followed by a dragon's roar that echoed like a wave of sound.
Daemon Targaryen sat atop the great beast, clad in black steel armor, his dragon-winged helmet adorned with a blood-red mane. His expression was cold, eyes locked on the rolling mountains below.
The jagged peaks converged into a narrow valley, where a branch of the Milkwater River trickled through. Something caught Daemon's eye—a flash of red, faint and distant. The color of Weirwood.
"Quickly, that's it," came a small, excited voice.
The Child of the Forest peeked out from behind Daemon, her pretty face lit with excitement.
"Roar..."
Caraxes let out a shrill, melodious cry as he descended, cutting through the air like a bolt of scarlet lightning. His hind legs folded inward as he landed with a heavy thud, sending snow flying in all directions.
Boom!
The valley shook as the dragon's massive body touched down. Daemon wasted no time, leaping from Caraxes' back. Drawing Dark Sister, he strode forward with purpose.
In front of him, deep in the valley, stood a Weirwood tree. Its wide canopy spread like a red umbrella over the black tundra, glowing faintly in the snowy haze. After three days and two nights of flight, he had finally found it.
"Wait for me."
The Child of the Forest darted ahead, bending low to sniff the ground with her keen senses. But as she sniffed, her expression grew increasingly uneasy.
The valley grew eerily silent. The snow underfoot shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly.
Daemon's sharp instincts kicked in. His earlobes twitched, and he scanned the surroundings warily.
Suddenly, the Child of the Forest screamed in horror, "Watch your step!"
In the next instant, the snow caved in, and a decayed hand shot out from beneath the surface, clutching at Daemon's black boots with red stripes. It shook violently, trying to drag itself upward.
Daemon's eyebrows shot up, his senses now fully alert as a chorus of faint, unsettling noises began to echo around him.
Puff, puff, puff!
The snow crumbled away, revealing the grotesque remains of the dead. Armor-clad skeletons, decaying corpses, broken bones, and severed limbs—countless dead clawed their way up, roaring as they lunged at Daemon.
"Ghostly things... have you followed me here?"
Daemon's expression turned cold. With a swift motion, he swung Dark Sister, severing the rotting hand that gripped his boot at the wrist.
Within moments, hundreds of dead rushed toward him, but Daemon remained calm. His sword danced through the air, an impenetrable blur of steel. In the art of swordsmanship, there few equal to him in the Seven Kingdoms—especially not among mindless undead.
Clop, clop...
A rotting warhorse stepped from the shadows, standing atop the high valley cliff. Atop it, a pale White Walker tightened the reins, its ice-blue eyes fixed on Daemon. After a moment, its gaze shifted toward the Child of the Forest, who was crouched in the corner.
Without a word, the White Walker drew an ice-crystal spear from its back, silently aiming it at the small figure.
Shhhhhhhh!
The crackling sound of wildfire filled the air, but more wights burst through the flames, their eyes locked on the weakened Child of the Forest.
Huh?
The noise caught Daemon's attention mid-battle, and he glanced over just as danger loomed.
"Roar..."
A piercing dragon roar echoed through the valley. Scarlet Dragonfire split the sky, carving a line of flame across the battlefield.
Caraxes's fierce pupils burned with rage as the dragon slithered forward like a serpent, wings beating, spewing fire across the undead ranks.
"Burn them all—leave none behind," Daemon commanded coldly, moving closer to his dragon.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glint of something in the valley. The White Walker, holding an ice spear, stood poised, the spearhead reflecting the pale light of the sun.
(Word count: 2,286)