On the eastern plains of God's Eye, two powerful figures, the Night King and Sauron, were locked in a chase, fighting fiercely as they moved away from the battlefield, leaving the human army to engage with the wights.
Beasts, now little more than skeletal remains with skin, clashed with war elephants, and shields and long spears collided with the claws of the wights. Knights on their warhorses charged through the wight ranks, while various spells whizzed through the air overhead.
At this moment, King Renly no longer concerned himself with the safety of the two young men; victory was the most important thing. He immediately mounted his dragon alongside his son Lyonel and Baemon, the three of them riding their dragons. Dragonfire swept across the battlefield, creating walls of flame that burned the wights and separated the remaining ones, easing the pressure on the human soldiers below.
Human shouts, the wights' roars, and the dragons' roars filled the air. Whether nobles, commoners, or mages, heads fell at any moment in this war between the living and the dead, and death was nothing more than a trivial number.
"Lyonel!" Renly's voice, imbued with magic, echoed over the battlefield.
In the distance, the blue dragon, Sea Blade, circled in the sky before heading toward Renly, soon flying alongside Peytvahaaz.
"Father, what's the matter?"
Renly felt reassured seeing the glowing defensive spells surrounding Lyonel. When Lyonel was born, Wright had predicted that, though the boy was still growing, his magical abilities would soon surpass his own. Seeing his son's strength now, it seemed Wright's prediction was true.
"The situation here has stabilized for now, but only by eliminating the Night King can we secure final victory. You must go to God's Eye and assist Sauron!"
"Am I going alone? I'm leaving right now!" Although Lyonel didn't fully understand his father's strategy, he immediately agreed, patting the spines on Sea Blade's back and preparing to speed ahead.
"Wait!" Renly quickly called out to his son. "Don't be impulsive in the heat of battle. Just lend your sword, Dawnbreaker, to Sauron. He'll do far better against the Night King with it."
"I understand!" Lyonel, who knew his sword's properties by heart, immediately understood the importance of his weapon. He grasped it tightly and, as Sea Blade flapped its wings, the dragon soared towards God's Eye.
Renly glanced down at the battlefield and called out to the golden dragon still spitting fire: "Baemon! Stay behind me as cover. We're going to take out those wights hiding in the masses!"
"Got it!"
The red and golden dragons once again charged toward the battlefield.
On the other side, Sauron and the black dragon had been modified by Darkseid using a demonic pact, granting them the ability to briefly tap into the power of Dagon. Their battle with the Night King had taken them all the way to God's Eye.
The young black dragon's flames weren't as powerful as those of Odahviing, and even with the added heat from Sauron's lava-like magic, they were blocked by the Night King's ice magic. Behind the Night King stood another demon god.
It looked like Sauron and the Night King were fighting, but in reality, it was Dagon and Molag Bal battling behind them. The world Dagon desired could not fall into the hands of other demon gods, and through Sauron, he was driving Molag's minions from the world.
The ice spiders, quick and with sharp limbs, could easily kill human knights. But before the fully-armored black dragon, they were nothing, their last act being to throw the Night King into the air.
The Night King seized the moment and grabbed the black dragon's spines. The two fought from the ground to the air, moving from the plains to above God's Eye.
Soon, the black dragon's left wing was frozen by ice magic, and the Night King tore off a large chunk of flesh. With an angry roar, the dragon used Sauron's magic to maintain balance and began descending toward the center of the lake, landing in the red forest of Thousand-Faced Isle, where the battle with the Night King resumed on the ground.
Landing, the black dragon, Shulvokun, was enraged. It bit off the ice from its left wing, and with it, the frozen blood fell, leaving the wing nearly skeletal.
Having never sustained such severe injuries before, it ran across the ground using its legs and right wing, chasing the Night King and spitting out dragonfire after dragonfire.
Each swing of the ice spears brought a cold mist, freezing dozens of large trees into ice. The blue ice blocks not only blocked the dragonfire but also clashed with Sauron, whose black smoke enveloped him, occasionally flying wildly and threatening to strike from behind.
Sauron's Valyrian steel sword had been burned red by "hellish" forces, its magical engravings destroyed, leaving it with only a searing heat. Every strike between him and the Night King sent countless golden-red magical orbs flying like sticky molten lava, igniting trees wherever they touched.
On Thousand-Faced Isle, wherever they fought, red leaves were covered in a layer of hard ice crystals, and white tree trunks were charred black. Vast swathes of ancient Weirwood trees were destroyed.
On this island, which had a diameter of several kilometers, half of the human army that Robb had brought with him was hiding, resting after narrowly escaping, unaware that the battle was about to reach them.
Sauron and the Night King fought with their lives on the line, their magical spells flying everywhere. Their weapons clashed with deadly force, and with the enraged black dragon, there was no time to worry about friendly fire.
White frost blew through the air, leaving behind a group of human ice sculptures, frozen in various poses, their faces filled with terror.
Those who couldn't dodge the falling golden-red lava were burned instantly. Their bodies, even without magic, couldn't remove the molten material, and a huge hole would form in their torso and abdomen, leaving them to die in painful agony.
The soldiers on the island, who had no time to don their armor, dropped their weapons and scattered in panic. They ran to the lake's edges, standing knee-deep in the cold water, waiting for the battle to end or for Commander Robb to again perform a miracle, freezing an escape route out of ice.
Amidst the chaotic crowd, a group of Dornish noble knights were trying to persuade a black-armored warrior, draped in a crimson cloak, to step into the water to avoid the impending heat. However, she pushed them away and gazed steadily at the towering flames in the center of the island.
The Night King, through propaganda, was well-known even by the farmer soldiers he had conscripted, who recognized his form and ice magic.
As for who was battling him, there were various opinions. No one had seen the black dragon clad in steel armor, still flowing with lava, and the warrior in black armor didn't match the build of any of the Baratheon family members who could ride dragons. But Nymeria knew very well—it was Sauron and his black dragon.
Night had fallen, and the burning island of the Thousand Faces was especially bright. The biting cold wind was occasionally mixed with a blast of hot air, hitting people's faces.
Ignoring the pleas to leave, Nymeria insisted on staying to watch the distant battle. Her red cloak billowed in the wind, and her black Valyrian steel armor reflected the red glow of the fire. Her hand, gripping her spear, tightened again and again, the gauntlet and shaft making clinking sounds. Her heart raced with anxiety.
Aside from Odahviing and the two dragons of House Baratheon, the other four dragons had all grown up in their own homes.
Since retrieving a few dragon eggs from Skull Island, the lazy Wright had only demonstrated how to care for the giant dragons once. After that, Nymeria and Tyene had been the ones to look after them.
Turning the eggs in the fire, watching them hatch, tearing up meat to feed them, and chasing and playing with the direwolves from House Stark in the castle, where furniture was chewed up and carpets torn apart—those dragons had grown from the size of chicks into giant flying beasts.
Unlike the wild beasts raised by House Targaryen, the dragons raised by House Baratheon could speak.
Raising the young dragons and teaching them the Draconic language, these dragons were, to Nymeria and Tyene, just like their children.
Recognizing the black dragon, Nymeria couldn't fathom where Sauron had learned the new magic. His body had suddenly grown much taller, cloaked in black armor, and the dark shadow moving around him was Quaithe's magic.
The black dragon and Quaithe would not fight like this with anyone else—not even Wright could do it. This black-armored dragon knight could only be Sauron.
Nymeria's son was like his aunt Tyene, always immersed in studying magic. Tyene's son, Sauron, wanted to be a general commanding thousands of soldiers and followed Nymeria around. If it weren't for the fact that Darkseid and Sauron were born a few months apart, the two sisters would often joke that they had swapped children.
Nymeria looked into the distance, the flames towering like those from Braavos years ago. Back then, Wright had fought through fire and storms, and she and Tyene could only watch from afar, unable to help, anxiously waiting. She had already prepared to collect Wright's charred body.
Now, it was the same—her son Sauron was fighting a more powerful monster.
"Wright!"
Nymeria finally screamed out hoarsely.
She gazed at the black dragon, with only its skeleton left on the left wing, and the intense battlefield, but reason held her back from approaching. Even with Valyrian steel armor, without magic, there would be no point in going. She would be destroyed by magic before she could even get close.
"Wright! Where did you die?!"
Nymeria continued shouting, but her voice, hoarse and tear-streaked, eventually faltered.
The knights and soldiers around her fell silent, nervously staring at the distant flames.
The one fighting the Night King should be Wright. Looking at Odahviing, carrying a monster in his mouth and flying south, an entire day passed, and with the speed of the dragons, Wright still hadn't returned to the battlefield.
"Wright! Get out here!"
Her voice cracked with sobs, and her face was streaked with tears. Nymeria couldn't shout anymore.
The knights and soldiers around her dared not make a sound. The only sounds were the waves lapping against the stone shore and Nymeria's cries. They all knew what she was thinking—Wright might already be dead, and she longed for his return, even if it was dragging a broken body.
---
Not far off, having consumed multiple alchemical potions within a single day—something that would have killed an ordinary mage—only Robb Stark, who had learned special magic, could still endure. However, his body was quickly reaching its limit.
The veins in his neck had turned green, bulging, and his eyes were bloodshot. Holding two swords, standing at the water's edge, ready to freeze the surface of the lake, Robb stopped, turning his head to look at Nymeria.
"Robb, why are you stopping?" shouted Ashara, who was protecting him.
"Ashara, perhaps we shouldn't retreat any further!" The area went quiet as many knights turned their gaze toward him.
Robb stood upright, raising his longsword toward the flames: "The one battling the Night King on the island could be Sauron. He's evenly matched with the Night King right now. If we go to help him, this could be the best chance to kill the Night King!"
The others looked toward the flames, each contemplating.
Robb hadn't mentioned that, after drinking the alchemical potions, his senses far surpassed ordinary people's, especially when it came to magic. He could feel the immense magical power around Sauron, but it hadn't entered his body—it only hovered around his surface.
Robb deduced that this was power Sauron had borrowed from somewhere, much like summoning magic, possibly from some special magical space. It wasn't his own power, and as the battle continued, Sauron's power was beginning to fade.
"Perhaps I can help," came a cold, emotionless voice.
Robb turned around and saw Jon Snow pushing a wheelchair, followed by a group of oddly dressed people. Sitting in the wheelchair was the Three-Eyed Raven Bran, who had been arranged for retreat earlier.
Not understanding why he was also on the Isle of Faces, Robb had no time to ponder further. "Bran, Three-Eyed Raven, do you have any good ideas?"
"In a battle of that magical intensity, the only ones who can truly get close and participate are you, Robb," Bran said expressionlessly, turning to the others, "Ashara, and Jon, the three of you."
Before Robb could speak, Bran added, "There was also Qyburn, but he's already dead."
The six surviving white-clad necromancers and other mages nearby didn't try to act like heroes. All of them practiced magic and knew their own limits; they were well aware that charging into battle would be suicidal.
"Bran, what do you plan to do?" Ashara always addressed him that way.
"You three should leave the older direwolves here; they won't be able to help," Bran instructed, organizing several direwolves. "I didn't dare to probe the Night King before, but now he's on the island. I'll do everything I can to disrupt his consciousness while also linking with you to help you coordinate more closely."
"Let's do it!" Ashara unsheathed her twin swords, ready to charge at any moment.
After Bran spoke, Jon looked at Robb and nodded in agreement.
"I didn't expect us three siblings to fight together again," Robb said, looking down at the two longswords in his hands. He tossed the Frost to Jon and kept the Ice for himself.
"I'll return it after using it," Jon said, catching the longsword. This was the second time Robb had lent him a sword, but Jon didn't say anything else.
Ordinary swords and blades were not effective against the White Walkers, let alone the Night King, the most powerful among them.
One of Ashara's swords was Dark Sister. The broken Ice that had been reforged by Wright into two blades. Robb held the new Ice, and Jon held Frost. Only Valyrian steel weapons could withstand the high-intensity magic of the three of them.
The three had trained together since they were young, enduring Wright's harsh training, doing their graduation tests, and fighting in the Tyroshi War together.
Now, they had all established their own families. Although Jon had married a female vampire and traveled between King's Landing and Tyrosh every year, life would have been very happy for him if not for the Night King's southward march.
After a moment of reflection, Ashara vigorously rubbed the fur on her direwolf's face, Blood Mary, while Jon calmed the Ghost. Grey Wind, who often communicated with Robb, gave him a snort before lying down on a rock to rest.
"If I don't return by dawn, let Princess Nymeria take over command!"
After arranging the military matters, Robb walked to the edge of the forest and stood next to Ashara and Jon.
The three of them gripped their longswords and looked at each other, a faint smile appearing on their faces.
"Charge!" With Ashara's sharp cry, her body ignited with flames, leaving a trail of fiery footprints as she charged into the woods first.
"Charge!" Robb, surrounded by cold air, followed suit, leaping swiftly between the trees with the aid of the potion.
"Charge!" Finally, Jon, not in a hurry, performed a flourish with his longsword, his body gradually becoming transparent. After leaving a trail of purple shadows, he vanished into the woods.
In the wheelchair, Bran released his consciousness to probe into the firelight.
"Not enough, the Night King's mind is stronger than before. Push me a little closer." Several brave knights obeyed his command, pushing his wheelchair into the fish-lead wood forest.