The island's center remained silent for a long time, with the burning trees gradually extinguishing, leaving only the injured black dragon wailing in pain.
The knights assigned to protect the Three-Eyed Raven returned to the group to report the earlier anomalies to Nymeria. Upon seeing the Three-Eyed Raven's lifeless body in the wheelchair, cold as ice, the Northmen and the skinchangers quickly gathered around, mourning the powerful warrior who had perished in battle.
Nymeria, highly familiar with dragon roars, discerned from the black and gold dragons' cries that the battle had ended. She immediately organized a team of knights to investigate the island's center.
As they moved through the forest, they found the ground overturned by magic, still emanating heat. Charred trees, still smoldering, were haphazardly embedded in the earth, while water continuously dripped from massive ice spears, some as tall as buildings, slowly melting away. The knights gasped at the devastation.
Their horses' hooves clicked against the crystalline ground, scorched and hardened by dragonfire. The two dragons, still high on the battle's thrill, turned and roared at the approaching knights.
Nymeria raised a hand, signaling the knights to halt. She dismounted and slowly approached the dragons, patting their massive heads in reassurance before turning her attention to several figures sprawled across the ground before the weirwood tree.
"Is the Night King dead?" Nymeria asked Robb.
Lying on the ground, Robb turned to look at her, raising his arm halfway before letting it drop weakly.
Jon was slumped against a rock, his hands still trembling.
Sauron, resting in Quaithe's arms, broke into a wide grin upon seeing Nymeria.
Ashara was fast asleep under a cloak, snoring softly.
All four were completely drained. Prince Lyonel cast healing spells on them, but fatigue overwhelmed him, leaving him too exhausted to even speak.
Only Lyonel remained energetic as he pointed at the weirwood tree. "We won. The Night King isn't dead, but his and the Three-Eyed Raven's souls are now trapped in this tree forever."
Nymeria observed the two faintly wailing faces emerging from the tree bark, falling into deep thought. She was no sorceress, but after living alongside Wright and Tyene for years, her knowledge of magic theory surpassed that of many actual mages.
"Go inform King Renly. Order him to seal off this forest—no one is to approach."
"Understood," Lyonel replied.
Hearing the wailing from the tree, Nymeria reconsidered. "No, once we withdraw, seal off the entire island!"
"I already sent a signal to my father earlier. He should be arriving soon," Lyonel reassured her.
Nymeria nodded, then raised her spear high, signaling the distant knights.
A triumphant cheer erupted across the Isle of Faces.
Nymeria crouched beside Sauron, gripping his cheeks between her fingers. "You little rascal! Tell me, where did you get that strange magic?"
"Heh… Haha!" Sauron refused to answer, laughing through Nymeria's 'torture', resolutely protecting his brother's secret.
While Sauron jested, Nymeria noticed that Ashara was unclothed beneath her cloak. More notably, Lyonel, who had removed his own cloak to cover her, stood guard beside her, unwilling to leave. His eyes kept avoiding Nymeria's gaze.
She had seen that look many times before—it was the gaze of admiration.
"I need to tell Margaery. This must be stopped!" Nymeria was furious. Not one of these children was normal!
Ashara was already married, with two children nearly as old as Lyonel. In terms of status, age, and relationships, there was absolutely no possibility between them.
Sauron had been raised by a shadow to became her 'husband.' Darkseid viewed women with nothing but scientific curiosity. Lilith preferred women. The youngest, Baemon, loved his dragon more than people. What kind of curse had Wright placed on them all?
---
King Renly arrived at the Isle of Faces not long after, summoning all available healing mages. It took five days to fully mend the black dragon's injured wing.
After the army withdrew, the island was officially sealed. Renly granted the native Green Men special privileges—any intruders were to be killed on sight. Only dragonriders and grand mages bearing the royal decree were permitted to conduct research there.
A warm southern wind swept across Westeros as the war between the living and the dead became increasingly one-sided. Human armies swiftly reclaimed the Riverlands, gathering supplies to press their advance northward.
To honor the fallen warriors, celebrate the upcoming northern campaign, and knight the heroes of battle, every region of Westeros traditionally held grand victory feasts. Yet, not a single person dared to suggest this to King Renly—because Wright was still missing.
Upon returning to King's Landing, Renly issued a royal decree to every corner of the realm: any information regarding Wright must be reported to the Red Keep immediately.
On the seventh day since Wright vanished in battle over Harrenhal, words was sent word—vast fields of crops had mysteriously burned to ashes. Local mage apprentices examined the site and confirmed that the fire had been ignited by dragon blood falling from the sky.
On the ninth day, news arrived from Cornfield in the Westerlands.
Joanna Swyft, the lord's daughter, along with the guards and maids left behind at the castle, reported hearing a terrifying commotion from the mountains—dragons roaring, monsters screeching, and the desperate cries of a man.
The thunderous sounds sent ripples through their water barrels. But with too few men stationed at the castle, they dared not enter the mountains to investigate.
There was no way to confirm if it was Wright and Odahviing fighting in the wilds.
A raven from the Westerlands arrived in King's Landing later that same day, this time from Red Lake, south of Cornfield.
This was the domain of House Crane, the House of Ser Parmen Crane of the Kingsguard and mage Meredyth Crane, one of the court's mages. Several young mage apprentices hailed from their household, so Lady Crane's letter provided a highly detailed acLord.
Traces of dragon blood had been found in parts of the lake, causing numerous dead fish to float on the water's surface. Large birds that typically nested in the shallows had also fled in droves.
The search party discovered fifteen fallen dragon scales. Dark red in color, each was as large as half a wagon crate. The mage apprentices confirmed they belonged to Odahviing, specifically from the dragon's neck and cheeks. Lady Crane had already dispatched the scales to King's Landing under escort.
On the eleventh day, the Grand Maester brought a letter from Ser Colin Florent, acting lord of Brightwater Keep in the Reach.
The letter read:
"The great red-and-white dragon is now known to all. Farmers working in the fields were startled by a deafening explosion from the sky. Lordless eyes then witnessed the dragon plummeting from the clouds, one of its wings twisted as it tumbled back-first toward the earth.
A figure wreathed in radiant light was battling a monstrous humanoid several times his size on the dragon's underside. Magic rained in every direction—hail, lightning, and fire—turning the bright day into a stormy gloom.
Just as the dragon neared the ground, a golden radiance enveloped its body, allowing it to struggle back into flight. However, it still left behind a deep trench stretching hundreds of meters, and the levee of the Mistletoe River was shattered by magic, flooding vast swathes of farmland.
At the end of the letter, Ser Colin offered his personal analysis: based on all descriptions, the radiant figure could only be Lord Wright Baratheon himself."
Seated upon the Iron Throne in the Red Keep's great hall, Renly gripped Ser Colin's letters in silence, his expression dark. The sheer force of magic radiating from him made the swords fused into the throne groan and creak.
"Your Grace, I have another urgent matter to report."
The three great dragons circling above the Red Keep roared continuously, shaking dust loose from the hall's ceiling. Having led the human coalition to victory in the war, Renly now commanded supreme authority—so much so that even the Small Council and Queen Margaery dared not speak. The only person brave enough to risk provoking the king's wrath was one of the advisors recently recruited from Myr to assist with post-war reconstruction.
The nobles in the hall turned toward the speaker. Among the young lords standing nearby, the voice clearly belonged to a middle-aged man.
"You have quite the thick and long staff there!"
The remark, laden with implication, came from behind Rosamund Lannister, referring to the golden lion-headed staff she held in her hands.
The tide of war had turned decisively in humanity's favor, yet the conflict was far from over. Once the next shipment of provisions arrived, the armies would march northward. Many of the older generation had perished in battle, and nine out of ten noble titles now belonged to young heirs.
In the present age, even knights were permitted to bear swords into the Red Keep's great hall. The power of magic had been witnessed by all—an unarmed novice mage could now single-handedly decimate a small military force. Renly had no concerns for his safety; thus, nearly everyone present was clad in armor and armed with weapons.
Lord Wright's fourth direct disciple, Rosamund Lannister, was a beacon of golden light on the battlefield, healing wounds with the brilliance of the sun. At twenty years of age, she had inherited both the beauty of Lannister women and their noble status. Though married, she remained the idol of Lordless knights, with many eager to serve her.
Hearing such crude words directed at their goddess, a chorus of metal rang out as gauntlets tightened around sword hilts. Several eager young men had already drawn their blades, calling for an immediate duel.
Standing proudly in the front row, Rosamund showed no anger. During her years studying magic in Tyrosh, she had been endlessly teased by this very relative.
She took a step to the side, lightly flicking her long, golden lion-headed staff. As a gust of wind lifted the hem of her fitted red-and-gold gown, a short-statured man spun out from behind her, landing before the Iron Throne.
"Tyrion Lannister?" Recognition dawned on the crowd. Even when speaking without malice, his words always seemed to strike below the belt.
"My dear niece, I can drink two casks of strongwine and still climb a mast to sail the high seas! A little spin like that won't make me dizzy."
Just as he was about to collapse, Tyrion smoothly turned his stumble into a kneeling bow, presenting himself before the throne.
"Hah! Your Grace, I was merely livening the mood! Gentlemen, sheath your swords—lest you dull them against the stone floor."
"You—!" The young men fumed, their blades already drawn.
Whoosh!
A biting chill erupted from the front of the hall, sweeping through the great chamber. Seeing the cold expression of Mage Meredyth standing behind Margaery, the young knights finally came to their senses, cursing under their breath as they reluctantly stepped back into line.
"A show of force is one thing—were you truly going to strike?" Tyrion muttered as he dusted himself off. He then turned to Renly and said, "A dried corpse was found in the dungeons of Maidenpool. There were also blood-written curses against Lord Wright scrawled across the cell walls."
"A curse?" The murmurs of the court mages filled the hall.
Renly finally stirred, leaning forward as he fixed Tyrion with his gaze. "Tell me everything."
"Well, here's how it happened. Ahem."
Tyrion loosened his collar, adopting the posture of a bard preparing to weave a tale. With dramatic flair, he began reLording the events.
"During the army's rest period, the Lord of Maidenpool returned home and ordered his servants to clean the castle. While tidying the dungeons, they stumbled upon a corpse. Based on the blood-written messages on the walls, the deceased was likely none other than Westeros' most wanted man—Petyr Baelish."
Renly's eyes narrowed. "Petyr? What was he doing in Maidenpool? Was it vampires that drained him dry?"
Petyr had been one of Wright's many rabid dogs, unleashed to carry out unsavory tasks in Essos. After ascending the throne, Renly had learned from Wright's letters to Robert that Littlefinger's true patron had always been House Baratheon, with both Wright and Stannis playing a role in his operations.
A letter had mentioned that cunning and deceit could rival an entire army—under no circumstances could this rabid dog be allowed to return to Westeros. Since Tyrion's daily affairs kept him in Myr, close to Petyr's area of activity, it was hard to say whether the two had conspired together.
"Petyr and Myr are not on friendly terms. The fat man of Pentos can attest to that," Tyrion, ever perceptive, had already deduced most of Renly's thoughts. He smiled and, without hesitation, threw the Spider, Varys, into the fray as a shield.
Renly tapped a finger lightly on the Iron Throne, signaling for Tyrion to continue.
"Wright's army was previously stationed in Maidenpool. Perhaps the Tyroshi navy happened to capture Petyr along the way. Before they had the chance to claim a bounty, the final great battle arrived. When the war began, both soldiers and civilians evacuated Maidenpool immediately, completely forgetting that Petyr Baelish was still locked in the dungeon."
A low hum of agreement spread through the hall—this explanation made sense.
"After who knows how many days, Petyr, driven mad with hunger, devoured one of his own feet. Using the blood that spilled, he scrawled venomous curses against Lord Wright on the walls. But unfortunately for him, he possessed no magic, and those curses had no effect."
At this point, Tyrion shrugged.
"Even more unfortunate, the scent of blood attracted vampires who had fled to the outskirts of Maidenpool after being routed. Just after Petyr had swallowed his own foot, before he could even process what he had done, he was devoured by a vampire."
"Serves him right!"
"Hah! That's karma for all the evil he's done!"
"Westeros itself has cursed Littlefinger!"
"I'm not finished!" Tyrion shouted. "The death of the most wanted fugitive is nothing remarkable. But beneath the venomous words Petyr wrote, the vampire carved a name into the wall with its nails—Joffrey!"
The hall erupted into chaos.
The executioner who had nearly wiped out the main line of House Lannister, a traitor who willingly turned into a vampire, despised even by his fellow captured kind—Joffrey, the lunatic vampire who sometimes claimed to be a Baratheon and other times a Lannister. He was a menace who deserved to be hunted down and killed by all!
"Silence!"
Amid the uproar, a few remained composed. Renly stood from the Iron Throne and, with a stern voice, commanded order. Then, stepping down from his seat, he approached Tyrion and looked down at him coldly.
"Has a mage examined Petyr's corpse?"
Though Tyrion had suffered no physical harm, the authority of a king, combined with the oppressive aura of his magic, made his entire body tremble uncontrollably. Even so, his face remained resolute and unwavering.