The White Walkers were here, and with them came the Army of the Dead and the Long Night. Personally, I’d wondered what the Night King’s plan was initially. Surely, he had no way of knowing what the state of Westeros would be when he finally decided to start moving South again eight thousand years after getting his ass handed to him in the War for the Dawn.
 
So what was he going to do if faced with an Army of the Living as united and capable and knowledgeable as the armies he’d fought back then? Eight thousand years was an awfully long time, so maybe the Night King simply expected knowledge of him and his White Walkers and their magical powers to fade. Or maybe something put them in hibernation, and it wasn’t until the Red Comet that they woke up and started moving.
 
Even still, as the Army of the Dead approached, I got an impression of just why the Night King might be confident in his victory in spite of possible defenses along the Wall. Because it wasn’t just a physical force that he was bringing with him. It was a metaphysical one as well.
 
I could feel it, assaulting my senses and the senses of all around me as the White Walkers got closer and closer to the Wall. The Lands of Always Winter themselves had come to our door, led there by their heralds. The ice and cold and darkness, all of it scrambled to get a foothold, to push beyond the ancient, magical Wall that had stood the test of time for EIGHT millennia.
 
I remembered the Night King felling one of my mother’s dragons in the show. One of my brothers, though I struggled to remember which. I remembered the Night King slewing a dragon and then reanimating it’s corpse. Whatever magic he’d used to bring it back had allowed it’s flame breath, an icy cold blue if I recalled correctly, to burn right through the Wall, completely collapsing an entire section of it, allowing for the Army of the Dead to spill through en masse.
 
But what if he didn’t have a dragon to do things the fast way? I could see now how he intended to win all the same. Without a dragon, the Night King and his forces would still have quite the solid chance of breaking down the Wall. It would take a lot longer, but the White Walkers’ mere presence this far south (for all that this was the furthest North that much of Westeros acknowledged) was in and of itself an assault in a way.
 
I could feel their magic trying to erode the magic of the Wall, I could feel their presence trying to destroy, to freeze and shatter, I could feel them scrambling against the minds of every living being that currently stood on the Wall, ready to wage war against the Dead.
 
And I could feel them failing as well. I can’t help it, my lips peel back into a very satisfied, very smug draconic grin as I perch there atop the wall, my absolutely massive body looming as I glared out at the forces of darkness and Other arrayed before us. Humans scurried like ants beneath me, running back and forth between my legs to prepare for the battle ahead.
 
Meanwhile, I did all I could to shield them. It wasn’t like I knew why I was different from every other Planetos Dragon. I had my suspicions of course, after all, I was not at all ignorant of the fact that I had once been human. Nor was I ignorant of the fact that I’d written quite a few stories involving myself being put in situations like this one.
 
This particular experience was certainly unique, however. It was entirely possible that something other than ‘Omni-Me’ had planted me here and evolved me and changed me into what I was. For what purpose? A happier ending for all of Westeros?
 
Because as far as I could tell, that was what we were about to achieve. The Army of the Dead is a staggering force to be sure. Arrayed before us, the shambling corpses disappear into the distance in both directions, though my draconic eyes can see far further than most. As such, I would not be surprised if the Army of the Dead is currently looming before the entire length of the Wall.
 
The Night King though, he and his White Walkers are HERE. I can sense them even if I cannot see them. I can feel their presence trying to freeze out my own, trying to worm it’s way into any cracks in my defenses to fill them with icy cold dread. Except, I have no cracks in my defenses. I have never been more powerful than this moment. And neither has Westeros.
 
Me and my horde set aside, there are over a hundred thousand living souls currently manning the Wall and preparing to risk their lives in this upcoming battle. The Night King is adamant about bringing this Second Long Night upon Westeros, but in turn, the Living are adamant about turning this into another successful War for the Dawn.
 
We have no human Azor Ahai perhaps, but then… do I not fulfill the role well enough? I doubt I was sent here by the Red God, for all that my pet Red Priestesses bow and scrape and submit to me as if I am his avatar eagerly enough. In comparison to the Night King’s metaphysical claws trying to sink into my psyche, I have not sensed the Red God’s presence even slightly. Either R’hllor doesn’t exist, or he has wisely chosen to be incredibly hands off with me in this.
 
The Night King though… it is quite clear that he is my adversary here. The Big Bad of this tale. And unlike the history of this world that I remember viewing through a television screen, Westeros is prepared to face him like no one could ever have believed. The Wall is manned, and it’s protectors are all armed with Dragon Glass and in a scant few cases, Valyrian Steel.
 
I can feel the Night King’s frustration building as he fails to find purchase in his bid to corrupt the Wall’s magics. Perhaps if it weren’t for my presence, he would have simply sat back and slowly destroyed the Wall out from underneath the Living, until the men and women of Westeros were forced to abandon their greatest fortification lest it crumble out from under them all.
 
But instead, the Wall remained as horns began to sound. The Wall remained as the Army of the Dead began to move as one massive tidal wave of undeath. Skeletons and corpses of everything from First Men to Giants to Mammoths and more begin to rush the Wall and try and scrabble up it, try and penetrate it’s defenses.
 
I smile and remain where I am, knowing that it is not my place to act directly quite yet. For now, I am engaged in the single most battle of the war, a battle of will and magic with the darkest force that Westeros has ever seen. That does not mean I cannot act IN-directly, however. Reaching out to the bond I have with my mother; I find her waiting for me.
 
Daenerys would not abide by being sent away from this battle, and I’d known that. Luckily, I had a way to make the Dragon Queen both relatively safe and also quite useful. My mother knew her place, as did I. It was leading… and despite what the great epics might like to say, not ALL good leaders had to lead from the front. Some very capable ones could lead from the back just fine, as long as they had the best intel they could get.
 
And so I begin to convey what I am witnessing to my mother, even as I fight the Night King’s influence. And as I convey, she in turn begins to do the same in the incredibly protected War Room deep within the Wall straight below me.
 
-x-X-x-
 
“They are sending another prong to the East! Start up the fires immediately!”
 
As Daenerys stood hunched over the massive map in front of her, only vaguely aware that one of the many pages in the room had immediately scrambled to do her bidding, she can’t help but let out a shaky breath. Her voice was growing hoarser and hoarser admittedly, and she wasn’t entirely sure it wouldn’t fail her soon enough altogether.
 
Just as she’s having that thought, a mug is placed next to her. To Daenerys’ mild surprise, it’s piping hot tea and she takes a long, deep pull of it, not having to worry about scalding or burning the inside of her throat. Once she’s had a drink, she gives Missandei a curious look, wondering just where her ever-dutiful, ever-present handmaiden had found a warm drink on short notice. The dark-skinned beauty smiles slightly.
 
“Viserion and Rhaegar have been keeping fires warm all up and down the Wall. When I told them I needed a fire specifically for your tea, they were happy to help. I do believe your other two dragons are a little upset at being sidelined by their older brother, but at the same time, they know better than to question him.”
 
Daenerys can’t help but offer a wan smile back at that. She doesn’t mention that they’re all the same age, because frankly, there’s no denying that Drogon, if not the older brother, is definitely the bigger brother at this point. Her largest, strangest son continues to feed her information about the battlefield, and after a moment of seeing what he sees and understanding what he understands, she moves some of the tokens around on the map in front of her.
 
Perfect oversight of a battlefield… needless to say, it’s leaving the commanders of her armies absolutely in awe. Every once in a while, a general of some sort, or more often one of their aides, might rush through the centrally placed War Room and glance down at the map table that Daenerys is fiddling with. It’s the most up to date information they have all along the Wall, and while once in a while there’s a report from a human for Daenerys to assess and alter the map based on, almost all of her information is coming from Drogon up above.
 
Perched on the Wall as he is, her strongest son uses his bird’s eye view to provide consistent information to the defenders of Westeros, of her Seven Kingdoms. And yet, he does not do more. To be fair, Daenerys knows full well that he doesn’t NEED to do more. Missandei outlines why a moment later when she finishes studying the map and lets out a breathless gasp.
 
“We’re… we’re actually winning.”
 
Daenerys doesn’t smile at that, though she does offer a sharp nod as she continues to stare down at the battle unfolding on the table before her in nigh-real time.
 
“Yes, we are.”
 
Her no-nonsense tone certainly catches Missandei’s attention, and her long time handmaiden, advisor, and most importantly of all, friend, gently takes hold of her arm.
 
“You do not seem pleased by this, my Queen. Why?”
 
Daenerys is well aware that they are not alone in this room. And so is Missandei. Even still, the Dragon Queen finds herself answering, her voice strong and confident… but also tinged with the faintest bit of worry.
 
“We are winning, there is no doubt about that. The Army of the Dead assaults the Wall and is being successfully repelled at every turn. White Walkers have been sighted attempting to assail the Wall’s defenses as well, and some have even been destroyed by dragon glass or Valyrian Steel. This battle is going well, there’s no denying that…”
 
It’s not just Missandei that’s holding their breath as Daenerys speaks, hanging onto her every word. It is Missandei however who breaks the silence that follows as the Dragon Queen trails off.
 
“… And yet?”
 
Daenerys shuts her eyes tightly for a moment, before another burst of information from Drogon forces her to reopen them and move more of the pieces on the battle map she’s slaving over.
 
“And yet, the enemy does not retreat. They do not pull back. By the meager accounts of the first War of the Dawn that we still have, there came a point where the Night King and his White Walkers were forced into retreat… and in those days, the First Men did not have the Wall like we do. By all accounts, we are doing well. Yet our enemy clearly intends to fight to the last.”
 
Missandei turns these words over in her head for a moment before responding with some measure of confidence.
 
“Then they shall die to the last… right?”
 
At the end, the confidence wavers and now Daenerys smiles, offering that smile to her beloved companion, a smile of warmth and agreement.
 
“Aye, they will. But there is a reason my Drogon has not taken to the field just yet. And I imagine the Night King remains back for the exact same reason. They two shall fight, my greatest son and Westeros’ greatest enemy. I fear… I fear the Night King shall have some trick up his sleeve after all. I fear that Westeros may fall if Drogon does as well.”
 
No one in the room, Missandei included, has a response to that sobering thought. Everyone knows Drogon as Daenerys’ utterly massive, truly mind-boggling dragon. The thought of him failing doesn’t make sense to them. Missandei knows Drogon a bit more intimately then that, but to be fair, that just makes it easier for her to worry as Daenerys is.
 
The War Room falls silent, until of course Daenerys has another order to bark out to one of the pages waiting there. Everyone continues to do their duty, if a bit more somberly.
 
-x-X-x-
 
I was not unaware of my mother’s worry. And to be fair, I was wary of my upcoming battle with the Night King as well. But… the situation was not as bad as Daenerys might have feared. In truth, the situation was essentially the best it could be. One might say that the Night King came South unprepared for the single-minded ferocity and tenacity he had encountered from the Living. More than that, he came South unprepared for ME.
 
As something more than this planet had ever seen, I was the Night King’s out of context problem. As his armies had assailed the Wall, I had held back his corrupting influence and kept his icy cold magic from getting a foothold any further South then this point. He’d attempted to send White Walkers to try and get into the Wall directly, digging at it’s foundations in some areas in the hopes of gaining a more direct line of attack on the magics that made up the massive seven hundred foot tall structure.
 
But I’d caught him at every turn and directed ‘Special Forces’ (namely those Living that were armed with Valyrian Steel and the most combat experience) to the points where White Walkers cropped up so that the Night King’s lieutenants could be destroyed once and for all. The result of this? The Night King’s power diminished, while mine only grew.
 
It was something I’d arranged a while back. I’d known for some time now that my power seemed to grow with the size of my hoard. There was nothing quite like taking a new maiden and claiming her mind, body, and soul to increase my hoard, but at the same time, I would never turn down a direct infusion of straight-up treasure. Gold, gems, jewelry, valuables of all shapes and sizes.
 
I’d had my mother effectively accepting donations to my hoard on my behalf for weeks if not months now. And even now, as everyone who’d come to the Wall to fight for the Living did so, those donations to my hoard were still taking place, all across Westeros. The continent itself had become my domain, and I could feel as my presence stretched further and further, my strength growing by the second even as the Night King’s waned.
 
The time had finally come, and so, after shifting slightly to make those humans still near me scurry back in fright… I took flight. There, amidst the trees past the Wall, I saw the Night King waiting for me on a hill. There was intelligence in his presence as he tried in vain to continue to push into my mind, to try and assault my magic with his own. His was a corrupting influence, and if he had more power and I had less, he could have sowed the seeds of corruption into my essence just as effectively as he’d wanted to do to the Wall.
 
If I’d tried this at the start of the battle, well, it wouldn’t have gone well for me. The Night King was at his peak then, and the full power of the Lands of Always Winter had been pressing up against the Wall like one continuous tidal wave. Leaping in would have been like leaping into deep, deep water that clung to me like oil and desired nothing more than to pull me down and drown me in its power.
 
But now, the tide has turned. The army of shambling, rotting corpses that the Night King has brought to the Wall has been diminished most significantly. The White Walkers serving as his lieutenants have been reduced to a scant handful at most. The ocean of power that the Land of Always Winter had represented at the start of this hours long battle had become nothing more than a stream.
 
The Night King pulls out one of those icy javelins I vaguely remember from a show I watched a lifetime ago and with careful aim, hucks it at me. I easily dodge in direct defiance of my immense size and breathe a stream of dragon fire through the projectile that melts it in less than an instant. And then, before the Night King can hope to throw another, I crash into him and his last remaining White Walkers like the Mountain of Fuck-Off Black Dragon that I am.
 
My claws carve White Walkers in twain as easily as Valyrian steel, and my dragonfire bathes the ground until nothing remains of them or their skeletal mountains. Nothing save for a badly burned Night King who ends up on his back, glaring up at me with a vile expression of pure, unadulterated hate.
 
Letting out a dark chuckle, I plant a clawed foot on his body as he tries to rise. At this point, with my size, only his head is visible between my utterly massive claws, the rest of him effectively pinned down and forced utterly still. Letting my serpentine neck bend and cocking my head to the side, I send him a message in images, in memories. Of another life where he very nearly succeeded, of a world where he did much better than he did here, but still failed to a single girl and her dagger of all things.
 
Put into words, the message I send him is rather simple.
 
Sorry, friend. But your victory was clearly never meant to be.
 
As his glowing blue eyes open wide in outrage, I open my maw in turn and burn him. I burn and burn and burn him until nothing of his head remains, not even his skull. I remember how dragon fire did nothing to the Night King in that other life, but I am no dragon of this world. I am more than that clearly, a power in my own right, and as I destroy it’s Champion once and for all, I feel the Land of Always Winter reeling back from my presentation, the power of ice and cold and destruction ultimately pulling away further North in something akin to… fear.
 
Smugly, I pull my claw back with the Night King’s headless body still held in it’s grip. And then, because it’s what I do, I slip the highly magical corpse right into my open maw and let it slide down my gullet like a particularly crunchy snack, further burning it with my inner fire as it goes until it’s reduced to nothing more than the magic that had been held within him.
 
It would be an amusing surprise if I did not have the knowledge I do, to find out that the Night King’s inner magic was the magic of life. But then, I knew where he’d come from. I knew that the Children of the Forest had made him with their dark magics. He might have been molded into a Champion of Winter, but it’s the forest that rests deep inside of him, that and the legacy of the First Man that he was before the Children got their claws into him.
 
He represents the darkest parts of the forest, of man… but I have plenty of room for darkness within me. I swallow up his magic, adding it to my own and becoming ever stronger for it. Ah, but after spending hours acting as battlefield overwatch for the humans scurrying back and forth along the Wall, the Night King is barely a snack, no matter how tasty his magic is.
 
A low rumble in my massive belly causes the trees of the forest all around me to shake and shiver from the sheer volume of noise. Letting out a snort of amusement, I turn back towards the Wall and send but one message to my beloved mother.
 
You may shower me with praise and affection as you like, but make sure there is plenty of food involved. It’s been a long day and I’m feeling peckish.
 
I feel a strong sense of relief from Daenerys as she gets my message… and then I feel a slight panic as she realizes what ‘peckish’ for a dragon of my size means. I just smirk as I wing my way back to the Wall. The humans will feed me and feed me well if they know what’s good for them. After all, I did just save the day quite spectacularly, if I do say so myself.

-x-X-x-

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