In the heavy infantry formations of the North's assembled army, Lord Umber sat dumbstruck atop his horse, his massive frame making even the sturdy northern long-haired steeds seem small. But all that became irrelevant the moment the black dragon appeared.
'Gods, it's huge.'
That was the only thought left in the mind of Lord Umber—a man of little education who relied on his maester even for reading and writing.
The next moment, the legendary giant-blooded northerner felt his own blood begin to boil. He glanced at the Umber foot soldiers under his command and saw the same excitement in their eyes. This wasn't their first time seeing a dragon—Vermithor and Vermax had both flown over the North before. Some of the older men had even witnessed Vermithor, massive as a mountain, blotting out the sky.
And during the Long Winter, before her disappearance, Queen Baela had ridden Moondancer to the frozen North, bringing fire and aid to the Wall and Last Hearth.
Dragons were no strangers to them.
But when a dragon truly descended upon the battlefield, every northern soldier felt their blood surge. They had already clashed with the wildlings multiple times. To annihilate the fifty-thousand-strong host led by Sorgan, the Magnar of Thenn, and Sylas the Cruel, Lord Commander Jason and Lord Cregan had planned meticulously, tightening the noose step by step.
Cavalry led by Lord Domeric Bolton and Lord Umber, alongside the Night's Watch riders, had harried the wildling camps in the Haunted Forest. Their greatest victory came when the northern horsemen stormed the enemy camp, with Lord Umber's greatsword cleaving the head off a giant. Sylas the Cruel only escaped by disguising himself as a ranger.
That raid alone had left thousands of wildlings dead—trampled in the chaos.
The crushing defeat forced Sorgan and his war chiefs to play right into Cregan and Jason's hands. Driven from the familiar Haunted Forest by northern cavalry and rangers, the wildlings launched a desperate countercharge at the base of the Wall, with Sorgan leading mammoth-riding giants and long-haired horsemen. They briefly pushed back the allied forces—until Lord Domeric Bolton burned their supplies.
In the end, Sorgan had no choice but to split his forces into three to breach the Wall. And that was the beginning of his downfall.
Three thousand elite wildlings who entered the North through the underground passage at Sable Hall were met with a brutal ambush by Lords Manderly and Karstark. Beneath the castle where the proud Lord Beric Bracken had once fallen—now a mark of shame for the Night's Watch—knights bearing the mermaid banner shattered the wildling lines. When Lord Karstark's fur-and-mail-clad cavalry appeared behind them, their fate was sealed.
Not a single wildling survived to reunite with their leaders. Lord Karstark ordered their heads piled at Sable Hall as a warning.
Another five thousand wildlings who crossed at Greyguard were met by the Night's Watch and Lord Glover's forces, reinforced by mountain clansmen. The twelve hundred elite northern warriors clashed fiercely with the wildling vanguard. Though the wildlings eventually prevailed, the cost was devastating.
Sylas the Cruel flayed Lord Glover and his heir alive, feeding their flesh to his men.
Now, the surviving Glover soldiers burned with vengeance, swearing to make the wildlings pay.
---
"Your Grace, give the order to charge!" Lord Umber barged into the central command, his hulking frame drawing every eye. His gaze flickered briefly to Raegon, but after a moment's confusion, he settled on Rhaegor.
"Prince Rhaegor—your hair?"
The lord's sharp eyes narrowed.
Rhaegor realized how he'd been recognized. Though Raegon looked more Valyrian, there were things—bearing, presence—that set Rhaegor apart.
"Pay it no mind." Rhaegor ran a hand through his hair and grinned. "Starsong will land soon."
"Arthur Umber."
Cregan's stern voice cut through the air. The bearded Lord radiated authority, and with just a glance, he reduced the giant of a man to a chastised child.
"Why aren't you on the left flank?"
"The men are restless, Your Grace!" Lord Umber slammed a gauntleted fist against his breastplate. "Prince Rhaegor's dragon is here. My lads won't stand waiting while the beast roasts wildlings without them!"
"The more the dragon burns, the fewer your men die," Rhaegor called up to the mountain-like lord.
"Damn right, my prince!" Umber roared with laughter. "Punish me after the battle, Your Grace. Domeric's got the left flank—it's in good hands."
With that, he spurred his horse and vanished into the ranks.
The dragon drew closer, its eyes locking onto Rhaegor. With a joyous, melodic cry, it descended upon the high ground where Cregan's command was stationed.
The northern soldiers watched with a mix of fear, excitement, and awe.
Starsong was the fastest-growing dragon in Dragon's Nest, rivaled only by Sendros. She had already outgrown Shaowmare and was catching up to Silverwing. Her crown-like crest had expanded with age, now rivaling even the famously massive horns of Hovendes. Only Sendros, with antler-like bone spurs resembling weirwood branches, surpassed her.
Her silver-gold star-like scales shimmered like metal in the sunlight. At night, they even glowed faintly—a breathtaking sight.
"That dragon's massive," a young soldier breathed.
"That's 'cause you've seen nothin'," a grizzled veteran scoffed. "Prince Draezell's beast? Now that's a dragon. But aye, this one's big—bigger than King Jacaerys' Vermax, if I recall."
"Does that mean we've already won?" a younger warrior asked eagerly.
"Shut yer mouths!" A Stark guardsman, their officer, growled, cutting off the soldiers' murmurs. "When that dragon takes flight, we'll show those wolf-fodder bastards what steel tastes like!"
He spat, but none could miss the exhilaration in his voice.
The Stark battle lines seemed to ignite with fury.
Meanwhile, at the wildlings' rear, the Night's Watch cavalry arrived in force. Lord Commander Jason Lannister, leading every mounted brother the Wall could spare, watched as Starsong settled on the high ground.
The former Warden of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock, was abruptly reminded of Vermithor soaring above the Red Fork.
'When Vhagar was torn from the sky by Vermithor, even half-dead, I knew the battle was lost.'
But today—victory was theirs.
'Warrior, guide us.'
Jason traced a seven-pointed star over his heart. His Black Brothers' morale surged—many had fought at the Red Fork. None understood a dragon's wrath better.
Unlike the jubilant allies, the wildling host wavered at the dragon's sight.
Men trembled.
Though they'd never faced dragonfire or witnessed a beast in flight, their blood remembered the old tales—of monsters that haunted the lands their ancestors had fled.
"Free Folk! What do you fear?!" Sylas the Cruel rode before his horde, brandishing a stolen steel sword. "Dragons are just legends—and legends speak of dragon-slayers too! Don't you want to bathe in its blood? To hold its head high while singers make your deeds immortal? To fuck your wives boasting of this day? To tell your children you felled a dragon?!"
He pointed at Starsong.
"There it is! Look around you!"
Thirty giants atop mammoths roared, hefting bone and bronze weapons. Thenn warriors in bronze scale, Ice-River clansmen with feet hardened by frost, reindeer-mounted raiders, and even Night's Watch deserters in tattered black—all raised their voices.
The giants bellowed ancient war cries. Bone horns wailed. Weapons clashed.
"We're no weaker than these southron pups! They grew by hearths—we thrived in blizzards! They're straw and twigs—we're bronze and steel!"
Sylas glanced at the silent Sorgan, then howled:
"Charge! Show them TRUE SAVAGERY!"
Whether inspired by Sylas' words or the myth of dragon-slaying, the wildlings erupted into frenzy.
UOOOOOOO—
Dull horn blasts rolled across the field as the horde lurched forward.
"Prince Rhaegor." Cregan turned as the wildlings advanced. "Now."
Rhaegor grinned. "Think on how you'll punish these lawless wretches, my lord."
He seized the rope ladder dangling from Starsong's saddle and climbed.
"For victory belongs to me—and my Starsong."
The dragon trilled joyously at his touch.
" Lykiri, Starsong. " Rhaegor murmured in High Valyrian. " Sōvēs. Nyke jorrāelagon ao dīnagon zirȳla. "
(Easy, Starsong. Fly. I need you to burn them.)
With a thunderous beat of wings, Starsong ascended, her vast shadow blotting the pale sun—plunging the northerners below into momentary darkness.
Higher. Higher.
Rhaegor's hair shed its dye, reverting to gleaming silver. His summer-green eyes darkened to deep amethyst.
Rhaegor Vaelarys had returned.
Starsong folded her wings and dove.
Giants hurled boulders. A pitiful spray of arrows and javelins arced upward—most falling short. Only the stones came close, and their sluggish speed insulted the dragon's pride.
" Dracarys! " Rhaegor commanded. " Rȳbās! Kelītīs! "
(Burn! Kill the giants first, then the infantry. Keep your distance.)
Golden flames engulfed the giants. Mammoths shrieked as their fur ignited. The stench of charred flesh and molten bronze filled the air.
One stone, flung by a dying giant, grazed Starsong's wing—earning a shriek of outrage. The dragon banked sharply, bathing the offender in fire so intense his marrow boiled within his bones.
This was no battle.
This was slaughter.
With a mighty beat of its wings, the dragon climbed higher, then glided over the wildling horde. Silver-gold flames poured down like cascading candlelight.
One by one, the giants ignited. Their thick pelts, meant to shield them from the cold, now became their funeral shrouds. The mammoths beneath them panicked, stampeding in terror, trampling countless wildlings into bloody pulp beneath their massive feet.
But the fire did not stop.
It spread from the giants' dying screams to the mammoths' thrashing bodies, then scattered like embers across the wildling ranks.
Everywhere, screams rose.
The giants bellowed like tolling funeral bells. The mammoths shrieked like rusted gongs. And the men—
But none of their cries were as beautiful as Starsong's melody.
A pity that every note of that melody brought only more suffering.
Together, they composed a symphony of slaughter.
Another wave of fire rained down. This time, the dragon circled deliberately, carving long, charred corridors through the horde.
Inside the lanes—ashes.
Outside—those waiting to become ashes.
Sorgan, the Magnar of Thenn, was unlucky. A burning giant collapsed beside him, and in an instant, the silver-gold flames claimed him too.
"This can't be—"
His last words were swallowed by dragonfire. He died without ever glimpsing the rider on the beast's back.
In his final moments, he saw only the oncoming tide of northern cavalry and black-cloaked riders.
Lord Umber roared, swinging his greatsword. Lord Karstark raised his axe. Lord Dustin's lance even bore a flaming wildling, still writhing.
Every northerner fought with frenzied exhilaration.
The Night's Watch, too—for the first time in millennia, the Black Brothers rode beneath dragonfire. They moved like hawks, picking off survivors in the inferno, plucking out the "eyes" of their ancient foes.
Fire and blood painted the field. Horses crushed the weak beneath their hooves. Blades slit the throats of warriors.
The wildling host shattered.
And then came the spears.
The massacre had begun.
Starsong, satisfied with its work, landed at the battlefield's edge and sang a triumphant cry over the broken horde.
From its back, Rhaegor spotted Sylas the Cruel—half his body seared to blackened ruin.
The wildling leader had been caught in the flames during his charge. Now, he gasped his last breaths.
"You southron whelp... You've crushed the Free Folk's dream... You don't even know what lies beyond the Wall..."
Rhaegor smiled.
"I'll learn what's beyond the Wall in time. But you? You'll learn this today: this is your end."
Sylas coughed, his laughter a wet, broken sound.
"Hah... Doesn't matter. My only regret is that we had no Serwyn of the Mirror Shield... To think a milk-sucking brat... Hah... 'The end'? The Free Folk... can't be wiped out... One day, our people will cross the Wall again... flay you alive... mount your dragon's head on a spike... boy..."
Rhaegor stroked Starsong's neck, his fury finally spent.
"Serwyn of the Mirror Shield?" He scoffed. "Then come. Let's see if your people multiply faster than they burn."
His fingers pressed lightly against the dragon's scales.
"Fire will give you the answer, wildling."
With a roar, Starsong bathed Sylas in flames.
Rhaegor watched the man crumble to ash, then secured his saddle guards.
The dragon took flight once more.
Beneath them—a sea of fleeing wildlings.
And a sea of fire.