[ Illyrio: Tactical Game on the Bell Tower ]
The stone railing of Winterfell's bell tower was icy cold from the wind. Illyrio's iron helmet lining was soaked with sweat, and beads of sweat rolling down his temples froze on his chin. He leaned over and looked down; rubble from the southeast corner tower was still crumbling down — Viserion's breath, like a giant axe tempered with cold, cleaved a half-zhang wide gap in the stone wall. Wights poured in like a murky tide, their roars, carrying the stench of the North's permafrost, drowned out the clang of metal on the city walls.
"Front rank, shields up! Middle rank, spears dipped in fire oil!" Illyrio's command carried through the cold wind to those below. The Unsullied moved in unison as if following an imprinted order. The front rank of oak shields quickly formed an impenetrable wall, while soldiers in the middle and rear ranks held long spears, dipping their tips into ceramic jars of glowing dragonglass fire oil. With a touch of a fire starter, greenish-blue flames shot up half a foot along the spear tips. This was a tactic rehearsed repeatedly with Tyrion last night; dragonglass could pierce the wights' bodies, and fire oil could slow their charge. But when the first wight, wreathed in green flames, lunged at the shield line, the "creak" of its bone claws scraping against oak still made Illyrio's hand instinctively tighten on the dragonglass dagger at his waist.
A muffled crash of a shield line breaking suddenly came from the direction of the Forge. A scout stumbled onto the bell tower, half a wight's bone claw still embedded in his shoulder, blood seeping through the gaps in his armor, forming a dark red stream. Illyrio looked in the direction the scout pointed; three Unsullied were surrounding a companion with a broken spear — that Unsullied had been pinned by a wight on a glowing red anvil, but suddenly, he pulled out the fire oil flask from his waist and fiercely splashed it on himself and the wight. With a "boom," green flames erupted on the anvil, and the wight's shriek and the human's grunt were instantly swallowed by the fire. When the flames subsided, only charred marks and curled bone fragments remained on the anvil.
Illyrio's brow furrowed into deep lines, his fingertips unconsciously tracing the edge of his helmet. These warriors, who had followed Daenerys from Astapor, should have been rebuilding cities under the sun of Meereen, but now they were destined to turn to ash in the winter of the North. Just as he was about to turn and dispatch reserves to support the Forge, hurried footsteps suddenly echoed from the stairwell. Bran's handmaiden, Lyra, rushed up, clutching a rolled-up animal hide, her face streaked with mud and blood, her voice trembling from running: "Lord Illyrio, Bran asked me to give you this — there's a passage in the crypt that can bypass the Night King!"
The animal hide unfurled, revealing a clear map drawn in charcoal. Tiny first men runes were marked next to the crypt entrance, and the lines ended at a position behind the Night King's ice throne. The edges of the ink still showed Bran's trembling hand from Greensight fatigue. Illyrio's fingertip traced the runes, and he suddenly remembered Bran's earlier mention of the "first men barrier," and a glimmer of hope for a breakthrough surged in his heart.
[ Bran: Greensight Whispers in the Godswood ]
Under the weirwood in the Godswood, Bran sat in his wheelchair, eyes closed, dark red marks of weirwood sap congealed on his pale cheeks. The cold wind stirred the cloak behind him but could not disperse the Greensight aura surrounding him — at this moment, his consciousness was traversing the underground network of Winterfell, like an invisible wisp of smoke, slowly gliding along the crypt's stone walls.
A faint light suddenly appeared in his vision; an archway at the end of the stone wall materialized in his Greensight. On both sides of the archway were spiral Children of the Forest symbols, identical to the cave paintings on Dragonstone. Bran's consciousness passed through the archway and proceeded along a winding passage. The light at the end gradually expanded, finally settling on the Night King's ice-blue body — he stood before his ice throne, his fingertips lightly touching Viserion's scales. The Ice Dragon's throat emitted a low hum, as if responding to a silent command.
"Passage… thirty paces behind the Night King…" Bran's lips moved silently. The dizziness brought by Greensight made him shiver, his fingertips gripping the armrest of his wheelchair, knuckles white. He had to get this message out, but his body's weakness left him without the strength to even lift his hand. He could only concentrate his consciousness to "call out" in the direction of the Godswood entrance — Lyra's figure soon appeared at the edge of his Greensight. She was holding the newly organized animal hide map, seemingly hesitant whether to disturb his meditation.
"Lyra…" Bran finally managed a faint voice, weirwood sap trickling from the corners of his eyes, "Give the map to Illyrio… the crypt passage… avoid the wights' scent…" He paused, remembering the ice wight guards by the Night King's ice throne in his Greensight, and added: "Tell him to take elites. There are ice guards in the passage, they fear fire oil."
Lyra nodded quickly, clutching the map tightly, and turned to rush towards the bell tower. Bran watched her retreating figure, his consciousness once again sinking into Greensight — this time, he saw a few subtle wisps of black smoke hidden beneath Viserion's wings. That was Rhaegal quietly approaching from behind the clouds, Daenerys's silver-white hair fluttering in the wind, like a faint but resolute light.
[ Daenerys: dragonflame Confrontation in the Sky ]
Drogon's scales gleamed bronze in the sunlight. Daenerys lay prone on the dragon's neck, her hands gripping the reins tightly, the cold wind pressing her silver-white hair against her cheeks. Winterfell below had become a chaotic battlefield, green flames intertwined with ice mist, the wights' roars clearly audible even from high in the sky. Nearby, Viserion spread its massive wings, its ice-blue breath sweeping a freezing path across the ground, instantly shattering the Unsullied's shield wall into ice crystals.
"Drogon, fly higher!" Daenerys leaned close to the dragon's ear, her voice resolute. Drogon let out an earth-shattering roar, its wings beat fiercely, and its body suddenly ascended, dodging Viserion's ensuing ice breath. The ice mist grazed Drogon's tail, a few bronze scales instantly covered in white frost. Drogon's body trembled slightly but still stubbornly climbed higher — it knew it had to attract Viserion's attention to buy time for its companions on the ground.
Viserion was indeed enraged, flapping its wings to pursue, its ice-blue pupils locked onto Drogon. Daenerys looked back and saw Rhaegal bursting from behind the clouds to the west, his orange-red dragonflame pouring down like a waterfall onto the wight-infested plaza. The wights that had been surging towards the city walls were instantly engulfed by the flames, their charred bodies curling into heaps on the ground, temporarily relieving the pressure on the front line.
"Good, Rhaegal!" A flicker of light crossed Daenerys's eyes, immediately replaced by gravity — Viserion had caught up behind Drogon, and its ice breath struck again. Drogon sharply veered sideways, the ice mist brushing past Daenerys's cloak, the fabric instantly freezing solid. She reached for the dragonglass dagger at her waist, suddenly recalling Illyrio's parting instruction: "dragonflame is the Ice Dragon's weakness, but you need to get to its flank."
Daenerys took a deep breath and patted Drogon's neck: "Go to its left flank, quickly!" Drogon understood, arcing nimbly through the air. Taking advantage of Viserion's momentary adjustment of direction, it plunged down, orange-red dragonflame directly targeting the opponent's left wing joint — the ice scales there were relatively weaker. As the dragonflame hit, a "sizzle" of melting ice immediately sounded, and Viserion let out a painful shriek, its wings involuntarily dipping.
Just then, Daenerys caught a glimpse of the bell tower out of the corner of her eye. Illyrio was standing by the railing, waving, holding a rolled-up animal hide map, seemingly with new information to convey. Her heart stirred, knowing that the ground tactics might be about to turn, and she had to firmly engage Viserion, holding the aerial defense for that sliver of hope.