Without dragons, even if you're invincible, what can you do?" Viserys Targaryen sneered, looking at the Ice Dragon whose wings were burnt through by Dragonflame.
He had just witnessed the Ice Dragon's wings shatter in the intense flames, like a shattered glass sculpture.
Blood streamed down his forehead, yet he remained full of confidence.
The Lord of Everlasting Winter, wasn't he still struck down by him?
What gods? They were merely another form of High Valyrian magic!
Golden Dragonflame surged through Viserys Targaryen's veins.
The sweetness of victory had almost touched his tongue, until he saw the Night King raise his hand.
It wasn't a summons, but a more powerful ice magic.
The cold winds of the Land of Everlasting Winter obeyed his command; they were no longer chaotic currents, but transformed into billions of threads shimmering with a faint blue light, drawn from the sky, from the earth, from the edges of every snowflake, converging towards the pile of shattered dragon bones.
It wasn't mending, it was remolding, a miraculous weaving.
Under the pull of some invisible force, ice shards and snow dust rapidly reconstructed the dragon's wing skeleton, covering it with crystalline ice membranes, and finally solidifying into translucent wing membranes, visible to the naked eye.
Natural, magically imbued frost patterns flowed across the wing membranes, thicker and more beautiful than before, a terrifying beauty unique to death.
The burnt Hatchling Dragon bones stirred.
In its hollow eye sockets, two clusters of blue soul fire, far more intense than before, suddenly ignited, like eyes opening from the depths of hell.
It raised its head, newly sculpted from ice, and let out a soul-rending shriek.
It was a declaration of absolute zero, directly affecting consciousness.
The smile on Viserys Targaryen's face froze.
His proud Dragonflame, the fire magic he considered the foundation for the revival of the Targaryen Dynasty, seemed so pale and powerless in the face of such an unnatural "rebirth."
Sunfyre let out an uneasy growl beneath his feet; its animal instinct sensed a threat from higher up the food chain.
The Night King lightly stepped onto the reborn Ice Dragon's back; with a gentle flap of its wings, a violent gust of air, laden with countless ice crystals, shot skyward, as if the entire ice field had been ripped up by it.
Flee!
This thought, like a red-hot poker, was deeply branded into Viserys Targaryen's brain.
"Sunfyre, hurry! Ascend, get out of here!"
Viserys Targaryen almost shrieked as he clambered onto Sunfyre's back, tugging the reins.
The golden dragon let out an earth-shattering roar, vigorously flapping its wings, and accelerated towards the lead-gray clouds.
The wind in his ears turned into the wailing of specters.
Viserys Targaryen dared not look back.
He could distinctly feel an all-freezing chill, relentlessly pursuing him like a shadow.
The clouds were torn apart, and two meteors, one gold and one blue, streaked across the sky.
Viserys Targaryen could hear the unique, crystal-clear yet deadly resonant hum from behind him, produced by the Ice Dragon's wings churning the air, growing closer and closer.
He could even feel white frost beginning to form on his dragon's scales.
His dragon blood, once hot enough to scald mortals, was now starting to congeal!
Viserys Targaryen glanced back.
Just behind him, the Night King stood atop the Ice Dragon's head, his dark figure in the swirling snow like a scythe raised by Death.
The Ice Dragon opened its massive maw; there was no fire in its throat, only a deep, profound vortex of extreme cold, seemingly capable of swallowing light, brewing within.
Viserys Targaryen's heart felt as if it were gripped by an icy hand.
He frantically urged Sunfyre, attempting to maneuver, but that invisible chill seemed to have already frozen all space around him.
This was no longer a battle, but a pure hunt.
And he, the Targaryen king riding a golden dragon, was merely a desperate prey, pursued by death in this ice-bound world.
The wind shrieked mournfully in his ears, as if the entire world's souls were playing a dirge for him.
Viserys Targaryen could feel the icy breath behind him drawing closer; it wasn't the scorching heat of fire, but an absolute zero that could freeze even the soul.
A thick layer of white frost had already formed on Sunfyre's golden scales.
Each forceful beat of its wings felt so heavy, emitting a roar that was almost a whimper.
Below, the ruined King's Landing rapidly grew larger in his vision.
He could see the seven crystal spires of the Great Sept of Baelor glimmering faintly in the gloom, his last and only hope.
"Down, Sunfyre. To the Sept!"
His roar was swallowed by the gale, but the dragon understood his intent.
The golden dragon let out a long cry, a mix of pain and defiance; Sunfyre suddenly folded its wings, plummeting like a falling star towards the plaza in front of the Sept.
Its massive dragon claws left deep gouges in the cobbled ground, sending shattered stones flying.
Viserys Targaryen practically tumbled off the dragon's back, stumbling, and rushed without a backward glance towards the heavy doors, adorned with the carvings of the Seven Gods.
Behind him, shadow enveloped everything.
The Night King, riding the Ice Dragon, slowly descended like Death to the other end of the plaza.
He did not attack immediately.
His eyes, burning with blue flames, calmly watched Viserys Targaryen's panicked retreat, like a cat observing a mouse struggling futilely beneath its paw.
Perhaps he was savoring the moment, watching how this last human king would meet his end in the despair he had personally woven.
Soldiers hiding behind ruined walls, commoners peering through window cracks, even nobles shivering in the The Red Keep's cellars, all witnessed this scene.
Their highly anticipated savior, the king riding a mighty dragon, was now being chased like a stray dog, finally forced into the Great Sept of Baelor with no escape.
A despair colder than death instantly froze everyone.
It's over!
Everything is over!
This was the thought that simultaneously arose in everyone's minds.
An entity that even dragons and magic couldn't contend with—how could they, ordinary mortals, resist?
Viserys Targaryen stumbled into the Great Sept.
Stained glass shattered, icons toppled; the grand space that once held thousands of worshippers in prayer was now as empty as a magnificent tomb.
The air was thick with dust, stale incense, and a faint, sweet, and dangerous scent.
Click.
A soft sound, like thunder in the deathly silent Sept.
The Night King followed closely, walking in!
The ground behind the altar slowly slid open for Viserys Targaryen, revealing a bottomless cavern.
The sweet scent instantly became strong and pungent, and a green, liquid-emerald-like light seeped eerily from the depths, illuminating Viserys Targaryen's twisted and fanatical profile.
He turned, facing the slowly approaching figure of eternal winter outside the great doors.
"Everyone says I am the son of the Mad King!"
He shrieked with laughter, his laughter echoing through the empty Sept, carrying endless sorrow and final madness, "Then let me show you the true face of a Targaryen king's wrath!"
Facing the cavern, he issued his final command in ancient High Valyrian: "Sunfyre, Dracarys! (Dragonflame)"
The golden dragon struggled to raise its head, and towards that bottomless green abyss, it spewed its hottest and final Dragonflame!
The moment the flames made contact, there was no explosion, but an awakening, the opening of the gates of hell!
A green pillar of fire, impossibly thick, like a demon imprisoned for a thousand years, burst forth from the earth with a roar!
It easily ripped off the Sept's dome; the colorful crystal glass instantly vaporized in the green light!
The flames didn't just burn; they spread wildly like living green tidal waves, centered on the Great Sept of Baelor, in all directions!
Viserys Targaryen stood in the center of the green inferno, his arms outstretched, letting out a final roar.
His figure appeared incredibly tall and incredibly fragile in the eerie green light.
He was instantly consumed by the green demon he had ignited, becoming the first sacrifice of this offering.
For the first time, a look of horror appeared on the Night King's ten-thousand-year-frozen face.
He tried to make the Ice Dragon ascend rapidly, but the green flames seemed alive, climbing against the wind and snow, dragging the Ice Dragon with them into this verdant fiery hell!
The hunter and the hunted were, at this moment, both swept into the final judgment orchestrated by the most insane, most desperate, and most ancient magic fire.
The green flames reflected in the pupils of every survivor; it was no longer the light of hope, but the last, most dazzling, and most cruel fireworks of self-destruction.
The wind shrieked mournfully in his ears, as if the entire world's souls were playing a dirge for him.
"Burn them, the blue eyes, the green eyes..."
Jaime Targaryen looked at the wights before him, recalling the old king's dying mumbles, and suddenly understood.
This king, whom the world considered mad and tyrannical, was still thinking of saving humanity's future even in death!
And he, this knight who prided himself on his righteousness, had almost personally doomed humanity's future.