What if The Targaryens Succeeded at Summerhall?

The night [music] is dark and full of theories. [music] What if Summerh Hall succeeded? Let's explore the depths of it in the video. The sun slants through the stained glass windows of Summerhal, scattering ruby and sapphire light over a gathering of highborn faces. The palace hums with whispers. Outside in the courtyard, casks of wildfire presided over and carefully transported inside by greenroed alchemists. Nearby, curiously dressed strangers from Essos gather. Shadowbinders, blood mages, pyromancers, and worse. Aegon sits inside Summerhal on the princely throne of the castle. His crown a plain band of gold. His eyes are feverish with anticipation and his skin pale and sweating. Gathered before him are his family, every single member of House Targaryen in one place. We stand on the cusp of a new age. Dragons will return and with it our birthright. And if they do not, father, then we burn, and the world is lost in darkness. But we will be remembered as the ones who dared try. Beside his king, Duncan the tall had an uneasy feeling in his stomach. This wasn't the egg he knew. That little boy with a straw hat he'd ventured with so long ago had become someone else entirely. Do not be so tense, Lord Commander. You and my lovely wife both ought to take cue from me and trust the king. There are contingencies in place should anything go arry. >> The Lord Commander has the right of it, Duncan. I I've had visions. This day will be both terrible and great. >> I swear to protect you both, no matter what may come to pass. Magar Bright Flame, son of Aryan Bright Flame, leans on a pillar nearby, a strange fire already burning in his eyes. He looks to the Lord Commander and gives a knowing smile. If anything goes wrong, we will be dead and burning before you can do anything about it. But I appreciate the sentiment nonetheless. >> Fire takes as it pleases. It has no loyalty. >> Night comes fast. Brazers are lit with powders that burn blue, crimson, and sickly green. The shadowbinders circle the casks of wildfire, their voices rising and falling like waves. The tallest of them, a man in dark robes and glittering gold, speaks in high Valyrian. A shadowbinder speaks. Voice deep and powerful. >> Perise hen. Agnogar. Agnogar. Hen. Perise. >> Aegon steps forward, his voice crackling like flame. I have seen it. The cold that comes, the dead that walk. But we will not let them take our realm so easily. Let the cold come, but fire will meet it. Without warning, the doors to the palace of Summerhal are barred. Panic ripples through the guests, lowborn servants and highborn nobles alike. >> Your grace, let them leave. No one needs to be hurt here tonight. No, the price must be paid in full. In the name of House Targaryen, I call forth the flames. The air thrums with sorcery as the eastern mages and warlocks move as one. The brazers are lit by pyromancers with wildfire, and the entirety of Summer Hall's courtroom is bathed in a sickly green glow. The singing voices of the mages reach a fever pitch as they chant in high Valyrian. The language is even more ancient. The first explosion of wildfire takes all of the air from the room and sends a great fiery pillar into the air. The ceiling catches fire, but still the blood mages and their pyromancers continue to sing their twisted hymn. The wildfire roars as if alive. The crackling p holding seven eggs. Three begin to crack. Black [music] and green swirls, pale orange with fiery red spatters, and a shining silver stre through with a deep cobalt. The heat was beginning to become binding, as if all of Summerhal had transformed into a gigantic furnace. >> Yes. Yes, I feel them tonight. The dragons, they are returning. >> There came three great shattering sounds like ice cracking. Another surge of flame within the fire revealed three blackened silhouettes that slowly came into view. The crowd gives a collective gasp as three dragon hatchlings are revealed from the remnants of their eggs. One beast a deep fiery green like the wildfire around it. The next a brilliant orange with red wings and the final a glowing silver with deep intelligent blue eyes. The hatchlings take flight amongst the panicked crowd, flying about the room and contributing to the growing chaos. The crowd continues to be in awe, some even falling to their knees in reverence at the site. But the flames do not die. They only rise higher and higher, beginning to consume the entirety of the palace. One of the unused barrels of wildfire topples into the brazer, causing another mighty explosion that shatters stained glass windows and blinds several onlookers with the brightness of the flames. The hall erupts into screams. The flames moved faster than anyone could have thought, hungrily consuming all in its path. Magar moves first, attempting to pull Jenny and Duncan with him. >> Don't just stand there staring like idiots. Move now. But my father, he's still there's no time. >> Duncan takes a deep breath, then lays a heavy hand upon Mear's shoulder. He speaks bravely, but his hand is trembling ever so slightly. >> Mega, I'm trusting you to get my wife out of here. Please, Jenny. I love you. >> I love you, Duncan. Duncan takes off running towards the king. He intends to rescue his father from his manic frenzy and put an end to this madness. Aegon V meanwhile tries to shield the screaming hatchlings with his body. As another flare of wildfire spreads up, Aegon intends to use his body to block it, but Duncan, ever the loyal son, attempts to shove his father aside. He is too late, and both vanish into the growing inferno. Aries coughed from the smoke, looking to his father, Jiharis, with wide, panicked eyes. He held tightly onto Raila's hands. His sister wife was heavily pregnant with their son. [cough] >> Father, we have to Do not look. We've just run. >> Jiaris and his own wife Sherah maneuver through the inferno with their children. All around them, nobles and small folk alike scream and to die as they are either consumed by wildfire or crushed by falling debris. As the royal family attempts to find others, they watch in horror as the king's sisters are crushed by a collapsing portion of the ceiling. A gigantic pillar swings down towards them from the smoke, but it is halted with a sudden grunt of effort. Lord Commander Duncan the Tall braces his back against the wall, both his feet pressing into the pillar with all his might to keep it from falling. >> GO. I CANNOT HOLD IT MUCH LONGER. GO AND LIVE. >> Jiaris hesitates, but his wife Sherah grabs him by the wrist and pulls him toward an exit. >> Thank you, Sidduncan. We We shall never forget you. Even as the royals run, another beam falls from the rafters, charred with emerald flame. Before it can crush into Prince Aries, the small yet powerful body of the green dragon surges forward and bats the small debris away, where it lands harmlessly away from the prince. The royal family barely escapes. The support pillar crushing Sir Duncan behind them. Jiharis and his family meet eyes with Jenny and Magar. And all watch as the palace of Summerhal collapses into smoke and ruin. Raella goes into labor not long after, her back resting against a green elm as she cradles the newborn son in her weary arms. Rhaegar Targaryen is born amongst salt and smoke. From the smoking ruin, the three dragons who were lost in the blaze come flying towards the remaining Targaryenss. The silver lands upon the newborn babe Rhaegar. The green curls around the shoulders of Aries and the final orange wormling al lights on Jiharis, now second to his name. By dawn, much of summerhal was ash. Among the living, Aries, Raela, Rhaegar, Jiharis, Sherra, Magor, and Jenny of Oldstones. [music] Among the dead, Aegon Vth, his sisters, Duncan the small, Lord Commander Duncan the Tall, and dozens of knights and retainers and lesser lords. Come the next morning, weeping small folk and determined soldiers search the smoldering ruins of Summerhal. All that is left is a smoking ruin, but a piece of power remains. The three dragons hatched within its now burnt halls. The royals are huddled beneath that same great elm from before. Their dragons coiled about them as they discuss how to move forward. Aries speaks, staring at the dragon on his shoulder. He saved me. I shall name him Wildfire for the tragedy of this place and the future it brought us. They are ours now. With these beasts power comes great responsibility, Aries. No one. Not responsibility, just power. Power and fire. Fire and blood. This is the kind of strength we have not had since the dance. And look what it has cost us, son. Dragons have been born once again, but at the price of a king. Jiharius's coordination is swift. The realm not wishing to risk further instability at this time. In his first speech before the realm, he balances grief with a promise of a bright new future. He spoke, his newly named dragon, Morning Star, on his left shoulder. >> My father, brother, aunts, and the Lord Commander gave their lives for these gifts. The gifts of fire and blood. We will not squander it. The dragons shall guard our blood and our realm once more. Even as we mourn, we must face the truth. Across the narrow sea, meles, the monstrous still breathes. The last blackfire. The usurper's blood that has haunted our house for nearly a century now finds refuge among the nine penny kings. It gathers swords and sails, waiting for our grief to weaken us, waiting for us to turn inward, to forget. A rumble of approval stirs through the gathered lords and ladies. Morning Star flicks its forked tongue as if agreeing with the proclamation. There is a smattering of nods and polite claps, but behind them lies the hum of whispered politics. Every lord present is measuring the new king, his tone, his posture, the weight behind his words. The ceremony proceeds, crown placed, oaths sworn, and banners raised. When it ends, courtes mingle, wine flowing freely despite this solemn occasion. Jiharis slips away from a cluster of noblemen arguing over her trade routes when a voice calls softly. >> Your grace. >> He turns to find the mysterious woman standing apart from the crowd, draped in a gown of black to signify her mourning. Her eyes too knowing, too [music] ancient for her youthful face. Meet his. >> Lady Jenny, >> walk with me away from all these ears. There is something we must discuss urgently. >> Jenny speaks when they are alone in a secluded hall of the Red Keep. [music] Her eyes are distant and alive with a strange fire. >> The ghosts whisper your grace. I convened with him in hopes I'd see my Duncan again. But they have shown me winter. Not the turn of seasons, but a darkness deeper than night. Cold enough [music] to kill the dragons in their sleep. Shadows with eyes like pale blue fire. >> You speak of children's tales. The others, the White Walkers. Stories meant to frighten small folk and little boys and girls. >> Stories until they'd come again. Fire was made to fight ice. The blood of the dragon was given to stand against them. Not today, not tomorrow. But the day will come, and if the realm is not ready, all of your vows against Meis will matter little. We will all be dead, or worse. Jiharius looked at her for a long moment, the hall's noise fading to a dull murmur in his ears. "You think I'm so blind that I cannot see beyond my own war? >> I think you are wise enough to prepare more than one." >> Her eyes glimmer strangely in the torch light. Years pass as the realm enjoys a fragile piece, though the shadow of Mees still looms. The blackfire pretender tightens his grip on the stepstones with his nine penny kings, and the whispers of Penny's prophecy gnaw at the back of Jihar's mind. The dragons have grown, as has the king's resolve. Though the cold she spoke of has yet to touch Westeros, he feels its approach. The battle at Stepstones is a furnace of steel and fire. Above the clash of banners and roar of waves, the sky belongs to dragons. Morning Star, a pale fiery orange against the gray blue sky. reigns burning death upon the hapless nine penny kings and their armies. Upon the dragon's back, Jiharis's silver hair streams in the wind, his face filled with an expression of grim purpose. To his right soarses wildfire, a great verdant beast with green flames licking his jaws. Aras Targaryen clutches the saddle, laughing as though war is little more than a cheerful feast. Scorching cones of intermittent green and orange flames burst from both dragons, lighting the nine pennies band below like so many humansized torches on the ground. Sir Barrist and Selme [music] carves a path through the chaos, cutting down cell swords and bannerman alike from a top his horse. His white cloak torn and darkened with blood. He rides toward Me's blackfire with the calm focus of a man who has chosen his purpose. The monstrous Mees towers above the carnage on his own black dustrier. his two heads turning in unison to follow the knight's approach. The glint of recognition of a worthy opponent sparking like a flint on steel. Barristan raises his sword, his voice carrying above the den of battle. Your reign of terror ends today, pretender. For the realm, for the crown, you will fall. Mees answers not with measured words, but with a guttural roar from both throats. The sound more beast than man. His black armor shutters with the force of his rage, his lips curling back to reveal teeth like a hunting dog snarl. His flail raises into the reened, ash thickened air of the battlefield. Come then, white knight. I'll feed your hearts to one mouth and your tongue to the other. [clears throat] You will try. >> The two crash together with the force of colliding boulders. Sparks leap from each blow, and the air between them smells of iron and ash. They circle at top their mounts, trading thunderous strikes. Barristan's blade darting quick as a striking adder, while Me's swings with raw power of a siege engine. Above, another sweep from Wildfire's jaws, bathes the horizon in fire, casting their duel in shifting shades of gold and crimson. The end comes with brutal precision. Barristan twists past Melee's guard, his sword finding the gap beneath the Gorgot. A sickening crunch and a spray of blood follow. And with a final clean stroke, the knight severs the monstrous second head. It tumbles to the sand, its jaws snapping in a grotesque, soundless death. Mees staggers, both eyes wild with disbelief before dropping to his knees and collapsing lifeless at Barristan's feet. Around them, the nine penny king's lines break, their resolve shattering under the combined fury of the dragons and steel. The battlefield stinks of death and smoke. Morning Star lands with a bone shaking thud beside the corpse of Mees folding his vast orange wings. The dragon's eyes, molten gold, sweep across the route. Jiharis swings down from his from the saddle, boots crunching on scorched sand. [music] His armor gleams beneath the layer of ash. His hair plastered to his face with sweat, but his gaze is steady. He steps toward Barristan, who dismounts and kneels briefly for a moment, blade still dripping. Rise, sir. Barristan. You've done what history will never forget. I only did my duty. Your grace. The Blackfire line is ended. Jiharis looks over the battlefield where the remnants of the nine penny kings scatter like frightened ants. >> No, it ends when the last of their followers draw their final breath. From the sky comes a deafening roar. Wildfire, smaller, but no less deadly, circles once [music] before descending to Aries's side. The green flame still flickering along its teeth. The younger prince's face is a light with a feverish grin. Say the word, father. Jiharis turns to the surviving nine penny kings, huddled together under shattered banners, eyes wide with terror. He raises his voice so all can hear. >> You came to these shores for crowns and kingdoms. You will leave as ash on the wind. Draarus. >> Morning star and wildfire surge forward, jaws snapping open, and the world becomes [music] flame. Fire rolls in twin waves of orange and green, devouring men, horses, and banners alike. Screams are swallowed in the roar of dragons. The heat blasts onward in searing gusts, baking the ground into glass in places. Above it all, Jiharis sits unmoving a top Morning Star, his silhouette lit in the infernal glow. A king wreathed in fire. When the flames subside, nothing remains of the nine penny kings but smoldering heaps of blackened steel. Barristan wipes his sword and looks at the devastation with something between awe and unease. The realm will remember this day, your grace. Jiharis does not look away from the field of ash. Good. Let them remember what happens to those who threaten the iron throne. The war's end is absolute. Across the narrow sea, word of Me's death and the annihilation of the nine penny kings travels faster than the ships that carried their ambitions westward. In Westeros, the realm hails Jiharis II as the dragon who restored peace, though the peace is steeped in fear of the fire that birthed it. The songs are swift to glorify Morning Stars flames, and quicker still to name the battle, the field of fire reborn. But the glory fades quicker than the embers. By the turning of the next year, Jiharis's health begins to falter. Always a man of frail constitution, the king now suffers lingering fevers that sap his strength, leaving him pale and gaunt. The court whispers of the cost of dragonfire. That magic as old as Valyria takes more than it gives. He rides less often, speaks more softly, and relies increasingly on his council to govern. By the second year after the war, it is clear the king is dying. Aries attends his bedside, though more often in restless pacing than quiet vigil. Magor, the king's cousin and soon to be master of Morning Star in Jiharis'sstead, begins to assert his presence in every council session. His words oiled with deference, but sharpened with ambition. When Jiharis finally succumbs, the court moves with urgency to crown Aries II before uncertainty can spread. Magor bright flame claims morning stars suspiciously soon after the king's passing. Aries names Magar hand of the king within a week. Some praise the decision. Magor's dragon is the largest alive. His reputation as a warrior unmatched, but others see a shadow falling over the young king's reign. Magor whispers of enemies plotting in every corner, of treasons ripening if left unchecked. And Aries, eager to prove himself more than just his father's pale reflection, listens. As the dragons continue to grow further into Ays's promising reign, so does his paranoia. Maggar continues to whisper of enemies who would see his dragons dead. And each time his wife Reela misaries a child, Magger speaks of poison and treachery. Young Rhaegar, meanwhile, is taken to listening to the advice of someone else entirely, affectionately calling Jenny of Oldstones his auntie Jenny, and trusting her word on the future to come. On Dragonstone, the eggs, long thought dormant [music] and petrified to stone, begin to hatch, filling the volcanic vents with chirps of newborn wormlings. One day, [music] Jenny and Rhaegar sit together amidst the ruins of Summerhal, speaking quietly to one another. Jenny has come here to remember those she lost and sing to her ghosts. While Rhaegar has come to learn where he truly comes from, though still young, the prince and heir is an inquisitive boy. Aunt Jenny, you always speak of the future, of things to come, of the marching cold. What does it all mean? What is my place in all of it? >> You were born amidst salt and smoke, Rhaegar. the salty tears of myself and others who lost so many at this place and the smoke of the fires that birthed your dragons. >> She gives a meaningful look to prophecy. The silver dragon crouched amongst the ruins like some great serpent. Its polished scales shining in the sun. >> When the cold rises, when the dead men march again, it will be up to you to face them, Rhaegar. My ghosts have whispered [music] it to me of how it must be you. You are the one who will save us. >> I understand, Aunt Jenny. >> The ghosts have whispered something else to me. They say one must die to defeat the cold and usher in the new dawn. I do not know what this means, but I can guess. You must be safe, [music] Rega. Do not let it be you who falls. >> Turmoil begins to churn in the Westerlands as Roger Rain rises up against Titus the Toothless lion. House Rain has been taking obscene loans from the Lannisters and refusing to pay back even a single silver stag of their debts. While Titus sits helplessly, too afraid to act. His son Tywin intends to move lethally and show the realm why House Lannister is never to be laughed at. His father Titus may laugh with those who laugh at him, but Tywin will send them to their graves. When Aries hears of his once friend's plans, he initially intends to leave it be and allow Tywin to act decisively on his own. Magar, however, whispers of a different option. >> A true king would not sit on his hunches as his vassels act without him. Already the court speaks in hush voices about how Tywin is more kingly than you, your grace. Surely you intend to prove them wrong. Are you implying I am not kingly, bright flame? >> No. No, your grace. I merely am speaking from a place of concern for your image. After all, surely Tywin would be in your debt should you do this for him. Some would foolishly imply a king who allows his bannerman to quell rebellions for him as no king at all. And if I were to do this, what will the people think? They will be reminded that dragon fire is still the greatest weapon in all of Westeros. They've not seen its power since Meley's fall. Remind them. Perhaps you are right. Wildfire and I will leave for the Westerlands on the tomorrow. We will show those pitiful lions the true might of a dragon. By the next day, Aries is already descending on the Westerlands upon the back of wildfire, circling lazily in the clouded sky above his Magor at top Morning Star, watching what will unfold below. The small folk tremble at the sight of the two fully grown dragons wheeling in the clouds above their keeps and villages. The first scene there in over a hundred years. Tywin rides out to meet the king, his gold cloak snapping in the wind behind him. Tywin dismounts his Destrier and bows stiffly. >> My king, I have this matter contained. I appreciate your arrival, but the reigns and Tarx will be put back in order by my hand. The top wildfires back. Aries smiles thinly. Contained. You have this matter contained. You say you called two castles under your purview and open defiance. Contained? No, Lord Tywin. I will end this rebellion now. Before Taiwan can protest further, wildfires roar splits the air as it takes off back into the sky. The Tarbecks, open in their defiance and proud in their halls, cease their former jeering. They begin [music] to run deeper into the halls of their keep, hoping the sturdy stone will save them from the fire to come. With a command from Aries, wildfire bathes Tarbeck Hall in emerald fire. >> Trarus, >> the great central tower of Tarbach Hall crumbles and blackens, its stones splitting and bursting from the heat of the dragon fire. The screams of House Tarbach echo within the halls of their keep until they are drawn out by another roar and a following burst of flame. Aries continues until none survive. Men, women, and wailing children carried in the arms of nurse maids are all reduced to ash. Tywin watches, his jaw clenching tightly as his king continues flying north for Castmir, not far away from the now smoldering Tarbeck Hall. Castmir submits without a fight. The reigns, already pale-faced and kneeling, offer their swords and oaths a new to the king as he lands in their courtyard. You grace, you've proven your power. Please let us live. Let my family live. We are loyal. We will undo our arms. Your oaths are worth less than ash. Let your hulls reflect your loyalty. Drakaris. Wildfire flames sweep through Castmir. The fire surging down into the minehafts until the very earth seems to burn. [music] The last screams fade into silence and the blackened ruin smokes for days. When the dragons depart, the smoke follows them like a trailing [music] shroud. In the months that follow, whispers spread from the gold road to the trident. The king is quick to wrath, quicker still to fire. Lords speak more carefully in court. Small folk bow lower. And everywhere in shadowed halls and busy markets, the same thought stirs. The dragon has begun to turn mad. The smoke of rain and Tarbeck still cling to the realm's memory when Lords Dennis Darklin began to whisper of independence. In the high halls of Duskondale, his wife, Serella of Mir, the serpent and lace, poured her venom into his ear. >> You saw what became of the lords of the west. So quick to bow and just as quick to die. My lord husband, we must now stand tall or be trampled all the same. >> Her jeweled fingers curl about Dennis Darkland's wrist as she speaks to him. Through her connections to the free cities, Serella has arranged a dangerous gift for her lord husband. Scorpions, massive siege engines built for killing dragons. And now lining the white capped walls of Duskondale. When Dennis petitions the Iron Throne for a royal charter, granting his house greater rights and freedoms, Aries refuses with scorn. >> The Darklings were kings of not but mudded guns, and they will remain so. Dennis rises in open defiance, confident his new scorpions will be the deciding factor against Aries's mighty dragons. In the red keep, Magor bright flame stands behind the iron throne like a shadow in flame. trees [snorts] in your grace. The king's eyes gleam with that too bright light Rhaegar has come to dread. Let the darklands burn. Tywin Lannister remains in the Westerlands, silent and still nursing the humiliation Aries had dealt before his bannermanmen. No Lannister spears march east. The siege of Duskandale begins with the shadow of dragons blotting out the sun. Wildfires scream rolls over the bay like a breaking storm. His his emerald scales reflecting off the waves of the narrow sea. The great green beast circles once above the pale walls, tail lashing before a blackfletched quarrel, thick as a ship's mast, tears through the sky. It slams into wildfires of flank, shattering scale and senue. Green fire and black blood spray from the wound, trailing smoke as the dragon reels with a screaming roar that freezes every soul beneath. Sailors in the bay drop to their knees. Men on the walls clutch their ears. On wildfire's back, Ars's face contorts into something almost inhuman. pain, fury, and the sick joy of vengeance twisting together. Magar bright flame, a loft on Morning Star, leans forward in his saddle, eyes narrowing to cold points of amethyst. Morning Star's orange wings unfurl, looking like the setting sun. Together, both Targaryenss descend on Duskondale. Gouts of emerald and amber flame burn the scorpions to smoldering splinters. As their riders deafly maneuver around, fired bolts. The sky above Duskondale becomes a flashing sea of green and orange. Stone is melted to slag and men are melted into ash. Screaming men a wash and flame throw themselves from the walls into the bay. Either smashing on the rocks below or drowning in the bay as they flail helplessly. Suddenly, a third pair of wings beats in the air. The sun shines its rays onto polished silver scales as Prince Rhaegar arrives at top the back of his own dragon. Prophecy. His cloak snaps in the wind behind him as he flies between his father, Magar, and the melting towers of [music] Duskondale. Father, that is enough. They've learned from their foolishness. Let the rest live. The city will yield. >> No, they will burn. As will all who stand with them. >> Rhaegar wheels prophecy into Wildfire's path, but emerald wings smash into Silver, sending [music] the young dragon spinning away with a cry. The king is beyond reason now. Wildfire's green fire pours into the castle yard, melting male to flesh, and flesh to bone. Morning Star's orange blaze follows, rolling across the streets in waves that devour homes, shops, and the men, women, and children within. When the flames finally gutter, Duskondale is a blackened husk. House Darkland's name is struck from history. Their keep a ruin of molten stone. House Hollard perishes with them. Their bodies rendered in smoke and ash. Four houses now. Rain, Tarbeck, [music] Darklin, Hollard, gone in less than a decade beneath the wings of the crown's dragons. From dor to the wall, men begin to whisper in fear of the king and his hand and their mighty dragons. Prince Rhaegar despares. The smell of smoke and the ashes that remain in of Duskundel still cling to the king's armor by the time he returns to the Red Keep. He lounged on the iron throne as if it were made specifically for his comfort. Rather than being [music] a twisted monstrosity of melted steel, his hand grazes one of the sharp points, beginning to bleed. He merely sucks the blood from his finger and nurses the cut absent- mindedly. The scorpion bolt he pulled from Wildfire's flank is melted down and added to the rest of the Iron Throne. Magar bright flame stands at the king's side, helm removed and tucked beneath an arm. His face is carved from stone. But beneath his brow, his purple eyes burn brightly with sickening glee as if this sack had only merely wetted his appetite. The herald calls the court to order. Lords murmur, their voices low as if afraid of wakening a sleeping beast. No one looks directly at the king for long. Tywin Lannister is present but silent, standing at the edge of the deis and gold trimmed crimson. He says nothing in praise and nothing in censure. His expression a mask so perfect it might as well be hammered from the same steel as the throne Aries lounges upon. Rhaegar enters the throne room, his face blackened with soot and sweat on his brow. His silver hair tumbles past his shoulders as he removes his helmet, his expression towards his father devoid of all warmth. Dusk andale is gone, as is Hollard Hall. The Darklands, the hollows, and all the men and children who lived within their cities and halls. Their people would still live had we only shown a modicum of mercy. Mercy is beneath the dragon. They built weaponry to attempt to kill our birthright. They wish to strike the sun from the sky. Would you leave that nest to breed more vipers, my son? They feared us and would have surrendered just as the reigns attempted to. Now all the realm fears us. They think us unfeilling monsters. Good. Four traitor houses gone from my realm and the fifth will be whoever dares to test us next. You are dismissed. Rhaegar be gone. As Rhaegar and the court disperse, Jenny slips through the crowd to Rhaegar and takes him to a private wing of the Red Keep. Her patched skirts whisper against the marble and stone as they walk. She stands beside Rhaegar now like a ghost from his memories. Her once brown hair streaked with silver and white. >> They will not stop fearing him. That fear will turn into hate. And hate burns far longer and stronger than fear. >> What would you have me do? >> The song is almost ready, Rhaegar. The prince that was promised must be more than just his father's son. The dragons grow, [music] and so does their fire. One must master them both before the entire world burns. >> The towers of Harrenhal loom like blackened teeth, jagged and twisted against the pale sky. Attorney has been called, the grandest in over a decade with lions, wolves, stags, and falcons [music] in attendance. But it holds a secret second purpose. War. Rhaegar is here to gather allies for his plot against his father. He will need swords if he wishes to succeed, and this is where he will earn them. Rhaegar arrives a stride prophecy. The dragon's silver scales gleaming in the sun as it descends on Harrenhal. The once young dragon has grown massive, his wings casting a shadow that swallowed the lists. Nobles crane their necks. Commoners fall silent. From their pavilion, Robert Baratheon and Ned and Brendan Stark stare in awe at the sight of the prince. Nard Stark stands with his eldest brother, Brendan. Both quiet in their own ways. Brendan's eyes are bright with excitement. Neds are watchful. Seven hellsnet. Look at the size of that thing. >> That night, under the pale moon, Rhaegar finds Lyanna Stark alone by the Weirwoods in the godswood. She smells faintly of horses and cold air. When she smiles, it is the smile of the knight of the laughing tree. A truth he has already guessed. You fight like a wolf. >> I am one. And you play the harp like a prince who's [music] never been to war. >> Perhaps, but I've read of wars that will make this one seem smaller. Wolves will be needed when winter comes. >> Then hope you find one willing to fight beside you, not bow to you. >> I'd rather have a wolf at my side than a thousand knights at my back. >> Careful, Prince. Wolves bite, even when they're tame. >> Jenny of Old Stones watches from the shadows as they speak. Later, she warns him in hushed tones. >> She's not for you, Rhaegar. You need the realm, not a scandal. The song will die if you break it too soon. By the turn's end, through secretive discussion, Rhaegar has earned the full quiet support of houses Stark and Baratheon. Even Robert, all blustering and laughter, claps the prince on the shoulder. When you call, we'll come. The banners of Harrenhal are scarcely taken down before the realm begins to [music] bleed once more. Winter's first chill is still in the air when a raven arrives in the Red Keep. Its letter sealed with red wax [music] stamped with the three-headed dragon. Aries sits hunched on the Iron Throne, long bony fingers twitching as the parchment is unfurled. He reads it once and then twice before his lips curl into a snarl. In the months since Harrenhal, his apprentice, has grown even more unruly and unckempt. Forfeit my throne to my son. Rhaegar conspires with stags and wolves and dares to try and take the throne that is rightfully mine. >> This is treason and it needs to be answered. We must muster our own forces before it's too late. Your grace, from Sunspear to Winterfell, men are sharpening their swords for Rhaegar. >> Aries stares darkly at his hand, overgrown hair hanging down in front of his eyes. >> Then let them come. We will muster the Crownlands, and all who are still loyal to our true cause. The rest will die to the flames of wildfire and morning star, and we will scatter the mud with their charred bones. The trident churns with blood. The river's current slowed by the press of bodies and the weight of the fallen. Shields splinter. Spears snap. Men scream and vanish beneath the dark water. Pulled down by the weight of their own plate and male. Robert Baratheon fights like a storm loosed upon the world to ravage it. Rain lashes his armored form as his Warhammer smashes through a knight's breastplate as though it were made of tin. The man folds in two before sliding from the saddle. Bones and armor alike crushed to ruin. Robert roars, swinging again, and a second fo's helm caves inward with a wet crunch. Blood splatters across his antler helm. Beside him, Brandon Stark is a whirlwind of laughter and steel. His dark hair flies free, plastered to his brow with sweat and blood. He rides through the melee as if it were a hunt. Eyes bright, lips curved into a wolf's grin. He deflects a blow from a Crownlander knight when his sword finds the man's throat, plunging in with a sickening noise. The rain continues to lash down, washing each fresh wave of blood from the wolf's face and sword. In the shadow of Robert Baratheon is Ned Stark, his long sword moving with swiftness and precision. He takes no joy in the killing, earning the epithet of the quiet wolf as he silently slays any man who challenges him or threatens his brother or best friend. Each death he gives is clean without needless cruelty. He spares no thought towards glory only for holding the line and keeping his own men breathing. The banners of House Stark and House Baratheon stream above their heads, but all along the muddy banks of the Green Fork, other sigils press forward, [music] too. Riverlords, Stormlanders, Northmen, and more. All sworn to Rhaegar. By sheer numbers, they drive the Royal Host backward step by step. The crown's infantry falters, pushed toward the shallows. Victory is visible on the horizon. Then two immense shadows fall over the rain and blood drenched battlefield. A roar not unlike the crash of thunder overhead splits the air on the battlefield. It is answered by a second as the great green and orange bulks of wildfire and morning star fly over the battle. Wildfire dives from the clouds in a blur of green. His roar shaking the earth. The first torrent of flames wash over the a cluster of Northmen and in an instant they're gone. Armor blackened, flesh reduced to cinders. Morning Star follows, his wings blotting out the clouds. His fire burns white hot as he sweeps over the Baratheon vanguard. Dozens vanish in a scream at a hiss, leaving only smoking shapes where moments before there had been men hissing in the rain. Robert wheels his horse, fury and concern flashing in his eyes. >> Do not falter. Press forward. Someone take those pricks out of the sky. >> But no arrows, bow can touch the dragon in full flight. The missiles harmlessly bounce off the armored underside of both dragons. Each volley more ineffective than the last. Brandon spurs his mount forward, unafraid. >> We'll hold the line, Robert. Let the prince do the rest, assuming he gets here before all of us are ash. >> Robert yells back as he crushes the leg of an advancing knight with a downward blow. A second blow smashes his helmeted head into splinters of iron and mushed skull. Ned sees the Northmen wavering, the heat driving them from the water's edge. >> Hold. Hold for the prince. His words keep them steady, but the dragon's shadow passes over them for another run. The air itself feels heavy, as though the battlefield has been pulled into the furnace of some great forge. The cries of the wounded are swallowed by the bellow of dragons and the roar of their flame. Then another roar cuts through the battlefield, triumphant, heroic, the clouds begin to clear as a third dragon approaches from the southern sky. The sun begins to beat down on its scales, making them look like moltant silver. The green fork reflects both prince and dragon in shivering fragments as they descend. Prophecy has come. >> Father descends now. >> Rhaegar Targaryen leans low in the saddle. The wind tearing at his black and crimson cloak. His eyes are fixed on the two shapes circling above. The emerald fury of wildfire and the pale orange of morning star. His father's laughter rides the wind down to him. Cruel and certain. [laughter] >> Two dragons against one. My dear son, you never stood a chance. >> Rhaegar says nothing, guiding Prophecy upward through the heated air. The silver dragon beats his wings once, twice, surging down toward the dual shadows above. Below, Robert smashes another foe aside and looks up, a grin breaking his soot streaked face. >> About damn time. >> Both sides turn their gaze skyward. No matter the outcome on the ground, all know the battle is truly being decided in the air. Rhaegar drives prophecy upward. The silver dragon's great wings tearing through the smoke, climbing toward the two burning shapes above. Wildfire banks sharply to meet him. His emerald scales flashing with every tilt. Morning Star wheels alongside pale orange and graceful. His rider Magar watching the approach with a predator's stillness. The air burns between both dragons as they wheel about one another. Their battle almost looking like a dance in the sky. Rhaegar r ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra raises his sword bravely against the wind in flames. >> Father, end this. The realm has bled enough. [laughter] End this when I HAVE SO MANY TRAITORS TO BURN. Prophecy twists hard, the fire licking his wing tips, the heat blistering Rhaegar's skin through his armor. He levels the sword and drives it past Wildfire's neck plates, scoring a deep line across the green dragon's shoulder. Wildfire roars, banking away. Black blood steaming in the air. Then Maggar strikes. Morning Star dives from above, jaws snapping at Prophecy's tail. Silver scales shatter loose, spinning down like falling coins. [music] Rhaegar nearly thrown from the saddle, clutching hard at the rains. The three dragons wheel and clash, the sky echoing with their roars. Claws rend scales, tails lash, teeth snap. The air is thick with the smell of sulfur, blood, and burning flesh. Far below, the battle on the green fork halts in awe as the titans wage war in the heavens. Wildfire and morning star flank prophecy, driving him downward toward the river. Aries shouts over the wind. >> Die, boy, as you were always meant to. Your song will burn with you. >> But at the moment, Maggar draws close. His feverish eyes narrow. Not at Rhaegar and Prophecy, but at Aries and Wildfire. An opportunity has risen, and it is one he will not let go to waste. Morning Star banks sharply away from Prophecy and straight toward wildfire. Aries has no time to shout before Morning Stars talons sink deep into wildfire's neck. Scales burst under the div force. The emerald dragon thrashes, his roar becoming a choking scream. Aries is thrown sideways in the saddle as Magar and his mount tear and rent. Gold and orange flame pouring over green scales until they crack and split. With a final vicious snap of Morning Stars jaws, Wildfire's head wretches aside and Aries slides from the saddle, [music] tumbling through the smoke. His arms windmill uselessly, grasping at empty air. For a moment, one terrible suspended moment. The mad king's face is visible through the smoke and rain. His mouth is open in a scream that never reaches the ground. His eyes wide with disbelief. After everything, after burning the rains, the Tarbex, the Darklands, after declaring himself untouchable upon Dragon Bach, he is falling like any common man. The impact is brutal. Aries hits the churning red waters of the Green Fork with a sound like a tree being split by lightning, loud enough to be heard, even over the roar of battle. The river swallows him instantly, his body disappearing beneath the surface thick with blood and corpses. He doesn't resurface. The current slowed by the press of dead men carries him downstream into the darkness. For three heartbeats, the entire battlefield goes silent. Knights freeze mid swing. Soldiers stop running. Even the scream of the wounded seems to fade into nothing. Thousands of eyes watch the spot where the king vanished, waiting for him to rise, to emerge somehow unscathed. But the water remains undisturbed, save for the rain dimpling its surface. Rhaegar stares down from prophecy's back, his face carved from stone, unreadable. He's imagined this moment a thousand times. His father's death, the end of the madness. But now that it's here, he feels nothing. Not grief, not relief, just a terrible hollow emptiness and the weight of a crown he never wanted settling [music] on his shoulders. Below, Robert Baratheon is the first to move, raising his blood soaked Warhammer to the sky. >> The king is dead. Long live King Rhaegar. >> The cry is taken up along the rebel lines, spreading like wildfire. Long live King Rhaegar. Long live the dragon. The Crownlander forces, seeing their king fall, seeing his dragon dead, begin to throw down their weapons. The battle is over. Prophecy hovers in the air, blood dripping from torn wings. Rhaegar is pale, his armor scorched, a deep slash along his side leaking [music] crimson. He lands heavily on the churned mud of the riverbank. Breath ragged. Morning Star descends in a slow spiral. Magar stares down at the Silver Dragon and his rider. For a long moment, the air is still, save for the sound of distant battle and the hiss of cooling steam. Magar's grip tightens on his sword. He could end it now, strike down his wounded cousin, and take the realm for himself. No other adult Targaryen would live to oppose him. But something within [music] Magar bright flame hesitates. He remembers Summerhal, a boy, only a newborn babe at his mother's arms amongst the smoking ruin of Summerhal. The smoke, the devastation, the stench of burning bodies, the child's silver hair catching the sunlight as he blinked at Magar, unafraid, unaware of the tragedy that birthed him. Magar exhales slowly, Morning Star easing beneath him. >> You are king now, boy. Yes, but you will no longer serve his hand. My first decree as king is that you will ride north to the wall, the Night's Watch. You'd have me rot away the last of my days in the frigid north. After this victory, not to rot, but to strengthen. You've heard Jenny's prophecy. The dead will come again, and the wall must stand ready. Your dragon will serve as a shield to the realm. I will prepare the realm. You will prepare the watch. This is not punishment, Magar. It is war. One we cannot afford to lose. For a moment, Maggar's eyes burn with something close to rebellion. Then he nods once curtly. Morning Star spreads his pale orange wings, and with a single powerful beat, they rise into the darkening sky, turning northward. On the riverbank, Rhaegar closes his eyes. His father is dead. The realm will know peace for a time, but already in his mind's eye, he sees the snow, the ice, and the cold blue eyes waiting beyond it. The second long night is coming, and this time the realm will be ready. The bells of King's Landing toll for a new king. Rhaegar Targaryen is crowned in the great sept of Bor. His silver hair glinting in the torch light, his eyes calm, but burning with purpose. Jenny of Old Stones watches from the shadows, lips pressed in a faint knowing smile. A decade passes. The wall rises taller and stronger than it has in centuries. Its ice reinforced by stone and steel at Rhaegar's command. Magar Targaryen, once the most feared man in the Seven Kingdoms, now wears the black of the Night's Watch. In those years, his ruthlessness is tempered by necessity. Wildlings and brothers alike speak of him with a weary respect. And when the old lord commander dies, the vote is unanimous. Magar is elected to lead them. Beyond the wall, the years grow colder. Rhaegar's children mature into young warriors. Rainey's hair black with streaks of silver and eyes of bright violet. Claims a pearl white she names per flame in the Valyrian. Aegon tall and determined with dark eyes and white blonde hair. Bonds with a great black beast he calls Anagar. blood in Valyrian. Then the news comes. At first only rumors, strange lights in the frozen forests, patrols vanishing without a trace. Then the survivors begin to arrive at Castle Black, frostbitten and half mad, whispering of eyes like pale blue stars. When the others finally strike, they come like a storm. It is midnight when the horn sounds three times. The dead surge out of the darkness, swarming the frozen plains. Magar wastes no time. He summons the wildling chieftains he's spent years coaxing into fragile peace. You want to live? Then you fight beside us tonight. Morning Star's wings beat against the cold. Orange gold flame pours over the whites with their white walker commanders. Siege engines at top the wall fling massive boulders into the advancing hordes. Though no matter how fiercely the knight's watchmen fight, the dead keep advancing. Whites scramble up the wall like possessed demons. White walkers brandish glittering blades of crystalline ice leading them. The Night King stands unafraid of Dragon Flame, observing the unfolding battle with ice like burning distant blue stars. As Morning Star presses low towards him, the Night King raises a spear of ice and flings it directly for the dragon's throat. The spear flies true with terrible impossible speed, a streak of pale blue against the darkness. It strikes Morning Star's throat with the force of a ballista bolt, punching clean through the scales that have turned aside swords and arrows for decades. The sound is sickening. Flesh tearing, bone cracking, ice spreading like corruption through living tissue. The dragon's scream tears through the night. A sound the world has never heard before. It's half agony, half defiance, all terrible beauty. The death cry of magic itself. Morning Stars wings beat frantically, desperately. But the ice is already spreading from the wound, freezing his blood, stopping his ancient heart. Black blood, thick as tar and hot as forge fire, sprays from the wound, steaming in the frozen air. Maggar feels it through their bond. Every moment of his dragon's death, every surge of pain and terror and desperate animal panic. He's thrown forward in the saddle as Morning Star lurches downward, barely managing to hold on. But dragons, for all their power, are mortal. Morning Star's wings fold, his eyes already glazing over with death and frost. They fall together, Dragon and Ryder plummeting toward the frozen lake below. The impact shatters the ice. Massive cracks spiderweb across the surface and freezing water explodes upward in a geyser of spray. The sound echoes across the battlefield like a world breaking. Magar is thrown clear by the force. His body tumbling across the ice like a ragd doll, his armor cracking from the impact, ribs snapping like dry twigs. He comes to rest 30 ft from the hole, gasping, each breath sending daggers of agony through his chest. His left arm won't move. Blood pours from his nose and mouth, freezing on his lips and crystals of red ice before he can spit it out. Through the ringing in his ears, he can hear the battle continuing at the wall. Screams, the clash of steel, the roar of flames. His brothers are dying. The watch is falling. And he's here, broken on the ice, useless. Maggar tries to crawl toward the shore, toward Castle Black, towards [music] anything. His fingers claw at the ice, finding no purchase. The cold is already seeping into his bones, stealing what little strength remains. Each movement sends fresh waves of agony through his shattered body. Then he hears it, the sound of chains. Vaggar forces his head up, his visions swimming through the pain and gathering darkness. He watches in horror as great chains of ice. Massive things that look forged by giants glittering with Eldrich blue light are thrown across the lake by hundreds of whites. The dead work with mindless terrible efficiency. Directed by the cold intelligence of their masters, pale hands, dozens of them, hundreds of them, grip the chains. They pull in perfect unison, and slowly, inexurably, they drag Morning Star's body from the frozen depths. Water steams from the dragon's scales, already beginning to freeze. The great orange beast that had been his companion, his weapon, his only true friend for decades is hauled onto the ice like a caught fish. Magor's throat tightens. He wants to scream, to rage, to do something, anything. But his body won't obey. The cold has him now. This shutting him down piece by piece. The Night King approaches across the ice in quick, calm strides. Each footstep leaving prints of frost that glow faintly blue. His movements are unhurried, patient. He's waited 8,000 years. He can wait a few moments more. His crown of ice glitters in the moonlight, reflecting the stars, beautiful and terrible. He reaches Morning Star's corpse and kneels beside it with an almost gentle grace. One long-fingered hand, cold as the void between stars, presses against the dragon's forehead. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, Morning Star's eyes snap open. But they're no longer the warm golden color they were in life, the color of sunrise, of hope. They burn with cold blue fire, the same color as the whites, as the walkers themselves. Empty, hungry, wrong. Magar feels his heartbreak. Tears freeze on his cheeks. >> I'm sorry. Gods forgive me. I'm sorry. >> He doesn't know who he's apologizing to. Morning Star, the Night's Watch, Rhaegar, the Realm, perhaps all of them. He came north to redeem himself, but to be more than the Mad King's poisonous hand, to stand against the darkness, and he's failed. The wall will fall. His dragon, his beautiful, terrible dragon, will be the weapon that destroys it. The dragon, the thing that was morning star, rises. Ice cracks from his scales as he spreads his wings. Where there was once wounds, there is now only cold blue light shining through gaps in his hide like cracks in a frozen pond. Magar bright flames eyes finally close. His last breath leaves him in a plume of white vapor that hangs in the air for just a moment before dissipating. His last thoughts are not of his failures, but of a newborn babe with silver hair, born in fire and smoke, innocent and perfect. He hopes, prays that Rhaegar can finish what he could not. The cold takes him. Lord Commander of the Nights Watch dies alone on the ice and the world grows a little darker. The dragon's scream is a sound the world has never heard before. He crashes through the ice of a frozen lake, throwing Magar clear. The Lord Commander crawls. The wall cannot stand against dragonfire, not even the cold, cursed kind. The black ice crumbles beneath the assault, a great breach opening in the center. The north lies open. When word reaches King's Landing, Rhaegar stands in silence for a long moment. Then he turns to Jenny, now a truly old woman with long tumbles of silver hair and hazy brown eyes, tired from age. They've come. Magar has fallen. The wall has fallen. He summons his banners. Brandon Stark, now Lord of Winterfell, rallies his men. With Eddard Stark at his side, Robert Baratheon marches north from Storm's End. The stark words, "Winter is coming," are no longer a warning. "They are the truth." Rainees and Aegon ride with their father. Three dragons wheeling above the marching host. The cold deepens with every mile, and the air smells of death. Winterfell's walls are lined with archers. The yard packed with spearmen and knights. Snow falls thick, muffling the sound of thousands waiting for the end of the [music] world. The dead arrive in silence. They do not charge. They flow. A tide of pale flesh and ragged armor. The living brace themselves. The first clash is thunder. Robert's Warhammer smashes skulls like ripe melons, sending splinters of frozen bone into the air. Brandon Stark fights with wild laughter, his great sword whirling in brutal arcs. Ned moves like a shadow, his blade biting only when it must, his face grim. Above Pere and a nogar strafe the field fire carving wild swaths through the ranks of the dead. But for every corpse that falls, two more rise. Then the Night King appears, descending on Morning Star's undead body. His dragon's blue flames melt stone and flesh alike. Rainees cries out as Perses takes a blast full in the [music] wing, spiraling toward the ground. Aegon dives after her. Anogar's claws closing around his sister's saddle, barely saving her from being crushed. Rhaegar knows it must end now. He spurs prophecy into the sky. The Silver Dragon meets Morning Star in a clash that shakes the heavens. Fire against ice, life against death. The two dragons collide in the frozen sky with the force of falling [music] mountains. Claws rake across scales drawing blood. Hot and red from prophecy, cold and black from the white dragon. The sound of their battle echoes across miles of frozen wasteland. A terrible symphony of roars and screams in the crack of breaking ice. Prophecies flames sear the white dragon's face. The heat so intense it makes the air shimmer. Rotted flesh burns away, revealing the skull underneath. Bleached white bone that gleams in the moonlight. But the creature feels no pain, no fear. It answers with a blast of freezing fire, blue, white, and terrible. It crystallizes the very air itself. Ice forms on Prophecy silver scales even as they fly, spreading in a geometric pattern that looks almost beautiful in their deadly perfection. The living dragon roars in pain and fury, twisting violently to shake off the frost. Below them, far below, the battle at Winterfell rages on, but both armies have stopped to watch the sky, knowing instinctively that this is where everything will be decided. Rhaegar leans low in the saddle, his armor scorched black in places, frost covering other sections in a layer of white. The temperature around them swings wildly, blistering heat from Prophecy's fire, bone deep cold from Morning Star's undead breath. He can barely breathe. Each inhalation feeling like knives in his lungs. Through the maelstrom of wings and fire and ice, Rhaegar catches glimpses of the Night King. The ancient creature sits a stride the undead [music] dragon with perfect stillness, untouched by the chaos around him. His eyes, cold blue stars, and a face that might have been once handsome, locked with Rhaegar's. And in that instant of connection, Rhaegar understands this isn't just a battle. This is the battle. It is the moment everything has been building towards since Summerhal. Since before Summerhal, since the first long night 8,000 years ago, one must die to defeat the cold and usher in the new dawn. Jenny's prophecy. His whole life has been leading to this moment. The dragons smash together again, spinning through the storm clouds in a death spiral. Neither willing to give ground. They claw and bite and burn, leaving trails of blood, hot and cold, falling like rain on the battlefield below. Rhaegar's sword, Valyrian steel, dark as midnight with ripples like water, feels heavy in his hand. He knows what he must do. Prophecy seems to sense his rider's intention. The silver dragon dives upward with a desperate surge of strength. Wings beating so hard the sound is like thunder, forcing the white dragon higher, higher up through the clouds into the open air above, where the moonlight paints everything in silver and blue. below them. So far below they look like toys, like pieces on a sasi board, the two armies watch, tiny figures frozen in place, their fates hanging in the balance. The Night King raises his ice spear again, the same weapon that killed Morning Star the first time, preparing to throw it. To end this, as he ended the last dragon that declared challenge to him, his arms draw back with a patient confidence of something that has won this war a 100 times before in his ageless memory. But Rhaegar is faster. With a roar that contains all of his grief for the father he lost to madness, all his determination to protect the realm, all his love for his children, the future they deserve. Rhaegar throws himself from prophecy saddle. For a moment, he's suspended in the air between the two dragons, falling through space, the wind screaming past him, the ground impossibly far below. Time seems to slow. He can see every detail with crystal clarity. The intricate patterns in the Night King's ice armor. The way moonlight refracts through his crown into a thousand tiny rainbows. The pale blue glow of his eyes that seems to contain all of the winter knights that have ever were and ever will be. His hand closes around the hilt of his sword. Prophecy surges forward one last time, positioning himself perfectly beneath his falling rider. Rhaegar's boots hit the undead dragon's back. For one heartbeat, he and the Night King are face to face, close enough to touch. The Night King's expression doesn't change. Perhaps he cannot feel surprise. Perhaps he's felt nothing for 8,000 years. But Agar thinks, hopes. He sees something flicker in those ancient eyes. Recognition maybe or respect. Rhaegar drives the Valyrian steel forward with every ounce of strength he possesses. His muscles screaming, his lungs burning with cold and effort. The blade punches through the ice armor as if it were spider silk. drives deep into the Night King's chest, where a heart should be, where it would be, where it must be. For an instant, just one perfect crystalline instant. There is only silence. The wind stops. The snow stops falling. The sounds of battle fade away. The whole world holds its breath, waiting to see which force is stronger. Ancient ice or Valyrian steel? Death or life? Darkness or the dawn? The Night King's eyes widen just slightly, as if surprised. as if after 8,000 years of victory, of crushing every army that stood against him, of turning heroes into whites and hope into despair, he didn't think anyone could actually stop him. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out, just a thin trail of blue mist that dissipates in the moonlight like a final silent scream. Then the Night King shatters, the pieces scattering like snow on the wind. Morning Star falls apart beneath him. Bones turning to dust. The blue fire guttering out all across the battlefield. Whites collapse into lifeless heaps. The magic that bound them broken. Prophecy catches Rhaegar midfall. The dragon's wings straining to land them safely in the bloodstained snow. The field is quiet. Ned Stark [music] stands with ice in hand. The great sword still slick with the blood of the fallen. Robert leans on his Warhammer, chest heaving, face split in a weary grin. Rainees clutches her brother's arm, tears cutting clean tracks through the ash on her face. Rhaegar breathes hard, his sword still in hand, eyes on the pale winter sky. Humanity has won. That's our theory. Westeros is a land filled with exciting stories and possibilities, and we like exploring them. If you'd like to join us on this journey across the seven kingdoms and beyond, then please like, share, and subscribe to our channel.