More than half the army had been reduced to ash or pulverized into unrecognizable heaps by the dragon’s tail. Ser Antony sat frozen in his saddle, his eyes bulging as he stared at the colossal beast. His entire body trembled. Having campaigned across the North his whole life and faced death countless times, this was the first time he had felt true, hollow despair. Through the beaver-skin of his gloves, his rough, calloused hands were slick with cold sweat. In that moment, he found himself yearning for the sting of wine, the savory fat of roasted meat, and the scent of the whores—musky, heavy, and intoxicating.

  "Damn it!" Ser Antony hissed through clenched teeth. With a swift movement, he snatched a pike from a nearby soldier. The Northern knight, over fifty years old and as sturdy as a grizzly, his face a roadmap of scars, kicked his heels into his horse's flanks, causing the beast to shriek in agony. Stung by the sudden violence, the horse went berserk, rearing up before charging forward.

  "Cavalry, forward!" a nearby commander shrieked as he saw Ser Antony aggressively spurring his horse toward the dragon. Hundreds of heavy cavalrymen let out a roar and surged after him, their razor-sharp lances leveled, gleaming with lethal coldness.

  Ser Antony led the mad charge, plunging straight into the ranks of panicked soldiers fleeing in the opposite direction.

  "Turn back! Turn back at once!" Ser Antony roared like a madman. The fleeing men scrambled in terror to avoid the oncoming warhorses, trampling one another in their desperate bid to escape.

  "Turn back, you bastards!" Ser Antony swung his pike, piercing the throat of a deserter, who could only choke out a gurgling sound before collapsing. Blood sprayed from his neck like a fountain, splashing those around him.

  "Turn back and fight like men, you cowards!" Ser Antony continued to lash out, his pike stabbing madly at any deserter within reach.

  The cavalry behind him joined the slaughter, the hooves of hundreds of horses trampling the deserters into the gore. Those lucky enough to evade the pounding hooves found no refuge from the hundreds of cold, sharp lances waiting for them.

  "He’s gone mad!" the Night's Watch commander, standing near the envoy’s carriage, screamed as he witnessed the massacre of their own kin. He turned to look at the envoy, who had stepped out of the carriage and stood like a statue amidst the white snow. Behind the mask, the envoy’s expression was unreadable.

  "Damn you!" a deserter roared, leaping directly onto a horse and tackling a knight; both tumbled to the ground. No sooner had they hit the earth than other deserters swarmed them, drawing daggers and stabbing the knight repeatedly, their voices filled with venomous rage.

  "Kill them!" The desperate soldiers, realizing their fate, stopped running and swarmed the cavalry, swords flashing in the air. They ducked beneath lance-points and, with all their might, hacked at the horses' legs. Blood geysered out, and the poor beasts shrieked, collapsing and dragging their riders down into the fray. For every knight that fell, a brutal, intimate slaughter followed.

  Ser Antony, drenched in blood and panting like a bull, felt a chill run through him as he watched the mob tearing his heavy cavalry apart.

  "Kill! Kill that bastard!" A deserter, missing an eye, pointed his sword at Ser Antony. Immediately, dozens of men turned their gaze toward the old knight.

  "Scum," Ser Antony hissed. He lifted his pike and, with every ounce of his remaining strength, hurled it at the one-eyed man. The weapon sliced through the air with a long, whistling thwip, like a shooting star in the night sky.

  Thwack. The pike pierced the man’s skull, spraying brains and bone fragment across the snow.

  "Kill him!" Dozens of voices rose in unison as the deserters swarmed Ser Antony. Countless hands reached out, grabbing his limbs, his armor, and his saddle. They yanked his horse down and dragged him into the mud. Ser Antony roared, his veteran strength enough to knock out two or three men, but the mob was too vast. They swarmed the Vale knight, their fingernails raking across his aged face.

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  Fingernails, caked with mud and blood, shredded his skin. In a final, frenzied act, Ser Antony lunged forward, snapping his jaws onto a hand trying to tear at his mouth. His teeth crunched down on the fingers, grinding them. A sickening crack of bone was heard amidst the screams. A man scrambled backward, his face deathly pale, staring at his hand, now missing three fingers and gushing blood.

  Ser Antony spat the severed fingers into the face of a man pinning him down and let out a manic, blood-choked laugh. Suddenly, he felt a searing pain in his throat. Another hand, tipped with jagged, filth-ridden nails, plunged into his neck, trying to rip his windpipe out. Ser Antony’s world went dim. He looked up at the sky—a deep, endless blue. He remembered the wars of his youth, the women who had lain beneath his body, and the bastards he had left scattered across the North.

  The sky above him suddenly darkened. The screaming ceased, and the silence was so profound that one could hear the frantic pounding of hearts. Everyone looked up. Above them was Drogon, the dragon descending upon the Northern army. His blood-red eyes surveyed the carnage below with what seemed like utter contempt.

  "Old Gods, have mercy!" a soldier cried. Terror gripped the entire host. They released Ser Antony and scattered in every direction. The dragon looked down at the dying knight, his throat torn and his body shredded. Ser Antony stared at the dragon—he had never seen a dragon in his life. He smiled, his mouth bloodied, trying to spit out a final curse, but his strength failed him.

  WHOOSH.

  A sea of fire descended from the heavens, engulfing Ser Antony and pouring over the surrounding ground like a waterfall of flame. The men beneath had no time to scream; they were turned to ash in an instant.

  Emerging from the roiling sea of fire, Drogon extended his massive, jagged neck, glaring fiercely at the envoy and the remaining soldiers.

  Meanwhile, Lyana and the others had reached the Dragon Gate. They watched Drogon's massacre with relief. Only Lyana remained cold, her brow furrowed with worry.

  "The dragon has won. Must we really run?" Tormund IV squinted toward Drogon.

  "Go. The worst is yet to come," Lyana replied, urging them forward.

  "Head East, to Hardhome; our ships will be waiting there. Get Daenerys to Asshai safely. That is your mission," Lyana whispered, hugging Jasmine.

  Jasmine nodded and mounted her horse. Tormund IV hoisted Dany onto his broad, powerful chest and climbed onto the second horse, grumbling, "I'm better suited for riding elephants."

  "Go! Move!" Lyana barked, striking the horses' haunches. They neighed and thundered toward the east, kicking up clouds of snow. The direwolf glanced back at Lyana before sprinting after them.

  In the distance, the envoy’s gaze was like a bolt of lightning, tracking the two horses. He turned to the Night’s Watch commander. "Pursue them. The platinum-haired girl must be taken alive. The others are of no consequence."

  The Night’s Watch commander felt a surge of joy. Being ordered to pursue meant escaping this cursed dragon. Fearing the envoy might change his mind, he shrieked, "Fast! Night's Watch, follow me and hunt the heretics!" His men, feeling as though they’d won a reprieve, spurred their horses and broke away from the main army, racing in the direction of Jasmine and Tormund. The remaining soldiers watched them with burning envy.

  The envoy watched Drogon, then began to walk forward, his hands rising slightly with every step. From the forest behind, a cacophony erupted—a horrible, rising sound. The remaining soldiers clutched their ears, unable to bear the terrible screeching.

  The sky blackened. From the forest, a solid shroud of black surged upward. Crows! Millions of them appeared from nowhere, blotting out the sun. They formed ranks, beating their wings in perfect unison, crying out as a single, programmed army.

  Drogon looked up at the horizon, now swallowed by millions of crows. He puffed out his chest, unfurled his massive wings, and beat them against the ground. His legs coiled like springs, and he launched himself into the air. With a sound like rolling thunder, the dragon rose like a mountain, wings outspread, diving straight into the cloud of crows as if to devour the northern sky itself.

  Lyana watched Jasmine and Tormund disappear behind the forest canopy. She took a breath and turned back toward the Dragon Gate. Above her, a sight of impossible majesty unfolded: a fire-dragon plunging into a sea of endless black wings.

  "O Lord of Light! Come to us in this age of darkness. We offer you these false pretenders as sacrifice. Cast them away and grace us with your light. For the night is dark and full of terrors." Lyana walked slowly, her soft hands outstretched as if to embrace the sky and earth. Her eyes were closed, and her lips—red as ripe apples—murmured an ancient Valyrian incantation.

  Darkness crept over the White Citadel. The snow beneath Lyana’s feet began to change color—a burning, radiant red, hot as dragonfire.