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The last time a dragon had visited the Wall was over two hundred years ago.
Queen Alysanne, riding the silver-winged Silverwing, had grown weary of the political backbiting in the south and flown north. She had rested in a small holdfast in the Gift, whose stone tower was subsequently painted a brilliant, shimmering gold by the grateful villagers in her honor. That tower had been known as Queenscrown ever since, a legendary story passed down through generations of Northmen in a land where warmth and entertainment were equally scarce.
Today, when the silhouettes of three massive dragons, one of midnight black, one of deep forest green, and one of shimmering silver, ruptured the grey clouds above Castle Black, the local smallfolk did not run for their cellars. Instead, they stood in the muddy lanes of the Gift, pointing up at the sky and debating whether another King and Queen had come to the Wall as guests.
But the ignorance of the peasants was not shared by the lords.
In the courtyard of Castle Black, highborn men from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms rushed into the slush. They held their breath, their bodies rigid, watching the sky. Dragons had been extinct for nearly a century and a half; to see them now, cutting through the freezing northern wind, was like watching the legends of the Dawn Age step out of the tapestries.
A biting wind howled off the ice, but it could not stop the cold sweat from breaking out on the foreheads of the armored knights.
Viserion was the first to descend.
During his long voyage from the humid ports of Slaver's Bay to the freezing shores of the North, his appetite had grown insatiable, and his mass had nearly doubled. His spiky, horn-crowned head was now large enough to swallow a sheep whole. When his silver-white, gold-flecked wings spread to catch the draft, they spanned over twenty meters, casting a massive, predatory shadow over the courtyard.
He landed with a thunderous thud that shook the wooden gantries of the keep, his sleek, thirty-meter-long body steaming in the freezing air. The warhorses in the nearby stables began to whinny in absolute, primal terror, snapping their tethers, which finally broke the spell of paralysis hanging over the courtyard.
Knights and guardsmen instinctively tightened their grips on their spears and swords.
Stannis Baratheon drew Lightbringer. The blade glowed with its characteristic, unnatural radiance, but his grey-blue eyes held only shock. Jon Snow had announced that the "Winter Wizard" had gone to Essos to bring back the Targaryen dragons to defend the Wall. Stannis had dismissed it as a Northern exaggeration, a fool's hope.
Yet here the beast was, its golden eyes staring down at him.
Stannis looked at the silver dragon, then at Melisandre, his mind racing. He thought of his empty treasury, the coming war, and the "stone dragon" the Red Priestess had promised. Does awakening a dragon truly require king's blood? he wondered, his gaze drifting toward the memory of Edric Storm. If the Targaryens had three of these monsters, Stannis knew he would need his own fire if he ever hoped to hold his crown.
Before the tension could snap, Eddard Karstark leaped down from Viserion's neck, his black-and-gold cloak snapping behind him.
He ignored Stannis's scowl. He knew the Baratheon was already calculating the logistics of a second rebellion.
Eddard strode directly to Jon Snow. "Tell your men to stand down, Lord Commander. We have more guests in the air, and they don't like the look of drawn steel."
Jon Snow shook himself out of his daze. Since his resurrection and his encounters with the dead, his nerves had grown as hard as the Wall itself. "Put down your weapons!" Jon roared, his voice carrying over the din of the panicked horses. "Back to your stations! These are allies! They have brought the fire we need to burn the dead!"
The Northern veterans and the Night's Watchmen slowly lowered their blades, though they kept their eyes fixed on the silver beast.
Viserion raised his slender neck and let out a clear, metallic roar that vibrated the very ice of the Wall.
A moment later, two answering roars echoed from the clouds.
Drogon, the largest of the three, descended like a falling mountain of black jade. When Daenerys Targaryen, clad in a practical black wool tunic and a heavy bearskin cloak stepped down from his neck, Rhaegal landed beside them, his green-and-bronze scales shimmering in the pale winter sun.
The three dragons stood in the courtyard, their sulfurous breath turning the falling snow into a thick mist. Slowly, as if guided by a single instinct, their heads turned toward Jon Snow. Their nostrils twitched, sniffing the air, their golden and bronze eyes locking onto the young Lord Commander.
Daenerys noticed her children's unusual behavior. Her violet eyes shifted to Jon, studying his long, solemn face. He looked like a Stark - grey eyes, dark hair, and a quiet, northern gravity but Drogon's sudden, curious affection was not a lie. Dragons only smelled one thing when they looked at a man like that.
Blood of the Dragon, she thought, her heart skipping a beat.
Stannis, Yohn Royce, and the other veteran lords of the South stood in a silent, rigid line. To them, the silver hair and purple eyes of the girl were an alarm. The Mad King's family had been driven out less than twenty years ago, and the scars of that war were still fresh on their shields.
To break the silent, dangerous staring contest, Eddard stepped between them.
"My Lords," Eddard's voice boomed. "Allow me to introduce our ally. This is Daenerys Targaryen, Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons, and the Liberator of the Free Bay."
Stannis sneered, his hand still resting on Lightbringer. "An ally? Or a conqueror who intends to use those beasts to reclaim her father's melted chair?"
"Put away your suspicion, Stannis," Eddard said, his voice flat and dangerous. "I gave you King's Landing so the South wouldn't burn. Daenerys is here to fight the dead. Once the Others are broken, she returns to her own empire in the East. She has no use for your iron chair."
Daenerys offered a shallow, regal nod of agreement, though her gaze remained fixed on Jon Snow.
"I will be watching," Stannis ground out. "The Stag does not sleep when the Dragon is in the yard."
"Suit yourself," Eddard shrugged. He scanned the crowd until he found the face he had been searching for.
Robb Stark stood near the timber frame of the keep, his grey eyes clear and steady. He offered Eddard a small, knowing smile. Eddard nodded back, the silent understanding between the "Wizard" and the "Greenseer" passing between them without a word.
"Eddard," Jon Snow said, stepping forward. "Where do we put them? Black Castle doesn't have stables for monsters."
Drogon let out a huff of sulfur, his tail lashing the mud. With a sudden beat of their wings, the three dragons took to the sky, disappearing into the white fog of the forest.
"They don't need stables, Jon," Eddard chuckled, watching them go. "They are smart enough to hunt the sheep we've herded along the road. Just have the builders set up large wooden frames covered in hides near the camp, and keep a bonfire burning. They don't like the frost."
"I'll have the builders get on it," Jon said, then gestured toward the main keep. "The council is waiting. We've opened the Shield Hall."
The Shield Hall was a monument to the ancient pride of the Night's Watch.
It was a long, cavernous dining hall built of black granite, its massive oak rafters blackened by centuries of grease and peat smoke. In the old days, when the Watch was ten thousand strong, every knight who took the black would hang his colorful family shield upon the walls, replacing it with a plain black shield of the brotherhood. When a brother died, his shield was taken down and burned with his corpse.
Today, the walls were mostly bare, a sad reflection of a dying order. But as the lords of the Seven Kingdoms filed in, the hall was filled with a different kind of color. Banners of every great house were draped over the benches, creating a vibrant, chaotic mosaic of a unified realm.
Maester Aemon sat near the central hearth, his blind eyes closed as he listened to the clatter of plates and the scraping of iron chairs.
At the massive round table on the raised dais sat the leadership of the world:
The West & the Trident: Eddard Karstark, representing the Riverlands and his own crown, with Sansa's representative, Tytos Blackwood, beside him.
The Dragon: Daenerys Targaryen, her silver hair a stark contrast to her black furs.
The North: Rickard Karstark, representing King Bran Stark, alongside Wendel Manderly of White Harbor. Young Rickon Stark sat near them, his hand buried in Shaggydog's thick black fur, with Jojen and Meera Reed standing watch. Howland Reed sat quietly nearby, his eyes fixed on the floor.
The Reach: Mace Tyrell, his plump face contorted in disgust at the smell of salt fish and wet wool. Beside him sat Randyll Tarly, his eyes locked onto Heartbreaker at Eddard's hip, though the memory of the giants kept his tongue silent.
The South: Stannis Baratheon, flanked by Melisandre and Monford Velaryon.
The Vale: Bronze Yohn Royce and his heir, Andar, remaining silent and watchful.
Dorne: Prince Oberyn Martell, casually cleaning his nails with a slender stiletto.
Jon Snow stood at the head of the table. Tormund Giantsbane, sitting to his left, took out his massive warhorn and blew a single, deafening blast that silenced the room.
"My Lords," Jon Snow began, his voice carrying through the rafters. "Most of those who can fight have arrived. We must count our strength."
"The Stormlands and the Crownlands have brought $20,000$ men," Stannis declared, his tone cold and precise. "Ten thousand pikes, four thousand heavy horse, four thousand archers, and two thousand support. My fleet is carrying the grain."
"The Reach has brought 20,000," Mace Tyrell boasted, adjusting his velvet collar. "Ten thousand infantry, five thousand cavalry, and five thousand bows."
"Dorne has sent 10,000 spearmen," Oberyn noted, not looking up from his nails.
"The North has 15,000," Rickard Karstark said. "Ten thousand from Winterfell, and five thousand from the Dreadfort under the Greatjon."
"The Riverlands have 15,000," Tytos Blackwood added.
"And the West has 20,000 infantry currently assembled at the Golden Tooth," Eddard concluded. "The Vale has sent 10,000 cavalry."
Eddard calculated the numbers, a thin, sharp smile touching his lips. "That is over 110,000 combat-ready men gathered at this Wall."
"And my people," Tormund boomed, slamming a fist on the table. "The Free Folk will contribute 10,000 spears."
"There is nothing to celebrate," Stannis interrupted, his voice a bucket of cold water over their pride. He stood up, his gaze sweeping the table. "An army of 120,000 men at the end of the world is not a victory, it is a logistical nightmare. Every horse and man eats every single day. The stores we have will last three months at best. After that, we either starve or we retreat."
Stannis leaned forward, his knuckles white against the dark wood. "We have three months to win this war. If we do not break them before the deep snows block the Kings Road, this army will dissolve into a horde of starving beggars."
He looked at Eddard. "Do we march? Do we take the fight into the trees?"
Stannis was about to ask for the vanguard when Robb Stark, who had been sitting in the corner with his eyes closed, suddenly opened them. His Tully blue eyes held an ancient, hollow stillness that didn't belong to a young man.
"It is too late," Robb said, his voice quiet but carrying a weight that silenced the room. "The gates of the night have opened. They are already marching."
[System Notification: Narrative Event: The Council of the Shield Hall.]
[Strategic Status: Unified Westerosi Host (120,000 combatants) assembled.]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.