Dany sat silently on the ledge of the Ice Tower, gazing out toward the horizon where the world was an endless expanse of shimmering white snow. Her hand gently brushed through her platinum hair. In the distance, the dragon Drogon turned his head toward the White Citadel, letting out occasional roars of joy. His massive wings beat rhythmically, creating tempests that sent flora, earth, and ice flying. He was far too gargantuan to approach the Citadel itself.

  Tormund IV, accompanied by two Red Priestesses and the direwolf, stood behind Dany, waiting.

  "Tell me, why did your ancestors choose to guard the White Citadel?" Dany asked suddenly, causing Tormund to startle in confusion.

  "I am not entirely sure, my lady. I only know what the ancestors passed down—that without you, Westeros would have succumbed to the Long Night. I also heard that if you and Drogon hadn't saved my forefather Tormund, he’d have been 'dead as a doornail.' There would’ve been no time for him to wed or father children, and I certainly wouldn't be standing here now." Tormund IV scratched his head, rambling on with a toothy grin.

  "Do not address me as 'Your Grace.' I am no longer a Queen," Dany said mournfully.

  "You are the Queen of my entire kin," Tormund declared, lifting his head high with conviction.

  "Queen..." Dany felt a sudden pang in her heart as a blurred rush of memories flooded back. Words, promises, oaths... "You are my Queen."... "Jon Snow," Dany whispered, her fists clenching. She bit her lip, tears welling in her violet eyes—eyes tinged with a faint shade of blue that could only be seen upon the closest inspection.

  "Why did you resurrect me?" Dany took a breath, struggling for composure as she turned to Lyana.

  Jasmine glanced briefly at Lyana, Tormund, and the direwolf. Lyana smiled at Dany and reached into her cloak, pulling out a small dagger and holding it before her. At a glance, it looked ordinary, but a closer look revealed a tiny, shimmering black streak at the tip.

  "This dagger..." Dany stammered, feeling a sharp pain in her chest.

  "This dagger was driven into your heart. The tip is embedded with Dragonglass," Lyana said solemnly, staring at the blade.

  "Seven hells!" Tormund IV cried out in panic. He instinctively leaped back, raising his dragonglass axe in a defensive stance. The direwolf followed suit, retreating with fur bristling and teeth bared in a snarl.

  According to the legends Tormund IV had heard, when dragonglass pierces the heart, the victim becomes a White Walker—a Night King—the terror of Westeros.

  Jasmine frowned at Lyana and Dany. Dany herself stood frozen; she had heard these tales as well. But why hadn't she become the most terrifying entity on the continent?

  "Why did I not become a Night King?" Dany asked, her eyes narrowing.

  "Because you are the Daughter of the Lord of Light, the chosen one to stand against the darkness, the cold, and death," Lyana smiled, reaching out to take Dany’s hand.

  Tormund IV finally calmed down, slowly lowering his axe. He let out a long sigh and muttered, "Forgive me, my lady."

  "Stop calling me Queen! I do not want to be a Queen. I have had enough!" Dany snapped, turning away and retreating into the depths of the Great Hall, leaving the group behind.

  Jasmine, Tormund IV, and the direwolf looked to Lyana. Lyana smiled, shaking her head slightly. "She needs time to find her footing," she whispered.

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  Dany sat alone on the ice bed, her eyes heavy with sorrow. The North, Westeros, Tyrion, Sansa, the Night King, Jon Snow, and that fateful blade... centuries had passed, yet it felt like yesterday, as if she had just woken from a deep slumber.

  Why had they treated her that way? Dany couldn't understand; she was terrified of finding the reasons behind Jon's actions. Strangely, the resentment in her heart seemed to have cooled, encased in layers of frost, fading over the hundreds of years. What she craved now was peace—a peace she thought she would finally earn after her tireless struggles.

  Lyana approached with a bowl of soup and set it beside her. "You must eat something. You cannot go on like this; it has been days."

  Dany shook her head. "I don't want to eat. Why did you bring me back? Does your Lord of Light want me to endure more torment?"

  "Everyone has a mission. Death is merely the beginning of another. Soon, all of Westeros and Essos will know of your return. The light of the Lord shall shine upon the endless night," Lyana said.

  "Stop with the nonsense. I want nothing. I only want peace," Dany growled, her blue-violet eyes flickering with the red hue of fire.

  "The holy fire of the Lord of Light still smolders in your veins. It will overcome the frost and the cold. Eventually, you will realize that if you want peace, you must stand and fight," Lyana countered.

  "Fight whom? For what? Have I not fought enough in one lifetime? I lost a husband, a child, my ancestral home, my faith, and my life. Is that not enough?" Dany retorted.

  "No! All those trivial things were merely the beginning of a greater, more meaningful war," Lyana replied sternly.

  Their argument was cut short by a horrific roar that caused the White Citadel to tremble violently. It was Drogon. This roar was not the joy he showed at her resurrection; it was filled with pure, unadulterated rage.

  "Drogon!" Dany cried out, leaping from the ice bed and knocking the soup bowl over. She knew the dragon was sensing an imminent threat.

  Everyone rushed from the hall into the courtyard, looking toward the horizon where Drogon stood with wings unfurled, his neck arched in a terrifying scream. On the horizon, black dots stretched out, slowly growing larger like a line of marching ants.

  "An army!" Jasmine warned.

  "The army of the dead from the legends!!!" Tormund IV screamed, prompting the direwolf to snarl. He seemed haunted by the myths of the Night King.

  "They are here," Lyana said, her eyes fixed on the black dots.

  "Who are they?" Dany asked hesitantly, a wave of anxiety washing over her.

  "The Northern army and the Order of the Old Gods of Brandon Stark," Lyana answered.

  "Brandon Stark? Bran is still alive?" Dany nearly shrieked, her face contorted in horror. How could a mortal man still be alive? Immediately, a sense of unease gripped her. Why would Bran send an army here? It seemed he held a position of immense power.

  "Alive, and very powerful," Lyana nodded, her expression tense. At Lyana’s words, a vague, terrible realization about Brandon began to form in Dany's mind. It made her feel entirely unsafe.

  In the distance, Ser Antony rode a coal-black horse, leading a fierce advance. His host numbered over ten thousand—soldiers from houses loyal to the North and the knights of the Vale. Beside Ser Antony was a black carriage carrying an envoy of the Order of the Old Gods. To the left of the carriage rode a commander of the Night’s Watch.

  At the sound of the dragon’s roar, the army ground to a halt. A wave of murmurs broke out, followed by a creeping dread that enveloped the ten thousand warriors. Ser Antony was equally horrified. He reined in his horse, eyes wide as he looked toward the carriage.

  "You never told us we would be fighting a dragon!?" he shouted.

  The carriage curtain pulled back, and the envoy slowly leaned out, looking toward the White Citadel. The dragon, as massive as a mountain, stood defiantly, beating his wings and roaring in a frenzy. He smelled the danger surrounding Dany.

  "Do not worry. The High Priest has made preparations. Deploy the men," the envoy said calmly.

  Suddenly, the sky was filled with the deafening caws of crows. A vast section of the sky turned pitch black, making the soldiers below feel as if darkness had swallowed the world in an instant. The sound of the crows shook the earth—thousands upon thousands of them, streaming toward the White Citadel.

  "Mother of Mercy," a knight of the Vale stammered. "What in the hell is this? Is the sky falling?"

  "Steady the lines! Form up! Attack formation!" Ser Antony shouted, finding a modicum of confidence in the envoy's words.

  In an instant, signal flags were raised. The army of ten thousand surged forward into formation, stretching across the white wasteland.

  From the White Citadel, Dany trembled, watching Drogon with profound worry. The dragon roared once more, looked back at Dany, shook his massive head, and snorted hot steam. Drogon was ready for the fight—the Battle of the White Citadel.