292 AC
Beyond The Wall
Third Person POV
The bitter winds of the Far North whipped against the desolate, crumbling structures of Hardhome. It was a place synonymous with death, a haunted ruin of shattered huts and crumbling watchtowers, long abandoned by all living men. Yet, a solitary ship had defied the icy currents and jagged shores, docking its dark, ominous hull against the splintered remains of a pier.
Its sails, made of an unsettlingly dark canvas, bore a chilling emblem: a **golden kraken**. It was a sigil known to any reputable house in Westeros.
At the ship's prow stood **Euron Greyjoy**, the Crow's Eye. He was a figure of unsettling charisma and palpable madness, his single visible eye, a cold, calculating , scanning the bleak landscape before him. The other eye remained hidden beneath a leather patch, a testament to rumored horrors seen in distant, forbidden lands.
He stood perfectly still, his long, dark coat whipping around him in the relentless wind. In his hand, clutched tight, was an object of terrifying power: a **dragonhorn**. Its obsidian surface seemed to drink the light, and faint, unsettling runes glowed softly along its length, pulsating with a dark, binding energy.
Above him, circling in the frigid, grey sky, were the **twenty wild dragons** from Dragonstone. They were magnificent, terrifying creatures of fire and scale, but they were not soaring freely, not hunting with their usual predatory grace. They moved clumsily, struggling against an invisible, agonizing force.
Their massive wings beat heavily, their roars were not of defiance or dominance, but of distress, low guttural growls of pain and reluctance. Their eyes, normally bright with draconic intelligence, were dulled, haunted by an unseen torment.
They spiraled, dipped, and veered, clearly wanting to break free, to fly away from the oppressive cold and the unseen tormentor. Yet, they were bound. Invisibly, inextricably, to the horn in Euron's hand.
The air around them thrummed with the raw power of the dragonhorn, a constant, agonizing thrum that vibrated through their very bones. They fought it, great beasts of fire and fury, but the horn's dark magic was stronger. It was a physical constraint, a magical chain that tethered their wills to Euron's command.
Smoke, black and acrid, occasionally billowed from their nostrils, not from aggression, but from exertion, from their constant, futile struggle against the unseen bonds. Their struggles were visible, heartbreaking, for such proud creatures.
Euron merely watched them, a thin, cruel smile playing on his lips, a look of profound, unsettling satisfaction in his single visible eye.
Below the tortured dragons, the few remaining Ironborn crew who were raised from dead on Euron's ship moved like hushed shadows, their faces pale, their blue eyes without emotion.
The cold was absolute. Euron, however, seemed impervious to it, his skin seemingly drinking in the frigid air, as if it fueled his dark ambition.
He spent two days at Hardhome, merely resting, observing his bound treasures. The dragons circled constantly, their torment a low, mournful drone in the otherwise silent desolation.
On the third day, Euron Greyjoy gave a commanded to his undead soldier. The ship, with the captive dragons reluctantly hovering above it, began its arduous journey **further North**. They were entering the **Land of Always Winter**, a place of myth and terror, a realm utterly devoid of living warmth.
The landscape transformed rapidly. The meager, snow-dusted trees of the Haunted Forest gave way to vast, open plains of unbroken ice and snow. Jagged, black mountains, sharp as dragon teeth, pierced the pale, sunless sky.
The cold deepened, became an all-encompassing presence, a physical entity that bit at exposed skin and turned breath to instant frost. The wind howled, a relentless, mournful lament across the desolate wastes.
The dragons struggled more intensely now. Their fiery breath was instantly consumed by the frigid air, their massive bodies shivered uncontrollably despite their natural heat. They were creatures of fire, forced into a domain of absolute ice, their very essence rebelling against the environment.
Yet, they continued to move. The dragonhorn in Euron's hand pulsed with a darker, more insistent glow. He would raise it, point it, and the dragons, with tortured shrieks and desperate beatings of their wings, would comply, their struggles a testament to the horn's agonizing power over them.
The ship below them, too, fought the journey. Its hull scraped against unseen ice flows, its engines strained against the thick, frozen waters. It was a painstaking, slow progress, each mile an arduous battle against the unforgiving elements.
Euron remained on deck, a solitary, defiant figure against the overwhelming desolation. He seemed to draw strength from the cold, his madness only deepening as they plunged further into the frozen heart of the world.
He rarely slept, his visible eye always scanning the horizon, an unsettling excitement burning within it. The silence of the Land of Always Winter was absolute, broken only by the mournful roars of the dragons and the creaking of the ship's timbers.
For **two days**, they traveled through this frozen hell. Two days of relentless cold, of the dragons' agonizing compliance, of Euron's unwavering, insane purpose. They were journeying to a destination known only to him, and to the ancient evil he sought.
Finally, after an eternity of frozen landscape, the ship ground to a halt. The air was utterly still, the wind having died completely, replaced by a silence so profound it seemed to press in on the very soul. A chilling, unnatural cold emanated from the horizon, a cold that seeped into the bones and stole the breath.
Before them, stretching as far as the eye could see, was a vast, desolate plain of black ice. And on it, waiting, stood an assembly of chilling figures. Tall, gaunt, their bodies covered in ancient, crystalline armor, their eyes glowing with an eerie, cerulean light. The **White Walkers**.
And at their center, an even more terrifying figure. Imposing, silent, cloaked in ice and shadow. The **Night King**. His crown of jagged ice, his skeletal face, and his piercing blue eyes held an ancient, malevolent power that dwarfed all other horrors. He was stillness personified, death given form.
Euron Greyjoy stepped off his ship, his boots crunching on the ice. He walked towards the Night King, his stride confident, almost gleeful. The twenty wild dragons, still bound by the horn, hovered uneasily above the scene, their distress palpable, their roars echoing weakly in the desolate silence.
He stopped a respectful distance from the Night King. Then, with a dramatic flourish, Euron reached up and removed his leather eye patch. His empty socket was gone. In its place, a single, glowing **blue eye** stared out, an exact replica of the Night King's own, shining with an unholy, chilling light. It was a sign of his transformation, his allegiance.
With a final, theatrical flourish, Euron sank to one knee, bending his head in submission. "My King," Euron's voice resonated, oddly calm, utterly devoid of fear, filled only with manic subservience. "I have brought the servants for you." He gestured upwards, to the struggling dragons, his ultimate gift.
The Night King remained utterly motionless, a silent, terrifying presence. His chilling blue gaze swept over the dragons, assessing them. He could see their varying sizes, their raw power, their tormented struggle against the horn.
His gaze lingered on the largest of them all, a colossal beast with black scales and ancient scars, a dragon known only as **Cannibal**, the fiercest and most untamable of the wild dragons of Dragonstone. It was larger than any of the Targaryen's ridden dragons, a true force of nature.
The next largest dragons were roughly the **size of Vermithor**, great, powerful beasts, their bodies heavy even in their aerial torment. From there, the dragons' sizes diminished, until the smallest were no larger than a horse, mere hatchlings grown to adolescent proportions.
The Night King's eyes, devoid of any emotion save for cold, ancient purpose, finally settled. With a slow, deliberate movement, he raised his hand. From the very air, from the pure essence of ice, a **spear** materialized in his grasp. It was a shard of impossible ice, sharp as dragon glass, shimmering with an unearthly blue light.
The Night King raised the spear, his arm moving with an unnerving, effortless grace. He then hurled it. Not at Euron, not at the White Walkers. But at **Cannibal**.
The ice spear flew true, a silent, deadly projectile. It pierced Cannibal's massive, scaly neck with a sickening thud, puncturing scales and flesh. The great dragon let out a single, agonizing shriek, a sound of pure agony and confusion. Its immense body spasmed, then went rigid.
Cannibal, the largest, fiercest wild dragon, plunged from the sky, hitting the black ice with a deafening crash that reverberated across the plain, sending cracks spiderwebbing outwards. It lay still, its breath stolen, its fiery life extinguished. **Cannibal was dead**.
The other White Walkers, their own blue eyes glowing, began to move. In a horrifying, coordinated act, they too summoned ice spears from the air. With chilling precision, they hurled them at the remaining nineteen dragons.
The dragons, still bound by the pervasive magic of Euron's horn, could not escape. They writhed, shrieked, and struggled with desperate, futile effort, their attempts to dodge or flee thwarted by the unseen chains that held their wills captive. Spear after spear flew, piercing flesh, puncturing vital organs.
One by one, with tormented roars and silent plunges, **all the dragons died**. Their massive bodies lay sprawled across the ice, lifeless, their scales dulled, their fire gone. The great creatures of flame, once symbols of life and power, were now mere corpses in a landscape of death.
The Night King, his face utterly devoid of expression, then raised his arms slowly. A chilling, unnatural cold swept across the plains, a wave of dark magic that radiated from him, chilling the very air, stealing the warmth from the living and drawing power from the dead.
The eyes of the fallen dragons, previously dull and lifeless, snapped open. But they were no longer the eyes of living creatures. They glowed with an eerie, vibrant blue light, the same chilling hue as the Night King's own eyes.
Their broken bodies shuddered. Muscles, once rigid, began to twitch. With a collective, groaning sound, the **dragons rose**. They were no longer living beasts; they were horrors of ice and death. Their scales were coated in rime, their wings torn in places, their movements stiff, unnatural.
They were **undead dragons**, **part of the dead army**, terrifying, unholy creatures of the Night King. Their roars, when they came, were not sounds of fire and fury, but chilling, guttural howls, devoid of life, filled only with the cold malice of their new master.
The Night King lowered his arms, his silent gaze once more falling upon Euron Greyjoy. With a slow, deliberate movement, the Night King extended a hand, his icy fingers reaching for Euron's face.
He placed his hand on **Euron Greyjoy's brow**. A surge of unimaginable cold, a blast of raw, necromantic power, coursed through Euron's body. It was a dark gift, a chilling empowerment.
Euron's single blue eye flared even brighter. A horrifying, ecstatic grin split his face. The cold, the pain, the sheer, overwhelming power, seemed to ignite the deepest depths of his madness.
He threw back his head and began to **laugh manically**. It was a high-pitched, guttural cackle, echoing across the frozen plains, a sound of pure, unbridled insanity and triumph. He had achieved his ultimate desire: true power.
"My King!" Euron shrieked, his voice filled with a horrifying glee, his blue eye blazing. "They are yours! And now... I will look every part of this land! Every field, every forest, every forgotten grave!"
"And I will **revive all the dead**!" Euron cackled, his voice rising to a fever pitch. "Every fallen warrior, every long-dead fishmen, every frozen corpse! They will serve! They will join your army! The living will tremble! The Realm will fall!"
The Night King merely looked at Euron, his own expression unchanging, his gaze cold and ancient. He gave a single, slow, **nod**. It was a silent, terrifying affirmation, a release for Euron to unleash his dark, new power.
Euron bowed deeply, his manic laughter still echoing. He then turned, moving towards a dead horse, its eyes now glowing blue, waiting patiently nearby. He mounted the skeletal steed, his figure dark against the pale, endless ice.
With a final, triumphant cackle, Euron spurred the dead horse, riding off into the desolate, frozen landscape. His mission: to **search every part of the land of always winter for living things** that could be turned, for dead things that could be raised. His laughter continued to echo, a chilling harbinger of the doom he now carried across the unforgiving lands, ushering in a Long Night darker than any before.