The Imperial exploration fleet was nearly annihilated, with only the Dragonhead flagship surviving. Yet it was this battered vessel that returned with the precious sea route to the continent of Sothoryos.
Within the Targaryen dynasty, undercurrents stirred. Many of Dragonseed blood, unable to tame the Wyverns, had no choice but to remain in hiding, waiting for their chance. Now, with the charts brought back by Lady Meredith, the people of Westeros finally possessed a viable path to Sothoryos. The gold, spices, and other rare goods of that distant land filled their hearts with desire.
Still, more than the Sothoryos charts, the Emperor longed for what Lady Meredith might bring back of the Shadow Lands—Asshai. This had been one of Aegon's greatest aims in launching the voyage.
It was said that the closer one drew to Asshai, the more grotesque and twisted the creatures became. According to the maesters of the Dragon Tower at the New Citadel, Asshai was a city utterly steeped in magic. There gathered every kind of extraordinary practitioner: warlocks, wizards, alchemists, Moonsingers, red priests, dark mages, necromancers, aeromancers, pyromancers, bloodmages...
Each passing year, the daylight hours in Westeros grew shorter. Aegon sought every possible means to strengthen his power. For when the dread Long Night descended, it would not bring only endless darkness, but also a host of malevolent magical creatures breeding in the shadows. The White Walkers were but one of the better-known horrors among them.
Soon after, the second exploration fleet was swiftly assembled. Unlike the first, this one was not personally raised by the Emperor, but instead formed voluntarily by the lords of Westeros. Armed with the new charts, the fleet was vast—nearly a hundred ships, most of them merchant vessels and hunting boats. They would sail for Sothoryos, seeking whatever riches could be found.
Ser Eustace Hightower was named commander of the fleet. Now renowned across Westeros as a navigator, he carried the heavy burden of opening the Targaryen dynasty's maritime silk road.
The sixtieth year of the Conquest was destined to be one of unease. As autumn faded, the skies darkened, north winds howled, and the bitter cold of winter fell across Westeros. The maesters of the New Citadel, after rigorous study, reached the same conclusion: the winter beginning in the sixtieth year would be abnormally harsh.
Yet strangely, the White Walkers did not advance. Instead, they remained in the Frostfang Mountains, as if wary of something—or waiting for the right moment.
To uncover the truth, the Emperor rode Ghidorah beyond the Wall, watching the White Walkers closely from the skies. As servants of the Cold God, they were nothing like ordinary wights. Tall and withered, their skin pale as milk, they radiated a chilling, eerie aura.
One among them was different. Its skin shone as pale as the moon, its eyes deep and mysterious like blue stars. Aegon could not be sure whether this was the legendary Night King. But from this being he felt a surge of power—vast, terrifying, undeniable.
When he struck at the White Walkers with dragonfire, dozens reacted at once, hurling magic-laced ice spears at Ghidorah. Each spear carried dreadful force, many piercing the dragon's scales with ease. Most wounds were shallow, sparing the organs, yet the danger was plain. That strange White Walker, however, never moved.
After brief thought, Aegon withdrew, unwilling to risk needless peril.
From the Wall, the Emperor issued a call, summoning every lord of Westeros. In answer, several of the royal dragonriders also came to war.
Consort Aerea arrived on the mighty Balerion, the Black Dread.
Consort Rhaella rode into battle upon Grey Ghost.
Queen Alysanne came on Silverwing.
The Emperor's eldest son, Jaehaerys, joined with Meraxes.
The second son, Aemon, came with Caraxes to witness the fight.
The Dowager Empress, Rhaena, mounted Dreamfyre and threw herself into the struggle.
And with the Emperor himself upon Ghidorah, the Targaryens brought forth seven dragons in all—an all-out effort, with victory as their only aim.
The elite dragonborn and warriors led by the Seven Great Lords also took their positions, standing ready for battle.
This time, under the command of Regalus, the humans of Westeros launched a preemptive strike. They crossed the Wall and marched toward the Frostfang Mountains. The decision to strike first was made because winter had only just begun, and the temperatures had not yet plunged to extreme levels. If this winter were to last for years, the war against the White Walkers would become far more arduous. Thus, Regalus' decision received unanimous approval from all the lords.
This was undoubtedly a war of overwhelming disparity in strength. Six Dragons soared above like six towering peaks, circling the skies over the Frostfang Mountains with the crushing might of mountains themselves. The mightiest Dragonlord of the realm—Balerion, at the height of his power—personally led the charge.
Under the command of the awakened dragonborn Aerea, the colossal two-hundred-meter-long beast descended from the heavens. The undying black flames erupting from its jaws crashed upon the White Walkers like a surging tidal wave. Ordinary wights disintegrated the instant the black fire touched them, reduced to drifting ash. The White Walkers resisted a little longer, but in the end, they too perished. The ice spears they hurled at Balerion left nothing more than shallow scratches upon his hardened scales.
This was the kind of war Aegon excelled at—he reveled in such crushing, one-sided dominance. The six Dragons bombarded the enemy in turn, while at the foot of the Frostfang Mountains, elite soldiers led by dragonborn and warriors had already sealed off the area. Not a single wight could escape.
The White Walkers kept launching ice spears into the sky, but their efforts achieved little. Only Dreamfyre, with her weaker defenses, suffered a piercing wound. Aegon immediately ordered Rhaena to withdraw her from the battle to avoid further risk. The other Dragons sustained only minor injuries. Striking a Dragon's eye or the vulnerable artery in its neck was harder than winning the grandest of lotteries.
The battle raged fiercely, dragon roars shaking the heavens. The towering Moon-White Walker, sensing it was cornered, began to retreat into the throng of White Walkers, attempting a breakout down the mountain.
At the mountain's base, tens of thousands of warriors from the Seven Kingdoms stood ready, armed with Dragonglass weapons. These dragonborn and soldiers were the elite, chosen from thousands. Though some casualties were inevitable when facing the White Walkers, their Dragonglass blades, which could pierce and destroy them, held firm against the relentless assault. With the added support of five Dragons in the skies, the tide of battle gradually turned in humanity's favor.
When Regalus rose from Ghidorah's back, fully awakening and joining the fray, the battle's outcome was sealed.
For the first time, Regalus unleashed his full might, allowing the lords of Westeros to truly witness divine power as vast as the sea, and divine punishment as inescapable as a prison.
In the skies, Regalus' Burning Steel power erupted in full force. Dozens of phantom forms burst from his figure at once, each indistinguishable from a true body. Every phantom coalesced, struck with a devastating blow, and then dissolved into nothingness. Each strike cut down a White Walker.
And along the path that Regalus carved toward the King of the Dead, White Walkers and wights fell like wheat before the scythe, leaving behind a terrifying corridor of emptiness, devoid of all life.
As Regalus clashed with the White Walker King, he raised the Blackfyre Sword high with both hands. Flames roared to life along the blade.
The sword-shaped inferno surged skyward like a colossal torch, rising over a hundred meters high and casting its glow across the gray heavens until the sky blazed as bright as noon. When Regalus swung the hundred-meter flame-sword down, the heat was like a sun crashing to earth. The White Walker King below was cleaved and incinerated in an instant, reduced to nothing but ash.
The fiery strike struck the ground with a thunderous roar. A scorched trench split open in its wake, filled with flowing, molten lava that radiated suffocating waves of heat.
Too terrifying.
This was the thought echoing through the minds of nearly every Westerosi lord on the battlefield. They realized that no human could ever hope to contend with a being like Regalus. Such inhuman might was beyond mortal reach.
Once, they had clung to the hope that through relentless training, warriors might one day rival him. Now, all such fantasies were utterly extinguished. In their hearts, Regalus was invincible.
Aegon frowned, fixing his gaze on the place where the White Walker King had stood. He sensed a strange divinity lingering there—something unlike anything he had felt before, save for the Outer God.
He flew down to the chalk-like ashes that remained of his foe, closing his eyes as he reached out to the essence still clinging to the air.
"Cold God," he murmured, "is this your divinity?"
But then Aegon noticed something troubling. The death of this massive White Walker had not brought down the rest. The other wights and specters fought on.
That could mean only one thing: this so-called White Walker King was not the source of them all. At most, he was only an elite creature. If he had truly been the Night King, then the moment he perished, all those raised by his magic should have fallen as well.
Aegon sighed.
Though the Night King had not been slain, mankind had secured a vital victory.
The maesters traveling with the host named the battle the "Battle of Frostfang." Under Regalus' leadership, humanity had crushed the Night King's vanguard and won its first triumph in the war against the gods.
After the battle, Regalus held a grand feast at Castle Black. There, he delivered a solemn warning to all his bannermen: the prophecy of the Long Night was real. It was a catastrophe that all of humanity must face together.
Now, they must exhaust every resource and seize every chance to strengthen themselves. Terrifying magical beings like the White Walkers would not appear just once. In time, more powerful gods would join the coming apocalypse against mankind.
Humanity's time was running out.
...
In the aftermath, winter deepened, forcing a reduction of the garrison at the Wall. The North could no longer sustain so many men under such conditions. Even the mighty Targaryen dynasty could not keep more than a hundred thousand soldiers stationed at the Wall indefinitely, exposed to the endless cold.
As temperatures plunged, the North bore the brunt of the season's wrath. Crops withered, streams froze under thick layers of ice, and the wind screamed across the land like a raging beast.
Alaric Stark had long ago decreed that half of every harvest be stored to prepare for such winters. Yet not all his bannermen had obeyed. Now, as meat cellars and granaries emptied, famine spread through the North.
The old, desperate to give their kin a chance at survival, said their farewells and walked into the storm to meet death in the snow.
The Riverlands, the Westerlands, and the Vale all suffered meager harvests, and even the fertile Reach was not spared. Those who had food hoarded it, driving bread prices higher and sending the cost of meat soaring.
In the towns, fruits and vegetables had long since vanished from the markets, and life grew ever more difficult for the people.
It was then that a dreadful sickness appeared—signaling that the Stranger had returned to the world.