A Song of Ice and Fire: Wrath of the Sleeping Dragon

"I desire nothing more than the light of the true god to return to this earth, Your Majesty," Moqorro responded, his heart pounding intensely upon hearing Viserys' words.

He knew that if he had requested some not-too-outrageous conditions just now, they would likely have been granted. However, Moqorro's thoughts only wavered for a moment before steadying once more.

"By the way," he added, "I have prepared a gift for you as well."

Moqorro then summoned those outside to enter. His accompanying Fiery Hand members carried a black, massive horn, its curved lines stretching a full eight feet long. The wide opening could easily accommodate a person's entire forearm, and ancient symbols were inlaid on the horn with gold, though they had faded to a brownish hue due to age.

"This is the Horn of Winter," Moqorro explained. "Legend has it that Joramun, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, blew the Horn of Winter, awakening the giants beneath the earth and ending the Night King's reign."

Back when Mance Rayder had blown the Horn of Winter, it had brought down the Wall. Since then, this divine artifact had vanished without a trace, its whereabouts unknown.

Viserys had also attempted to track down the Horn of Winter, but he only knew that it had been transported overseas by someone, without any clear idea of who was responsible. Thus, he had no choice but to let the matter rest.

However, to his surprise, the Horn of Winter had been in the possession of the Red Faith all along.

Moqorro not only provided the method for constructing black stone buildings but also presented the divine artifact capable of bringing down the Wall—the Horn of Winter. He then departed from the Wall once more, his destination unknown.

Upon examining the method provided by Moqorro, Viserys immediately understood.

The Valyrian method of constructing black stone buildings was indeed not something others could learn, as the primary condition could not be met. Thus, it had naturally vanished in the long river of history.

"Firstly, the dragonflame of an adult dragon is needed to melt the unyielding stone," Viserys mused.

"Then, the unique magic of the Valyrian nobility must be employed."

Viserys knew that this magic, unique to the Valyrian nobility, was the black mist within his body. All Valyrian dragonlords seemed to possess an innate mastery of this magic. However, after the Doom, this magic had been lost.

When Viserys had entered the city of Valyria, he had once encountered a dragon king who had lost control of his magical transformation.

The dragon king had served as a warning, making Viserys even consider abandoning the black mist magic at one point.

However, according to the intelligence he had gradually gathered, the black mist magic mastered by the Valyrian nobility was suspected to be connected to the underworld. Even dragons might be closely related to the fire-breathing worms beneath the Fourteen Flames of Valyria. They had come from the underworld together, which was why dragons were so close to the dragonlord families.

The collapse of the Fourteen Flames of Valyria and the arrival of the Doom were also suspected to be related to the underworld.

The mysterious underworld, the accompanying black mist, the sudden rise of the Valyrians from an ordinary nomadic people, and their instant demise all seemed like a riddle.

However, with the increasing evidence Viserys had found to support his theories, these riddles were gradually approaching a resolution.

Time passed in the blink of an eye, and the long night continued to envelop the land. Compared to the chaos and wars erupting in other parts of the world, the central part of Essos had now turned into a living hell. In contrast, Westeros, the heartland and capital of the rebuilt Valyrian Empire, remained peaceful and harmonious, without much turmoil.

This was because His Majesty the Emperor was wise and mighty, and the imperial leadership had made ample preparations for the disaster. After the calamity struck, they had swiftly implemented measures to stabilize the people's hearts.

At the sealed Blackwater Bay port in King's Landing, Willas Tyrell, acting as the Master of Coin, leaned on a crutch, gazing at the distant, pitch-black sea. Beside him stood a short figure—none other than Tyrion Lannister.

"So, if we unite, we will overcome this disaster?" Tyrion asked, standing beneath the blazing torches.

This was the only source of light in the entire port. Ever since the long night had descended, not only did food need to be rationed, but torches had to be conserved as well.

The rations distributed by the imperial government were barely sufficient to stave off starvation, let alone provide a full and satisfying meal.

Although the granaries in the Riverlands could achieve four harvests a year, with the granaries overflowing even during the perennial summers, now that the long night had fallen, no one would complain about having too much food. No one knew how long the long night would last.

If, as recorded in the ancient books, the long night were to persist for a generation, not only commoners but even the nobles in the castles would starve to death by then.

"Hard to say, Lord Tyrion," Willas sighed, leaning on his crutch. "We are the first people in eight thousand years to witness the arrival of the long night. We don't know how things will unfold in the future."

"The records in the ancient texts may not be accurate either."

Willas had grown up in Oldtown and naturally knew that many parts of the history recorded by the First Men were unreliable. The First Men lacked a written language and only used symbols, which later generations could not understand and had to guess and record based on their interpretations.

"Fortunately, this time, the disaster has not descended upon Westeros," Willas added.

"Indeed, we're lucky that these monsters haven't come to trouble us again this time," Tyrion remarked, shrugging his small shoulders. His diminutive figure cast a long shadow in the torchlight.

"But I heard they have appeared on the other side of the world."

"That's why these people have all come to King's Landing seeking aid," Tyrion said.

"Do you think we should accede to their requests?"

Willas' face displayed a pensive expression.

In fact, it was not a simple question. Many years ago, when Westeros faced the attack of the White Walkers, the magisters, wealthy merchants, and others from the Free Cities had not offered much assistance to the Seven Kingdoms, mostly remaining as bystanders.

Now that they themselves were facing a crisis, they had thought of banding together and running to King's Landing to beg for help, even with a hint of ganging up to pressure the crown.

From an emotional perspective, Willas had no desire to agree. He disliked the opportunistic merchants who only cared about profits, just as Tywin had once said that wars should be fought with hard steel, not soft gold.

The traditional nobles of Westeros did not hold the overseas merchants in high regard, as they lacked honor and restraint, acting with wanton abandon. Moreover, the noble titles in Westeros signified the prosperity of families spanning hundreds and thousands of years, something that temporary wealth could not compare to. The heritage between the two was different.

However, if one were to approach the matter rationally, considering the safety of all humanity, eliminating the White Walkers as soon as possible might be the only way to end the eternal night.

But before Willas could voice his answer, faint lights gradually appeared on the distant sea.

"They're here," Tyrion announced, and Willas' expression instantly turned solemn as he raised his head.