Viserys Targaryen knew that the victory in this aerial battle was not due to an overwhelming display of power, but rather a contest of Dragonrider skill and wisdom.
He used the most ancient aerial combat techniques of the Dragon family to gradually widen the gap between them, which allowed him to achieve such a lopsided dominance.
But Viserys knew that this was far from over.
The Night King would never die so easily from a fall.
In the hazy, gray storm, he must be holding his ice spear, waiting for Viserys Targaryen's dragon to approach.
"Sunfyre, let's go!"
Viserys Targaryen curled his lips into a smile.
He wasn't here to eliminate the Night King!
Hearing Viserys Targaryen's command, Sunfyre let out a triumphant roar, snatched Bran Stark, and turned to leave.
The dragon's roar echoed in the sky, signaling the temporary end of this aerial battle.
In the blizzard, the Night King stood still, his ice-blue eyes showing a flicker of emotion for the first time.
Just as the Night King was confident that Viserys Targaryen would ambush him from low altitude on his dragon, Viserys Targaryen actually turned and rode away on Sunfyre.
As Viserys Targaryen had declared, he came only to capture Bran Stark, and it had nothing to do with anyone else!
At this thought, a rare look of anger appeared on the Night King's usually calm face—a humiliation akin to that of gods being ignored by mortals.
"We won?"
A nobleman from the North muttered to himself.
"The Dragon King won!"
Lord Roose Bolton's eyes were fixed on the retreating golden dragon as he coldly interrupted Lord Rickard Karstark's muttering.
Although Viserys Targaryen had struck down the Night King, he had not touched the army of wights below in the slightest.
Even with Viserys's enemy, Robert Baratheon, present below, the arrogant Dragon King did not pause, as if all this chaos had nothing to do with him!
What confidence, what arrogance!
The next moment, more dead rose from the snow, endless in number, and chaos descended once more.
Moments ago, people were awestruck by Viserys Targaryen's power, but now they were instantly crushed by an even deeper despair.
After falling from such a great height, the Night King was still unharmed!
The Night King merely stood there, at the epicenter of death, enough to plunge everyone into complete despair.
"Damn it, they're all monsters!"
Greatjon Umber spat angrily, glancing around nervously.
He was not a Dragonrider, nor was he a sorcerer.
Facing unkillable monsters, he had long harbored thoughts of retreat.
"Lord Bolton has fled with his troops!"
Someone in the crowd shouted.
Everyone turned to see a detachment of guards carrying tall flayed man shields retreating in a panic.
A huge gap instantly appeared in the defensive formation.
Fear began to spread like a plague!
Warriors began to drop their weapons and run frantically.
Knights fell from their horses, soldiers threw down their swords, and nobles abandoned banners symbolizing their families.
In the face of pure death, all families and honors were as fragile as a cicada's wing.
"I am... the King!"
Robert Baratheon stumbled out of the pit, only to be trampled by one fleeing soldier after another.
"Ah, I am the K...ing!"
In the chaos, Robert Baratheon's scream was as brief as a snuffed candle.
At this moment, Barristan Selmy was fiercely striking a reanimated giant's corpse with a burning piece of wood, each swing carrying a certain frenzied delight, as if venting all his anger at this messed-up world.
Finally, he spotted the heavily wounded Robert.
"Human courage will be the last bastion."
Samwell Tarly anxiously recited in his heart.
He never imagined that his father, Randal Tarly, would want to send him to The Wall to die as a Night's Watchman.
To hell with courage, he just wanted to live now.
The tide of wights completely overwhelmed their fragile defenses; people ran, fell, got up, and kept running.
Some tried to organize resistance but were immediately swallowed by the wight horde; others knelt in prayer, only to be devoured by death the next second.
Facing such desperate overwhelming power, no one could answer how they were supposed to win.
People only knew that only the retreating dragon's shadow ahead could bring them fleeting light.
The instinct for survival overrode everything.
They abandoned Robert and fled desperately in the direction Viserys Targaryen had departed, leaving the nightmare battlefield behind them to the self-proclaimed invincible false king, Robert.
Viserys Targaryen, however, clutched the dragon saddle and left without looking back.
At this moment, looking at the fleeing black dots below, those ungrateful compatriots, Viserys Targaryen felt as if he was watching a joke.
The overlord of Westeros did not need their understanding, nor their gratitude.
He only needed the first men of the North to remember firmly: in the deepest hour of the Long Night, only the Targaryen Family could bring them life and hope with dragonfire!
Seeing Viserys Targaryen ride away on his dragon, Robert Baratheon's face turned green with rage.
"You're really f***ing leaving!"
Robert Baratheon cursed at the retreating golden dragon.
He scrambled and crawled, never having run like this in his life.
His heavy armor felt like it was filled with lead, and every breath tore at his injured lungs, bringing the metallic taste of rust and ice shards.
He dared not look back, for in the blizzard behind him were countless pairs of ice-blue eyes, and the Night King, whose mere gaze was enough to freeze the soul.
"Damn it! Damn it! The gods-cursed North!"
Robert Baratheon roared, his voice distorted by fear, devoid of any kingly majesty.
He had once scoffed at Mance Rayder's warnings about the Others, dismissing them as bedtime stories to scare children.
But now, the nightmare from those stories was caressing the back of his neck with icy finger bones.
The Wall, that massive ice barrier he once considered a waste of manpower, now became his only pitiful shield.
The fleeing remnants of the Night's Watch, like a driven flock, crowded at the gate.
"Hold the gate! Use fire! Pour all the wildfire down!"
The melancholic man named Edd was shouting, his voice laced with a sob.
After a day and a night, Robert Baratheon finally pushed his way through the crowd and leaned against the stone wall of a tower, gasping for breath.
How ironic. Robert I, King of the Seven Kingdoms, his last stand was this high wall at the end of the world, and his only weapon left was a pair of trembling hands.
Suddenly, he seemed to hear a familiar sound.
The next moment, the clouds tore open, and a shadow composed of frost and death slowly descended.
It was Robert Baratheon's former dragon.
It had once given Robert Baratheon immense confidence, but now it returned in an even more terrifying form, demanding its overdue price.
"Dragon... it's a dragon!"
Desperate screams pierced the air; everyone looked at Robert Baratheon in unison.
Time seemed to stretch; Robert could clearly see the death frozen on the ice dragon's decaying wing membranes, and the burning pale blue flames in its empty eye sockets.
In that moment, the iron throne, the Usurper's War, Lyanna... all lost their meaning.
Before the true, era-burying winter, his lifelong loves and hates, his family and national fervor, were as insignificant as a speck of dust.
The ice dragon opened its mouth, not spewing fire, but a ghastly white breath of absolute cold.
It did not directly attack the crowd, but instead, crashed straight into The Wall itself.
There was no deafening explosion, only a more chilling groan of a glacier breaking apart.
That legend that had stood for eight thousand years, that wall of ice and stone guarding the human world, began to melt and disintegrate like butter in the sun under the scour of the breath of death.
Huge chunks of ice fell from hundreds of meters high, crashing to the ground, pulverizing the defending towers and Night's Watchmen with them.
The Wall had fallen.
Silence.
A deathly silence.
Even the roaring wights temporarily ceased their attacks, as if paying homage to their miracle.
All surviving humans, whether knights or farmers, froze in place.
In their pupils, the terrifying sight of The Wall's collapse was reflected, along with the true army of Others surging like a black tide from that enormous breach.
Their uniform footsteps thumped on the ice plain, like a dull drumbeat.
Pale Other knights rode undead warhorses.
Now, they were no longer scattered skirmishers, but a disciplined army of death from the ancient Long Night.
Robert Baratheon, the king renowned for his valor, felt his knees buckle, almost collapsing.
All his courage, all his strength, was completely drained in this moment.
He had once thought himself the protagonist of the world, able to smash any enemy in his path with a single punch.
But now he understood that he was merely playing an insignificant, soon-to-be-curtained supporting role on a larger, more brutal stage.
"It's over..."
Facing the army of the dead, his heart was ashes, his voice so faint only he could hear it.
The human defense line had completely disintegrated the moment The Wall collapsed.
This was not war; it was a one-sided slaughter.
Fires flickered desperately, then were swiftly engulfed by blue ice flames.
Screams and the clang of weapons briefly rang out, then abruptly ceased.
Watching the surging tide of death, watching the Night King, like the embodiment of death, at the center of the legion, only one thought remained in the hearts of all the soldiers: Flee!
Robert Baratheon, this was his first, and last, time understanding what true despair was.