Chapter 177 — The Night King Arrives
In his writings, Barth once argued that the strange, unpredictable seasons of Westeros were closely tied to magic. He also recorded an ancient prophecy from the people of Valyria—that the end of mankind would begin in Westeros.
Since arriving in this world, Drogon had heard countless prophecies and omens. Whether true or not, each one seemed to hint at some buried truth about the world itself.
If this prophecy were real… did it mean the White Walkers would bring about humanity's destruction, spreading from Westeros until they consumed the entire world?
With that thought lingering, he picked up another book—Explorations of the Unknown World.
The so-called "Unknown World" existed in contrast to the "Known World," a concept Drogon had already encountered in other texts within the Citadel.
The Known World consisted of four major continents and the surrounding seas and islands.
To the far west lay Westeros, its landmass largely made up of the Seven Kingdoms.
Across the Narrow Sea stretched the eastern continent, Essos—home to the Free Cities like Pentos, the cities of Slaver's Bay, the vast Dothraki Sea, the Red Waste, Qarth, and, at the far eastern edge, the Shadow Lands.
South of Essos, across the Summer Sea, lay the continent of Sothoryos—a land of dense jungles and deadly diseases.
The fourth continent, the most mysterious of all, lay beyond the Shadow Lands, south of Asshai. It was called Ulthos, separated from Asshai by only a narrow strait.
According to The Known World, almost nothing was understood about Ulthos except that it was covered in mountains and thick forests.
Everything beyond that—Ulthos itself, the Shadow Lands, and the uncharted seas and islands—fell into the category of the Unknown World.
From this book, Drogon finally realized something unsettling.
The Shadow Lands were not merely a poetic name.
They were a literal place—shrouded in darkness.
A land called the "End of Civilization."
It was said to be a corrupted region, perpetually cloaked in black mist, where demons and man-eating horrors roamed freely.
Its danger surpassed even that of the Smoking Sea—the cursed ruins of Valyria.
Even the sorcerers and shadowbinders who dwelled in Asshai, beings who trafficked in the deepest arcane arts, dared not set foot there.
The Shadow Lands cast a long, corrupting influence even over nearby Asshai. By day, the city appeared almost normal—but when night fell, it sank into absolute darkness, as if every source of light had been swallowed whole.
Asshai itself was filled with unnatural signs: a black river whose water could not be drunk, barren soil where nothing would grow, and inhabitants who forever hid behind masks or veils, never revealing their true faces.
As Drogon read through these secrets, one after another, he found himself completely absorbed. Only when dawn began to break did he realize he could not continue.
He carefully returned every book to its original place, checked for any signs of disturbance, locked the room again, and replaced the key—planning to return the following night.
During the day, he flew out to the grasslands to feed until full, then made a detour to Slaver's Bay—making his presence known, gathering a bit of faith power along the way, and reminding the restless slave masters exactly who ruled the skies.
When night fell, he slipped back into the Citadel once more. Not only did he continue studying the forbidden knowledge in the hidden room, but he also explored parts of the main library—filling in gaps left by fading memories from his previous life. Many details from Game of Thrones had long been forgotten, and here he discovered countless things the show had never revealed.
After three nights of study, he had finally covered most of what interested him. Bit by bit, the veil over this world's mysteries lifted, revealing truths hidden beneath prophecy and text.
Six days later, the first shipment of dragonglass arrived at The Wall. Stannis Baratheon summoned skilled blacksmiths from across Westeros to forge dragonglass weapons and arrowheads. The Wall's defenses were also reinforced under his orders.
Three days after that, while supervising preparations, Stannis and Jon Snow both received urgent reports—an enormous force had appeared beyond the Wall.
They rushed to the top.
Through the howling snow, countless shadowy figures filled the horizon.
The enemy had arrived.
Stannis immediately ordered all off-duty men to stand ready. The army of the dead was coming.
Below the Wall, the wights gathered in staggering numbers—nearly a hundred thousand. Among them were giants, mammoths, and massive beasts long dead, their decayed forms still towering over the rest.
Seeing the sheer scale, Jon and Tormund Giantsbane understood why the enemy had been delayed. The Night King had not only slaughtered scattered wildling tribes but had likely been raising the dead along the way, swelling his forces even further.
Two hours after their arrival, the ranks finally stopped growing.
Then, the mass parted.
Several figures emerged—riding skeletal horses.
At their center stood the Night King himself, clad in frost-rimed armor, his face carved like ice. The wound once dealt by Brynden Rivers was gone; his armor, his skin, even the jagged crown of ice upon his head had fully restored.
As Stannis and Jon looked upon him, he looked back—those pale blue eyes empty, emotionless.
For the first time, Stannis and his soldiers truly witnessed the Others. Even at a distance, their unnatural stillness—and the twisted forms of the wights—sent a chill through the living.
The Night King's gaze lingered briefly on them… then shifted.
It fell upon Melisandre.
Their eyes met—fire and ice.
Then, without pause, his gaze moved again—until it stopped on Bran Stark.
A cold dread seeped into Bran's heart.
Ever since nearly being caught within the green sight, he had avoided entering it again, instead watching through flocks of ravens. Yet even that had failed—the Night King had sensed him, forcing him out.
Now, under that unblinking stare, Bran couldn't shake the thought—
Was the Night King here… for him?
Not for the lands south of the Wall—but for him.
After a long moment, the Night King finally turned away. He studied the Wall, then slowly raised his icy sword.
Behind him, the army began to move.
The dead advanced.
Jon prepared to send Bran back down the lift—but Bran stopped him with a hand. He wanted to witness what came next.
The tide of corpses surged forward.
But the moment they touched the Wall—
They screamed.
Their hands recoiled instantly, smoke rising as if burned.
The ancient magic woven into the Wall flared to life, its icy blue glow intensifying.
The wights fell back, unwilling to approach again.
Relief spread across the defenders above. The Wall's magic still held.
Below, the Night King watched.
And then—he raised his sword once more.
A sharp, piercing roar split the frozen air.
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