Chapter 93 — The Night King
Following the tracks left by the wildling host, Drogon flew north. After slowing down and flying for about an hour, he finally spotted another force moving slowly ahead.
From a distance, they didn't look much different from the wildlings he'd just seen.
But the moment he got a little closer and observed carefully, the difference became obvious.
Their movements were stiff. Their steps were uneven. Many of their bodies were twisted or crooked, joints bent at impossible angles that defied normal anatomy.
Having learned his lesson from being detected by the mammoth earlier, Drogon didn't approach the Night King's army too closely. Instead, he hovered high above, watching from afar, trying to locate the Night King within the mass of the dead.
The closer he flew to the army of the dead, the heavier the wind and snow became.
It reminded him of the blizzard the Night King had once conjured during the battle at Winterfell — a storm so fierce that Daenerys and Jon, riding dragons, could barely see. They'd nearly missed the chance to ignite the trench. Only the Red Woman's intervention had stopped the dead from breaking through.
Drogon scanned the horde again and again but couldn't find the Night King.
By rough estimate, this army numbered fifty to sixty thousand.
They were spread out in a loose formation. Visibility was so poor he couldn't even see from one end of the host to the other. All he could do was circle, searching for the Night King's position.
As he searched, he studied the wights along the edges of the army.
In appearance, they were indeed like zombies — but with glowing blue eyes. Their movements weren't as sluggish as they seemed now. Once in battle, they were frighteningly fast.
It was said that White Walkers and wights could only truly be killed by dragonglass, Valyrian steel, or dragonfire.
Drogon felt the urge to test that with a blast of flame.
"Hm?"
The thought had barely formed when a sudden chill crawled over his scalp.
He didn't think — he reacted.
With a violent beat of his wings, he shot straight upward.
Whoosh!
A sharp pain tore across his right leg as a spear screamed past, grazing him.
Still climbing fast, Drogon twisted his head to look in the direction the spear had come from.
Through the swirling blizzard, he faintly made out several riders moving slowly on horseback.
Damn it… I got ambushed.
He had instinctively assumed that if he couldn't see the Night King, then the Night King shouldn't be able to see him either.
He'd forgotten one crucial thing.
The blizzard might have blinded him — but it clearly hadn't blinded the Night King.
Most likely, while Drogon had been searching for the Night King, the Night King had already been watching him… waiting for the moment he got distracted before throwing the spear.
Thinking this through, Drogon began flying in erratic patterns. His leg still hurt, but his fear of the Night King wasn't as overwhelming as before.
That spear had carried tremendous physical force — but no strange magic, no eerie secondary effect. That reassured him. What he had truly feared was some unknown power hidden within the weapon.
What he was thankful for was that the spear had hit his leg, not his wing. If a wing had been pierced, he'd be limping back to the Wall in humiliation right now.
Even with his confidence somewhat restored, Drogon had no intention of fighting the Night King head-on. Dragonfire couldn't kill him — and it wasn't like Drogon could claw the Night King to death.
At best, he now had the capital to maneuver at range.
He glanced at his injury. Though he'd dodged in time, a large scale had been torn off, and a chunk of flesh the size of a peanut had been gouged away.
Tiny in his current juvenile body… but if he were full-grown, that wound would be the size of a basin — nearly crippling.
And that had only been a graze.
A direct hit might have cost him his life.
The thought sent a cold shiver through him. All that caution — and he'd still almost fallen into the Night King's trap.
Yet retreating now felt unbearable. He'd been speared and still hadn't even gotten a clear look at the Night King. How could he just turn back?
Fixing on the Night King's previous position, Drogon dove again, eyes locked on the riders below.
There — the horses again.
And this time he saw him.
The Night King was calmly accepting another spear from a subordinate, preparing to throw again.
Now Drogon finally saw him clearly: clad in light armor, his face etched with vertical ridges like carved stone, his eyes a deep, luminous blue.
Drogon had no intention of charging into a spear. He wasn't arrogant enough to think he could dodge the "King of Javelins" at close range.
The moment he got his look, he tilted a wing and veered sideways.
The Night King had expected a direct dive. When Drogon suddenly changed direction, he could only turn stiffly and re-aim.
But Drogon gave him no stable target — his small body twisting, darting, changing vectors constantly.
A full-grown dragon might still be predictable enough to hit.
A juvenile Drogon, nimble and erratic?
Even the Night King couldn't lock onto his flight pattern. He never threw the second spear. By the time Drogon vanished into the storm, the weapon remained in his hand.
After watching the direction Drogon disappeared for a moment, the Night King passed the spear back and continued leading the army of the dead along the wildlings' trail.
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King's Landing
On the return trip, Drogon didn't linger at the Wall. He flew straight to King's Landing.
Hours later, he landed near a rundown alley by Flea Bottom. After making sure no one was around, he retrieved the message Varys had left.
The drop location had changed again. To avoid exposure from repeated contact, the Master of Whisperers had switched sites.
The first thing Drogon saw in the letter—
Two death notices.
First:
From the Wall.
Lord Commander Jeor Mormont had been betrayed by his own men and stabbed to death at Craster's Keep.
Drogon couldn't help but feel for Jorah. Father and son had never had an easy relationship. What would Jorah do when he learned his father was dead?
Mormont's death didn't surprise Drogon.
The second one did.
Tywin Lannister — the Hand of the King — had been poisoned in his own bedchamber with the deadly toxin the Strangler. Tyrion had been accused of patricide, and Queen Regent Cersei had put a bounty on his head.
Drogon was stunned.
Shae hadn't betrayed Tyrion. She hadn't slept with Tywin.
And yet Tywin still died this early.
There was no way Tyrion had done it. Without Shae's betrayal and emotional collapse, Tyrion would never commit such an unforgivable act.
So who killed Tywin?
According to Varys, three possibilities:
Most likely:
The Queen of Thorns Olenna Tyrell and Petyr Baelish.
They had already conspired to poison Joffrey. Tywin's death would give them far more room to maneuver in the game of power.
Second suspect:
Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne.
He hated Tywin to the bone. Killing the Mountain might not have satisfied him. Poisoning Tywin afterward wasn't impossible.
Third suspect — the most unexpected:
Cersei Lannister herself.
Varys even considered the possibility that she had poisoned her own father… and framed Tyrion.
The letter listed the suspects — but gave no detailed explanation.