The wind roared in his ears as Lynn stood on the dragon's back, his cloak snapping violently behind him.
The White Walker seated behind him was as still as a statue.
Lynn pulled something from inside his tunic.
It was a mask.
Thin as a cicada's wing, yet radiating a disturbingly lifelike aura.
Petyr Baelish.
This was a prop Lynn had crafted long ago. Now, it was time to put it to use.
Lynn slowly placed the mask onto the White Walker's face.
The moment the mask touched the Walker's frozen skin, the blue flames burning in its eyes suddenly contracted.
An invisible stream of energy surged from the mask, flooding into its mind.
It was the life of Petyr Baelish.
From an insignificant foster son of House Tully to the Master of Coin in King's Landing. From his pathetic, twisted obsession with Catelyn to the earth-shattering conspiracies meant to ignite the War of the Five Kings.
Every lie he ever told, every mind he manipulated, every ambition and dark desire hidden deep in his heart...
All memories, all emotions, all patterns of thought were forcibly poured into this vessel of death and ice.
The White Walker's body began to undergo a subtle transformation.
Its stiff posture relaxed, becoming graceful, almost elegant.
In those eyes that once held only freezing cold, the blue flames dimmed, replaced by a glint of human cunning—sharp and profound.
It subconsciously adjusted a collar that didn't exist, the corners of its mouth curving up into a smile that was perfectly measured—warm like a spring breeze, yet enough to send a chill down your spine.
"My Lord," it spoke.
The voice was Petyr Baelish's own—husky, magnetic, and laced with sarcasm.
"Your loyal servant awaits your command."
Lynn nodded with satisfaction.
Excellent.
The actor is in place.
---
The Eyrie is the most bizarre and impregnable fortress in all of Westeros.
It lacks the vastness of Winterfell, the splendor of King's Landing, or the wealth of Casterly Rock.
Its only characteristic is height!
So high it seems suspended at the peak of the world, high enough to make any mortal army despair.
For thousands of years, storms and wars have swept beneath its feet, yet no enemy has ever truly touched it.
It stands like the words of House Arryn—As High as Honor.
Lonely and proud, perched above the sea of clouds, looking down on all living things.
Tonight, the moon was bright, and the stars were brilliant.
A young guard stationed on the battlements of the Sky Castle yawned, bored out of his mind.
He pulled his cloak tight—embroidered with the sky-blue falcon and crescent moon—and calculated how long until his shift ended so he could sneak into the kitchens for a flagon of mulled wine.
The war between the Vale and the North felt too distant to matter.
All he knew was that Lady Lysa had gone to Riverrun, and little Lord Robert Arryn was safely tucked away here in the Eyrie.
Down at the Bloody Gate, Ser Nestor Royce was returning to teach those arrogant Northmen a lesson they'd never forget.
Everything was under control.
Just then, a strange shadow caught the corner of his eye.
It was rising from the sea of clouds below.
At first, it was just a speck, but it was growing larger—and clearer—at an impossible speed.
"What... what is that?"
The guard rubbed his eyes and leaned over the crenellations, squinting into the dark.
It wasn't a cloud. It wasn't a bird.
It was a silhouette massive enough to block out the moonlight.
A pair of leathery wings spanning a hundred feet, a long body covered in jagged spines, and...
One, two, three... three massive, hideous heads!
"Dragon... IT'S A DRAGON!!!"
The guard's mind went blank, terror tearing a scream from his throat that didn't sound human.
"ENEMY ATTACK! ENEMY ATTACK!"
The mournful toll of the alarm bell instantly rang through the entire Eyrie, jolting the Castle in the Sky from its peaceful slumber.
Torches flared to life. Half-dressed soldiers and servants rushed out of their rooms, faces pale with panic and confusion.
"What's happening?"
"Why are the bells ringing?"
"Seven save us, have the Wildlings climbed the mountain?"
The acting Castellan of the Eyrie, Ser Marq Arryn—a grey-haired cousin of the main branch—rushed up the tower, surrounded by guards.
When he saw the behemoth circling closer to the Eyrie, he felt his heart nearly stop.
"It's... Lynn's dragon..."
Ser Marq's voice trembled.
He had heard the stories. But hearing was one thing.
When a magical beast is physically in front of you, staring at you with three pairs of vertical slits, the primal fear is enough to turn any warrior's knees to water.
Winter didn't attack immediately.
He simply circled, flying around the Eyrie with a playful, almost mocking grace.
The shadow cast by his massive body swept over every corner of the castle like the hand of the Stranger.
Spreading panic and despair with surgical precision.
"Steady! Hold your ground!"
Ser Marq drew his longsword, forcing down his own terror.
"We are sons of House Arryn! Descendants of the Falcon!"
"Our castle has never fallen! And it won't fall today!"
"Scorpions! Now! Bring up every Scorpion we have!"
His roar gave the panicked soldiers a spine.
They scrambled to the armory, wheeling out massive siege crossbows onto the walls.
These were the war machines Lysa had built specifically to counter Lynn's dragon.
Each one required ten men to operate. They fired iron bolts as thick as lances, capable of piercing the hardest dragon scale.
This was their last resort. Their only hope.
"Aim! Aim for the beast!"
"Wait until it gets closer!"
"LOOSE—!"
At Ser Marq's command, dozens of Scorpions twanged in unison!
Thwip-thwip-thwip—!
Dozens of heavy iron bolts tore through the air with a shrieking whistle, flying straight for Winter in the sky.
The volley was enough to make any monster tremble.
However, just as the rain of iron was about to strike Winter...
On the dragon's back, a figure slowly raised a hand.
HUMMM—
A visible wave of deep blue frost exploded outward, centered on Winter's body.
CRACK! CRACK!
The crisp sound of freezing air filled the night!
A layer of crystalline armor, feet thick and glowing with a ghostly blue light, materialized out of thin air around Winter's body.
The armor fit every inch of Winter's scales perfectly, angular and sharp, as if carved from the purest diamond, radiating absolute zero cold.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The iron bolts, capable of punching through stone walls, slammed violently into the ice armor.
There was no penetration. No spray of dragon blood.
It was like throwing toothpicks at a glacier.
The moment they made contact, the bolts shattered from the force of impact.
Countless metal fragments mixed with ice chips exploded in the air, then fell uselessly into the abyss below.
Not a scratch.
"No... impossible..."
Ser Marq stared blankly, the blood draining from his face.
Their prized Scorpions, their final hope... couldn't even break the enemy's defense?
That wasn't just a beast.
There was a man standing on its back! That man used some impossible sorcery to protect the dragon!
And this was only the beginning of the nightmare.
On the dragon's back, Lynn looked down at the stupefied Vale soldiers and gently patted Winter's neck.
"Teach them a lesson."
ROAR—!
The three dragon heads roared at the sky in unison!
The White Walkers inside Winter's mouths stepped out, hanging onto the sides of his jaws to avoid being caught in the crossfire.
The head on the left opened its maw wide.
It didn't spew fire, but a stream of solid, pale-white frost breath!
Everywhere the breath touched, the air itself seemed to freeze.
One Scorpion and the ten men manning it were instantly solidified the moment the breath hit them. Their expressions of terror, their frantic movements—all frozen forever in that second, turned into lifelike ice sculptures radiating death.
The head on the right followed suit.
Scorching dragonfire erupted from its throat!
BOOM!
The fire hit another section of the wall with pinpoint accuracy.
Solid stone melted instantly under the extreme heat, turning into glowing slag. That Scorpion and everything around it were erased in a heartbeat, leaving only a terrifying gap dripping with molten rock.
But the most terrifying was the middle head.
It didn't breathe fire or ice.
It opened its mouth, and blinding silver-white arcs of lightning danced and gathered in its throat.
Zzzzt—CRACK!
A bolt of lightning as thick as a barrel tore through the night sky, crashing down with apocalyptic force!
The thunderclap illuminated every horrified face in the Eyrie.
A third Scorpion battery, along with that section of the wall and every defender on it, was instantly vaporized into ash and charred bone.
Frost. Fire. Lightning.
Three primal, terrifying forces of nature, unleashed as death.
In just one pass.
The Eyrie's proud defense system was utterly annihilated.
Everyone inside the castle looked up, staring dumbly at the demon god in the sky and the figure on its back who looked like a deity of war.
Resist?
Resist with what?
With Lysa's sharp tongue?
Fight frost, fire, and lightning with flesh and blood?
Their courage, their honor—it was all ground to dust in that instant.
Winter slowly descended.
His massive body finally landed in the Moon Garden, the symbol of the Eyrie's history and glory.
Countless rare flowers were torn apart by the violent wind or scorched by the heat as the dragon touched down.
Lynn hopped down casually from the dragon's back, and the White Walker followed him.
He looked around at the soldiers and nobles who were kneeling on the ground, shivering, his eyes holding no pity.
"Ser Marq Arryn," Lynn said calmly.
"Lady Lysa isn't here. So, are you in charge?"
Ser Marq's body trembled violently.
He wanted to stand up, wanted to say something to defend the honor of House Arryn, but his legs felt like they were filled with lead. They wouldn't obey him.
"It seems so."
Lynn didn't look at him again. Instead, he turned and slowly raised a hand toward the White Walker standing behind him.
He pulled down the hood covering the Walker's head.
A face familiar to every noble in the Vale was revealed under the torchlight.
The face was slightly gaunt, sporting a carefully groomed goatee.
A pair of grey-green eyes, always twinkling with a shrewd, unreadable light.
Petyr Baelish.
"Littlefinger?!"
Gasps erupted from the crowd.
Ser Marq jerked his head up, staring at that face in disbelief.
Wasn't Petyr Baelish supposed to be dead?
Why was he here with Lynn?
Seven Hells, we are seeing a ghost!