From the outside, the White City stood massive and majestic at the very edge of the North, yet only a single path led directly to the Ice Tower. On either side of the road, there was nothing but ice—ice upon ice, cold and desolate. Transparent frozen blocks encased houses and ramparts, shimmering under the sun in a world without wind or falling snow. No one knew when the White City had been built, or why its structures had been swallowed by these eternal layers of frost.

  Jasmine and Lyana walked along the solitary path toward the tower. The higher the road climbed, the more the temperature plummeted. Jasmine pulled her cloak tight around her neck, muttering, "It’s freezing. If not for the magic of the Lord of Light, I fear we would have turned to stone-ice by now." Lyana remained in her usual pensive state, adjusting her own cloak to withstand the bitter chill. The climate of Northern Westeros was ill-suited for those accustomed to the year-round warmth of Essos.

  "That dragon..." Jasmine asked hesitantly. It was the first time she had seen a living dragon, let alone one of such terrifying scale.

  "He is Drogon, her only surviving child," Lyana replied.

  "Daenerys?" Jasmine didn't seem overly surprised; their mission to the North was specifically to find Dany. She knew Dany had a dragon named Drogon, but its sheer size had staggered her.

  "He must be centuries old by now," Jasmine added.

  "Nearly three hundred years. On the day Drogon and his brothers were born, magic returned to this world," Lyana answered. She didn't mind the questions; Jasmine was an apprentice Red Priestess and needed time to learn. At the very least, this journey would provide her with invaluable experience.

  "Why is she in this place?" Jasmine asked as they reached the midpoint of the climb.

  "Nearly three hundred years ago, Drogon brought the then-deceased Daenerys to Asshai, hoping the Red Priesthood could resurrect her. The High Priest at the time communed with the Lord of Light, who revealed that she could be reborn, but the time was not yet right. We requested Drogon bring her here to the White City to wait for the day the Red Priests would seek her out. Now is the most opportune time to bring her back," Lyana said, quickening her pace.

  "So she isn't truly dead?" Jasmine asked curiously.

  "Every soul in this world carries a mission. Life and death are part of that purpose. A person who hasn't fulfilled their destiny cannot truly die. Daenerys is no different." Lyana sighed, her breath curling like thin smoke in the frozen air.

  "How can the dragon communicate with us? I mean, with Red Priests?"

  "Dragons have been messengers of the Lord of Light since the dawn of time. Once you have mastered your spells, you will be able to communicate with many creatures, not just dragons," Lyana replied cryptically.

  "I don't quite understand. Why wait hundreds of years to revive one person?"

  "When the world loses its balance," Lyana said with a faint smile.

  Their conversation was cut short by a low growl ahead. Standing squarely in the gateway of the Ice Tower was a massive man with wild hair and a thick, bushy beard. He was wrapped in heavy animal pelts and gripped a greataxe made of dragonglass. Beside him stood a colossal direwolf with fur as white as snow. The growl had come from the wolf.

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  Jasmine flinched, stepping back, while Lyana remained characteristically, almost unnervingly, calm.

  "Does someone live here?" Jasmine whispered.

  "A Wildling," Lyana noted.

  The man with the ginger beard squinted at the two women. "Are you Red Priests?"

  Lyana nodded.

  "Good! Ghost, shut your trap!" the man barked. The direwolf stopped growling, though its blood-red eyes continued to watch the strangers with wary intensity.

  "I am Tormund the Fourth, and this is Ghost the Tenth. I’ve been waiting for you lot for a long time... about a few hundred years..." The man named Tormund IV widened his round eyes, gesturing toward the wolf.

  "Hundreds of years?" Jasmine gasped. She couldn't imagine a normal man living that long.

  "Aye, hundreds of years. Well, I mean my line and his line have been waiting here for hundreds of years. Me and him? We’ve only been at it a few decades," Tormund scratched his head and laughed loudly, pointing at the direwolf.

  Lyana and Jasmine shared a small smile and a nod.

  "How did you know we were Red Priests?" Lyana asked.

  "The last words of our ancestor, the great Lord Tormund—may the gods rest his soul. His command was that every firstborn son of each generation must come to the White City to guard the Queen’s slumber, waiting for the day the Red Priests come to take her. Luckily, it happened on my watch," Tormund IV laughed, slapping the direwolf so hard it let out a pained yelp.

  "What are you crying for? Aren't you happy to be leaving this literal ice-hole?" Tormund hoisted the wolf up, causing it to struggle frantically.

  "Very well. Lead us to the Queen," Lyana urged.

  "Happy to. Follow me, ladies." Tormund IV dropped the wolf and turned to heave open the heavy gates of the Ice Tower.

  The three humans and the direwolf entered a magnificent, sprawling palace—opulent yet freezing, bathed in the hues of ice and snow. Tormund pointed toward the far end of the hall, where a bed of pure crystal ice sat atop a flight of stairs. There, a woman as beautiful as a dream lay in a profound sleep.

  She wore white garments, clean and pure as frost. Her silver-gold hair cascaded around her, shimmering, and her skin was as pale as the first snow of winter. Upon her chest, the three-headed dragon sigil remained—the mark of her noble origin: House Targaryen.

  "Daenerys!" Jasmine whispered, her face alight with excitement.

  "Stay here," Lyana said softly as she approached the ice bed.

  The direwolf padded along behind her, prompting her to turn and smile. "You too, Ghost X."

  Lyana reached the bedside. Moving with the grace of a cat, the Red Priestess circled the bed, observing Dany. She paused, letting her red cloak slip to the floor to reveal her red dress and ivory-white arms. She placed her hands upon Dany's body, closed her eyes, and began to chant in Ancient Valyrian.

  The incantation grew in volume, filling the palace and vibrating in the minds of Tormund, Jasmine, and the wolf. Tormund’s face filled with primal fear as he instinctively backed away; Ghost huddle against Jasmine’s legs, whining in discomfort. Jasmine closed her eyes, joining Lyana in the Valyrian chant. The sound intensified until the palace itself began to tremble. Outside, Drogon seemed to hear every word. He tilted his massive snout toward the tower, a low rumbling sound vibrating in his throat—like a song of the dragons.

  As the spell reached its crescendo, Lyana shouted a word of power that caused the entire hall to dissolve into a blinding light.

  A piercing shriek rang out. Dany’s eyes snapped open, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. The violet hue of her eyes had faded slightly, replaced by a shade as blue as ice.

  Dany bolted upright, her face etched with terror. The first person she saw was Lyana. She lunged forward, grabbing the priestess's arms, gasping for breath. Then, she released her grip and clutched her own chest, feeling for her heart. It was beating. She was alive.

  "It is alright, Dany!" Lyana gripped Daenerys's hands firmly. The priestess could feel a scorching fire surging through Dany's veins. From the corner of Dany's eye, a single tear rolled down—floating through the frozen air, cold as ice.