The Long Night was a mythical winter that, according to legend, lasted a generation. To some maesters in the Citadel, the story of the Long Night was too far-fetched—no living being could possibly survive in such extreme conditions.
From 289 AC to 299 AC, Westeros experienced the longest recorded summer, lasting ten years, two months, and sixteen days. A long summer inevitably heralded a long winter. If the years 300-301 AC were considered autumn, then this Long Winter would not end until 311 AC.
It was now 309 AC, eight years since Renly had ascended the throne.
This winter was even harsher than the one a century prior, bringing heavy snowfall to the Riverlands, the Westerlands, and King's Landing. When the cold winds blew, the snowline extended even farther south, covering places like Storm's End, Bitterbridge, and Old Oak.
Thanks to advancements in medicine and magic, Westeros had avoided a catastrophe like the Great Winter Plague of 133 AC—the deadly sickness that swept the continent after the Dance of the Dragons, claiming three-quarters of the population, including even the wealthiest lords.
After Queen Margaery announced her pregnancy once more, she used the harsh winter as an excuse to leave King's Landing, taking a large entourage with her to her ancestral home in Highgarden. A month later, she departed for Tyrosh, declaring she would not return until after the child was born. King Renly and Prince Lyonel occasionally flew their dragons to visit her.
The climate in Tyrosh had cooled, becoming pleasantly mild. After lunch, its people embraced their customary siestas—some napped before resuming their work, while others gathered with friends in rooftop gardens, lounging under parasols with drinks in hand, chatting the afternoon away.
Five black specks appeared on the distant horizon over the sea.
Brienne, clad in white armor with a blue cloak draped over her shoulders, shielded her eyes from the sun. "I'll bet a silver stag that Darkseid and his black dragon, Klogravuun, are the first to reach the castle."
"Red Sands' Autumn? No, I'll wager a silver stag that Sauron and his black dragon, Shulvokun, arrive first," Tyrion remarked after a brief glance before returning to his drink.
"Why not bet on Prince Lyonel's blue dragon, Okaaztuz? I'll put a silver stag on Okaaztuz arriving first," said Ser Barristan, his silver hair and beard gleaming in the sunlight. His eyesight was failing, but he placed his bet based on his intuition.
The three of them had accompanied Queen Margaery to Tyrosh and were now standing atop a castle tower, drinking ale and making idle conversation.
The lords of the Westerlands had made it clear they would never allow a dwarf to inherit their kingdom. They had presented Tyrion with an ultimatum: either join the Night's Watch or become a maester in the Citadel. Disheartened, Tyrion left the Westerlands with a small group of knights and spent his days drowning his sorrows in the taverns of King's Landing.
Upon hearing of this, Wright recommended him for a position on Renly's Small Council. Tyrion's impressive work in reorganizing Myr had earned him recognition, though he still lacked the experience needed to serve as Master of Coin or Hand of the King. Instead, he was appointed as the Master of Laws. His visit to Tyrosh was partly for official business—overseeing the transfer of certain criminals to the Free City.
Ser Barristan had long since retired as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Expecting a seventy-three-year-old man to fight on the front lines was as good as signing his death warrant. Instead, he had been reassigned as the commander responsible for training the Kingsguard and the Red Keep's garrison, ensuring his combat knowledge and experience would be passed down. To preserve his dignity, the official decree explicitly stated that he had not been dismissed but reassigned. He still wore the white armor and cloak of the Kingsguard but was no longer required to stand at the forefront of battle.
Brienne remained in the Kingsguard as one of Queen Margaery's personal bodyguards. The other two sworn protectors were Renly's magic apprentice, Sansa Stark, and the sorceress Meredyth Crane.
A black dragon skimmed the surface of the sea, its long tail dragging through the water and leaving a white wake in its path.
"Woooh—Ooooh!"
Upon reaching the upper port of Tyrosh, the dragon suddenly pulled up, soaring over the city's rooftops toward the castle perched atop the island's highest point. The massive beast's claws and wingtips narrowly missed the buildings, while its rider, Sauron, let out an exhilarated shout.
"I win!" Tyrion extended his palm, signaling the others to pay up.
Barristan fished a silver stag from the small pouch on his belt and placed it in Tyrion's hand. "Six dragons, all around the same age. How were you so sure Sauron's black dragon would be the first to arrive?"
After pocketing Brienne's coin as well, Tyrion explained, "Unlike you two, I spend more time in Tyrosh. You're only familiar with King Renly and Prince Lyonel's dragons. That's the first reason."
Pouring more ale into their cups, he continued, "Second, you haven't studied dragons in depth. Once bonded with a rider, each dragon's behavior, personality, and even growth patterns change slightly. Sauron craves speed, and his dragon's body has adapted accordingly—it's leaner than the others, but its wings are the broadest."
A loud whoosh sounded as two more dragons flew overhead—one blue, one red.
"Prince Lyonel's Okaaztuz was the first to hatch, so it's slightly larger than the others and well-balanced in all aspects. Meanwhile, Lilith's red dragon, Judhungaar, eats more than the rest, giving it superior endurance."
Tyrion had barely finished speaking when whoosh—whoosh—two more dragons streaked past above them.
"The fourth-fastest dragon is the golden one, while the slowest is Darkseid's black dragon. But if we're talking about combat rather than speed, Klogravuun ranks first. Its muscles are like steel, and though it flies slower, once it gets close, it can easily tear its opponent apart."
Barristan nodded in agreement, lifting his gaze toward Klogravuun, the black dragon the Dornish called the Red Sand Autumn. The scars on its body, remnants of past training battles with its siblings, were still visible, yet to be covered by new scales. This alone was enough to prove that among the five dragons of the same age, Klogravuun was the fiercest.
As the five dragons landed on the now-completed Tyroshi castle, Barristan and the others continued drinking. Seeing dragons every day had long since ceased to be a novelty.
"Why did Lord Wright summon us back so urgently? Darkseid, do you know the reason?" Prince Lyonel dismounted from his dragon and began fixing his wind-tousled black hair.
"I have no idea why Father called us back," Darkseid replied, scratching his buzz-cut head.
"Hurry up, don't block the way! Father probably came up with some new delicious recipe again!" Lilith exclaimed, jumping down from her dragon and pushing the two ahead.
Sauron took his time, waiting for his younger brother Baemon to dismount.
One of the towers at the top of Tyroshi Castle was specifically designed for dragons to land. Of course, once they reached fifty meters in length, they would have to land in the courtyard below, with their riders jumping down from above instead.
As the five entered the tower, their dragons remained outside, waiting by the doors. Soon, a group of royal guards clad in pale gold armor arrived, leading a large team of attendants carrying slabs of meat.
Lyonel and Darkseid, still being pushed forward by Lilith, moved down the hallway as magical white lights flickered to life along the walls. The moment they entered the castle, Wright had sensed them and was already guiding them toward him.
In the small receiving hall outside the bedchamber, Lyonel pushed open the door. The moment Darkseid saw what was inside, he knew things were about to go badly.
"Lyonel, Sauron, Lilith, Baemon—you four, stand to the side. Darkseid, get on your knees!" Wright, seated at the head of the room, roared furiously at his son, his face contorted in anger.
Darkseid didn't even hesitate before dropping to both knees. Beside him, another figure was also kneeling—Wright's adopted son and their elder brother, Geralt Sand.
Keeping his head bowed, Geralt sneaked a glance at Darkseid and mouthed the words, "I couldn't hide it."
Darkseid sighed inwardly and lowered his head, resigning himself to his fate.
The receiving hall was tense. Wright sat in his chair, flanked by five women—Darkseid's mother, Nymeria; Sauron and Lilith's mother, Tyene; Baemon's mother, Kana; Queen Margaery; and Geralt's mother, Arianne Martell.
This was a family matter, and those kneeling on the floor had clearly made a grave mistake. Wright's anger was palpable. The four standing children remained perfectly still, not daring to utter a single word for fear of being drawn into the fire.
Nymeria, knowing that her son was the one at fault, couldn't plead on his behalf. Instead, she shot a glance at the other women, silently urging them to intervene.
"Don't be so angry. Nothing actually happened, did it?" Tyene, seated to Wright's left, reached out to hold his hand. She still looked as youthful as ever.
"She's right. It was actually a success. We should be commending them instead," Kana added. Her golden hair now reached her waist again, and after childbirth, her figure had grown even more voluptuous.
"Commend them? Do you have any idea how close Geralt came to dying?!" Wright growled, conjuring a Mage Hand of white magic to grip Geralt's chin, forcing him to lift his head. "Look at his eyes and his hair! That's not dye!"
All eyes turned toward Geralt. Under the bright light, his pupils had transformed into vertical slits, like those of a cat, and his irises were a striking yellow—clearly no longer those of a normal human. His hair, too, had turned pure white.
"The Trial of the Grasses! I wrote about it years ago as nothing more than a rough manuscript, and you actually dared to research it—on your own brother, no less?!" Wright wasn't sure whether to praise Darkseid or scold him.
After the completion of Tyroshi Castle, the second-largest room was the library. Wright had ordered the transcription of every book he could get his hands on, including unpublished manuscripts brought from the world of the Elder Scrolls, along with his own scattered research notes on magic.
The Trial of the Grasses was a special process involving alchemical herbs and magic, designed to create Witchers—warriors with enhanced physical abilities, greater magic resistance, and the ability to withstand high doses of poison, even using it to their advantage.
But Wright's magic and the Witcher mutations were two entirely separate fields. He had only written a rough outline of the concept before tossing the manuscript into the library. He never imagined that his eldest son, Darkseid, would find it.
Wright had four children—three aged nine, one aged seven—all of whom had inherited his formidable magical talent. Their intellects were also extraordinary, yet their personalities varied greatly.
Darkseid, Nymeria's son, had a temperament more akin to Tyene's. He was fascinated by magic and often served as her assistant. Gifted beyond measure, he had an almost photographic memory, excelled in combat, and even Wright himself envied his potential.
Sauron, the second son, was born to Tyene. Unlike his brother, he had little interest in magic beyond daily practice. Instead, he dedicated himself to martial skills, spending most of his time training with Nymeria and Ashara, either fighting or on his way to fight.
The youngest, Baemon, was only seven and the dragonrider of the golden dragon, Judvukah. If Prince Lyonel, Darkseid, and Sauron all bore the typical Baratheon features—tall, strong, imposing visages with slightly curled black hair—Baemon was the exception.
Baemon's appearance reflected both his father and his mother. His strikingly handsome face was accentuated by the sharp chin characteristic of House Rogare, and his dark eyes were framed by waist-length, straight black hair that refused to curl like his brothers'. Most notably, his hair wasn't purely black—interwoven strands of silver-gold stood out, particularly a lock at his forehead that made him look as if his hair had been intentionally streaked. If not for the Baratheon name, his unique looks alone might have made him the target of envious aggression.
Perhaps due to his mother's lineage, Baemon had a remarkable aptitude for numbers. Unlike his more combative brothers, he was quiet and preferred to spend his time writing and drawing alone. The only one who always stayed by Wright' side was Lilith—if she wasn't off playing with her brothers, she insisted on following her father everywhere, no matter what he was doing.
"Wright, is this 'Trial of the Grasses' you mentioned really that dangerous?" Arianne had initially been dismissive, but seeing Wright reaction, concern crept into her voice.
"If the trial succeeded, then hasn't Geralt simply become stronger?" Margaery interjected, attempting to shift the conversation to a more positive light.
"The Trial of the Grasses comes with severe side effects!" Wright fixed Arianne with a serious gaze. "The most significant one—it causes permanent sterility!"
A collective gasp escaped from the five women, their hands flying to their mouths in shock.
"No! I'm perfectly fine! Just yesterday, Grandfather Oberyn even praised me for having his youthful vigor!" Geralt hurriedly reassured them.
Living at the castle, he often visited his grandfather's establishment, a brothel owned by Oberyn Martell himself. At just thirteen, Geralt had already sampled numerous women.
"Is that so? Well, there's only one way to be sure." The women, all experienced in matters of childbirth, spoke without hesitation. Arianne continued, "Tomorrow, I'll arrange a marriage for Geralt. The sooner he weds, the sooner we'll know if he can father children."
"With that white hair of his, he actually looks quite striking. I'm sure the girls will love him."
"I know a noble family with a daughter who just came of age. She's beautiful and would be a good match for him."
"If he has children, would they also have white hair and slit-pupiled eyes?"
As they chatted, the conversation gradually veered off course. Robb, barely in his twenties, was now at risk of becoming a grandfather.
"Darkseid!" Wright' stern voice cut through the chatter. "Though the magic succeeded and Geralt retained his ability to father children, your crime remains unforgivable." His son had accomplished something even he hadn't managed, but rules were rules. "Do you remember the Ninth Article of the Magic's Convention?"
"I do. 'No new magical experiment may be conducted on a human subject before first proving effective through animal trials.' And the Eightieth Article states, 'If a violation of the Ninth Article results in permanent disability, death, or the outbreak of a plague, the Magic administration Committee shall strip the violator of their title and prosecute them according to the kingdom's laws.'" Darkseid recited it flawlessly.
"Good. Then you understand." Wright' gaze bore into him. "You didn't cause any severe consequences, but you still conducted human experimentation in violation of our laws. According to the regulations of the Tyroshi Magic School, I hereby sentence you to exile from Tyrosh for two years."
"I understand." Darkseid lowered his head. He had anticipated this outcome.
"You will return to Sunspear and continue your magical studies independently. In addition, you will learn from your mother about governing Dorne." Wright pulled both Darkseid and Geralt to their feet. "From this day forward, your name shall be Darkseid Baratheon Nymeros Martell, and for the next two years, you are barred from enrolling in any Magic School."