🐉 THE NIGHT OF THE ASHEN WINGS 👻
Halloween was not a festival known in Westeros — but once every hundred years, on the final night of the tenth moon, a darkness spread across the sky that even the bravest knights refused to face.
They called it:
The Night of the Ashen Wings.
Legend said the veil between the living and the dead thinned…
and ancient dragons long turned to dust rose again — fueled by fire and vengeance.
Deep within the ruins of Harrenhal, a lone dragon egg had begun to glow.
Not with warmth…
but with freezing, ghostly light.
Princess Aerela Targaryen, fierce rider of the ruby-scaled dragon Pyraxis, felt the tug in her blood — the ancient dragon call. The air tasted like smoke and secrets.
When midnight struck, the ground split open.
The ruined castle trembled.
And from the earth crawled a creature of legend:
A dragon with bones like black iron and a heart filled with cold fire —
Vyrak the Deathwing, the king of the forgotten dead.
His roar shattered the moonlit silence.
Candles across the land blew out at once.
A cold wind swept through villages, stealing the warmth from every hearth.
His wings unfurled — massive, ragged, dripping shadow like ink.
Each beat turned pumpkins to ash and cider to ice.
Vyrak hissed:
> “A new age begins.
Dragons of the living shall burn… and join my army.”
Aerela mounted Pyraxis and took to the sky.
Fire met frost as their flames clashed — one burning bright ruby red, the other a ghastly ghost-blue that devoured everything it touched. Sparks rained like falling stars.
Villagers watched from afar, trembling in fear and awe.
Locked in the night sky, the two dragons spiraled toward the shattered moonlight. Their roars echoed like thunderclaps. Pyraxis bit down on Vyrak’s skeletal neck — but the dead do not bleed.
The ghost dragon’s tail struck Pyraxis hard — sending them crashing atop the castle.
Aerela, bruised yet unbroken, stood before the enormous skull face of Vyrak.
She spoke not as a warrior…
but as a Targaryen — a daughter of dragons.
“We honor the past,” she said, “but we do not belong to it.”
Her voice was ancient fire itself.
She plunged her sword — forged in dragonflame — into the cursed egg that fueled Vyrak’s power. A scream like a thousand thunderstorms erupted.
Vyrak froze.
Cracked.
Shattered into ashen dust that blew into the night, lost forever.
Pyraxis rose, wounded yet victorious, flames glimmering like stars across his scales.
The villagers cheered.
But Aerela stared at the ashes drifting away…
Because in those ashes…
she heard a whisper:
> “The dead do not sleep.
They wait.”
And far beyond sight — in the shadowy corners of Valyria’s ruins —
multiple eggs began to glow with that same ghostly light.
This Night of the Ashen Wings was only the beginning…
Written by Heresy
