THE NIGHT QUEEN'S RETURN: FURY OF RAENAR TARGERYAN

1:BRAN'S NIGHTMARE.

It was a cold morning in a small village near the remnants of the once-great Wall, which had long lost its purpose. A Stark soldier, casually patrolling the outskirts, heard a rustling noise in the nearby bushes. Suddenly, a massive direwolf leaped out and pounced on him, tearing through his armor. His agonized scream echoed through the crisp air. Other guards rushed to his aid, but before they could react, they were swiftly cut down by a Valyrian steel sword.

The swordsman who emerged was tall and lean, with striking blue eyes that seemed to pierce the very soul. His hair, a mixture of silver and black, was a symbol of his heritage—the union of two great houses, Stark and Targaryen. With a single, precise swing, he dispatched the remaining guards, their bodies falling in pieces to the cold ground.

Behind him, an army of Free Folk swarmed into the village, overwhelming it with their sheer numbers. Joining the assault were the beasts of the mystical forests—great shadowcats, direwolves, and other creatures of legend. After a brutal, chaotic fight, the village fell silent, save for the wails of women mourning the fallen.

The surviving men were bound, while the women and children were spared and allowed to leave. However, the Northerners, with their unyielding spirit, refused to bend the knee. A group of them stood defiantly, despite being captured, their faces resolute. "We know only one queen in the North," one of them said, his voice filled with pride. "Her Grace, Sansa Stark. We will not lower our swords to anyone else."

Raenar, the swordsman and leader of the invading force, laughed bitterly. "Her majesty, Sansa Stark, is nothing but a usurper. My mother’s right to the North was stolen through her cunning. I have come to reclaim what is mine—not just the North, but the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms. They belong to Raenar Targaryen!"

He raised his sword high, and his army roared in response, chanting, "All hail Raenar Targaryen!"

Raenar looked down at the defiant Northerners. "Swear your fealty to me, or die before my wrath."

None of the Northerners budged. They stood firm, even in the face of certain death. With a grim smile, Raenar gave the signal. The rebels were executed, their blood staining the frozen earth.

---

Thousands of leagues away, in King’s Landing, Bran the Broken awoke suddenly, gasping for breath. His mind was filled with the terrible vision of the village’s destruction and Raenar’s chilling declaration. "Is anyone there?" Bran called out, his voice commanding despite his frail appearance.

A soldier entered the room swiftly. "Yes, Your Grace?"

"Call the council," Bran ordered, his voice heavy with urgency. "Immediately."

"At once, Your Grace," the soldier replied, bowing before hurrying out to gather the members of the Small Council.

Before long, the council was assembled. Lord Bronn of the Blackwater, now older with white hair and wrinkled skin, still retained his sharp wit and deadly sword skills. He stood casually, a knowing smirk on his face. Across the room, Tyrion Lannister, now balding with a hunched back, sipped on his wine, the years of political intrigue and personal torment weighing on him. Behind Bran, Ser Brienne of Tarth stood tall, as ever, a loyal protector, her presence commanding and proud.

"What’s the matter, Your Grace?" Bronn asked, irritation lacing his words. "I hope this is important. I was, uh, busy with what might have been the best sex of my life with a rather charming prostitute." He grinned, but the room remained tense.

Bran sighed, his expression grave. "Danger is rising again, from beyond the Wall."

The room fell into an uneasy silence. Tyrion lowered his goblet of wine, Brienne’s brow furrowed in concern, and Bronn’s usual nonchalance faded. They all exchanged worried glances, the weight of Bran's words sinking in. The memories of past horrors—of the Night King, the Long Night, and the devastation of the realm—were still fresh in their minds, even years later.

"Are you certain?" Tyrion finally asked, his voice hoarse. "We’ve had peace for so long. Can it really be happening again?"

Bran nodded, his voice steady but somber. "I’ve seen it. A new threat is coming, and this time, it is led by Raenar Targaryen. He claims both the North and the Seven Kingdoms as his own."

The Small Council sat in stunned silence, absorbing the gravity of the situation. The uneasy peace that had settled over the realm since the defeat of the Night King was once again being threatened.

Brienne spoke up, her voice filled with resolve. "We must act quickly, Your Grace. If Raenar is truly raising an army and uniting the Free Folk and creatures from beyond the Wall, we cannot hesitate."

Bronn let out a long breath, shaking his head. "Bloody Targaryens. Always causing trouble, aren’t they?"

Tyrion leaned forward, his mind already spinning with strategies and potential plans. "We’ll need allies. The North will need to be warned, and if Raenar’s forces are as dangerous as Bran says, we’ll have to prepare the entire realm for war."

Bran stared out the window, his vision extending far beyond King’s Landing, beyond the horizon. He knew what was coming, and he knew the cost of inaction.

"Call Sansa Stark," Bran said quietly. "The North must be ready. The Seven Kingdoms must be ready."

---

The tension in the room grew palpable as they began to understand the full scope of what was to come. Once again, the realm was on the brink of war, and the blood of dragons and wolves would be spilled before it was over.

The storm was coming, and none of them would be spared.