Under the moonlight, a massive shadow swept across Thousand Faces Isle.
Prince Lyonel stared in shock at the ruined battlefield in the center of the island. Then, seeing the black dragon, Shulvokun, roaring incessantly at the treeline, he activated his magical perception. Sensing something, he immediately had Shulvokun hover in place and leaped off the dragon's back.
"Sauron!"
Lyonel ran to the base of a large tree and saw four mud-covered figures clinging to the trunk in strange positions. The first one he recognized was the most familiar—Sauron.
Each of the four gripped the hilt of a sword, pinning a White Walker's limbs to the heart tree. A woman in a black robe was relentlessly striking it with a black iron rod. The White Walker writhed in agony, scraping away the bark, and the heart tree's blood-like sap seeped into its entire body.
"Quaithe, Jon, Robb, Ashara? The Night King!"
Recognizing the four swords, Lyonel immediately understood. The only foe capable of putting Sauron, Jon, Robb, and Ashara in such a dire state—one even Quaithe was powerless against—could only be the Night King.
"Kill it!" Robb growled through gritted teeth, his arm nearly dislocated.
Lyonel cast healing magic on them before drawing his sword. The brilliant glow emanating from its hilt made the Night King recoil in discomfort.
"Hiss…" The Night King's eyes locked onto the blade, his icy magic surging, releasing waves of blue mist.
Understanding the situation, Lyonel realized the five of them had spent every last ounce of strength restraining the Night King. The final blow was up to him.
"Haah—"
The Night King let out a guttural roar, shaking his head wildly before suddenly going still.
A few seconds later, he raised his head again and met Lyonel's gaze. "You cannot kill me."
"The Night King can speak?" The six of them were slightly taken aback, but none loosened their grip—if anything, they held on even tighter.
The Night King tilted his head slightly. "I am the Three-Eyed Raven. The Night King has trapped my mind. Do not strike just yet."
"How much longer do you need? We can't hold on much longer!" Robb gritted out.
If they killed the Night King now, they might also kill Bran. Everyone understood the risk.
The Night King gave no response. His head twitched erratically—he was still locked in battle within his mind.
His body convulsed violently, now drenched in the heart tree's crimson sap. The magical light in his eyes flickered between blue and green, shifting back and forth.
In the end, the icy blue light swallowed the green entirely. The Night King lifted his head again, his expression devoid of emotion. "You will all be my slaves."
"No! You killed Bran!" Robb roared in grief and fury.
"I am not dead… yet. If you kill me, the Three-Eyed Raven dies as well." In the battle for their minds, the Night King was clearly gaining the upper hand.
"What do we do now?"
Lyonel gripped Dawn tightly. From his studies, he knew Three-Eyed Ravens—those most powerful among the skinchangers—were near-divine beings capable of seeing the past and the future. He dared not act recklessly.
Having suppressed the Three-Eyed Raven's mind, the Night King could now fully exert his strength. Slowly, he lifted his right hand. The Dark Sister, still pinning his arm to the tree, was also beginning to rise.
"Kill him now, or we all die!" Ashara tightened her grip on the trunk with her legs, her voice resolute.
"I will not die at the hands of some lowborn bastard!"
The Night King's ice-blue gaze locked onto Lyonel, his speech growing more fluent.
Their minds were linked. Had the Night King learned something about his true parentage from the Three-Eyed Raven? Lyonel's heartbeat quickened.
Having grown up in the Red Keep, witnessing the power struggles of the nobility and learning from his mother, Margaery, Lyonel knew that if his true lineage were exposed, it would bring nothing but bloodshed.
In that instant, he made his decision. It didn't matter if it was the Three-Eyed Raven or the Night King—both had to die.
Gripping Dawn with both hands, Lyonel aimed the blade's tip at the Night King's brow.
"Your Highness! There might be another way!" Even as his younger brother Bran was on the verge of death, Robb couldn't bring himself to go through with it and spoke with difficulty.
Renowned for his speed, Jon was using all his strength to keep the Night King's arm restrained, while Sauron, having exhausted himself completely, could no longer even speak.
Quaithe, who rarely spoke to outsiders, broke his silence. "You don't have to kill the Night King immediately. Slowly pierce his body with the sword. When he's injured, his mental control will weaken, and that might allow the Three-Eyed Raven to break free."
"Good idea!" Lionel glanced at Robb, who nodded in agreement.
He moved his sword to the Night King's chest, pressing the tip against the icy armor.
Applying slow, deliberate force, Dawn's hilt radiated a pure white glow, the light flowing across the entire blade. The Night King's formidable frozen armor, faced with a true divine weapon from beyond this world—one inherently designed to counter the undead—was instantly breached.
Cracks spread rapidly, and the armor shattered. The pale golden blade effortlessly pierced the Night King's tough skin.
"Don't kill me!" The Night King began to struggle violently, but the four holding him down used every last ounce of their strength to keep him pinned.
The sword pushed in a little deeper.
"Just a little more!" The voice that emerged from the Night King's mouth belonged to Bran. His mental power was gaining the upper hand.
Lionel's eyes flashed coldly. Gripping Dawn with both hands, he suddenly drove the blade forward. It was as if the sword had just breached the Night King's solid breastbone, but his insides were hollow—Dawn ran him clean through, its blade sinking a good portion into the weirwood behind him.
"Ahhh~~"
A strange sound escaped the Night King's mouth, his body erupting with chaotic surges of magic.
All across the Isle of Faces, the weirwoods trembled. Crimson leaves rained down in a flurry, while the faces carved into the trunks wept tears of blood.
Far away in the forest, Bran, seated in his wheelchair, slumped forward and collapsed. No matter how the knights beside him called out, he would not wake. They could only watch in helplessness as the Three-Eyed Raven's body slowly grew cold.
"Oooh~~"
As the Night King's magic spiraled out of control, a whirlwind rose around him, sweeping up a torrent of red leaves. The air itself echoed with an eerie, sorrowful wail.
"Get back! It's about to explode!"
Lionel didn't bother trying to pull Dawn free. He grabbed the nearest people—Robb and Ashara—and sprinted away. Quaithe lifted Sauron, gripping Jon by his belt as he swiftly retreated.
The Night King's magic erupted entirely from his body, dispersing into the cyclone as countless specks of blue light.
All eyes on the island turned skyward, watching the swirling maelstrom of glowing motes and crimson leaves.
Across the North and the Riverlands, the snowflakes falling from the sky abruptly melted into heavy raindrops, carving deep hollows in the thick layers of snow.
On the battlefield along the shore, wights collapsed before human soldiers—one, then another, until entire swathes of them fell lifeless.
The White Walkers among them stared blankly at their hands, their magic rapidly draining away. Where once a single Walker could command a thousand wights, their control dwindled to mere hundreds, then dozens, then none.
"Kill them!"
No seasoned soldier would let such an opportunity slip away. There was no need for orders from officers or commands from kings—the entire human army, as one, launched a counterattack, their battle cries shaking the heavens.
Slumped against the weirwood, the Night King's body did not shatter into ice like other White Walkers upon death. Instead, it withered rapidly, soaking up the tree's blood-red sap, transforming into a grotesque, crimson-hued corpse.
His magic, now scattered, never returned to him. As the whirlwind died down and the leaves settled, the drifting blue motes spread further into the sky, fading until they vanished completely—pure magic dissolving into the world itself.
The massive weirwood, which had once borne a single carved face, now twisted and contorted. Two distorted visages emerged from the pale bark, one to the left and one to the right.
Both wept tears of blood—one bore Bran's likeness, the other the Night King's. Their mouths opened wide, wailing in unison, the sound reaching even the distant figures of Robb and the others.