The Night King moved. It wasn't a charge, not the lunge of a warrior, but a fluid, inevitable advance, like the creep of frost across a windowpane. Theon Greyjoy, rooted in his final act of defiance, braced himself. The spear felt heavy, clumsy, a child's toy against the oncoming winter storm.
There was no parry, no clash of steel. The Night King simply sidestepped the spear's thrust with contemptuous ease, his movement a blur of white and shadow. Before Theon could react, could even register the failure of his attack, the icy blade swept upwards. It wasn't a slash meant to wound, but a precise, chillingly efficient strike aimed at the throat. A faint, crystalline *shink* echoed in the unnatural silence as the blade met flesh and bone. Theon's eyes widened, not in pain, but in sudden, stark understanding. A gurgle escaped his lips, red blossoming starkly against the pale skin of his neck, instantly freezing at the edges where it met the blade's residual cold. He crumpled, the spear clattering onto the snow-dusted ground, his last breath misting and vanishing in the frigid air. His sacrifice, though absolute, had been utterly futile, a mayfly dashed against a glacier.
Beneath the heart tree, Bran Stark watched, his expression unchanging. Whether it was the impassivity of the Three-Eyed Raven, seeing all time at once, or the stunned paralysis of a boy witnessing a final, brutal end, was impossible to tell. Perhaps it was both.
The Night King didn't spare Theon's body a glance. His purpose lay elsewhere. He glided the remaining steps to Bran, stopping directly before the seated boy. The air pulsed with cold, the ancient carvings on the weirwood seeming to recoil from his presence. He reached out, not with his blade, but with his bare hand, fingers unnaturally long and pale, tipped with nails like shards of black ice.
He placed his hand flat upon Bran's forehead. There was no violence in the gesture, yet it held a terrifying intimacy. A low hum began to fill the air, a sound that vibrated deep within the chest, felt rather than heard. It was the sound of power, ancient and predatory.
Icy blue energy, visible as faint, shimmering tendrils, began to flow from Bran into the Night King's hand. It wasn't blood, not life force in the conventional sense, but something deeper, more fundamental. It was the essence of the Sight, the accumulated knowledge and power of the Three-Eyed Raven, the vast, interconnected consciousness that spanned time and memory. Bran's body tensed, a slight tremor running through him. His eyes, usually distant and calm, squeezed shut for a fleeting moment, a flicker of the boy beneath the Raven surfacing in response to the violation. The red tears of the weirwood seemed to flow faster, tracing paths down the pale bark like fresh wounds.
***
Beyond the Godswood walls, the abrupt cessation of the wight attack had left the battlefield in a state of stunned confusion. Jon Snow, astride Rhaegal, circled lower, peering through the smoke and swirling snow towards the ancient grove. He saw the Night King, saw him standing before Bran, saw Theon fall. A roar of denial and fury built in his chest, but he was too far, the chaos too thick. He urged Rhaegal forward, but the dragon balked, screeching, sensing the unnatural power radiating from the Godswood.
From her vantage point on Drogon, Daenerys too saw the impossible tableau. The halt of the dead, the Night King's focus shifting from annihilation to... something else. Something directed at the Stark boy. Her mind raced – was this the key? Was killing Bran truly his only goal? But the scene unfolding felt wrong, not like an execution, but a siphoning, a dark ritual she couldn't comprehend. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through her battle rage. What power did the boy hold that the embodiment of death itself would pause a war to claim it?
***
Back in the Godswood, the transference intensified. The shimmering blue light flowed faster, a river of stolen magic pouring into the Night King. His own icy aura seemed to brighten, to deepen, pulsing with newfound energy. The very air around him grew colder, frost spreading rapidly across the ground, encasing Theon's body in a glittering shroud. Bran slumped further in his seat, his already frail body seeming to diminish, the light behind his eyes dimming, though they remained open, fixed on his violator.
The ritual felt agonizingly long, yet was over in moments. With a final, convulsive surge, the flow of energy ceased. The Night King withdrew his hand, leaving a faint, icy imprint on Bran's forehead that quickly faded. He looked down at the boy, a flicker of something akin to satisfaction in those depthless blue eyes. Bran remained conscious, his eyes open, but the vastness within them was gone. The connection to the weirwood network, the Sight that let him roam across time and space, had been severed, drained away. He was just Bran Stark again, broken, powerless, trapped within the confines of his own mind, a library whose doors had been sealed shut.
The Night King turned away from him. Bran was no longer a threat, merely a vessel now emptied of its precious contents. The power he had absorbed pulsed within him, a new weapon, a different kind of cold. He felt the threads of magic he now commanded, the ability not just to reanimate the dead, but to *still* the living, to impose his will not through death, but through utter subjugation.
He raised his hands slowly, palms outward. The air crackled, heavy with impending power. Frost formed instantly on his gauntlets, spreading up his arms. The faint hum returned, growing in intensity, resonating outwards from the Godswood. Outside, the living soldiers, still reeling from the sudden pause in the fighting, looked around in confusion and dawning dread. The temperature plummeted, breath misting thickly before their faces. A new, more profound silence began to fall, swallowing the last echoes of battle.
The Night King stood tall, a figure of absolute cold, ready to unleash the power stolen from the Raven, ready to cast the world into an eternal, silent winter. The first wave of the Transformation Curse gathered around him, an invisible tsunami of ice and will, poised to crash upon Winterfell.
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