POV: Bran Stark, Godswood of Winterfell, Second long night.
I have traveled to other side of wall, faced many blizzards burried under the snow. But cold that I'm feeling as that thing is getting near me is unsatling.
The battle had fallen silent, as though swallowed whole by the night itself.
I could feel him before I saw him.
He stepped into the godswood like a shadow given form. His eyes — that terrible, glacial blue — caught the firelight from burning walls of winterfell.
Each step he took was measured, soundless on the snow. He moved like someone who had done this before.
Theon Greyjoy stood between us, bleeding from a dozen wounds, his breath fogging the air in ragged bursts. His spear trembled in his hands, but still he faced the thing that had come for me.
"You're a good man, Theon," I meant it. Whatever Theon Greyjoy had been — traitor, reaver, betrayer — he had come back. He had stood for Winterfell.
Theon charged with a shout, his spear low, and the Night King caught it as though it were a child's toy. There was no hurry in the way he broke it, no anger. He simply snapped the ashwood and drove the jagged end into Theon's belly.
Theon fell without a word, the snow blooming red beneath him.
Now it was only me.
And him.
He walked closer. I did not move. I could not.
Somewhere to my left, there was the soft crunch of feet over snow. Arya. She came out of the dark— leapt, faster than I had seen her move.
For one heartbeat I thought she would do it.
For one heartbeat, I saw the end — the dagger, Valyrian steel, plunging into the Night King's chest.
But the Night King turned.
He caught her.
His hand closed around her throat before the blade struck true. The dagger slipped from her grip, landing in the snow between them.
Arya's feet kicked once, twice, before her eyes turned blue.
The change was quick, too quick. Her face went slack, her lips parted. She turned her head toward me — toward Bran — and there was a question there, so small, so childlike.
"Why?" she whispered.
And then she was gone.
The girl who had left Winterfell had never returned, but now, whatever had been left of her was gone too. She stepped back from the Night King, her head cocked, her movements no longer her own.
I watched her pick up the dagger she had dropped, this for Night king.
Some stories don't have a good ending. The thought was mine, or perhaps it belonged to the weirwood, or the old gods watching through its red eyes. In the end, the Night King was not meant to die by a wolf girl from the North.
I knew what will happen, but i didn't want to believe it.
It had begun unraveling years ago. I had seen it, in the past, in the river of time. It had started the day Tywin Lannister died during Grayjoy rebalion. Tywin's death had been a stone thrown into a still pond, and the ripples had spread, unseen, across years. Jaime had learned the truth of Jon Snow's birth far too early. They had placed a crown upon Jon's head, called him King of the Seven Kingdoms, and for a brief moment it had seemed that light would triumph.
But Aegon, the black dragon, had poisoned him, Jon had died, however.
Melisandre had brought him back.
But the boy who returned was not the boy who had died. I had seen the fire in him, the hunger in his eyes. Melisandre had whispered of sacrifice. She had spoken of Lightbringer and of Azor Ahai. And Jon, with that same grim resolve that had driven him all his life, had obeyed.
He had sacrificed his dragons to get lightbringer
And with that, the last piece had fallen away. The song was broken.
The Night King reached me. He raised his sword, a shard of ice that gleamed with moonlight. Its edge caught the starlight and flared white.
I did not look away— the world turned green.
Not the green of spring, nor the sickly green of wildfire, but a light that came from nowhere and everywhere. The snow hung frozen in the air. The fire in the braziers stopped flickering. The Night King stood still, his sword half-raised.
Time had stopped?!
I heard them then.
Voices.
"There is no other way," one said, deep and solemn. "They will have to do it."
"No," said another, sharp as flint. "He will endanger our existence. We have seen it. He will not obey."
"What happens if the Others win?" A third voice, soft as falling snow.
There was a pause, long and heavy.
"I will use my life-flame," the first said at last.
"What of the raven?"
"His powers and his knowledge will be given to him."
"You cannot," the flint-voice snarled. "We do not know what happens when someone from another plane get our powers. The weft of the world may unmake itself."
"It is the only way."
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