Chapter 88: The Price of Light

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King’s Landing wasn’t home anymore.

The city balanced on a knife’s edge. Silence. Cold in the stones. Shadows lurking in empty halls.

The walls still stood, but cracks ran deep. Houses remained, but most were already deserted. Life didn’t go on—it drifted toward the sea, to the ships waiting in Blackwater Bay.

The evacuation had begun. With so few people left, the last civilians were quickly brought to the fleet. Crypts, temples, and cellars weren’t shelters anymore—they were just places to say goodbye. Every hour counted.

No armies left. Only tired patrols and a city emptying street by street, shadow by shadow. The Red Keep was still the command post… and the last place where hope flickered.

There, in the Red Keep, the last hope gathered: Jon Snow. Daenerys Targaryen. Arya Stark. Samwell Tarly. Tyrion Lannister. Sansa Stark. Ser Davos. And little Jonaerys, asleep in Sansa’s arms, unaware of the fate hanging over them all.

Not to fight, but to make the impossible choice.

They were desperate.

They’d seen what the Night King could do. They’d watched their flames die before him. Their lines break. Magic fail.

Now, all they wanted was to find a way—any way—to end him.

No allies left. No dragons unscathed. Only choices that cut deep.

And it was Daenerys who finally spoke.

Her words weren’t blind faith or anger. They came from loss… and the weight of a debt she’d carried since the day she first felt her son move inside her.

She’d wanted to believe it was just another lie, an empty threat. But now, with two of her fire-born children gone and every beloved name lost, the warning didn’t sound like superstition anymore—it sounded like a bell tolling closer.

She spoke without looking up:

“I’ve lost children of fire,” she said. “And even that wasn’t enough.”

Silence fell, heavy as ash.

“If dragons weren’t enough… maybe we need something else. Something older. Deeper. Harsher.”

Her words weren’t theory.
They were warning.

“The prophecy of Azor Ahai… speaks of Lightbringer. The only weapon that can end this darkness.”

Her voice didn’t shake.

“But it’s not forged with steel,” she added. “It’s forged… with sacrifice.”

Then she looked at Jon.

“To light it, Azor Ahai pierced the heart of the one he loved most.”

She asked for no answers, no forgiveness. She said what needed to be said. The decision lived in her: if the world demanded it, the moment would come.

No one breathed. And everyone understood.

Jon would have to kill her.
Only then would a flame be born that might stop the Night King.

Sansa lost her breath.
Arya clenched her jaw.
Tyrion lowered his eyes.

And Jon… just looked at her. In silence. As if words were caught in his throat.

But then he spoke.

“No,” he said in a voice low but stone-solid. “I won’t accept it. I won’t do it.
Not while there’s still another way.”

Daenerys didn’t insist.
She didn’t need to.

They all knew—if no other way appeared… that would be the end.

Sam broke the silence before anyone could speak another madness.

“We could try the obvious,” he said cautiously. “Valyrian steel. If someone can reach him, it might kill him.”

Jon nodded slowly. Everyone knew the legend… and that he had killed a Walker with such a sword.

“But not now,” he answered, his voice rough. “Not when he’s surrounded by a wall of wights. Not when every step toward him would cost a hundred lives.”

Arya frowned, measuring invisible distances in her mind. Impossible. Not with the army they had left.

“To reach him, we’d have to cross a sea of death,” said Sansa, cold and calm. “We’d fall before even seeing him.”

Then Tyrion spoke.

“Maybe… there’s another way.”

And for the first time in days, a spark of something like hope lit in his eyes.

“Aerys planned to use it. He never did. But it’s still here. Beneath our feet.”

Wildfire. Ancient. Lethal. And very real.

“Sealed in chambers under the city,” he explained. “Hundreds of barrels. Hidden rooms. Still there since the war.”

“What if we move it?” he proposed, pointing to a dusty map. “To open ground. A plain to the south. We set a trap and draw him there.”

It seemed brilliant: save the city, destroy the enemy.

But Sam slammed his book shut and shook his head.

“It can’t be moved. The chambers were built to contain it, not transport it. If it’s shaken, struck, or lit… it explodes. Not even Aerys’s alchemists tried.”

“It’s embedded in the foundations,” added Davos. “Beneath our boots.”

Everyone understood at once: the only way to use it… was here. In the heart of King’s Landing.

Its detonation would erase everything.

Then came the doubt.

“What if it doesn’t work?” Sam asked, voice low, as if the silence itself might shatter from the thought.

“What do you mean?” Davos asked, though he already sensed the answer.

“Drogon’s fire did nothing to him. We saw it. Not a burn. Not a mark. He walked through flames like mist.”

Tyrion frowned.

“But this isn’t ordinary fire,” he insisted. “It’s wildfire. Ancient. Pure alchemy.”

“Yes,” Sam nodded. “But no one knows if that’s enough. There are no records. No proof.”

Sansa looked at the map, frowning.

“Then… what if we risk everything and it’s for nothing?”

A different silence filled the room.
Not resignation.
But the fear of betting everything… and losing it.

Jon clenched his fists.

“There’s only one way to know,” he finally said. “Try it.”

But then came the worst.

“It’s not enough to light it,” said Sam.
“It requires a life.
A sacrifice.”

“A life?” Sansa asked, frozen.

“Someone has to light it from inside. At the exact moment. When the Night King is in the city’s center.
Or it won’t matter.”

At the city’s heart lies one of the greatest concentrations of wildfire. If activated with the Night King present, it would cause maximum damage.

Everyone fell silent.

Then, as a final hope, Jon proposed:

“What if we use Drogon? Just enough to fire from the air. Trigger a prepared zone.
No lives at risk.”

“A chimney. A tower. Something isolated,” Davos suggested. “If done right, it could work.”

And for a moment, they all breathed.
Just a little.

But Tyrion was direct.

“The explosion will be so big… it’ll reach Drogon.
And his rider.”

Not even the sky would save them.

Fire doesn’t forgive.

Silence stretched, suffocating, as if the room itself held its breath. No one wanted to say it. No one even wanted to imagine it. But all knew—if there was a solution… it would demand the unthinkable.

Arya wasn’t looking at anyone. Her eyes fixed on the table, the maps, the shadows of fire dancing over stone. Her face was a mask of calm, but her hands—clenched on her legs—barely trembled. Then, in the midst of that destiny-heavy silence… she stood.

“I’ll do it.”

No drama.
No speeches.
Just a firm voice breaking the silence.

She didn’t speak like someone offering to die.
But like someone who knows what must be done… and does it.

“I’ll go through the tunnels,” she continued.
“I’ll light the wildfire when I hear the signal.
Daenerys can be with Drogon above. When they see the Night King, Drogon can strike Maegor’s Holdfast bell and make it ring.
When it rings… I’ll know it’s time.”

The silence that followed was thick.
An invisible weight over them all.

Jon stood at once, eyes full of rage and dread.

“No,” he said. “You won’t do it.”

He said it as if he could stop the world with those words.

But Arya didn’t look at him as a sister.
She looked at him as someone who had already crossed a point of no return.

“I’m the only one who can,” she said.
“No one else in this room will.
No one else in the world would.
I will.”

There was no pride.
No sadness.

Only certainty.

Davos clenched his jaw.
Tyrion closed his eyes.
Sam had no words.
And Sansa… Sansa just looked at her, frozen, as if something inside her was breaking.

No one stopped her.

Because they all knew—if anyone could do it… it was her.
And that made it even more unbearable.

Until Sansa, almost in a whisper, spoke.

“You don’t have to die,” she said.
“We can use a candle. One that burns just long enough for you to get out.
Daenerys can pick you up at the exit before it blows… and escape.”

“With your agility…” Davos added, as if suddenly breathing again, “you might have a real chance.”

Arya looked down.
Stayed silent.
And when she looked up again, her decision remained.

“Then I’ll light the candle… and run.
As fast as I can.”

“I’ll go with Daenerys,” Jon interrupted. “If anything goes wrong, I can help.”

“We’ll wait near the old sept,” he added. “Drogon will descend just enough to pick you up. And we’ll escape before it explodes.”

Sansa nodded, clinging to a thread of hope.
Tyrion murmured:

“If all goes well… there won’t be a sacrifice.”

When the council ended, the orders were clear: the city would be emptied as soon as possible. By nightfall, the fleet would wait at sea, far from the enemy’s reach, far from any destruction.

And thus, the plan was born.

It wasn’t a brilliant plan.
Nor fair.
Nor safe.

But it was the best they had.

And as the room fell silent…
the prophecy remained.
Unmoving.
Unbreakable.

In a corner, Daenerys barely heard the voices. While the others clung to hope in wildfire, her mind returned, again and again, to the prophecy...

She wanted to believe maybe it would be enough. That maybe they could save everything without more death. But inside her, doubt burned. What if it wasn’t enough? What if the Night King could only be stopped at the price she feared most?

She had already lost too much. Children of fire. Friendships. Legacies. And she knew death’s work wasn’t done. She felt that if the prophecy didn’t come true, the price wouldn’t just be failure… but the fall of those she still loved.

And she didn’t want to watch anyone else die.

Not Jon.
Not Drogon.
Not Jonaerys.

If the fire failed, she already knew how it would end.

Jon, however, wasn’t looking at maps or listening to voices. He only saw Arya. His sister. The girl he had protected behind walls of snow, who now, without fear, offered herself to the fire.

He wanted to stop her. To scream. But he knew he couldn’t. She had already chosen. Just as he once had, when he crossed the Wall. Just like all who understand there are things greater than themselves.

He clenched his fists.
Lowered his gaze.
And thought only that, if everything went wrong, he’d be there to save what remained.

Because he still believed in another way out.
One that wouldn’t take more lives.
One that wouldn’t force him to lose her too.

And while the others traced routes and measures, Jon clung to the only thing he had left.

Hope.

And that hope, now, had a name:
Arya Stark.

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