Chapter 92: The Last Warmth

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The Throne Room wasn’t a symbol of power anymore. It looked like a ruined cathedral, ravaged by winter: cracked columns coated in frost, parts of the ceiling collapsed, stone fragments scattered like bones over the frozen tiles, and snow falling slowly and constantly from above.

And in the middle of it all lay Drogon’s body.

Massive. Still. The wound on his neck was a dark, terrible gash, still bleeding golden blood that mixed with the frost, forming steaming pools that froze in strange patterns. His wings were folded in an unnatural way, as if he’d tried to shield himself at the end.

Daenerys could barely stand. Her wounded leg trembled with every breath, her whole body just an extension of the pain tearing her apart. The Night King stood by the corpse, like a proud hunter beside his trophy.

He didn’t attack. He stood motionless, with that ancient stillness that made stone crack. It wasn’t hesitation—it was calculation. The cold thickened around him as if he breathed it, draining heat by the second. He watched. He waited. He was in no rush: fear was working for him. There was a moment only he knew, the exact second when all resistance would break.

In the shattered shadows, Arya didn’t move. She’d seen Jon drive Longclaw into the monster’s chest and seen the ice seal the wound as if the blade never existed. She’d tried dragonglass arrows—nothing. Her mind raced faster than her pulse: measuring distances, counting steps, calculating angles, imagining paths through rubble and columns. If strength couldn’t break him… what would? She watched, learned, waited for a crack to show.

Daenerys’ scream wasn’t human. It was raw anguish, cut by rage and grief, an echo that thundered through the Throne Room. Her voice shattered the silence like a storm:

“My son!” she roared. “He was my son!”

She tried to step toward the body, but her leg gave out and she nearly collapsed. Jon caught her by the arm, but she shoved him away with a furious strength born of sorrow.

“And he killed him… like it was nothing!” she screamed, eyes locked on the ice creature. “Like I was nothing!”

Her tears didn’t freeze this time. They were too hot. Her fury burned hotter than the cold around her.

“Your sword didn’t work…” she said bitterly, glaring at Jon. “The dragonglass didn’t work either… nothing does!”

Jon tried to speak, but she cut him off.

“Don’t you see? He’s going to kill us all!” she gasped. “Like him. Like all the others. Unless…”

Her voice faded, but her eyes changed. They didn’t lose the pain—but they gained clarity… and a terrible resolve.

“The prophecy…” she whispered, trembling. “Azor Ahai. Lightbringer. Nissa Nissa…”

“They warned me that if I didn’t fulfill it, the shadow would take everything I loved. One by one. It’s already begun, Jon. It’s already too late.”

Jon swallowed hard, searching for words, for denial, for anything.

“But there are still people who matter,” Daenerys added in a whisper. “You… and Jonaerys. I won’t let the shadow touch you too. I won’t wait for your turn.”

Jon shook his head, afraid of what he saw in her.

“Dany, no...”

“It’s the only way!” she shouted, grabbing his shoulders. “Don’t you see? He showed us! With his blood! With his fire gone!”

Her voice cracked. She looked down at Drogon’s huge, still body.

“I lost Rhaegal… Missandei… Jorah… and now Drogon,” she whispered. “One by one… everything I love has fallen. It wasn’t a warning, Jon... it was a sentence. And it’s being carried out.”

Jon answered, desperate, trying to push her away:

“Dany, for the gods’ sake! You don’t know what you’re saying…”

But she held tight, her nails digging into his shoulders:

“I haven’t lost my mind, Jon!” she shouted. “I’ve just opened my eyes!” Her voice cracked again. “What I loved most has been taken from me! And I let it happen… clinging to a hollow hope!”

Tears streamed freely down her face now, mixing with desperation:

“But I can do something now. I can make this mean something.” Her grip loosened slightly. “Your sword… if it pierces me… it’ll be what we need.”

“And maybe… maybe Jonaerys will live to see a world without this shadow. Maybe you too, Jon. That will be my legacy. Not a kingdom… but his future.”

“No!” Jon cried, grabbing her wrists. “I won’t kill you!”

“Then no one will be saved!” she yelled back. “Just like him! Like all the ones we’ve already lost!”

Her voice turned pleading, but still desperate:

“Jon… please… it’s the only way his death will mean something. The only way it won’t be in vain.”

Jon finally looked into her eyes and saw not resolve—but wild pain and pure despair.

“Dany, listen to me…”

“No!” she interrupted, trembling with rage and grief. “You listen! I saw that monster stab him like he didn’t matter!”

She clutched her chest, as if physical pain could lessen the emotional one:

“It feels like my heart’s been ripped out. Like a piece of me was torn away. But if that can forge Lightbringer… if it can give us the sword to destroy him…”

Her voice turned into a desperate whisper:

“Then maybe… maybe I can endure it.”

“There has to be another way,” Jon murmured, though his voice no longer sounded certain.

“What way?” she asked, voice broken, like she no longer expected an answer. “Wildfire?”

Jon stared—surprised she’d thought of that.

“That would kill us too,” Jon muttered.

“Exactly!” she screamed bitterly. “Yes, it would destroy the whole city, kill us all—and we don’t even know if it would be enough to kill him! You saw how he resisted dragonfire! What makes us think wildfire will be any different?”

Her eyes brimmed with frustrated tears:

“Don’t you see? I’ve thought of everything. Every damn option. Wildfire is too risky, too… uncertain. But the prophecy… the prophecy promises a sword that can kill him. Lightbringer. The sword destined to destroy the darkness.”

She looked at Drogon’s body again, then back at Jon—and in her eyes was a desperation that split him in two:

“This is it. This is the prophecy. This is my sacrifice.”

“Please… don’t let all of this be in vain.”

Jon swallowed hard. His hands trembled—the weight of the sword was nothing compared to the weight of the prophecy. The knowledge that she was right was like poison coursing through him.

“There has to be another way,” he whispered desperately. “There has to be.”

“There isn’t,” she replied, her voice barely a thread. “And we both know it.”

“Do it now, before…”

But she didn’t finish. Because that’s when they felt it.

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