The air changed. A deeper chill, something differentâlike something unseen was watching from the dark. The torch flames flickered, leaning toward the floor, weak, almost begging to survive.
Jon and Daenerys turned their heads together. At the far end of the hall, emerging from the thickest shadows, stood the Night King. Tall. Still. His frost-cracked armor gleamed faintly, and his eyes glowed ice-blue like frozen needles. His very presence stole the breath from the air, as if hope itself died in his wake.
A shiver ran down Jonâs spine, his breath turning to short, white gasps. Daenerys squeezed his hand tighter, but said nothing. She didnât need to.
The Night King raised his hands slowly, with a macabre grace. The torches whimpered. The brazier finally died, sending up a column of black smoke.
The shadow fell over the last flame.
The cold thickened, almost solid.
And then... silence. Total silence. The snowstorm intensified, pouring heavier and harder through the broken ceiling, as if winter itself had answered its masterâs call. They felt death closing in around them.
The Night King said nothing. He never did. He just raised his hands again, slowly, like summoning forces no one else could grasp.
The air shifted instantly. It became thick, solidâso cold it hurt to breathe. The roomâs shadows stretched and twisted, as if trying to flee.
Jon kept his eyes locked on him. On those blue eyes that burned to look at. His fingers clenched tighter around his sword, and his white breath dissolved before him. He didnât blink. Didnât flinch. Just a wolf, staring down a predator.
The torches shrank, trembled, and died one by one with a sad whisper, their smoke trailing upward and vanishing into the frost.
The brazier was useless now. The last circle of warmth shrank with every second.
The walls groanedâa deep, hollow moan that filled the throne room. The tears on their lashes froze before they could fall.
Jon didnât move. All his focus stayed locked on that unmoving figure, terror and rage knotted in his throat.
But then, beside him, Daenerys looked down. And something in her face changed.
Her breath caught. Her eyes opened widerâshocked and frozen. The dark puddle beneath her feet was no longer water. A web of cracks split through it, glowing faintly, like the surface was about to break and swallow them whole. The ice crept up her boots, anchoring her, spreading like crystal claws.
She looked up at him, lips trembling.
âJonâŠâ she whisperedâa broken thread of voice, vanishing into the frost.
Only then did Jon look down. And he saw it.
The puddle was no longer a dark mirror, but a field of glowing fractures, pulsing white. The cracks spread quickly, humming, like a monstrous heartbeat below them, ready to shatter its prison.
Instinctively, he tried to move. Tried to pull his feet away, to step back. But as he did, he felt the ice grab himâfirm and cruel, like invisible shackles already claiming him.
And it was too late. Deep below, beneath their feet⊠something awakened.