The air changed. A deep shiver, different, as if something invisible watched them from the darkness. The flames of the torches flickered, leaning toward the ground, weak, almost begging to survive.
Jon and Daenerys turned their heads in unison. There, at the end of the hall, emerging from the densest shadows, was he. The Night King. Upright, motionless, with his cracked frost armor and his blue eyes shining like ice needles. In his mere presence there was something that stole breath, as if he devoured hope itself just by existing.
Jon felt a chill run down his spine, and his breathing became a series of short, white gasps. Daenerys squeezed his hand even tighter, but said nothing. It wasn't necessary.
The Night King slowly raised his hands, with macabre grace, the torches moaned. The brazier finally went out and released a column of black smoke. The cold thickened, almost solid.
And then... the silence was absolute. The snowstorm intensified, falling denser and more violent through the cracks in the ceiling, as if winter itself responded to the presence of its lord. And they felt death surrounding them.
The Night King said nothing. He never said anything. He just raised his hands, slowly, like one who summons forces that no one else understands.
The air changed instantly. It became dense, solid, so cold it hurt to breathe it. The shadows of the hall stretched and deformed, as if trying to flee.
Jon kept his gaze fixed on him. On those blue eyes that hurt to look at. His fingers dug into the sword's grip, and his white breath dissolved in front of him. He didn't blink. He didn't flutter. Just a wolf facing its predator.
All the torches shrank, trembled and went out one by one, with a sad whisper, leaving threads of smoke that were lost in the frost.
The brazier was already useless. The circle of warmth that protected them shrank every second.
The walls creaked, a deep and hollow moan that filled the hall. The tears on their eyelashes froze before falling.
Jon didn't move. All his attention remained trapped by that motionless figure, terror and fury knotted in his throat.
But then, beside him, Daenerys lowered her gaze. And something in her expression changed.
Her breathing stopped for a second. Her eyes opened just a bit more, surprised and frozen. The dark puddle under her feet was no longer water. A network of cracks crossed it, gleaming with pale flashes, as if the surface was about to break and swallow them. Ice climbed up her boots, anchoring her, extending like crystal claws.
She raised her eyes to him, lips trembling.
—Jon... —she whispered, a thread of broken voice, and her breath dissolved in the frost.
Only then did Jon lower his gaze. And he saw it.
The puddle was no longer a dark mirror, but a field of cracks that pulsed with a white glow. The fractures spread rapidly, humming, as if a monstrous heart beat beneath their feet, ready to break its prison.
Instinctively he tried to move. He wanted to pull his feet away, take a step back. But when he did, he felt the ice holding him, firm and cruel, like invisible shackles that had already claimed him.
And it was too late, deep down, beneath their feet, something awakened.