First it was a dry sigh, almost imperceptible...
An instant later, it exploded: a crash that shook the entire hall. A chorus of snaps and cracks, as if the ground tore from the bowels of the world.
The cracks under their feet glowed, extending like lightning trapped in stone. And they exploded.
Spikes erupted from the ground. First one, enormous, sharp as a crystal spear. Then another. And soon a dozen, in all directions, fast and brutal, with a roar of frost that tore slabs and dust from the ceiling.
The puddle became a forest of frozen blades, growing at an impossible speed.
Jon reacted by instinct. He jumped to one side while a spike emerged right where he had been a second before. Another grazed his side, and the pain was immediate: a deep gash that burned his skin with cold and blood. He fell to the ground, rolled on the slabs, panting and leaving a dark trail behind him.
He leaned on his hands, raised his eyes and searched for Daenerys. And he saw her.
She wasn't as fast. A spike sprouted under her leg and pierced it with a dry and brutal crack. Another perforated her abdomen. A third opened her chest. Her body arched, her hands closed in the air, as if she wanted to cling to something invisible, and a brief and torn scream was lost in the frozen gust.
The spikes kept growing, lifting her from the ground, suspending her in the air like a broken figure on an altar of ice. Her hair hung disheveled, her eyes still open and shining.
And then he knew. It wasn't chance. It wasn't random. The Night King had avoided him. Because he understood the prophecy. And he had gotten ahead of it.
Jon, wounded, began to crawl toward her. His hands clawed at the slabs while leaving a trail of blood, his entire body trembling, tears freezing on his eyelashes. He felt nothing else. Only that animal need to reach her.
—Dany! —he screamed, or thought he screamed; his voice sounded like a muffled roar, swallowed by the wind.
But when he was about to get up, he felt small and firm hands grab him by the shoulder and pull him back. Arya.
He looked at her, confused, furious, while she pushed him against the ground.
—No! —he growled, trying to break free—. Let me go!
—You can't reach her —Arya spat, her dark eyes burning—. Look!
Jon looked beyond. The ground surrounding Daenerys was a hell of spikes, still growing, twisting like claws, impossible to cross. There was nothing he could do.
But he kept struggling. He tried to advance again, crawling, and Arya held him tighter, digging her knees into the ground to prevent him from getting up.
—Let me go! —Jon growled, his voice broken—. Dany...!
She turned her face toward him. Even pierced by the spikes, even suspended in the air, she looked at him. That gaze, for a moment, was still hers. Sad. Resigned. As if saying goodbye.
And then, slowly, her gaze faded.
Jon stopped. His breathing became erratic. His shoulders trembled, and he felt something inside him break. He couldn't do anything anymore. Nothing else.
Arya shook him hard, her voice a furious whisper in his ear:
—Look at her, Jon! You can't save her anymore! But you can save everyone else!
He didn't answer, his eyes still anchored to Daenerys'. But then Arya pulled him with all her strength, forcing him to turn his head.
—The basement —she said, between gasps—. Westeros still depends on us.
Just below the hall, in the basement, there was a large amount of wildfire. If they detonated it, it would end the Night King, but also them. It was their last hope, and their last sacrifice.
Jon looked at her, and in her eyes found the same terrible understanding he felt in his chest. They no longer had reasons to stay. There was nothing left to defend in this cursed hall. The prophecy had failed, Daenerys was dead, and the Night King remained invincible. But they still had one last card to play: the wildfire. Explode everything. Kill the monster with them inside if necessary. Make it worthwhile. It was the only thing they could do. The last thing.
Jon closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and, with a muffled grunt, finally yielded. He stood up slowly, leaning on Arya's arm and his own will, and together they began to retreat toward the darkness of the corridor.
Behind remained the hall, the dead brazier, the frozen water, the sharp spikes. And her. Suspended in the air, beautiful and broken, with her farewell engraved in silence.