The basement trembled with an unnatural cold. The ceiling cracks kept extending, and on the stairs you could already hear the trampling of claws and bones: the wights descended like a dark tide.
Jon breathed deeply, with his sword firm in his hands, and took a step forward. Behind him, the barrels of wildfire were lined against the walls, silent, deadly. He couldn't let them reach them.
The first wights arrived with a muffled shriek. They jumped on him like famished wolves. Jon faced them without hesitation, despite the pain, despite exhaustion. His movements were slower than before, his dodges less precise. But he still resisted. Each slash turned one to dust, each thrust was a barrier between the dead and the fire.
The creatures were relentless, and he could no longer dodge all their attacks. Some claws tore his thigh, others scratched his side. But Jon didn't stop. He struck with precision, retreated when necessary, and advanced again, staying between the barrels and the horde.
It was then that it happened.
One of the wights, falling from a poorly given slash, hit with its body one of the wooden bases that supported several barrels. The crack was dry. The structure gave way.
Jon turned, desperate, just in time to see them collapse.
The barrels fell to the ground with a dull crash. The wood splintered. Lids burst. The contents spread like a viscous river across the stone floor. In seconds, the basement was flooded by a green sea that glowed under the torches. Wildfire was everywhere.
Jon held his breath. He waited for the explosion. He waited to feel his body burn. But it didn't happen.
Only silence... and the lethal glow of the spilled liquid.
The wights advanced, now with their feet splashing through that oily sea. Jon faced them with an accelerated heart, knowing that any spark, any contact with fire, would be the end.
He struck with renewed strength, not for himself, but for Arya. For those waiting outside. For what still remained to be fulfilled.
His breathing was a contained roar, his arms burned, his side throbbed, but he didn't release the sword for an instant. Giving everything, fighting with every fiber of his being, until the last wight crumbled at his feet.
Then came silence. The basement was full of that ominous glow, the air heavy and expectant. Shadows trembled on the green-stained walls.
Jon stood still, panting, sword in one hand, his blood dripping on the slabs. Slowly, with a deliberate gesture, he walked to the wall and tore a lit torch from its support. The gentle heat of the flame gave him back a bit of strength.
With the sword in his right hand and the torch in his left, he lowered his gaze to the ground. The green puddle rippled around him, reflecting the shadows like ghosts. He waited. He heard how the wind slipped through the cracks, how the ice creaked above his head.
Giving time. For Arya to run. For her to live.
It was then that he felt it. Not a sound. Not a movement. But a sensation. A chill so deep that it froze his neck and pierced his chest, as if death itself had just entered the room.
His breathing stopped. His fingers closed tighter on the sword and torch. He raised his gaze. There she was. Daenerys.
She descended the steps slowly, her feet barely touching the slabs, wrapped in a cruel gloom. Her skin cracked with ice, her wounds open, her hair rigid, her eyes empty and blue. No warmth remained in her.
She advanced with rigid movements, with hands open like claws, the air around her freezing even the wildfire at her feet.
She was a soulless shell, useless for any prophecy. There was nothing to sacrifice where no essence remained.
Jon looked at her, motionless. His breathing stopped. He felt tears freeze on his cheeks. He had never thought of hurting her. Not even now. Not even like this. He never would.
His sword suddenly weighed like a mountain in his hand. He didn't need it anymore, it had no purpose. Lightbringer would never exist. The prophecy had broken like ice. Only they remained. His fingers trembled and he released it. The blade sank into the green sea at his feet, disappearing with a soft whisper that sounded like a farewell.
With open arms, he received her. She charged at him with the violence of the dead, her claws tearing his back, coat, flesh, ripping out locks of hair. But he didn't push her away. Never.
He embraced her with all the strength he had left, as if he could tear her from that cold. As if his warmth could reach her one last time. He rested his forehead against hers.
She shook in his embrace, writhing, clawing his flesh, cold as the grave. Jon breathed deeply, his fingers trembled, and he released the torch he was holding.
—Always... my queen.