The basement trembled with unnatural cold. Cracks in the ceiling kept spreading, and on the staircase, the clatter of claws and bones echoed: the wights were coming down like a dark tide.
Jon drew a deep breath, sword steady in his hands, and stepped forward. Behind him, the wildfire barrels lined the wallsāsilent, deadly. He couldnāt let the dead reach them.
The first wights arrived with a muted shriek. They leapt at him like starving wolves. Jon faced them without hesitation, despite the pain, despite the exhaustion. His movements were slower now, his dodges less precise. But he still held. Every slash turned one to dust, every thrust a barrier between the dead and the fire.
The creatures were relentless, and he could no longer avoid every blow. Claws tore into his thigh, others raked his side. But Jon didnāt stop. He struck with precision, retreated when needed, and stepped forward again, holding the line between the barrels and the horde.
Then it happened.
One of the wights, as it fell from a poorly placed strike, crashed into one of the wooden racks holding several barrels. The crack was sharp. The structure gave way.
Jon turned, desperate, just in time to see them fall.
The barrels crashed to the ground with a dull thud. Wood splintered. Lids burst. The contents spilled like a viscous river across the stone floor. Within seconds, the basement was flooded by a glowing green sea under the torchlight. Wildfire was everywhere.
Jon held his breath. Waited for the explosion. Waited to feel his body burn. But it didnāt come.
Only silenceā¦ and the deadly glow of the spilled liquid.
The wights kept advancing, now sloshing through the oily sea. Jon fought with his heart pounding, knowing any spark, any contact with fire, would be the end.
He struck with renewed strength, not for himself, but for Arya. For those still waiting outside. For what still had to be done.
His breath was a contained roar, his arms burned, his side throbbed, but he never let go of his sword. He gave it everything, fighting with every fiber of his being, until the last wight crumbled at his feet.
Then came silence. The basement glowed with that ominous light, the air heavy with tension. Shadows trembled on the green-stained walls.
Jon stood still, panting, sword in hand, his blood dripping onto the stone. Slowly, with a deliberate motion, he walked to the wall and pulled a burning torch from its sconce. The faint warmth gave him a flicker of strength.
With the sword in his right and the torch in his left, he looked down. The green puddle rippled around him, reflecting shadows like ghosts. He waited. Heard the wind seeping through the cracks, the ice creaking above his head.
Giving her time. So Arya could run. So she could live.
Thatās when he felt it. Not a sound. Not a movement. A sensation. A chill so deep it froze the nape of his neck and pierced his chest, like death itself had entered the room.
His breath stopped. His fingers tightened on the sword and the torch. He looked up. There she was. Daenerys.
Descending the stairs slowly, her feet barely touching the stone, wrapped in cruel shadow. Her skin cracked with ice, her wounds open, her hair stiff, her eyes empty and blue. No warmth left in her.
She moved with stiff, rigid steps, hands outstretched like claws, the air around her freezing even the wildfire beneath her feet.
She was a shell without a soul, useless to any prophecy. There was nothing left to sacrifice where no essence remained.
Jon looked at her, unmoving. His breath stopped. He felt tears freeze on his cheeks. He had never considered hurting her. Not even now. Not even like this. He never would.
His sword suddenly weighed like a mountain in his hand. He didnāt need it anymore. It had no purpose. Lightbringer would never exist. The prophecy had shattered like ice. Only they remained. His fingers trembled and let it fall. The blade sank into the green sea at his feet, vanishing with a soft hiss that sounded like goodbye.
With arms open, he received her. She struck him with the fury of the dead, her claws tearing into his back, his coat, his flesh, ripping out strands of hair. But he didnāt push her away. Not once.
He held her with all the strength he had left, as if that could pull her out of the cold. As if his warmth could reach her one last time. He rested his forehead against hers.
She thrashed in his embrace, writhing, clawing at his flesh, cold as the grave. Jon took a deep breath, his fingers trembling, and released the torch he held.
āForeverā¦ my queen.ā