ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

Daenerys turned from the crater. The sword hilt slipped from her fingers and vanished into the scorched snow. She looked first toward Jon Snow, frozen near the place where he had struck the Night King’s leg. Longclaw was still in his hand. Frost covered him from shoulder to boot, making him look carved from the same ice he had spent his life fighting. Then she saw Arya lying farther away, half-buried in snow, one side of her body crusted with strange blue-red frost where the Night King’s wounded arm had thrown its fury over her.

She took one step toward them.

A cry came from the Wall.

“My lady! Look there. The dragon!”

Daenerys stopped.

Every face turned toward the snowfield where Viserion lay. The ice dragon had fallen and gone still when the Night King died, his broken body half-covered in frost, one wing gone, blue light extinguished from his eyes. Under the thin daylight, the ice on him began to change.

It did not melt like common frost. It dimmed from within, the sickly blue fading to grey, then to white, then to vapor. Layer by layer, the Night King’s cold withdrew from Viserion’s body now that the will sustaining it had been broken. The jagged plates of ice along his skull dissolved. The frost over his ribs thinned. Beneath it emerged the ruined remains of the dragon he had been: pale scales gone dull and grey, bones cracked, flesh wasted by death and sorcery, but no longer smoking with the blue cold.

He looked smaller without the Night King’s power in him. Or perhaps grief made all dead children look small in the end.

In the empty sockets where blue flame had burned, a single faint glimmer appeared. Dark gold, warm as an ember buried under ash. It flickered once.

Daenerys felt it.

Not through the bond as before. That had been torn beyond mending. This was something lighter, gentler, more like a farewell brushing the inside of her heart. Viserion’s pain was gone. His fear was gone. Whatever had remained trapped in cold had been freed when the Night King fell.

The ember faded.

His eyes became only darkness.

Daenerys sank to her knees.

The tears came silently this time. They froze against her cheeks before reaching her chin. These were not the scalding tears of horror she had shed when Viserion fell or when he rose. They were colder, quieter. Tears of relief. Tears of farewell. Tears for the child she had lost twice and freed only once.

Drogon lowered his head beside her. Rhaegal landed heavily behind him, wounded leg trembling. The two dragons did not roar. They watched the remains of their brother with the solemn attention of beasts who understood death without requiring priests to make it more complicated.

Across the field, men began to move again. Slowly at first, as if too sudden a gesture might wake the dead. Survivors climbed down from broken sections of the Wall. Others searched among corpses, calling names in hoarse voices. Some found answers. Most did not like them. The Free Folk dragged their wounded away from piles of wights. Black brothers stood over fallen comrades. Northmen knelt beside kin. Stannis’s last men gathered around their dead king and the red priest who had followed him into fire.

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Arthur descended from the Wall with a handful of men, though each step seemed to cost more than the last. He saw the bodies of the five Sworn Men first. Frost covered them where they had fallen, but their faces were set toward the place where the Night King had died. He bowed his head for them. There would be time later for names, rites, and the inevitable human urge to turn dead men into symbols because speaking honestly of waste hurt too much.

He went to Jon.

The ice around him had begun to soften now that the Night King was gone, though not quickly. Longclaw’s hilt was locked in his fingers. Arthur knelt and set two fingers to Jon’s throat. For one terrible breath, there was nothing.

Then he felt it.

Faint. Slow. Stubborn.

“Alive,” Arthur said.

The word moved through the men around him like fire through dry grass. Denys Mallister closed his eyes. One of the black brothers began swearing thanks to every god he could remember and several he likely invented from exhaustion.

Arya was worse. The cold had bitten deep into her side, and the strange frost along her skin had not fully faded. Yet when Smith bent over her, she coughed blood and ice into the snow and tried weakly to stab him with a dagger she no longer held.

“She lives,” Smith said, drawing back with both hands raised. “Mean as ever.”

“Good,” Arthur muttered. “The realm has lost enough unpleasant people with useful talents today.”

Daenerys looked toward them from beside Viserion. She heard the words, though they reached her through wind and grief. Jon lived. Arya lived. The knowledge steadied something inside her, even if it did not warm the empty place where Viserion had been.

She rose slowly.

The battlefield around her was beyond ruin. Human dead and wight corpses lay together in blackened heaps. Broken ice crystals glittered among ash and blood. The Wall loomed above them, cracked, scarred, and still standing. Smoke drifted upward into a sky where the clouds had begun to part only reluctantly. Dawn had come, but not with golden banners and clean songs. It came grey, thin, and cold.

Arthur approached, stopping several paces away. He was pale, bloodied, and so tired that even his sarcasm seemed to have gone to sit down somewhere. For once, he said nothing.

Daenerys looked at the place where the Night King had vanished. Then at Viserion. Then at Jon and Arya being carried toward the Wall.

“It is over,” she said.

Arthur followed her gaze across the field. “This part is.”

She almost laughed, and was grateful the sound did not come.

The Long Night was ended. The dead had fallen. The Night King, who had haunted the oldest stories of the North, had been unmade by blood, fire, steel, dragonglass, sacrifice, and the desperate timing of people too stubborn to die in the proper order. It should have felt like the turning of an age.

Instead it felt like standing amid wreckage and being told to be grateful for the cost.

Daenerys looked south.

Beyond the Wall, beyond the dead, beyond the smoke and ice, lay the Seven Kingdoms. Lords would still scheme. Ravens would still fly with lies tied to their feet. Men would still count claims, debts, marriages, and grievances. Someone, somewhere, was probably already thinking of how this victory might be used. Humanity had defeated extinction and would now return, with impressive speed, to being ridiculous.

But not yet.

For a little while, there was only the field, the Wall, the survivors, and the dragon’s body resting in the grey dawn.

Daenerys went to Viserion one last time. She placed her hand upon his cold skull. No blue fire answered. No golden ember stirred. Only silence remained, and for the first time since he had fallen, that silence was peaceful.

“Sleep now,” she whispered.

Drogon rumbled softly behind her. Rhaegal lowered his head.

The cold wind moved over the battlefield, carrying the smells of smoke, blood, snow, and broken magic. It passed over the dead, over the living, over the Wall that had held, and then southward toward a realm still full of hunger, pride, crowns, and knives.

The final battle of ice and fire was done.

The dawn had come.

It was grey, and bitter, and bought with too much blood.

But it was dawn.