Chapter 152 — The Final Blow
"Leave. Now."
Brynden Rivers spoke with quiet urgency the moment they returned to the cave.
"The Night King is close. At this distance, he'll track us by our presence before long."
There was regret in his voice. He had wanted more time—to teach, to prepare.
But time had already run out.
"What about you?" Bran Stark asked, his eyes falling on Brynden's body—fused into the roots of the weirwood.
Though Brynden had never healed his legs, and disappointment lingered, the weeks of guidance had forged something deeper.
Respect.
Connection.
Brynden gave a faint smile.
"My end is near, whether he comes or not. But you…" he paused, eyes softening, "…you are the one I still worry about."
Bran's talent surpassed even his own.
That much, Brynden knew
"Before you go," Brynden continued, his tone turning grave,
"one last warning."
"Do not—under any circumstances—attempt to peer at that black dragon again."
Bran stiffened.
"That creature… can interfere with the greensight itself."
"If your power is insufficient, you may end up like today—locked in place, unable to withdraw."
"And next time… you might not escape."
The words struck deep.
Bran's confidence in the greensight—his greatest gift—wavered.
He had considered looking again.
But now… he didn't dare.
From the very first time he saw that black dragon, he had felt it—
As if nothing about him could be hidden.
As if he were being seen… completely.
Brynden understood the impact those words carried.
But he also knew the truth.
Even at his peak, he had not been certain he could kill that dragon.
And now?
After all this time?
He didn't even dare imagine how far it had grown.
A reckless move now wouldn't just fail—
It could doom Bran.
It could end the line of the greenseers forever.
---
"The Children will guide you south," Brynden said at last.
"To The Wall. Your brother Jon Snow is there."
"You can't stay here any longer."
Bran said nothing.
He only listened… as Brynden spoke his final instructions.
"…Go."
With that, it was over.
Meera Reed packed their things, and under the escort of four Children of the Forest, they set off south.
One day later—
The dead arrived.
The White Walkers reached the weirwood cave.
Led by the Night King himself.
He stepped inside, accompanied by several of his kind. His cold gaze swept the cavern.
No Bran.
No trace.
Then—slowly—he turned toward Brynden.
"You came sooner than I expected," Brynden said with a faint smile.
"But too late. The boy is already gone."
For a brief instant—
The Night King's expression flickered.
Then it vanished.
Silence returned.
He raised his great blade—
And brought it down.
But before the strike could land—
The cave trembled.
Violently.
The Night King steadied himself, lowering his weapon as his icy gaze swept the surroundings.
The stone walls—entangled with weirwood roots—began to shift.
The roots moved.
Like living serpents.
They tore free from the rock, lashing toward him and his companions.
Thicker, heavier roots burst upward from the ground. The cave ceiling cracked, stones raining down.
The Night King swung his blade, severing the roots one after another—
But more came.
Endless.
Relentless.
---
Then—
He stopped.
Lowered his stance.
And pressed his left hand to the ground.
A pulse of icy blue spread outward—
Freezing everything it touched.
The roots stiffened instantly—
Then shattered into brittle fragments.
Brynden watched.
Unshaken.
Slowly—
The arm that had long been fused with the heart tree… began to rise.
The entire cave began to shake even more violently.
Chunks of rock tore loose from the ceiling and walls, crashing down toward the Night King and his companions.
After freezing the roots, the Night King resumed his advance.
Step by step, he moved closer to Brynden Rivers.
Seeing him approach, Brynden suddenly threw his head back and roared.
The root-like arm fused with the weirwood surged upward—
And the entire cavern erupted.
A thunderous boom shook the mountain.
Massive boulders collapsed from above, sealing the path before the Night King could reach him.
But the Night King did not stop.
He began clearing the rubble, pushing forward relentlessly.
Then—
The ground gave way.
Without warning, the earth beneath them collapsed.
The Night King, his White Walkers, and Brynden himself—
All plunged into the abyss below.
---
More than three hours later…
The weirwood cave was gone.
In its place remained a vast, jagged crater.
Around it stood the shattered remnants of the army of the dead—motionless, silent, staring into the depths.
Then—
A faint sound echoed from within the pit.
Slow. Persistent.
A pale arm reached over the edge.
And pulled itself out.
The Night King.
---
He climbed onto solid ground, his form battered.
Several of the jagged horns on his head had snapped. His light armor was warped and broken, barely intact. Even his chiseled face looked uneven—like cracked plaster hastily set.
For a fleeting moment, he appeared… almost grotesque.
He glanced back into the pit—at the fallen White Walkers and the countless wights that would never rise again.
Then he turned.
Mounted a skeletal horse.
And raised his blade toward the south—toward The Wall.
From his throat came a howl—
Half human.
Half wolf.
A call of war.
---
Meanwhile—
Eight days after leaving Volantis, Daenerys's fleet passed by three more Free Cities:
Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh.
Upon hearing that Daenerys Targaryen was bound for Westeros, all three cities sent lavish gifts.
Lys offered fine wines—both red and white—along with exquisite silks.
Myr, famed for its craftsmanship, sent glassworks, carpets, and telescopes—the very instruments used by captains throughout Daenerys's fleet.
Tyrosh presented pear brandy and ornate armor, studded with gemstones and engraved with fish and bird motifs—said to be highly prized among Westerosi nobility.
Looking at the flamboyant designs, Drogon couldn't help but think of Loras Tyrell—the so-called Knight of Flowers—who likely wore armor just like this.
Even distant Lorath, the smallest and poorest of the Free Cities, sent gifts from afar—walrus ivory, whale oil, and seal skins.
---
The warm reception along the journey strengthened Daenerys's confidence.
Once a forgotten Targaryen in exile, she now felt the weight of destiny shifting in her favor.
Her claim to the Iron Throne no longer seemed distant.
Her mood improved.
And so did her appetite.
---
Yet—
She remained cautious.
She only sampled the food lightly, and barely touched the sweets.
Drogon's teasing still lingered in her mind.
More than once, she caught herself wondering—
Have I… gained weight?
During a bath, she even asked Jhiqui directly.
Jhiqui examined her carefully before answering honestly:
"Yes… you've become fuller than before. But not fat."
Only then did Daenerys finally relax.
Still—
She kept her distance from desserts.
---
As for the invitations—
Each Free City eagerly invited her to visit.
She declined them all, politely but firmly.
The journey west mattered more.
Everything now… pointed toward one destination.
Westeros.