A Song of Fire & Snow (GOT)(Jon Snow)

Chapter 38: Alarys

~The Long Night & Secrets Exposed~

Alarys darted through the chaos of the battlefield, her heart pounding in her chest. The clash of steel and the shrieks of the dead filled her ears, but her thoughts were on her brother. She had been separated from him in the madness, and every instinct screamed at her to find him. Yet something pulled her away from that singular focus—something in the air, a feeling of purpose that wasn't hers alone.

The wind shifted, carrying with it a scream, sharp and familiar. Arya. Without thinking, Alarys turned toward the sound, cutting through the dead with the ease of someone who had been raised on battlefields. Her twin blades sliced through wights, her pyromancy sparking along the edges, turning the icy air around her into shimmering heat.

She reached the great hall, her breath catching as she saw the devastation. Bodies, both living and dead, were strewn everywhere, the chaos a brutal reminder of the fight they were losing. But there, at the center of it all, were Arya and Beric Dondarrion, the latter barely standing, his body riddled with wounds.

Alarys rushed forward just as Arya reached out to Beric, trying to steady him. "Beric," Arya whispered, her voice edged with desperation. But it was too late. Beric collapsed to the floor, his final breath leaving his lips as his life slipped away.

Alarys' heart sank. Another ally lost.

"His purpose has been fulfilled," a calm, familiar voice echoed through the hall.

Alarys and Arya turned to see Melisandre, the Red Priestess, standing in the doorway. Her gaze was serene, as if she had expected all of this, as if the world around them was unfolding according to some divine plan only she could see.

Arya narrowed her eyes, recognition sparking in them. "I remember you. You said we'd meet again."

Melisandre stepped forward, her gaze flicking between Arya and Alarys. "And so we have. I told you then that you would shut many eyes forever."

Arya's expression shifted, confusion giving way to understanding. "You said brown eyes, green eyes..." she paused, the realization dawning on her, "...and blue eyes."

"Yes," Melisandre said, her voice soft but firm. "The eyes of the dead."

Alarys felt a chill run down her spine. This was the moment. Arya was meant for something far greater than any of them had realized.

But then Melisandre's gaze settled on Alarys, her amber eyes burning with an intensity that made Alarys uncomfortable. "And you," the priestess said, stepping closer to her. "If you are to survive this night, you must embrace the fire within you. Stop running from it."

Alarys tensed, her jaw tightening. She had always kept her gifts hidden, afraid of what they meant, afraid of how others would view her. The people of Westeros feared magic, and fire was a power that could destroy everything she loved.

Melisandre's voice dropped to a whisper, meant only for Alarys. "Fire will always melt ice. Your flames are the only thing that can protect you now."

The words resonated deep within Alarys, striking a chord she had tried to ignore for too long. Her fire had been a curse her whole life, something she fought to control, to conceal. But now, as she stood in the great hall surrounded by death, she realized she had no choice. If she was going to survive, if any of them were, she had to embrace it.

Suddenly, the doors to the hall rattled as wights began pounding against them, their grotesque forms trying to force their way in. Alarys could hear their snarls, feel the chill in the air as they got closer.

Melisandre didn't flinch. "What do we say to the God of Death?"

Alarys exchanged a glance with Arya, and in unison, they both replied, "Not today."

The answer came instinctively, a reminder of the lessons Arya had learned from Syrio Forel and the ones Alarys had been forced to learn in the shadows of her own life. They understood each other in that moment—both of them had been shaped by their secrets, by powers they had been taught to hide. But now those secrets would save them.

With a final nod, Arya and Alarys left the Red Priestess behind, the sound of wights breaking through the door filling the air. There was no time to lose. The Night King was coming, and they needed to be ready.

As they moved through the carnage, Alarys' mind raced. Could she really do this? Could she wield her fire in a way she had never dared before? Her entire life had been about restraint, about hiding. But now, as the weight of the Long Night pressed down on them, she realized that restraint was no longer an option.

The godswood loomed ahead, a sanctuary amid the battle. Alarys and Arya arrived just in time to see the Night King approaching, his icy blue gaze fixed on Bran, who sat waiting calmly under the heart tree. Theon lay dead at his feet, his sacrifice already made.

Alarys took a deep breath, her pulse quickening. She could feel the fire inside her, the power coursing through her veins. Her hands trembled as she gripped her blades tighter, the metal beginning to heat in her grasp. She had never done this before—never allowed her fire to flow into her weapons, to become an extension of herself.

But Melisandre's words echoed in her mind. Fire will always melt ice.

As the Night King approached Bran, Alarys summoned her courage. Flames erupted from her hands, traveling down her arms and into her twin blades. The heat was immense, but she embraced it, feeling the power surge through her like never before. Her blades burned bright, the fire crackling along the edges.

With a battle cry, she charged at the Night King, her flaming swords cutting through the icy air. The Night King turned just in time, his cold, pale face impassive as he raised his own weapon to meet hers. Their blades clashed, fire against ice, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

The Night King was faster than she anticipated, his movements fluid and deadly. He parried her strikes with ease, his strength overwhelming. But Alarys pressed on, the flames of her swords scorching the air as she fought with everything she had.

And then it happened.

The Night King parried her blade with his blade and using his supernatural strength pushed her own blade into her side, the sharp sting of the wound momentarily numbing her. But the fire in her veins reacted instantly, cauterizing the cut as soon as it was made the blood clotting against her skin. The pain was searing, unlike anything she had ever felt before. Her own fire had turned against her. For the first time, she was harmed by the very thing she had spent her life mastering.

She staggered back, her hand instinctively going to the wound, her mind reeling from the shock. But she had no time to dwell on the pain. In that moment, Arya appeared, moving with the stealth and precision of a Faceless Man. Alarys saw it happen as if in slow motion—the way Arya leaped onto the Night King's back, her Valyrian steel dagger poised to strike.

The Night King caught Arya's arm, his icy grip stopping her attack—but Arya was faster. With a fluid motion, she switched the dagger to her free hand and drove it into his heart.

The Night King shattered, exploding into shards of ice that glittered in the moonlight. With his death, the White Walkers and the wights collapsed, their lifeless bodies falling to the ground. The Long Night was over.

Alarys clutched her side, the wound already sealed by her own fire,m still costed in blood, and looked at Arya, who stood over the remnants of the Night King, breathing heavily.

"Pretty cool trick you got there," Arya said, her voice tinged with a hint of amusement.

Alarys smiled weakly. "I could say the same thing about you... faceless man."

They shared a look, an understanding passing between them. They both had their secrets, and they both knew the value of keeping them hidden. Those secrets, after all, were what had kept them alive.