In contrast to her preternatural burning touch Arthur is merely human - work-worn and scarred palms, a measly average temperature, but still very solid. She pulls on him and he doesn't so much as bend, drawing on her momentum to propel her behind him while he raises Excalibur to defend against the looming wraith, fearless - and angry. He is pissed off that this thing is here. He doesn't know what it is, not really, but he knows that it's come to lay ruin to his kingdom. This will not be permitted.

The sword of blue ice comes swinging down, sickeningly slow in the dreamscape yet unavoidable, inevitable. It meets Excalibur with a shriek of metal and cracks, Arthur's blade unbreakable and his arm unwavering. Does diamond-hard ice count as stone? (What an odd thought for Daenerys to be given; what does stone have to do with anything.) The walker-king lurches back but Excalibur is not to be shaken off until Arthur himself twists it, shattering the ice down the middle and leaving the thing with a handful of jagged splinters. No less dangerous. But insulting.

Foolish to think in such a linear way. The cold snakes around them in a wide arc, reaching to something, something--

They can see it, what wasn't there before, where they weren't standing, before. A circular space on stone floor, walls crumbled in, remnants of a staircase long gone, sitting beside a dark, rank body of water. A felled iron bell. The hold hands stretch out to it, triumphant.