He feels like a man. Human, blunt around the edges, mortal. None of that is shocking save for that Daenerys, suddenly, does not feel so alone within this dream, surrounded by wraiths of the past, of the future -- with company, whose thoughts bleed into hers. She turns to watch the unknown warrior advance on the White Walker, for she's seen them before, too -- but then, she'd been flying over head.

Shards of ice-sword skitter across the ground, the White Walker staggering back, but not defeated. Its maw opens, emitting an inhuman, barely even bestial sound. Slowly, if not slow enough, the long, broken remains of its sword begin to regenerated, ice on ice, gleaming sharp.

As Daenerys takes in the sight of water, bell, ruins, the Walker bears down, forcing territory, spreading chill. She is quick to scamper out of the way, darting through Arthur's blindspot, re-emerging in pursuit of the cold, the water's edge, the frost creating lacy patterns over the iron bell.