What a prick is dream-Arthur's thought about the Walker's regenerating sword, unaware he can be heard. From behind Daenerys, a flash of blinding light from the gem buried in the hilt of his sword, and Arthur steps sideways into another way of thinking of time. The Walker's corpselike head is then-- neatly, but with a sound like an explosion-- cleaved from his neck. Almost instantaneously, Excalibur bursts through his chest, shredding armor and bone like soft bread.
The world resettles into its standard slow-moving surreality. Churning metal noises are muffled by their breathing, over-loud in the freezing cold, and the odd thunk.. thunk... thunk... of the White Walker's severed head tumbling along over the stone ground to the jagged circle.
Arthur kicks the frozen body into the void.
He looks over his shoulder, then, and wonders how they got here - or how here got to them? - and notes distantly the head looks different. Human, warm skin, blood pouring from the neck. Flesh burned in places, hair singed. Thunk, thunk. It rolls on, towards Daenerys and the bell.
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The world resettles into its standard slow-moving surreality. Churning metal noises are muffled by their breathing, over-loud in the freezing cold, and the odd thunk.. thunk... thunk... of the White Walker's severed head tumbling along over the stone ground to the jagged circle.
Arthur kicks the frozen body into the void.
He looks over his shoulder, then, and wonders how they got here - or how here got to them? - and notes distantly the head looks different. Human, warm skin, blood pouring from the neck. Flesh burned in places, hair singed. Thunk, thunk. It rolls on, towards Daenerys and the bell.