A GAME OF THRONES: Part 6.2

The next day.

"We'll freeze soon, and so will the water," Jorah said, coming closer to Jon and rubbing his hands together for warmth.

"When you killed the White Walker, almost all the dead that followed him collapsed. Why?" Jorah continued, his eyes shifting to Jon, waiting for an explanation.

Jon rested a hand on Longclaw, his brow furrowed. "Maybe he was the one who turned them. Kill the White Walker, and the ones he created die with him."

Jorah considered this for a moment. "Then why not go after the White Walkers? If we take them out, the rest of the dead won't matter."

Jon shook his head. "We need to take this one back with us," he said, gesturing toward the bound wight struggling against its restraints.

Jorah's frown deepened. "Killing the Walkers could end this faster. Isn't that a better plan?"

Jon's voice was firm. "They won't believe us. Not without proof. This thing is our only chance to show them the threat. Without it, we can't unite anyone, and we'll face this war alone."

"Daenerys is our only chance," Jon added, his eyes shifting toward the horizon and then back to the growing horde of wights.

Leaving here is impossible unless a miracle happens.

"Maybe not," Beric muttered, his voice quieter than usual. His eyes lingered on the charred remains of his fallen friend, the fire still smoldering faintly in the cold.

Beric's gaze turned toward the ridge ahead. "Kill him," he said, his tone sharper now. He raised his flaming sword, pointing it at a figure approaching on horseback. "He's the one who turned them all."

The group followed his line of sight, their faces darkening.

In the distance, mounted on a pale, lifeless horse, rode a White Walker unlike any they'd seen before.

"That's no ordinary White Walker," Jorah muttered.

Jon tightened his grip on Longclaw. "No. He's not."

Jon remembered him. The figure on the pale horse. He'd seen him before the way he raised his arms, how he turned the Free Folk into an army of the dead. That memory burned, sharp and vivid.

But Jon and his group weren't the only ones watching.

John gave the White Walker one last look before turning to Roberta. His voice was calm, but firm. "You know what to do, right?"

Roberta nodded, though her expression was complicated. There was hesitation, maybe even doubt, but she didn't say anything.

Yesterday, John had handed her a the pouch

he got from "Harry Potter verse," which held survival essentials, enough for her to survive.

It wasn't until later, while the fire crackled quietly between them, that she finally asked the question that had been nagging at her.

"Why are you... nice to me?"

John looked at her, his face unreadable.

Compared to the life she'd lived before, this was different. Better. It didn't make sense. Not to her.

He could've done worse, much worse but he didn't. She knows what he is capable of.

John never went into proper detail just gave her rouge idea, but Roberta had pieced together a idea of how his powers worked. It was... chaotic, unpredictable. The ability to randomly pull things from other worlds gold, guns, creatures, powers whatever fate decided to hand him.

She'd figured out one thing for sure she wasn't some "chosen one." There was no grand destiny at play here.

It was just luck.

This let her know how insignificant she is in this countless worlds.

The thought left her conflicted. Grateful, sure, but there was a weight to it too. Like she'd stumbled into something far bigger than herself, and she wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse.

And John, living with him until now she could say one thing for sure he wasn't what people would call "good," but compared to what she'd seen in her life, he was better.

She knew he was attracted to her she'd caught the fleeting glances, the moments he didn't even bother to hide.

But what surprised her was his restraint. He never acted on it, never pushed boundaries or tried to force anything.

It wasn't what she was used to. Most men in her life wouldn't have hesitated. But John kept himself in control, his willpower stronger than she'd expected.

She heard his speak during sleep, his nightmare. Can guess he have some bad past.

"I took your choice. Your future."

That stuck with her. He didn't try to sugarcoat it or make it sound noble. He wasn't doing this to be a hero or because it was the "right thing."

For him she is the most innocent, she didn't affect his life directly or indirectly, she was not from Marvel Multiverse.For him even a normal human who just says mutants should be killed is more evil than her who killed countless innocents in her world.

He did it because he'd decided it was his responsibility, one he'd taken on even if there was no need to.

Right or wrong didn't matter. It was just how he saw things.

"The water's frozen enough. Time to move," he said, snapping her out of her thoughts.

"Right," she replied, gripping the bombs he'd given her, her gaze sharpening.

"It's starting," John muttered, watching as the Hound threw a rock toward the dead.

The rock hit one of their heads before falling, proving the water had frozen. The dead could move now.

"Oh, fuck," the Hound cursed, seeing the dead begin to approach.

Slowly, they started to march, and then, picking up speed.