The Night King entered the godswood.
Bran waited.
Andrew came through the trees, fire crackling in each step. He did not run. He did not speak.
"Demon," the Night King said.
"Not demon," Andrew replied. "Judgment."
Their blades met—ice and flame. Every clash cracked the air. Trees burned. The weirwood bled.
The Night King smiled.
And Andrew bled gold.