We are that who shaped the spaces between the first heartbeats, who carved kingdoms in the pause between breaths, who taught darkness how to hunger - we find ourselves... unmaking. The presence that lurks on the last vestige of the dragons people... It bends reality in ways that make our very substance... our being keen with recognition of something we spent an untold epoch trying to forget.

  Our ice addled memories stretch back and back to when the stars sang oh so different songs, when the void between them pulsed with concepts that the flesh-things' minds mercifully cannot comprehend. But this being or thing for is it a creature of life or something worse?... they remember too. We see it in the way space folds wrongly around them, in how shadows flee not from their light, because they have no light however much they pretend they do, but no it flees from the absence they carry within.

  This is an absence older than shadow itself. An abyss. A gaping maw that will devour all in the end.

  The Pit.

  When our frost-wraiths approach the Dragon's Stone, they do not die. Death would be something comprehensible... something we could understand. Instead, they become equations that never resolve, paradoxes of ice and void that spiral into dimensions older creatures abandoned before time bowed to the Primordials and was bent to flow in a single direction. Their screams echo backwards through moments that haven't happened yet, and forwards through memories that never were. The walls of that cursed fortress sweat... dripping with new and strange possibilities that should not exist. We gaze as reality ripples around its towers like skin trying to reject a splinter, but the splinter is carved from something that existed before reality had rules to break. Dragons once roosted there, yes, but what calls that place home now makes dragons seem as insignificant as the motes of dust and ash that once danced in their flames.

  This creature wears the skin of the a dragon... It will claim the corpse of fire and use the carcass to play dress up. To play pretend. To play it's game. As if the world is a... playground. Time is broken... Broken upon the back of a dragons mangled corpse. A dragonbreak if you will?

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  Our armies of the dead stand idle, for what is death to one who walks the spaces between its definition?

  Even the ice spiders, whose webs once caught and froze the dreams of the little gods, curl their legs against their bodies and try to become small enough to escape notice. We don't believe they are truly large enough for this thing to acknowledge them anyway. They remember, as we remember, when things that wore shapes like this being's moved between the cooling embers of dying stars. That itself is merely a facsimile... The copy of a copy of a copy of what was once a truth. The ink has been smudged and rubbed out. For how those lesser beings meant to remember something so... beyond them.

  The flesh-things speak of prophecies, of Azor Ahai and the prince that was promised.

  Such limited sight.

  Such mercy in their blindness. They see fire and shadow and think they understand, but we see what writhes beneath. We see the angles of a different form that exists in directions that would shatter reality's mirrors.

  We see how this creature folds space around themselves not to hide, but to prevent the world from unraveling at their mere presence.

  Or maybe both? We don't know our sense of future is shattered as fate is a dead thing now. We can no longer read it's ripples as it has become a stagnant pool.

  The comet above is no herald, it is a wound in the sky, leaking possibilities that should have stayed dreaming in the void. When this being turns their gaze northward, we feel the very things we built over an epoch begin to unknit themselves. Our ice, our power, our very essence begins to solve equations that should remain unsolvable, becoming answers to answers.

  Questions to Questions.

  We shall retreat now, not in any form of strategy but instead because we... I recognize that...

  This is no longer our world... that is gone...

  Let the Wall stand eternal. Let the realms of men flourish and forget we ever threatened them. We will withdraw to the uttermost north, to the places where we once thought we were the darkest things that dwelt. But now we know there is no darkness deep enough to hide from what was dark before darkness learned its name. Before darkness became a thing...

  We are that which waits beyond the light, that which hungers in the spaces... the shadow and the cold personified. But they... they are the thing from which even entropy fled screaming. They are the asymptote of horror, the derivative of terror, they are a...

  The Pit.

  We... I hope they are graceful to spare our existence or that we are below their notice.

  I am The Light Eater... My name was once Cold-Malevolence-Shadow... my true name long forgotten now reduced to an Other... The King of Night... Now I am the One-Who-Fears-The-Deep.

  Let us all fear The Pit