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The battlefield had become a graveyard of ice and ash. The Cannibal's black fire still smoldered in the distance, but at the heart of the wreckage Aeron stood, his greatsword Drakyrzor still buried deep in the chest of the Night King.
Aeron's breath misted in the air, blood dripping steadily from the wound that had been carved through his abdomen. Yet his violet eyes burned, unyielding.
The Night King's body, rigid as carved ice, remained unmoving, save for the faint tremor of frost spreading from the crack in his chest. Fractures spiderwebbed outward from where Drakyrzor had pierced him, glowing faintly blue like veins of frozen lightning.
Aeron tilted his head, lips curving into a cold smile.
"So it's working… For a moment, I thought you'd grown immune to Valyrian steel." His voice cut through. He leaned closer, studying the widening cracks. "But no. You are not beyond it. Only more resistant."
With a sharp pull, Aeron wrenched Drakyrzor free. Frost bled from the wound, hissing as it met the warmth of black fire that clung to the blade. The Night King's ice sword was still lodged in Aeron's abdomen, jagged and cruel, frost gnawing at his flesh. Aeron's hand gripped the hilt, and with a snarl, he snapped the cursed thing in two.
The Night King staggered, clutching at the blue-glowing hole in his chest. Aeron raised his hand, and with a thought, unleashed Ruler's Authority. A wave of invisible force struck the ancient creature, hurling him backward across the blizzard.
He fell hard on the snow. Still, the Night King tried to rise, clawing at the frozen ground, his eerie blue eyes never leaving Aeron's face.
Aeron walked slowly, every step heavy with shadow, the ground trembling faintly with his presence. He stopped before the Other, who was dragging himself upright, fingers curled into claws of ice.
Another surge of Ruler's Authority slammed him back down, sending cracks racing through the frost around him. The Night King's chest heaved soundlessly, his cold magic faltering, splintering.
Aeron raised Drakyrzor, the steel drinking in the pale moonlight, its edge burning faintly violet. His eyes glowed the same, menace and finality blazing within them as he looked down on his fallen foe.
His voice was calm, almost solemn.
"Apostle of the Great Other… it's over."
And then the blade fell.
The greatsword sliced clean through the Night King's neck. For an instant, silence reigned. His head toppled, hitting the frozen stone with a muted crack. His body stiffened and then it began to glow.
The pale blue light within him swelled, growing brighter and brighter until it blinded the eye. A shriek, not of voice but of raw magic, tore through the air as his form shattered into shards of ice, bursting outward in a massive shockwave.
Across the battlefield, the dead fell.
Wights froze mid-step, blue eyes flickering and then snuffing out like candles in a storm. Their bodies collapsed, lifeless husks once more. White Walkers shattered into crystalline dust, their weapons falling uselessly to the ground.
Men who had been locked in desperate combat stumbled back in disbelief, staring at the corpses around them that no longer moved. Blades raised in fear suddenly found no foe before them. A silence fell so sudden it was deafening.
Jon Snow stood amidst it all, chest heaving, Longclaw in his hand dripping with frost. Through the thinning blizzard, he caught sight of it, the moment Aeron Grim swung his greatsword and ended the Night King. Jon's eyes widened, disbelief and awe mingling on his face.
Robb Stark lowered his bloodied blade, his direwolf Grey Wind pacing beside him with low growls that faded into confusion. The Free Folk, hardened raiders who had fought wars their whole lives, stood frozen in shock, gazing at the impossible.
And then, as if the gods themselves bore witness, the blizzard died.
The storm ceased, its swirling winds unraveling. Snow still lay thick upon the earth, but the endless wall of white that had swallowed the world was gone. Clouds parted above Karhold, and for the first time in days, the sky cleared.
In the center of it all, Aeron Grim stood swaying, Drakyrzor dripping with blackfire. He raised his gaze to the sky, his violet eyes burning weakly now, his strength bleeding away with every drop from his wound.
He sank to one knee, his hand pressed against his abdomen where blood seeped freely, staining the snow dark. His breath came ragged, and a faint smile broke across his lips.
"It's finally over…" he whispered, voice hoarse, almost carried away by the wind.
The Cannibal loomed above him on the shattered walls, his black scales glowing faintly with residual fire, his roar shaking the heavens in triumph. The men of the watch, the Free Folk, and Karhold and those who had marched from the south looked upon Aeron the Shadow Monarch, drenched in blood, yet victorious and for the first time since the Long Night began, hope burned bright and undeniable.
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The air was still heavy with the scent of death, though the world had gone silent. Where moments ago the blizzard had howled and the dead had pressed in from every side, now only the faint crackle of fire and the groans of the wounded filled the field. Snow drifted down in flakes slow and soft, no longer whipped by unnatural winds.
Jon Snow staggered through the blood-stained snow, Longclaw still in hand though his body begged him to rest. Beside him, Robb Stark moved with the same desperate haste, ignoring the cut that stained his cloak dark with blood. Both men fixed their eyes on the figure ahead Aeron Grim, kneeling in the snow, his greatsword still in hand, its black steel slick with frost and black fire. His violet eyes glimmered faintly, though his body trembled with each breath.
Jon was the first to reach him, kneeling in the snow at his side. "Aeron…" he muttered, his breath fogging in the cold. His gaze went to the wound in Aeron's abdomen, where the Night King's blade had pierced clean through. Frost still lingered around it, the flesh darkened and stiff.
Robb crouched on Aeron's other side, his face tight with alarm. "You're bleeding badly. Gods, that's a fatal wound. You should not be.."
Aeron waved them off, his voice hoarse but steady. "I am fine. This wound is nothing." He forced a smile, though blood still stained his lips. "I have had worse."
Robb and Jon exchanged a look, one of disbelief and grim concern. Jon pressed his hand against the wound despite Aeron's protest. "Do not be a fool. That cut is deep, it literally pierced all the way through your back...you should not even be breathing."
"I told you," Aeron growled softly, though his tone carried no malice. "It is fine. I can heal… I just need to rest." His violet eyes flickered with an otherworldly light, as though sheer will kept him upright.
For a moment, Robb simply stared at him. Then, despite himself, a faint smile crept to his lips. He shook his head in wonder. "Very well Aeron I shouldn't worry since you are no mere man, But you actually did it! The Night King… is dead. Truly dead. The thing that plagued the lands beyond the Wall for gods know how long, undone at last."
Aeron leaned back slightly in the snow, exhaling through his teeth, and allowed himself the ghost of a smile. "Yes. It was only a matter of time. The bastard never knew what he was up against."
Jon let out a laugh short and weary, but real. It turned into a cough, and he clutched at his own wound, blood darkening his furs. "You speak of him as though he were just another foe on the field. Yet the truth of it is plain, I'm glad we had you."
Aeron tilted his head, eyes half-lidded, and murmured, "And I am glad to have you, Jon Snow… Stark blood and steel and loyalty… it makes for good company." His greatsword lowered, and for the first time, he let his body rest against the cold ground.
At his command, unseen yet deeply felt, the shadows that had filled the battlefield began to vanish. One by one, soldiers of darkness collapsed into tendrils of smoke and drifted back into the abyss of Aeron's own shadow. Even the colossal black dragon, the Cannibal faded, its titanic form unraveling into shadow-storm until nothing remained but empty snow.
The men who had fought, bled, and despaired against the dead now stood frozen in awe. Knights of the North, Men of the watch, the free folk, Karstark men, Riverlords, and even Doran Martell's men all of them had seen the impossible, and now the shadow host that had turned the tide disappeared as though it had never been.
Inside Karhold, Lord Karstark himself leaned against the battlements, watching as the last remnants of the dead collapsed into lifeless heaps across the fields. His face, usually stern and guarded, broke into a wry grin. "Well… is this what you wished to see, Prince of Dorne?"
Doran Martell, wrapped in his cloak, sat in his chair upon the ramparts, his dark eyes fixed on the battlefield beyond their keep. The prince's lips curved into rare laughter, warm and genuine despite the cold. "I have seen things beyond reason tonight, Lord Karstark. I daresay I have more tales to carry home than I shall ever be believed for. And yet…" He shook his head in disbelief, his voice quiet with awe. "I will tell them all the same."
Karstark gave a short bark of laughter, clapping one of his men on the shoulder. "Then let us drink to that, my lord. The dead are dead again, and it seems we live still."
Below, amidst snow and corpses, Jon and Robb stayed by Aeron's side. Around them, soldiers looked on with reverence, whispers spreading like wildfire through the ranks. The North knew what it was to stand in victory over death itself.
And Aeron, the Shadow Monarch, lay in the snow, breathing hard but alive, his violet eyes closing at last as the world grew quiet.
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