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Snow fell soft as ash, covering the wreckage of bodies, steel, and frozen flesh. The storm had broken, and for the first time in living memory the North saw a sky free of the Horror that lurked beyond the wall. light spilled upon the dead and the living alike.
Around Aeron Grim, men gathered lords, knights, freefolk, and footsoldiers alike. They spoke in hushed tones, voices carrying awe more than triumph.
"That was some duel.." one of Karstark's men whispered, staring at the figure sprawled upon the snow. "He cut the Night King's head clean from his shoulders, if not for him I don't think anyone had the strength to fight that thing.."
Another, a grizzled bannerman with a scar down his cheek, shook his head as though he scarcely believed it. "Seven hells. I thought we'd all be corpses by now. And yet… one man managed to change everything."
A Dornish spearman from Doran's retinue crossed himself and muttered softly, "Not one man… no, the king is not merely a man."
Robb and Jon stood near, bloodied and weary, yet silent as they watched the shadow monarch lying still. Aeron's eyes were closed, his face pale as snow, his chest faintly rising with shallow breaths. The giant Wun Wun knelt beside him, carefully lifting his body into massive hands, preparing to carry him back to the keep.
The men marveled in awe, whispers following like prayers: "The Shadow King." "Savior of the North." "Not even the Wall itself kept us as safe as he did tonight."
But for Aeron himself, no words reached him. The world outside faded into silence.
Within his mind, he stood in a realm that was not of snow or ice but a void stretching endless, dark as the abyss. A single sound cut through the stillness cold, mechanical, absolute.
[You have defeated the Apostle of the Great Other.]
Aeron exhaled, his shoulders slumping, his voice weary but laced with dry humor. "Freaking finally…"
Another chime echoed, the sound ringing like iron striking stone.
[8/8 Apostles Vanquished.]
And then
[You can now claim the Black Heart.]
Before Aeron could speak, another voice of the system tore through him, its tone heavier, like a tolling bell that pressed on his very soul.
[The Black Heart requires a sacrifice. To claim it, you must surrender your mortal heart. In death of the flesh, the Black Heart shall beat. In failure, your soul shall shatter.]
The words resounded through the void, cold and poetic, and then a final strike:
[Success rate: 10%. Failure means Death.]
Aeron stared into the emptiness, lips curling into a humorless smile. "Ten percent…? Of course. Gods forbid it ever be simple." He rubbed his face, sighed through his teeth, then muttered with growing resolve. "I've come too far, bled too much, for cowardice now. If this is what it takes… then so be it."
He forced his will outward, violet light flaring around him. His voice sharpened with iron. "Not today. Not death, not failure. Not me."
Snow pressed against his skin once more. His violet eyes snapped open, glowing faint in the moonlight as a flake of snow melted against his cheek. He stirred in the giant's hands, breath ragged but strong. The giant looked down in surprise, his massive brow furrowing as Aeron suddenly twisted free of his grip.
Aeron dropped heavily into the snow, landing on his feet though his body swayed. One hand pressed firmly against his abdomen, where blood and frost still seeped from the wound.
Gasps erupted around him. Soldiers stumbled back, wide-eyed, as though a corpse had risen.
Jon turned sharply, his expression first disbelief, then a rush of relief. "Aeron...you should be unconscious still. You were half-dead!"
Robb's jaw tightened, his eyes searching Aeron's face as if to confirm what he was seeing. "By the gods… you're standing? Already? After a wound like that?"
Aeron winced but forced himself upright, his greatsword still in his grip. "I told you," he rasped, his voice cutting through the shocked silence of the men. "I am not so easily slain. This… is nothing."
Whispers rippled through the crowd again, louder this time, edged with fear as much as reverence.
"His eyes… look at them. Still burning like fire."
"No man bleeds and stands after that."
Jon stepped closer, concern battling with awe. "Do whatever you want… you saved us. Every one of us."
Robb gave a breathless laugh, still shaking his head in disbelief. "And the North will not soon forget it."
Aeron said nothing, only adjusted himself and stared out across the field of corpses, snow falling all around him. His violet gaze carried the weight of someone who had looked beyond the veil of death and come back.
****
Karhold's great hall roared with life. Fires blazed in the hearths, their warmth chasing away the cold that had strangled the keep in the battle. Mead and wine flowed in cups, the tables groaned under platters of roasted meat, and men and women alike raised their voices in cheers.
"The North remembers!" shouted a Karstark bannerman, tankard high.
"To the Shadow King!" cried a knight of the Vale, his voice shaking with awe.
"Death to the dead!" the freefolk howled, stamping their feet against the stone.
The victory rang like thunder. The Starks, the Karstarks, the Tyrells, the Martells, even the rough-clad wildlings all cheered as one. For once, there was no divide of crown or blood. They had lived.
And yet Aeron Grim stood apart.
At the edge of the hall, shadow-cloaked, his violet eyes glowed faint beneath the torchlight. He seemed deaf to their triumph. Men called his name in reverence, women whispered of him as though he were half-god, but his mind was elsewhere.
The roar of the hall faded for him, drowned beneath the voice that only he could hear.
[The Black Heart requires a sacrifice. Surrender your mortal heart, let the black one beat in its place. Failure: Death.]
The words echoed cold in his skull. He clenched his jaw, fingers twitching against the hilt of Drakyrzor, his greatsword, though no foe stood before him.
Ten percent. A chance so slim it mocked him.
'What is a king without his heart? What is a man without his humanity? Do I really need to do this..'
He had seen what the shadows made of the dead silent, unyielding, inhuman. Was that what he would become once he is truly the Monarch of Shadows, to strip away his mortal heart, to abandon all that tethered him.
He ground his teeth, silent amid the jubilation, the voices of lords and soldiers muted into a dull hum. His choice weighed heavier than their feasts or songs.
The scrape of wood against stone broke the haze. Aeron blinked, violet eyes snapping toward the sound. A wheeled chair rolled across the hall, guards flanking it in quiet vigilance.
Prince Doran Martell approached.
The Dornish prince's face, weary and lined with age, held dignity unmarred by his broken body. His hands, frail though they seemed, rested firm upon the arms of his chair. The room quieted as he came before Aeron.
The prince inclined his head with a grave respect. His voice, calm and smooth, carried through the hush of the gathered hall.
"I have seen many kings," Doran Martell said, his dark eyes fixed upon Aeron. "Kings who sent others to die in their stead. Kings who ruled with words, or with coin, or with cruelty. But you…" His gaze sharpened. "You fought with your own hand. For your own people. For realms not your own. That is a king I can respect, above all things."
He placed a hand to his chest, bowing as far as his broken frame allowed. His guards bent their heads with him.
"Hear me now. I Doran Nymeros Martell, Prince of Dorne, swears fealty and loyalty to Aeron Grim, the one true king of the Seven Kingdoms."
A murmur swept the hall lords and soldiers exchanging looks, whispers rising like sparks from dry kindling. Some smiled, but all knew the weight of such words.
Aeron stared at him in silence. His violet eyes glowed faint, unreadable, his face still as stone. He did not smile, did not bow, did not speak. The air thickened as if the hall itself held its breath.
Then, with a sound like steel drawn in a crypt, his greatsword appeared in his hand called forth from shadow.
Gasps broke from the gathered lords. Doran's guards stiffened, hands flying to their blades, though the prince himself did not flinch. He sat tall in his chair, unblinking before the shadow monarch's glow.
The lords of Westeros stared, the victory feast forgotten, as the king did something totally unexpected.
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