Without wasting another second, once Aedric had a clear direction, he hoisted Bran onto his back and shot forward like a streak of blue light.
Wind and snow blurred past in a frenzy. What would have taken others three full days to travel, the two of them covered in less than three hours.
When the towering weirwood tree finally appeared before them — its face half-buried in frost, its branches bleeding red through the snow — Aedric knew they'd arrived. He slowly drew Longclaw from his waist, eyes sharp, every muscle coiled for battle.
If memory served, there were plenty of "surprises" buried under this snow.
Sure enough, the moment he stepped toward the tree, the ground exploded outward. Skeletal warriors burst from beneath the snow, clutching rusted blades and shrieking as they charged.
Unlike the show's ambushed heroes, Aedric had come prepared — and unlike them, he wielded power they couldn't dream of. The Valyrian steel in Longclaw cut through the undead like sunlight through fog, the blade's anti-magic properties scattering them into ash. In less than a minute, the battlefield fell silent once more, nothing left but shattered bones.
"Brandon Stark. Jon Snow."
A small, emerald-green figure appeared before a cave entrance beneath the tree, calling to them in a crisp voice. "You've finally come. The Three-Eyed Raven is waiting."
"...Took me long enough to find you." Aedric sighed in relief as he recognized the Child of the Forest from the show. Once he was sure no more skeletons were crawling out, he set Bran down and led him forward.
When he reached the child, he handed Bran over and said evenly, "He goes in alone. He's the one meant for the trial, isn't he?"
The forest child nodded, took Bran's hand, and led him into the cave. A few moments later, she emerged again — this time holding a sheathed sword. "Jon Snow, this is the promised reward. Please, take it."
Aedric accepted it, drew the blade with a metallic hiss, and fed it a touch of his dragonflame energy. The slender sword ignited in dark red fire, burning with a steady, sinister glow.
A genuine masterpiece — Dark Sister.
"The trial will not be easy," said the forest child quietly. "The army of the dead could strike at any time."
"Then I'll guard the entrance," Aedric replied, resheathing the blade and fixing her with a steady look. "Finish the ritual as quickly as possible."
Once she disappeared back into the cave, Aedric hung Dark Sister on his other hip, sat cross-legged before the entrance, and began to meditate.
After more than a year of relentless cultivation, his Postnatal Core Formation Art had reached the seventh level. His Nine Yang energy was now fully condensed into an internal core, fused seamlessly with the powers of the void, dragonfire, and magic. His strength now far exceeded even what he'd achieved in the Heaven Sword world.
He could feel it — battle was coming.
This place, the sacred domain of the Children and the Raven, was rich with life force — nearly as dense as the ruins of Valyria. As he cultivated, the energy of the void surged into him endlessly, refining his body, filling every bone and vein with raw, burning power.
Time passed. The only sound across the frozen wasteland was the scream of the wind.
Then —
"HE SAW ME!" Bran's terrified scream echoed from the cave. "HE GRABBED ME! JON! JON! HE'S COMING! HE'S COMING!"
Aedric drew in a deep breath. So it was time after all. He opened his eyes slowly and called toward the cave, "How much longer do you need?"
"About an hour," came the old, weary voice of the Three-Eyed Raven.
"Understood."
Aedric rose to his feet, facing the storm now roaring harder than ever. "Then continue. I'll buy you the time you need."
He stepped down from the cave entrance, swords drawn — Longclaw in one hand, Dark Sister in the other. His voice was calm, but his gaze was steel.
"Apologies, everyone. This road is closed."
He stood alone in the blizzard, an unmovable wall against an endless tide of death.
No words. No battle cries.
Only the clash of steel and the shrieks of dying wights.
Advance, strike, fall.
Advance, strike, fall.
Again and again, the cycle repeated — life against death, hope against despair.
He didn't know how long he'd been fighting. Didn't know how many corpses he'd cut down. When he finally had a moment to breathe, he found himself standing amid mountains of bones and frozen limbs.
But still they came — the dead, countless and ceaseless. Among them, a few pale shapes moved with eerie calm.
Exhaling softly, Aedric smiled faintly. "What's the matter? Why'd you stop? Don't tell me you're tired."
The horde fell silent.
Then, like a tide parting, the wights split to either side — revealing a tall, pale figure walking forward through the snow.
The Night King.
The final boss of Game of Thrones. The source of all the world's nightmares.
Aedric gave a wry laugh, sliding Longclaw back into its sheath and drawing instead another weapon from his spatial ring — Blackfyre.
He poured dragonfire into both blades. Red and black flames roared to life, reflecting in his cold, steady eyes.
"So you're the Night King," he said softly. "I've heard the legends. A pleasure to finally meet you."
The Night King said nothing. After a moment of silence, twin ice swords formed in his hands, their edges gleaming blue beneath the storm. He raised them toward Aedric in challenge.
Aedric let out a slow breath, calming his pulse until his heart was as still as ice. "Not one for conversation, huh? How rude."
He raised Blackfyre and Dark Sister across his chest.
"In that case, let's talk with our blades."
"Come then, Night King."
~~--------------------------
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