When Daenerys saw the two new beauties at Aedric's side, she smiled gracefully and claimed she didn't mind—but if her fingers hadn't suddenly developed the strength of a kung fu master's "two-finger strike," nearly bruising his waist, Aedric might've believed her.
After much coaxing, countless apologies, and sacrificing a good deal of male dignity in… practical demonstrations, Aedric finally managed to calm down the furious Dragon Queen before she unleashed her full "dragon's wrath."
At least her anger was reserved for him alone. Toward Myrcella and Ygritte, Daenerys was actually warm and friendly. Once she introduced them to yoga—a practice rumored to "enhance harmony in the bedroom"—the three women became inseparable, spending hours every day practicing poses with suspicious enthusiasm.
As for governing Meereen? That was Aedric's problem now. After all, she'd been working for over a year—surely she deserved a break.
And so, Aedric's life as an overworked civil servant began anew.
According to his plan, it was time to eliminate the old order—the former slave masters who still infested the three great cities. The political situation was stable, the economy thriving, and these parasites were becoming eyesores. It was the perfect moment to sweep them aside and promote loyalists who truly supported Daenerys.
Yes—he'd decided long ago that once the timing was right, he'd burn the bridge behind him.
Every one of those former masters had blood on their hands. To think they could live out their days in peace was pure fantasy.
What goes around, comes around, brothers.
Besides, their "death luck" would flow to him. Why waste good karma?
Of course, killing them outright would look bad. Better to let them destroy each other.
For two years, Aedric had been quietly planting seeds of distrust among them. Now, with tensions boiling and Daenerys's iron grip loosened, it would only take a spark.
Two months later, when all three dragons were strong enough to carry riders, Aedric and Daenerys conveniently led most of their forces away under the pretext of subjugating the Dothraki tribes—leaving the city-states "free" to manage themselves.
And right on cue, civil war erupted.
No one could say who fired the first shot, but soon, chaos consumed everything. Within a month, seventy percent of the old masters were dead—victims of their own greed and paranoia.
When Aedric returned with Daenerys, he declared the survivors guilty of conspiracy and murder, sentencing the remaining thirty percent to death. With that, the last remnants of the old regime were wiped out.
Factories and industries, of course, had been protected in advance. The economy would continue smoothly—just under new management.
When the blood was finally scrubbed away, Daenerys—now crowned "Heaven's Chosen Khal" of the Dothraki—returned in triumph. She elevated the loyal followers she and Aedric had trained over the past year, replacing the dead masters with a new generation of faithful leaders.
It all went down so naturally it was almost boring.
Oh, and yes—Ser Jorah the "big sad bear" had been forgiven. The ever-suffering romantic was back at Daenerys's side, loyal as ever.
Aedric, however, couldn't stand the man's pitiful puppy eyes. He promptly sent Jorah off to Qarth as an "ambassador"—which, in truth, was exile with a polite name.
After all, Daenerys was his woman now. He wasn't about to let that would-be "dragon rider" hover around her.
Daenerys teased him mercilessly for his jealousy… until he silenced her the only way he knew how.
That night, the Dragon Queen surrendered quite gracefully.
Meanwhile, Aedric kept a close eye on Westeros.
With all the wildlings now safely south of the Wall, the Night King had no reason to linger beyond it. Unlike in the TV show, he didn't waste a year wandering through snowdrifts. Barely two months after Aedric's departure, the Night King arrived at the Wall with an army of tens of thousands of the dead.
The standoff began.
Word of the White Walkers' return spread like wildfire. Fear swept across the Seven Kingdoms, though most still clung to hope—surely the Wall, that ancient marvel, would hold.
Then came the sound that shattered that hope.
The Horn of Winter.
The Night King's deadliest magical relic. According to the maesters' records, when blown three times, it would bring down the Wall entirely.
The first blast—made the Wall tremble.
The second—cracked it.
The third—would shatter it forever.
The only silver lining: such a spell required immense power. Even the Night King could only blow the horn once a month.
That gave the living perhaps two or three months to prepare.
Gone was every last trace of denial. Every realm in Westeros began full mobilization—armies marching north, supplies flooding into the Wall. Feuds and grudges were set aside; for the first time in history, all of mankind stood together.
For this was no longer a "game of thrones." It was a war for survival.
Only now did many truly understand why Aedric—Jon Snow—had opened the gates to the wildlings. The outrage of the past turned to reluctant respect.
But there was no time for reflection.
Eddard Stark and Tywin Lannister led the united kings and lords to the Wall, where they met with Mance Rayder to form a grand alliance.
With Aedric's prior coordination, everything proceeded smoothly.
Vast quantities of dragonglass weapons were forged and distributed. Noncombatants among the wildlings and northern folk were evacuated south. The entire North became one enormous defensive zone.
The allied armies—wildlings, northerners, and southern troops alike—formed layered battle lines in a trapezoidal formation, prepared to meet the undead onslaught.
And knowing the Night King's power to raise the dead, the commanders established a grim contingency plan:
Behind every defensive line stood a "support squad."
Their duty wasn't to rescue the wounded.
It was to burn them.
The moment a line was breached, they were to unleash wildfire, incinerating everything—friend and foe alike.
A true scorched-earth strategy.
From the beginning, those soldiers on the front lines were already dead men walking.
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