On the other side of the battlefield, as the full-scale battle erupted, countless wights with glowing blue eyes surged forward like a tidal wave toward the human lines.
There was no hesitation, no retreat. Rank after rank of soldiers raised their shields as one, bracing against the crashing tide of undead. Behind the walls of steel and courage, long spears tipped with dragonglass stabbed forward in unison, reaping the enemy's ranks in a relentless rhythm of thrusts and screams.
On the flanks, cavalry thundered across the plains. The Dothraki, led by their bloodriders, carved great arcs through the horde, while the Northern riders, commanded by the "Young Wolf" Robb Stark himself, darted in and out of the melee to cut down any wights that slipped through.
Whenever the undead began to mass in one area and threatened to break the lines, Tywin Lannister—overseeing the battle from the command ridge—gave the order for his Casterly Rock heavy cavalry to charge straight in, no matter the cost, shattering the enemy's formation with sheer brute force.
And when human soldiers fell, about to be dragged off to join the undead ranks, the warlocks on the high platforms gave grim commands to the giants beside them—who hurled barrels of wildfire into the fray. Green flames devoured everything—friend and foe alike. There was no room for mercy.
Unlike the chaotic slugfests of the show, this was a symphony of precision and purpose. Aedric's meticulous planning had fused every army's unique strengths into one vast and disciplined war machine. Against the roaring tide of death, the living stood firm—unyielding, immovable as the mountains themselves.
Every soldier knew what was at stake: hold the line, and the dragons above could unleash their full fury without restraint. Let the undead mix into their ranks, and all would be lost.
So they held. With blood and steel, they held. Because if they endured long enough, the dawn of victory would come.
For the future of humankind, no price was too high.
Meanwhile, among the wights, the elite White Walkers—those icy lieutenants of the Night King—were hunted the moment they revealed themselves. The elite Knight Squadron, armed with Valyrian steel, met them head-on.
Foremost among them was the "little wolf" Arya Stark, whose twin daggers danced like lightning. Alone, she faced five White Walkers at once. Her blades flashed with bursts of blue divine fire, forcing her enemies into frantic retreat, their ice armor cracking beneath the storm of strikes.
As the minutes dragged on, the human defense held unbroken. The undead army, unable to overwhelm the lines, was torn apart by the dragons' fiery onslaught. The wight horde began to thin, their numbers visibly shrinking.
A few White Walkers tried hurling ice spears at the dragons, mimicking their king—but Aedric had foreseen this. Long before the battle, he had melted down precious Valyrian steel and reforged it into fine chainmail, now fitted beneath the dragons' throats and bellies. It slowed them slightly but rendered them nearly invulnerable to the lesser Walkers' attacks.
Perhaps only the Night King himself could still pierce such armor.
For the Night King, the vastness of his army was not mere vanity—it was his power source. The more undead he commanded, the stronger he became. Had he managed to turn the entire continent's millions into wights, the energy surge might have elevated him to godhood.
But as his army burned—hundreds, thousands at a time—his own strength waned. His icy aura flickered, his power faltered, and under Aedric's relentless assault, he began to falter.
And then, for the first time, fear crept into the eyes of the Ice King.
He had escaped once, millennia ago. Perhaps he could do so again. If he fled now, he could wait another thousand years. Mortals would die. This man—this Jon Targaryen—would not live forever.
But Aedric had no intention of letting his prey escape. This was the moment he had waited for—the harvest of fate itself.
When the Night King began to withdraw, Aedric suddenly pulled two enormous barrels from his storage space and hurled them straight at his foe.
Wildfire. Two full barrels of it. He had emptied two cubic meters of his storage just to carry them here—his final trump card.
The barrels struck true. The sticky green fluid splashed across the Night King's body.
A heartbeat later, Aedric slashed his twin swords, sending arcs of flame across the air. The fire touched the wildfire—and the world exploded.
The blast was deafening. The shockwave leveled everything within a hundred meters. At ground zero, the Night King, engulfed in emerald fire, screamed—an inhuman wail that tore through the battlefield—as he rolled and writhed, summoning his full icy might to smother the unending flames that devoured him.
And then, from the inferno, Aedric descended—his twin swords ablaze with crimson and black fire.
One sword drove through the Night King's shoulder, pinning him to the ground.
The second plunged toward his glowing dragonglass heart.
The Night King caught the blade with one trembling hand, but the strength pressing down was unstoppable. Slowly, inexorably, the sword sank deeper.
"What are you staring at?" Aedric barked, meeting those glowing blue eyes. "Never heard of Blink Technique? You think the Unburnt only resists fire and heat? Newsflash—it doesn't stop explosions!"
With that, he released Dark Sister and gripped Blackfyre with both hands, channeling every ounce of his power into one final strike. The blade pierced through the dragonglass core—and the Night King shattered.
His body exploded into a blizzard of glittering ice shards, which melted into vapor and vanished into the wind.
At that very instant, every other White Walker across the battlefield disintegrated as well. The wights froze in place, their eyes dimming, their bodies collapsing lifelessly into heaps of flesh and bone.
Silence fell.
Then, slowly, a roar of triumph erupted from the human lines—a sound like the breaking of a dam, a tidal wave of pure elation. Men and women of every nation, every race, threw down their weapons and embraced one another, laughing, weeping, shouting to the heavens.
They had survived.
Humanity had survived.
"Long live the Storm Sword Saint!"
"Long live the Dragon Queen!"
"Long live humanity!"
The cheers rolled across the battlefield, endless and wild.
And amid it all, Aedric, utterly exhausted, sank to the ground. His soot-streaked face softened into a weary smile as he looked upon the chaos of joy around him.
"These people…" he murmured, chuckling hoarsely. "They really are like a pack of dogs."
Then he laughed—long and hard, the sound echoing across the plains.
A soft thud followed, and a familiar warmth enveloped him as Daenerys threw herself into his arms, tears streaming down her face.
"You did it, Jon! You really did it!"
"Yeah, yeah, I did," he sighed, half-laughing, patting her back. "Now, mind letting go for a second, Daenerys?"
She didn't. But Aedric didn't really mind either.
He sheathed his twin swords, took her hand, and together they walked toward the jubilant sea of survivors—their people.
To claim the glory that was rightfully theirs.
The first wish of Jon Snow
was, at last, fulfilled.
~~--------------------------
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