The sky was a suffocating, dreary gray. A fierce wind, laden with jagged snowflakes, lashed mercilessly against every exposed inch of skin, stealing warmth and turning into icy droplets that trickled down necks with an irritating, bone-deep chill.
Giants, however, were built for such a world. Their upper bodies were draped in thick, matted fur that caught the snow like layers of protective cotton. Their lower body fur was even more exaggerated, so dense and coarse it appeared as if they were wearing permanent trousers of wolf-hide.
As the strongest warrior among the behemoths, Mag the Mighty, known as Marga to his kin, loomed over the battlefield at a height of nearly three and a half meters. He had no visible neck; his massive, heavy head protruded directly from between his muscular shoulder blades. His face was a flat, ferocious plane of calloused skin, punctuated by small, rat-like eyes that glittered like dark beads beneath a shelf of bone.
Mag sniffed the wind, his round nose twitching as he pinpointed his opponent. He opened his mouth, revealing a row of broad, square teeth, and emitted a sound that was half-belch, half-roar. He was laughing.
Eddard Karstark looked up at the falling goose-feather snow, then at the giant standing fifty meters away. Slowly, deliberately, he slid Heartbreaker back into its scabbard.
A collective gasp went up from the thousands of Free Folk onlookers.
"Does he not want to fight anymore?" "He must be scared. No man fights a giant alone—not even Mance." "Waramyr might have stood a chance with his beasts, but this boy? He's just soft skin and silver."
Tormund Giantsbane strode through the crowd, silencing the whispers with two heavy slaps. "Waramyr is dead," Tormund barked. "Killed by Karstark. If you want to see how he did it, shut your mouths and watch."
Mag the Mighty paused, lowering his log club, a massive trunk with a jagged stone bound to the end. He let out a rough, guttural shout.
"Marga wants to know if you're still fighting," Tormund translated loudly. "If not, he says he'll take his people back to the mountains now."
Eddard didn't answer. His physical constitution was three times that of a normal man, and while he possessed incredible agility, the ground was fast becoming a deathtrap. The fires had melted the snow into a slick, treacherous mud. One stumble against a creature that weighed as much as a small cottage would mean being crushed into a red paste.
He decided then to end the debate with a different kind of strength. If he wanted the savages to obey, he needed to strike a chord of terror deeper than any sword could reach.
Eddard raised his right hand, beckoning with a single finger. Come here.
"Is he mad? Fighting a giant bare-handed?" "Marga will smash him into pulp with one blow!"
Mag didn't need a translation for the gesture. He let out an earth-shattering roar and charged. His short, thick legs thudded - dong, dong, dong, against the wet earth, each step vibrating through the soles of Eddard's boots. He dragged his club behind him, the stone head carving a furrow in the mud.
Eddard stood his ground, his palms beginning to glow with a dim, pulsating light.
"Witchcraft!" a Thenn shouted. "He is a Green Seer!"
As Mag closed the distance to thirty meters, the giant felt a sudden, sickening drain. His strength was being hollowed out. The log club in his hand suddenly felt twice as heavy, as if the earth itself were pulling at it.
Startled by the sensation, the giant reacted with primal instinct. He gripped the club with both hands, spun his massive frame in a full circle, and hurled the weapon. The log, thicker than a man's thigh, whistled through the air like a battering ram.
Eddard's heart hammered against his ribs. Being hit by that was the equivalent of being struck by a runaway carriage.
[Active Skill: Thunderbolt triggered.]
A dazzling, brilliant bolt of white light erupted from Eddard's palm. It struck the spinning club mid-air with a thunderous RUMBLE. The log didn't just stop; it was blasted into a cloud of splinters.
Before the smoke could clear, Eddard waved his other hand.
[Active Skill: Magic Arrows triggered.]
Five shafts of shimmering, multicolored light appeared out of thin air, streaking across the gap to pierce Mag's limbs. The giant let out a roar of agony as the energy burned through his fur and hide.
Finally, Eddard unleashed the rest of his Soul Power.
Two more lightning strikes descended from the gray clouds, slamming directly into Mag's broad chest. The giant's fur began to smoke. His massive body went limp, twitching convulsively before he collapsed face-first into the mud, unconscious.
Silence fell over the camp, broken only by the whoosh of the wind.
Eddard stood still, watching the smoking form of the giant. "He's not dead, is he?" he muttered to himself. He didn't want to kill the asset, only break its will.
A moment later, an elder of the Hornfoot tribe fell to his knees. "He controls the lightning!" the man shrieked. "He is the Lord of Thunder! The god from the songs who shatters mountains!"
The sentiment spread like a wildfire. One by one, the tribal leaders and the thousands of Free Folk dropped to their knees. In the firelight, the sea of humanity lowered itself, not to a King's crown, but to the unpredictable, heavenly might they had just witnessed.
Eddard didn't acknowledge the worship. He turned, led his horse over, and mounted. He rode past the kneeling masses to where Jon Snow stood, looking stunned.
"I've handled the giants, Jon," Eddard said, his face cold. "Cleaning up the mess is your job now. Let the women and children through the Wall first. The men stay behind to find the dead and burn them. Every single one."
Jon wiped melted snow from his brow, a wry smile touching his lips. "No problem, Ned. I know the drill." Jon had grown up with Maester Luwin; he knew this was magic, not divinity, but he also knew the value of the spectacle.
"And Jon," Eddard added, leaning down, "tell your brothers not to mind the 'god' talk. Let them pray to whatever they want, as long as they work."
Eddard rode away from the battlefield as the gray dawn finally broke. Behind him, the Free Folk began the grueling work of salvage and cremation. Over a thousand Karstark cavalrymen patrolled the perimeter, herding stragglers back to the camp.
By the time the sun was a pale ghost in the sky, the first queues of children and elders began to shuffle into the wide, dark passage of the Wall.
"I never thought I'd see the day I'd be escorting savages into the Gift," Carter Pyke grumbled, pulling his black cloak tight against the wind.
But as he looked at the Karstark soldiers - well-fed, disciplined, and backed by a man who could call down lightning, he kept his complaints to a whisper. The North was changing, and the Lord of Thunder was leading the way.
[System Notification: Duel Won: Mag the Mighty defeated.]
[Reputation with Free Folk: Religious Awe (Worship).]
[Vassal Status: House Giant (Subjugated).]
[Soul Power Gained: 500 SP.]
Drop Some Power Stones Plz.
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