If you Like this story! Check out my other stories! Shadow Monarch in DC
&
If you wish to read more or simply support me than check out my patreon at
"https://www.patreon.com/FrenzyAren"
You can Get Access to 3 More Chapters OR 7 More Chapters if you want !
/-\
The great hall of Karhold was still unsettled, the stink of spilled wine in the air. Men whispered and shifted uneasily, none daring to speak aloud of what they had just witnessed...Aeron risen from death, the shadows bending to his will as if the Stranger Himself had yielded to his power.
Robb Stark stepped forward, Greywind padding silently at his side. His face was pale, but his voice rang with the steadiness of a commander who had seen too much to have fear in him any longer.
"At this point," Robb said, his eyes fixed on Aeron, "I'm not even going to ask how you did this. But there was a hole in your heart. I saw it. We all did." He hesitated, his hand brushing the pommel of his sword as though unconsciously reaching for comfort. "Is it… still you there?"
The hall went silent, all ears straining for Aeron's reply.
Aeron tilted his head, violet eyes glowing faintly, and then he laughed. A low, rich laugh that seemed to roll like thunder through the chamber.
"No," he said smoothly, his grin curling sharp. "I'm the Night King, and I'm using this vessel to kill you all. Then I'll march south and finish the job."
A ripple of alarm spread through the gathered men. Several lords instinctively stepped back, hands falling to sword hilts. One knight even dropped on his ass. Others muttered curses, retreating a pace as if distance could shield them. Fear was thick enough to choke.
But Aeron's laughter only grew louder, shaking the timbers above them. "Gullible as always," he said at last, wiping at his mouth as though the jest had nearly brought him to tears. His gaze swept the room, drinking in their unease. "No, I'm just jesting. Playing with you. You have nothing to fear."
A few men exhaled shakily, though none dared laugh with him.
Then, without another word, Aeron turned and strode across the ruined hall. His greatsword lay where it had fallen. He reached down and grasped it, and the moment his hand touched the hilt the weapon came alive, shadow-fire crawling across its edge, burning with a dark flame that seemed to hunger. Men flinched, as though the steel itself bore a will.
Aeron slung it over his back in one smooth motion, the blade settling against him. His violet eyes swept the hall once more.
"Make sure to be there," he said, voice calm but resonant, carrying to every corner. "It won't be a banquet without the heroes of the North."
Then his gaze sharpened, and with but a thought, the air before him tore open a swirling void of violet and black flame, a portal to places unknown. Shadows whipped the hall, and then, without a backward glance, Aeron stepped inside. The portal closed behind him, vanishing like a snuffed candle.
For a long while, no one spoke. No one moved. The silence was heavy as stone.
At last, Robb Stark exhaled and turned to Jon, who still stood rooted where he was, Ghost pressed tight at his side. Robb's lips curved into a faint smile, though there was no mirth in it, only weariness and a strange, hard-earned hope.
"It seems," Robb said, his voice quiet but carrying, "we are riding south again. I've a feeling this time it will be a good visit for us the Starks."
Jon met his brother's eyes, and for the first time in a while he smiled. It was small, almost reluctant, but there all the same. He understood the weight of the words, the irony of them, and the hope that lingered behind.
For once, the thought of returning to King's Landing did not feel like marching to doom.
****
KING'S LANDING – RED KEEP
like a wound splitting tha air a portal tore open in the corridors of the red keep not far from the Iron Throne room. From it stepped Aeron Grim.
He emerged steady and calm, the sound of his boots echoing in the corridors of the red keep. As he walked, shadow curled over his frame and hardened into armor not the crude mail of Westerosi knights, nor the bright gilded plate of the Reach, but something otherworldly.
The steel was black as moonless night, edged with veins of violet light that pulsed. Jagged pauldrons swept upward like wings of shadow, regal yet cruel. A dark cape, heavy and flowing, trailed behind him, every movement stirring it like smoke carried by unseen wind. The armor bore no sigil but its presence alone commanded fealty, as if the abyss itself had chosen its king. He wore no helmet, and so his violet eyes burning with quiet intensity were left bare.
The guards of the Red Keep stiffened instantly, spears raised. For a heartbeat, they thought him an intruder, an assassin clad in nightmare. But then recognition set in the black hair, the eyes like violet fire.
One whispered under his breath, "That's… the king ?"
Another swallowed and muttered to his fellow, "Why does he look more intimidating than the last time he was here?"
"Aye..." said a third, nervously gripping his spear.
None dared move to bar his way. Aeron passed them without a word, his steps unhurried. He walked the long corridor, and at its end stood the great black doors of the throne room.
From within, muffled voices carried, the drone of nobles gathered, the measured tones of debate, Tyrion's sharp tongue, Varys's silken counsel, lords whispering their grievances, and Daenerys Targaryen presiding from the Iron Throne.
Aeron paused, his hand brushing the pommel of his greatsword. He tilted his head slightly, listening. A faint smile touched his lips.
"At least," he murmured to himself, voice low and wry, "the realm on this side is still functioning."
Then, without further ceremony, he placed both hands upon the doors and pushed.
The great doors groaned open with a thunderous echo, the voices within cutting short as though the very air had been seized. A hush fell over the throne room.
Every noble present, lords of the Vale, the Reach, the Westerlands, the Stormlands turned in their seats, their eyes wide. The kingsguard stiffened, hands falling to sword hilts.
And there he was Aeron Grim, stepping into the hall clad in the abyssal armor of a king not of this world. He moved forward, calm, steady, the light from the braziers bending strangely around him as though unwilling to touch him.
At the far end of the hall, Daenerys Targaryen rose from the Iron Throne. Her eyes widened, her lips parted in shock, and for the first time since she last saw him, she looked as though she were caught between disbelief and joy. Tyrion froze mid-sentence, while even Varys's composure cracked the Spider blinking in rare astonishment.
Aeron stopped midway across the throne room, his violet eyes fixed on her. For a long moment, silence reigned, all the lords and knights watching as though some god had walked into their midst.
Then, at last, Aeron's lips curved into the faintest smile. His voice, low but carrying to every corner of the chamber.
"Hey," he said simply, softly, yet it struck the room like thunder. "I'm back."
The words hung there, utterly unadorned, and yet they bore more weight than any speech a maester could pen.
Daenerys took a step forward, the steel of her throne glinting behind her. Her voice wavered not with weakness, but with the shock of one who had braced herself for grief and found it overturned.
"…Aeron."
/-\
If you Like this story! Check out my other stories! Shadow Monarch in DC
&
If you wish to read more or simply support me than check out my patreon at
"https://www.patreon.com/FrenzyAren"