At dawn, when the first ray of sunlight broke through the horizon, Aedric stood solemnly inside his tent as three women helped him don his armor piece by piece. When the final buckle was fastened, he ran a gloved hand over the Targaryen sigil on his chest—a three-headed dragon crafted entirely from rubies—and smiled faintly.
"Funny," he murmured. "Twenty years ago, my father wore the same style of armor. On the Ruby Ford, Robert smashed it flat with a single hammer blow."
"Don't talk nonsense," Daenerys scolded softly, giving his shoulder a light slap before setting the dragon-winged helm on his head. She exhaled deeply, her lilac eyes firm. "You're far stronger than my brother Rhaegar ever was. You will win."
Aedric said nothing. He simply nodded, watching as Myrcella and Ygritte stepped forward, each holding one of his swords—Blackfyre and Dark Sister—and fastened them to his belt.
With the three women at his side, he strode out of the tent. Outside, the commanders of the allied host already stood armed and armored, their banners snapping in the cold dawn wind.
Aedric mounted his steed—a magnificent warhorse unmatched across continents—and gazed toward the rising red sun. Smiling at the assembled warriors, he spoke in a calm, resonant voice:
"I'm not one for grand speeches. But today, to see everyone here put aside old grudges and stand together against a threat to all humankind—it fills me with honor. I, Jon Targaryen, am proud to fight alongside you."
"This battle will decide the fate of our entire race."
"Win or lose, what we do today will echo through history as an immortal monument."
"My friends—may victory and fortune be with you all!"
At those words, every knight and commander straightened and saluted him deeply. No further words were needed.
All eyes turned to Bran Stark—the Three-Eyed Raven—now standing surrounded by three Children of the Forest. His pupils had turned pure white as he entered the trance of greensight.
Moments later, his body trembled violently. His eyes darkened again as he gasped out, "Found him. One kilometer to the west—he sees me—he's coming—"
Before Bran could finish, Aedric had already spurred his horse. Like an arrow from a bowstring, he shot forward, tearing out of the human camp and thundering across the wide river into the heart of the undead host.
The divine steed was shod and armored with dragonglass spikes; every wight it struck was instantly purged of dark magic, collapsing lifelessly to the ground.
Drawing Blackfyre, Aedric unleashed arcs of jet-black flame that swept in all directions, incinerating swaths of undead as he carved a blazing path straight toward the Night King.
A flash of blue light burst ahead—an ice spear whistled through the air, aimed squarely at his face.
"Ah, learning to aim for the head now!" Aedric quipped, slicing the spear aside. He leapt from the saddle mid-gallop, drawing Dark Sister in midair. Crossing his twin blades, he deflected a second spear before descending like a falling star upon a familiar pale figure among the ranks.
The Night King.
Their blades clashed—four swords meeting with a sound like cracking worlds. Explosions of fire and frost blasted outward, vaporizing the nearest wights and White Walkers and leaving a circle of empty, steaming earth around them.
"The battle begins!"
Hearing his shout, the signal spread. Three dragons soared into the sky from the human camp, roaring as they rained torrents of dragonfire upon the undead army below.
The Night King's gaze flicked skyward, fury twisting his frozen features as he saw his legions burning. He struck harder, desperate to break free and destroy the dragons first.
But Aedric's left-hand blade whirled in perfect Taiji Sword patterns, absorbing and deflecting every blow. With his right hand, he countered using the Nine Swords of Dugu, thrusting at the Night King's vital points with terrifying precision. Forced onto the defensive, the Night King staggered backward under the relentless twin-sword assault.
Dark-red flames wreathed Aedric's body, their anti-magic energy repelling every undead creature that dared approach. Smiling faintly, he said, "You've grown stronger, I'll give you that. But I've improved far more. Honestly, I should thank you for stabbing me last time—without that, I wouldn't have partially adapted to your ice power. Much appreciated."
Indeed, by absorbing a fragment of the Night King's frost and breaking through the eighth level of Post-Heaven Inner Core Art, Aedric had vastly increased his resistance to cold. Not enough to be called "the Unfrozen," perhaps—but enough to redirect most of his energy toward offense rather than defense.
Wave after wave of sword energy crashed against the Night King like a fiery tide. When the freezing power lost its grip, the refined martial techniques of Aedric's world became overwhelming. The Night King found himself completely on the defensive, unable to counterattack.
After suffering a dozen heavy blows, he finally snapped. With a guttural roar, he charged headlong, locking his twin ice swords against Aedric's flaming blades and—using monstrous strength—hurled all four weapons into the air.
Then came a fist, blindingly fast, aimed straight at Aedric's face. The sheer force could have killed an elephant.
"You think losing my swords means you win? Childish!"
Aedric's left palm flowed into The Dragon Appears in the Field, redirecting the blow. His right hand then unleashed The Dragon Regrets in the Sky, slamming a surge of dragonfire-infused energy into the Night King's chest. The impact blasted the icy monarch backward like a cannonball, smashing him into the ground dozens of meters away.
"My Eighteen Dragon-Subduing Palms are also the best under heaven, idiot!"
He surged forward, both hands striking like twin meteors. One palm strike after another hammered into the Night King, each accompanied by roaring flame. The once-imposing figure reeled helplessly, flung about like a kite with a severed string.
Finally, gathering his strength, Aedric brought his palms together for the finishing move—Twin Dragons Take the Water—aimed straight at the Night King's dragonglass core.
Sensing mortal danger, the Night King screamed—a sound that froze the air itself. A burst of overwhelming cold erupted from his body, forcing Aedric to leap back, quickly recalling his twin swords.
With a flourish of fiery Taiji sword circles, he dispersed the invading chill, driving it back until the air cleared.
When the frost finally faded, the Night King stood revealed once more—disheveled, battered, his once-regal armor shattered, his icy crown gone. Pale hair fell loose around his face, making him look like any other White Walker.
His blue eyes blazed with fury as he rasped out a harsh, grinding voice:
"Jon… Snow…"
Aedric blinked, then laughed. "Hah! So you can talk. Nearly scared me there."
Crossing his twin blades before his chest to form a blazing cross, he grinned.
"But your intel's outdated. I'm not Jon Snow anymore—"
"I am Jon Targaryen."
"Remember that!"
Both warriors roared and charged once more, twin pairs of swords colliding in a storm of fire and ice that split the dawn sky.
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