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KARHOLD -
The great hall of Karhold had been alive with song and cheer not an hour before. Roaring hearths and brimming cups, meat torn from bone, men laughing too hard because the taste of victory was still strange in their mouths. They had looked upon death, upon ice itself, and endured. But now
Now the hall was a tomb.
At the very center, where a banquet table once groaned beneath roasted venison and mead, there lay the body of Aeron Grim, their Shadow King. His frame was still, the hole in his chest black and ragged where he had driven his own greatsword through his heart. That greatsword too long, too heavy, too terrible for mortal men lay beside him upon the table, its black edge shimmering faintly in the torchlight.
The lords, knights, and common men stood around him in a stunned circle, their revelry silenced. Only the crackling of the hearth broke the hush.
A ranger of the Night's Watch, a grizzled man with scars across his cheek, his voice was low, reverent, almost fearful.
"I've never seen steel like this. Pure as winter's first frost. It took Wun Wun to lift it, and I swear to the Old Gods I saw him struggle."
His eyes never left the blade. None dared touch it.
Robb Stark stood near the table, Grey Wind pacing restlessly at his side, the direwolf whining low as though mourning. Robb's hand lingered on the weapon's hilt before he drew it back, shaking his head.
"That is Valyrian steel," he said quietly, his voice carrying across the hall. "So pure it should not exist. A weapon fit for a god, not a man. And yet… he wielded it as though it were part of him."
He looked down at Aeron's lifeless face, pale in the firelight, the faint traces of blood dried upon his lips. Robb's voice broke slightly as he added,
"A shame its master lies cold before us."
Jon Snow stood opposite him, Longclaw sheathed at his side, his black cloak hanging heavy with snowmelt. His face was pale, eyes shadowed, disbelief plain in every line of his jaw. He stared at Aeron's still chest as though willing it to rise again.
"I don't understand," Jon whispered hoarsely. "He slew the Night King. He shattered the dead. He should have lived. Why… why would he do this to himself?"
Robb reached across the table, placing a firm hand upon his brother's shoulder, his grey eyes sorrowful.
"It was strange to all of us. Everything about him was strange. He bore secrets, burdens no man should carry. But whatever reason he had… it will not bring him back."
Jon swallowed hard, his lips pressed tight, but he said nothing more.
The hall erupted then in murmurs.
"He deserved much more than this," said Lord Karstark, his booming voice carrying grief despite its strength. "I saw him cleave the dead in twain, shadows at his back, fire at his hand. No lord, no king, ever fought for us so fiercely."
A knight of the Vale stepped forward, helm tucked beneath his arm, his young face pale with shock.
"He ended an age-old curse."
A woman of the Freefolk, hair braided with bone charms, spat upon the floor, though her eyes were wet.
"Never thought I'd kneel to any southern king. But I'd have followed him through the hell of the Great Other's maw itself. He was the strongest I'd ever seen. And now the cold took him, by his own hand. Why would a man do such a thing.."
No answer came.
The Tyrell men whispered in clusters, their bright silks dull beneath the torchlight. "The gods took him," one muttered. "Or perhaps he was no man at all, but some spirit bound in flesh, whose time had ended..."
Others bowed their heads. men hardened by war but broken now by the loss of the figure who had stood against death itself.
Even Grey Wind lifted his head, howling, the sound echoing through the rafters, chilling every heart.
Jon finally spoke again, his voice steady though his eyes burned.
"We owe him all, yet we could not save him from himself."
Robb nodded, his hand falling from Jon's shoulder, his voice carrying so all could hear.
"He was our King. And though he chose his end, we will remember him as he was. Not cold upon this table, but standing against the storm. Death and fire. The man who slew the Night King."
Silence followed. A silence not of shock, but of reverence.
One by one, lords and men alike bent the knee where they stood, bowing their heads toward the still form of Aeron Grim. Some whispered prayers to the Old Gods, others to the Seven, others to no gods at all.
But all knew they would never look upon another like him.
****
Darkness.
It was not the darkness of night, nor the blindness of closing one's eyes. This was deeper eternal, smothering, without horizon or end. Aeron found himself adrift in it, though his boots crunched upon nothing. The void stretched in every direction, his breath echoing faintly, as though the air itself had been devoured.
He placed a hand against his chest instinctively. It was still. Silent.
"My heart… stopped." His voice broke against the black. "Where am I?"
He began to walk. Forward, though there was no road. His steps rang faintly, each one the only sound in that endless void. The silence pressed upon him, heavier with each moment, until.
A glimmer.
Faint at first, a ghost-light in the far reaches of the abyss. He quickened his pace, eyes narrowing. And then he saw it: a figure, motionless, clad head to toe in abyssal black armor jagged. The figure burned faintly with a violet glow, licking flames dancing across the outlines of that dreadful suit. The glow was not bright, but it was enough to reveal what the void concealed.
Their eyes met.
Two violet flames. The same fire, but his own felt pale against the brilliance staring back at him. Aeron froze. His lips parted as the name slipped out unbidden.
"…Ashborn."
The figure stirred, iron boots crushing against the nothing as he strode forward. His presence filled the void, vast, suffocating, regal. When he spoke, his voice was like a bell tolling in a cathedral, deep and resonant, ringing into Aeron's bones.
"Thou art finally here."
Aeron clenched his fists at his side, forcing his breath steady. His voice came quieter, uncertain.
"Is this it for me? Is this the end?"
Even through the helm, Aeron sensed it the faint curl of a smile, a warmth beneath the abyss.
"Nay," Ashborn rumbled, his tone both ancient and unyielding. "This is no end, but a passing of the torch. I have watched thee, silently, ever since thou wert cast into this world. I have seen thy battles, thy triumphs, thy failures. And aye... thy missteps. Yet from them didst thou learn, and rise. Thou hast led with both strength and wisdom, though unbidden at times. Those are the makings of one admirable."
Aeron lowered his gaze, his hand still pressed over the phantom of his wound. He swallowed, a lump burning in his throat, then looked up once more.
"And what of me? If I accept… if I walk this path further, will I lose what I am? My human emotions, my heart?"
For the first time, the Shadow Monarch gave a sound like laughter, low, deep, genuine. The void itself seemed to tremble with it.
"Ha! Thy journey thus far gives lie to that fear. Would a hollow beast have fought for kin not his own? Would a soulless wraith have battle for people who have yet to accept him, Whatever awaits thee, thy heart black or mortal shall remain thine. Whether you find thy humanity strengthened or consumed… that, only time shall tell."
He stretched out a gauntleted hand. The violet flames curled about it, casting jagged shadows across his armor.
"Come. Take mine hand, heir of shadow. Claim what is thine by right, and let the world bear witness to its true Monarch."
Aeron hesitated only a moment. His own hand, scarred, lifted. He placed it in Ashborn's.
The instant their fingers clasped, the void erupted.
A blinding glow tore through the abyss not violet, but pure, searing brilliance, burning through darkness as though it had been waiting to devour it. Aeron clenched his teeth against the light, eyes watering, but he did not let go. His grip held firm, locked with Ashborn's, until there was nothing left of the void but brilliance.
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If you Like this story! Check out my other stories! Shadow Monarch in DC
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