An Anticlimactic End

The Land Beyond The Wall

The Haunted Forest

302 AC

The Wights shuffle about in the dark, covering all paths the Free Folk can take to escape without stumbling over roots and unsteady terrain. For places where Giants and Mammoths would find difficulty threading or the sick, wounded, and old would need to be carried instead of placed on sleds, there are smaller patrols, just enough to chase any stragglers or deserters away or warn the rest of their horde if the Free Folk host tries to break through. Luckily, they are not looking for any Free Folk in the tree branches high above nor are they expecting anyone to come to the Free Folk's rescue. This however brings a question to Jon's mind; why have they not swarmed the group of Free Folk yet as per their usual tactics. "When the Others raise the dead, they must divide their attention between each new Wight." Aemon explains, perched on a thick branch above Jon's position on the ground, taking advantage of his inhuman balance, grace, and agility to almost glide across the forest. "The more wights they personally raise, the more time and effort they must expend coordinating them. The stronger ones among the Others can manage hundreds, but even they must find a way to ease the weight upon them. They do this by creating a specialized wight, an officer who retains fragments of what they once were and leads when their master cannot." Aemon says as they observe the group's chaotic shuffling. This is perhaps the fifth group of wights that the vanguard has found, and Aemon is pleased to find that, while the White Walkers and Others are quite different, their magic is similar enough for him to sabotage them. "How do I tell them apart?" Jon whispers. For the past moons Aemon has been teaching him how to make use of skinchanging to disrupt the command structure of the wights; sowing discord among their ranks and using their vast numbers against them. "You have met one of them before, in the Lord Commander's quarters on the night you burned your hand." says Aemon. Othor, one of the two rangers to accompany their uncle Benjen years ago, rose as a Wight and almost strangled Jon to death before being set ablaze. That was what convinced Jon that the Watch still held a great and noble purpose in fighting an enemy unlike any found in the south. And yet most other wights he'd met were easier to fight off, many reduced to little more than bones with flesh hanging off of them or even less than that. Jon had attributed the difference to Othor's body being fresh by comparison, but it made sense for the Others to dispatch more than just two regular wights to infiltrate Castle Black from within. Why else would they have left the two corpses to be found so close to the Wall if not to tempt the Watch to bring them back for burial? "I call them ghouls." Aemon says in the guttural and rough Old Tongue. "There. Among the shamblers." Aemon points out a loose formation of wights shuffling through the undergrowth, blue eyes staring blankly for signs of prey. There is a Thenn among them based on the scaled bronze armor he wears, or one who used to be a Thenn. From his size, Jon almost mistakes him for an Umber or one of Tormund's kin. Where the others shuffle clumsily, he walks with relatively more grace, stepping carefully over obstacles and observing the ground with curious eyes that he's never seen from a Wight before. "Ghoul." Aemon says once more in the Old Tongue. "He leads this group." he adds as he gracefully vaults from the branch he perches on with a backflip and lands soundlessly on the snow covered ground. "Is it wise for me to be the one to do it this time?" Jon asks cautiously. "My skinchanging skills are nowhere near yours, and to draw the White Walker's attention now would place the Free Folk and the vanguard in danger." "No amount of skill will prepare you for what you are about to do." replies Aemon. "It is a matter of being sly enough to deceive the ghoul and having enough willpower to not have your will subsumed by the Walker's." "Aye." Jon says as he takes a breath, latches onto Longclaw's hilt, and launches himself into the group's midst. The forest turns into a blur of dark colors around him, then into a blur of white as he navigates around the wights to bear down on the ghoul. Before it can react, Jon's left hand wraps around the ghoul's head as his right slashes Longclaw through the arm of a wight that attempts to reach him. Before more wights can react, Jon's mind plunges into the link between the ghoul and its master and Jon's senses are overwhelmed. The sensation can only be described as jarring and overwhelming. Whereas skinchanging into Ghost feels like a seamless assimilation, skinchanging into the ghoul feels as if he is plunged into the cold, dark depths of the ocean. The pressure is suffocating and it takes all of Jon's willpower not to submit to the massive weight of the White Walkers' collective consciousness. Even then, Jon feels like a feeble flame in the midst of an unrelenting storm of ice. As the pressure becomes too much for Jon, a wild savageness rises from the depths of his soul with the silent howl of a direwolf, and from somewhere unknown to him, a dragon's roar of defiance joins the howl of the direwolf. Before Jon can even begin to comprehend what is happening, he feels the link between the ghoul and the White Walker twist and bend to include him with neither the master nor the servant wiser to the change. With his objective complete, Jon returns to his skin while commanding the ghoul to ignore his and Aemon's presence. "Well done." says Aemon's voice from above him, causing Jon to look upwards, finding Aemon standing on a branch over his head. "Come, the deception will not last." With a nod Jon follows from the ground as Aemon seems to glide from branch to branch before gracefully landing on the ground on the perimeter of the Free Folk camp the wights have been hunting. Now that the wights are temporarily out of commission, they have the harder task of talking to Free Folk who will more than likely try to kill them. They stop short of a perimeter marked by stakes, logs and torches, staying in the shadows of a tree line bordering a fifty foot gap of open ground where trees have been chopped down or ripped out of their roots-doubtlessly the work of the host's giants and mammoths. The Free Folk have assembled a hasty but sturdy rampart that will at least slow down an attack, an impressive feat given how they've been harassed endlessly. Seeing one of the sentries near them, Jon slowly steps into view with his hands held up, palms open. The man in furs spots him from where he's tied himself to the branch of a tree behind the line of defense. "A scout!" he shouts and nocks an arrow, dragon glass tipped judging by the head's texture. The arrow flies towards him. Jon feels it the moment it begins to fly, feels every nerve in his body scream, yet before he can throw himself to one side Aemon seems to step out of the shadows and catches the arrow by its shaft, the dragonglass tip a few inches from Jon's face. "Damn it, man!" The archer exclaims as he scrambles for another arrow from the quiver hanging next to him. Not far behind several figures gather at the camp's edge with spears, axes, and torches in hand. "Don't shoot!" Jon bellows, still keeping his hands in plain sight. "We are here to help!" "They look like crows." one of the warriors argues with a glare. "I say shoot him again." With a roll of eyes, Aemon twirls the arrow between his fingers "Shoot him again and I will personally feed you to a wight." Aemon threatens, causing Jon to frown at him with displeasure before slapping him in the shoulder. "Ignore him. He loves to be dramatic with his threats." says Jon as he tries to relieve some of the tension created by Aemon's threat. Jon doesn't think that wights eat at all, and he is sure that the Free Folk also don't believe that the wights eat. It's the principle of the threat that sets them on edge, for what sane man would threaten their fellow man with death at the hands of a wight. "While I don't agree with my friend's method, the sentiment still stands. Shoot me again and you will find yourself short of a head." Jon says, his eyes as cold as winter's bite. Even if he has to kill a few of them to make them stop, however much he doesn't wish to, he won't abandon the rest to die. But killing any would be counterproductive to his mission, so diplomacy remains his best option. "Enough of that!" an older man, a greybeard with a large ax snarls at the younger man. "You heard what Karsi said, that crow can be trusted." The younger man snaps impertinently before the older man, in an attempt to show his strength. The greybeard, not taking the disobedience lightly, cracks him across the face with the flat of his ax, flinging him to the ground. "You, crow." the greybeard points at Jon. "Name yourself." he commands. "There are no more crows." Aemon responds before Jon can. "And yet he still dresses like a crow." remarks the young Free Folk from his position on the ground. "It matters not, we are here to help." says Jon. "You are being herded towards death by the Walkers." "Don't you think we know that." says a woman as the crowd that had gathered parts to allow her through. "Karsi." greets Jon with a nod. "Ygritte's pretty crow." replies Karsi. "What are you doing here, pretty crow?" she asks "We can open a path for your people to escape the White Walker's trap and lead you to Hardhome." says Jon as he glances towards Aemon. Following Jon's eyes, Karsi is briefly taken aback by Aemon's appearance. The man is even prettier than Snow. "And who is he?" asks the greybeard as he observes Aemon. The man may wear all black like a crow, but his clothes are of a much higher quality than any crow the Free Folk had ever seen. The most striking thing about his clothes is the heavy fur cloak over his shoulders; black and covering everything down to the back of his knees. Many of the Free Folk had barely seen him move to catch the arrow. How any man can move with such grace and agility despite such a heavy cloak is beyond them. His ethereal features don't help matters and many of the Free Folk find themselves comparing him to the White Walkers, if they were youthfull and wore all black. "He is the man who brought 30,000 men beyond the Wall to kill the Walkers." says Jon. His words have an immediate effect and the Free Folk quickly begin to reevaluate Aemon. Any man capable of leading 30,000 others to kill the White Walkers is either a mad man followed by mad men, or a man worth following to the coldest pits of hell and back. "Why do you care about the Walkers?" asks Karsi "They are a threat to my people that cannot be reasoned or bargained with, such threats are to be removed permanently." says Aemon, his words sending a chill down the Free Folk's spine. "Besides that, for me it's personal." Aemon adds with a grin that promises violence. "Fine, how do you plan to break this trap?" asks Karsi as she relents. Her people will die if she does not accept the pretty crow's help, and besides, the man allegedly in charge of an army isn't a crow, no matter how much black he wears. She will trust them for the sake of her people. "Worry about being ready to move when you see the two white direwolves. They will lead you towards safety." says Aemon before he and Jon retreat deeper into the forest, vanishing in the surrounding darkness. … … … Their plan is a relatively simple one in theory, and much practiced in execution. For the past seven or so moons they have encountered and wiped out around a dozen groups of wights numbering in the thousands, and have felled two White Walkers. Aemon estimates that just the death of those two Walkers has reduced the army of the dead by tens of thousands. Despite their experience however, Aemon cannot help the sense of foreboding that fills him. Something is bound to go wrong this time. "The men are ready." reports Sihtric as he approaches Aemon. Nodding, Aemon abandons his elevated position from the trees and vaults to Sihtric's side, gracefully landing on the forest ground with nary a sound other than the flapping of his cloak. "I sense that something is afoot, keep a very close eye on Bran." commands Aemon as he joins Jon in the infantry front lines. With the amount of wights at his disposal, the White Walker should have long swarmed the Free Folk group as they are want to do. This small detail keeps nagging at the back of Aemon's mind, for despite this being the perfect opportunity to ambush them, Aemon has not spotted a single additional Walker while scouting through Huginn's eyes. Still, regardless of whether or not this is a ploy to ambush them, they cannot leave the Free Folk to the tender mercies of the White Walkers. As such they must spring the trap and rely on their single contingency being enough. With no preamble he unsheathes Longclaw from his waist. Rather than a bastard sword, it is a longsword that Aemon holds in his hands after having reforged it. The blade is more slender and slightly shorter than a typical longsword, its grip is designed for one hand but accommodate a second hand should it be required, its cross-guard is in the shape of dragon wings, and its pommel is the head of a white direwolf in the likeness of a snarling Ghost. Sword in hand, Aemon takes a deep breath, reaches deep into his well of magic and extends his senses to the dragonglass daggers every soldier possesses. With a tenuous link established he calls upon his magic. The power of magic fills him. A roaring firestorm, a cataclysmic thunderstorm with hurricane winds buffeting him, while monstrous seas try to drown him, all these sensations hit him simultaneously, and as the red priestess had thought him he focuses on his fury. However, this time he does not only focus on his sword, but the sword of every infantry soldier. Immediately the blade of every infantry soldier comes to life with the burst of red hot flames that banish the cold of winter and fills the men with life and vigor. As Aemon feels the magic take hold, he nods at Jon to begin. For a few seconds nothing happens and the only sound in their section of the Haunted Forest is the crackling of their flaming swords. Suddenly, as if they were more than animated corpses, the wights stop shuffling and shambling about and make their way towards Aemon and the infantry with all haste. Moving at speeds that most warriors would struggle to reach, the wights clash against the front line faster than possible for any living army. Unfortunately for the wights, rather than buckle against their momentum the army of the living steps forward and any wight within reach is set aflame faster than dry parchment. For the following minutes the front line holds steadfast as they continuously make quick work of any approaching wight. Soon the melee draws the attention of every wight within miles and they swarm the infantry. Seeing the White Walker take the bait, Aemon steps back from the front lines and is quickly surrounded by an honor guard led by Sihtric who pulls a horn from his waist and blows a single long drawn out blast. With the sound of the blast echoing through the night, Aemon closes his eyes and reaches out to the thousands of dragonglass weapons he knows are at the outskirts of the battlefield. Feeling them rapidly approach in response to the blast of the horn, Aemon once more reaches out to their weapons, and using their dragonglass weapons as conduits he sets them aflame. From the depths of the forest, the thundering hooves of thousands of calvary engulfs the battlefield, and as the mounted warriors flank and bear down upon the wights, their swords come to life with the burst of red hot flames just as they crash onto the unsuspecting backs of the wights. The following melee is nothing short of a slaughter as the wights can do nothing but swarm forward; their chain of command being filled with chaos as Jon proceeds to give them conflicting orders through the hive link while the White Walker in charge of the group fails to assert order. With their backs and sides wide open, the calvary plows through them with little to no resistance, cutting their numbers down from thousands to hundreds in a matter of minutes. With the cavalry having successfully flanked the wights, Aemon opens his eyes and rejoins the fray. With his flaming Valyrian steel sword, Aemon cuts a swath through the wights, elegantly stepping in and out of their reach with his footwork before dispatching of them with a single swing of his sword. No wight survives longer than a second against him, and no wight comes even close to touching the hem of his cloak. Even when they surround him from all sides the wights clash against one another more often than they successfully mount an assault against him, and even when they do mount a successful assault Aemon is always just out of their reach before he quickly dispatches them with a single slash. Despite the growing success of their assault, Aemon cannot help but keep a wary eye on the battlefield, alternating between fending off the wights and surveying the battlefield from the eyes of Huginn who silently flies overhead. It is this alertness that allows Aemon to save his and Jon's life. From an elevated mound overlooking the melee, a White Walker steps into Huginn's view, clutching an ice spear his grip as he aims towards the center of the battle. With an overwhelming sense of foreboding, Aemon returns to his skin just in time to push Jon into the ground while he slashes Longclaw upwards with all his might, barely parrying the spear into the air. The force of the attack is such that Aemon is forced to take a step back after parrying it. With a shaky breath Aemon helps Jon to his feet as he looks towards the direction of the attack. "It's a trap." says Jon in between deep breaths. "Aye, I figured as much." replies Aemon as he sees two more White Walkers join the first one with an army of wights at their back. The death of two White Walkers had obviously drawn the attention of the remaining ones who had used this group of Free Folk as bait to draw out the culprits. It certainly explains why Karsi's band was not swarmed as per their usual tactic. Before Aemon can reach for the horn tied to his belt, Sihtric gives the order to regroup through his own horn, and as practiced through countless drills, the men quickly fall into formation in preparation for the second bout. "We do not charge. We hold our ground and let them swarm." commands Aemon to Sihtric who quickly relays the order through horn. "There are three White Walkers." says Jon. "Aye, two for me and one for you." replies Aemon as he stares down the Walker in the middle, the very same one who had attempted to kill Jon and him. For what feels like an eternity the army of the living stares the army of the dead in the eyes, their nerves strained as they face the heralds of the Long Night. Sensing morale lowering, Aemon turns to Sihtric and says to him as loud as he can, "Did you know that White Walkers have no cocks?" "What?" asks Sihtric with a confused frown. "Aye, they're cockless little bastards." replies Aemon with a smile as Sithric quickly catches on to his ploy. "Surely you jest, my lord." replies Sihtric, his voice light and amused. "No, Aemon is right. They're cockless and craven." adds Jon, drawing the mens' attention to him. "I saw that one in the middle steal a babe, and when I confronted him on it he growled at me like a bitch before running off." says Jon as he points Longclaw at the leading Walker. "Cockless, craven, and bitches are what White Walkers are." taunts Aemon as the Walker in the middle sneers at them. Rather than intimidate them, the White Walker's sneer makes the men laugh as if they were at a theater. With a silent snarl the White Walker points his ice sword at the army of the living, and with speeds contrary to their physical conditions the wights swarm down the slope towards their prey. "Brace!" commands Aemon as he reaches out to his contingency plan through their fiery bond. As per Aemon's command, the men brace themselves for the clash and despite the cold temperature of the night many feel beads of sweat roll down their brows. Their breathing is loud to their ears, their heartbeats deafening like the sound of thunder, and eyes notice the most mundane of details. As the wights reach about half of the distance to the living tensions rise higher and many soldiers find themselves readjusting their grips on their flaming swords; and yet despite their nervousness not one soldier thinks to abandon their post, such is their resolve. Their determination is soon rewarded for when the wights reach three quarters of the distance they hear it, the sound of their salvation. It begins with a high pitched sound, as if something unexplainable were winding up, followed by a whistle that quickly turns into a bone-chilling shriek that strikes fear into the hearts of those who hear it, making even the bravest of soldiers quiver with terror, fuelling their nightmares for moons to come; and with a shrill death scream fire the color of crimson rains down, lighting up the night sky, banishing the cold, melting ice and snow, and turning hundreds of unsuspecting wights to ashes. With the red light of the flames it is easy to spot the blood wyrm, rising into the sky with the slither of his body and the thunderous beat of his wings before diving once again and bathing the charging wights in dragonfire. Excited calls of "Dragon!" ring out among the army of the living as they bear witness to what seems like death incarnate. Despite being no bigger than a mammoth, the dragon's flames are hot enough to melt the snow for miles, bright enough to turn night into day, and their crimson color only adds to the visual proof of the power and danger of dragonfire. While the living bask in awe and terror at the power of Caraxes, the leading White Walker aims his ice spear at the ascending dragon and when he reaches the apex of his flight to dive once more, the Walker throws the spear with all his might, aiming for the dragon's exposed chest. Aemon, who has been observing the White Walkers through Caraxes' assault, is filled with urgency, and without thinking his actions through, slips from his skin and into Caraxes. Caraxes, who is usually quite happy to sense Aemon through their bond, is so angry and startled by the sudden change that he instinctively pushes back against him. But Aemon is having none of it and forces himself inside. It is like trying to put your head through a wall. It is a battle of wills that Aemon doesn't intend to lose. He couldn't afford to. Before Aemon can push even further, Caraxes accepts him in and they seamlessly integrate with one another. The line between man and dragon blurs until they are one. … … … There is no more Caraxes, no more Aemon, there is only Him, a god. He feels the rage rampaging through his powerful body. Under him, the ice creature throws its massive spear at once, as he expects. He flaps his wings with powerful swings twice, and the spear passes under him harmlessly. He flaps his magnificent wings again and stops to look down at the worthless creatures below. Anger fills Him like water fills a waterskin drowning in a river. He feels the fire surging through his veins. His chest expands. Under him, the white puffy clouds move around, boiling in fear of his wrath. He stretches his wings and his long neck and releases a shrill death scream that makes the skies tremble. He dives at the edge of the wight army and opens his mouth and torrents of scorching crimson flames fall from the sky. The creatures below try to ignore it in favor of swarming his subjects, a pointless endeavor when they cannot even survive the most mundane of fires. His flames are magical in nature and nothing can survive them once unleashed. The crimson fire splashes on the ground, spreading, flowing, and devouring anything in its path. Wights in the form of men, women, children, and even beasts; they are not safe from his wrath that swallows even the massive trees of the Haunted Forest. He slithers back into the sky with the powerful beat of his wings before diving for the frontlines next. The wights who attempt to go around his flames to reach his subjects are bathed in his crimson flames, returned to nothingness in a heartbeat. The men fighting the dead cheer for their god as his long serpentine body ascends into the air once more. From the corner of his eyes he sees wights in giant forms line up behind the three undead abominations, bows in hand and giant ice arrows on the ground. Do these creatures think they can escape his wrath? Do they think they can outwit him? He flaps his wings and continues to slither upwards, acting as if he has not noticed them. When he reaches such a height that even the giants seem like ants, he twists and turns before diving towards them with his single most powerful flap. The giants, taking advantage of his linear descent, aim and fire their massive ice arrows at him. Folding his wings, he relinquishes control of his dive and allows gravity to do the work for him, putting all of his attention on his body. As the arrows approach him, he makes use of his long serpentine body to slither around them, dodging every arrow. When the last arrow sails past him he opens his wings and glides over the giants, bathing them all in his crimson and flying back up before the undead abominations can make use of his proximity to spear him down. With the giants dealt with he quickly turns his attention to the army of the dead and continues to engulf them in his flames. He holds no mercy for them. They dare to take arms against a god and threaten his subjects, so now they would taste his true power. Power that the world has never seen before. He hovers in the air and watches over the battlefield feeling quite content. His work is more beautiful than any art this world has ever seen. Not even the most talented of Maesters could replicate it. It is a glorious sight. One that he had painted himself in fire and blood. … … … Caraxes is still admiring His work when Aemon finds himself back in his own body. Aemon watches in awe at the destruction before him. What a terrifying power.What were kingdoms and armies before this? Nothing. Aemon continues to admire the battlefield until he smells the smoke and ash, nearly choking him. The awe is quickly drained from him as he ponders what such flames would do to living men. Instead of burning wights, he sees burning corpses of men. Instead of proof of his power, he sees countless people that will never take another breath because of him. People that will never return back to their families. Should he really be the one to decide who lives and who dies? Should he really use such power? Above, Caraxes snorts in displeasure. Although the dragon speaks no words, their connection is still very raw and much more open and powerful than ever before, and Aemon understands the dragon perfectly. "A god that does not use his power is nothing more than another weakling!" Caraxes declares before flying to gods know where. Before he can answer, he is distracted by some noise above, where Huginn rips the eyes from a crow before releasing its body to plummet into the flames below. "Three Eyes! Three Eyes! Three Eyes!" caws the raven, causing Aemon's eyes to narrow in suspicion. "What now?" asks Jon, drawing Aemon's mind away from the spying greenseer. "We take the battle to the Walkers." says Aemon as he looks at the three White Walkers observing the carnage brought about by Caraxes. For a moment Aemon wonders what goes on through their hive-like mind. Fear is no doubt the most prevalent emotion, as it should be when one encounters a god. Aemon takes two steps forward before he stops and shakes his head to chase away the silly thoughts. A piece of Caraxes returned to his skin with him. It doesn't feel intrusive, but rather the opposite; as if a lost part of his soul returned home. He had never experienced that with Ghost or Huginn and he wonders if it is a side effect of the Valyrian magic mixing with the magic of the First Men. Mayhaps it is stupid to think so considering that Caraxes had only hatched about two years ago, but Aemon cannot help but feel that the dragon shares a part of his soul in a way that is different from Ghost, not better just different. "The men?" asks Aemon as Sihtric approaches him. "Shaken with around a dozen injured, but no casualties." reports Sihtric, causing Aemon to look at him with wide eyes. "Aye, I was shocked also, but it seems that the White Walkers' attempt at an ambush not only failed but also had severe repercussions." says Sihtric. "You may thank Jon, for he was responsible for their inability to charge us effectively." says Aemon before he looks towards the White Walkers to see them retreating. "Regroup with the Free Folk and await our return." commands Aemon before he urges Jon to follow him. "Follow directly behind me and never take a step to my side unless you wish to be burned by dragonfire." says Aemon, his eyes the same icy blue as the Ice Dragon's eye in the sky while the temperature around him quickly plummets. Receiving a nod from Jon, Aemon takes off at a brisk pace towards where the White Walkers had retreated. With every step Aemon takes the flames in his path extinguish and winter's chill returns to the area, allowing them to take the quickest path towards the Walkers who are being followed by Huginn in the sky. Reaching the Walkers take much less time than Aemon anticipates, for it seems that the Walkers had waited in the hopes that he would at least approach by his lonesome. "They waited for you." Jon observes as he grips Longclaw and falls into a low guard. Humming in agreement, Aemon widens his stance, and grips his reforged Longclaw in two hands, bringing the grip near his ears with the point of the sword facing the Walkers. Without a word the White Walkers lunge for the two young men. Seeing the middle Walker attempt to reach Jon, Aemon steps before it, his sword already in motion as it parries the Walker's strike before following with a riposte and stabbing the Walker through its chest. For a brief moment the White Walker stares into Aemon's icy eyes in shock before releasing a scream that sounds like ice cracking and shattering into small chips of ice. As soon as the Walker dies Aemon elegantly steps back, dodging a slash from the second Walker. Before the Walker can follow through in its assault Aemon enters its reach once more and slashes Longclaw through its neck. Like the White Walker before, it too shatters into small chips of ice. As expected, these undead abominations are nothing before Him. Before Aemon can release the tension from his body he hears the whistling sound of a sword cutting through the air at high speeds. With the reaction of a super-human he brings his sword up and parries the attack before turning to face his opponent. Coming face to face with his attacker brings Aemon up short, for this is no mere White Walker but the Night King himself. "Craven, you have finally shown yourself." says Aemon, causing the Night King to scowl as he stares into Aemon's icy blue eyes. For a moment Aemon thinks that the Night King means to intimidate him, but soon he thinks otherwise when he feels the Night King begin to leak magic like a faucet. With his magic the clouds overhead become thick and heavy as heavy snow begins to fall. Sensing what the Night King intends to do, Aemon frowns and pushes back against the Night King with his own magic, reducing the budding snowstorm to a flurry and shocking the Night King. Taking advantage of the Night King's momentary shock, Aemon launches himself at him, slashing Longclaw towards his throat. As the Night King dodges his strike and follows through with an attack of his own, Aemon steps out of his reach before quickly returning within it as the Night King reorients himself. They quickly fall into a deadly dance of steel and ice as Aemon elegantly moves around the Night King's attacks or parries them before responding with his own assault. And as the fight continues Aemon finds himself smiling as he continues to push the Night King back, forcing him to strike harder, react faster, and move more fluidly than he has ever had to throughout his entire existence. Aemon's assault soon has the Night King completely on the defensive, for no matter how strong he is, how fast he is, how fluidly he moves, or how much skill he uses, Aemon always seems to just slightly be better. Soon Aemon finds the exchange to be anticlimactic as the Night King plateaus. He cannot strike any harder, he cannot move any faster, nor does he have any more skills to bridge the gap between him and Aemon. With a disappointed sigh Aemon sidesteps an overextending stab before plunging his sword through the Night King's heart. "May you rest in peace." says Aemon as the Night King shatters. He had hoped that the Night King would help him find his limits, but it seems that whatever had made him superhuman had barely put him past the threshold. Not enough to put him on par with "The Seed is Strong" perk, a Body Purifying Pill, and a magically amped super-soldier serum all stacked one on top of the other. It is somewhat disappointing, but he would not find a challenge in this world. With his opponents dealt with, Aemon turns to help Jon only to find him staring at the pile of scattered ice his enemy had turned into. "It was all a trap." says Jon, causing Aemon to raise an eyebrow at the obvious statement. "Before the Walker died and I was cut off from the link, I saw the remaining Walkers marching. They are heading towards Hardhome with the remainder of their army." says Jon. "It matters not." says Aemon. "If the army had reached Hardhome they are nothing more than corpses once again, for I have just felled the Night King himself." he explains. ... .... ... Author's Note: Here it is, the end of the White Walker threat. Originally the final battle was meant to take place at Hardhome (symbolism and all that), but then I thought that the Night King allowing Aemon to herd him to his death would be boring and nonsensical, especially if Aemon is hunting down his lieutenants at the same time. So I decided to do it differently by having the Night King set a trap for Aemon that backfires. I hope that it wasn't too anticlimactic, and if it was don't worry I have a few arcs planned where the mc will struggle (a lot). Tell me what you guys think.