The swampy ground before Moat Cailin was silent, the terrible roar of the mudslide trap having stolen the breath from the Targaryen army. All eyes were drawn to the center of the causeway, where a clash of ages was about to unfold.
Prince Maegor Targaryen, the Black Prince, stood alone in his Valyrian armor and radiated an aura of dangerous power. Across from him was Prince Edric Stark, the Ice Prince, his form a striking contrast of cool blue and silver against the dark landscape.
They stood thirty paces apart. The wind, which had been whipping fiercely, seemed to calm, deferring to the elemental power about to be unleashed.
Maegor was the first to act. In his right hand, he held his newly forged weapon, a Valyrian steel greatsword of impeccable, chilling craftsmanship, forged and inscribed with dark runes salvaged from Valyria. He had named it Bloodwind.
He raised his free left hand. A terrifying, controlled crimson Fire Magic instantly erupted in his palm, the flames licking at the air. He made a guttural sound and wiped the fire down the length of Bloodwind. The blade immediately caught fire, a sheath of blazing red flame wrapping the dark steel, turning the sword into a lethal, terrifying beacon of heat.
Edric's response was silent, deliberate, and final. He reached back and drew the blade Alaric had gifted him upon completing his training—the Ice Blade of the Night King.
It was a weapon of pure, solid ice magic, impossibly sharp, impossibly light, and radiating a cold that sucked the heat from the air. Its material was not brittle frost but a crystalline structure denser than granite and colder than any known substance.
The two warriors, one wreathed in roaring fire, the other sheathed in silent frost, looked at each other with an intensity that promised mutual destruction.
Maegor opened the duel with fury. He swung Bloodwind, not at Edric, but at the air itself. A series of three massive, crackling crimson fire slashes flew from the blade, screaming across the intervening ground, aimed at vaporizing the Stark prince.
Edric did not move. He raised his free left hand and commanded the cold. A translucent Ice Wall erupted from the earth before him. The first fire slash struck it, causing a cloud of hissing steam. The second hit forced the ice to crack. The third blow shattered the wall, sending shards of ice flying, but the fire had been stopped.
Edric stepped over the fragmented wall. He concentrated, and five spears of solid ice—each two meters long and razor-tipped—suddenly materialized in the air around him. With a flick of his wrist, they shot toward Maegor with the speed of ballista bolts.
Maegor intercepted. He raised his left hand again, and five massive, molten fireballs burst forth. They flew forward, meeting each ice spear in a violent, mid-air collision. The resulting explosions of steam and black smoke obscured the two champions for a brief, furious moment.
The magical exchange was a terrifying display of raw elemental power, but Edric's aim was precise, forcing Maegor to expend precious energy on defense.
Maegor, his face contorted in a sneer, wiped the sweat from his brow. "I'll burn the ground you stand on!" He stomped his foot, sending a concentrated wave of Fire Magic rippling through the muddy earth toward Edric.
Edric met the attack with superior control. He stomped his own foot, and a layer of super-dense, instantaneous ice spread from his position, instantly freezing the swamp water and dirt into a sheet of diamond-hard skating surface beneath his feet. The spreading fire wave hit the ice and was instantly quenched, sizzling harmlessly.
The stalemate in ranged magic forced the inevitable. Maegor roared, accepting the close-quarters duel. He closed the distance with a terrifying burst of speed, his Dragon Knight conditioning kicking in.
"Enough games! Let me see the wolf's teeth!"
Their blades met.
The collision of Bloodwind, wreathed in scorching Valyrian flame, and the Ice Blade, radiating absolute zero, was not a mere clang of steel. It was a catastrophe.
A blinding flash of steam erupted at the point of impact, momentarily shrouding the two fighters. The very air shrieked, the intense heat meeting the crushing cold.
Maegor pressed his advantage, his superhuman strength driving Bloodwind down in powerful arcs designed to shatter Edric's magical weapon. The fire on his blade was so hot it was blue at the core, designed to melt the ice on contact.
But the Ice Blade was a testament to Alaric's mastery. It did not melt; it resisted.
The fire on Bloodwind would die back momentarily upon impact, quenched by the lethal cold. Conversely, the spot where the Ice Blade touched Bloodwind would not freeze, but would cause the metal to glow with a dangerous, unstable heat.
The fight became a dance of annihilation. Maegor fought with brutal, sweeping power, relying on his physical strength and the pure destructive nature of his fire. He moved like a berserker, seeking to overwhelm Edric.
Edric fought with the cold logic of an executioner. He utilized the Ice Blade not just as a cutting weapon, but as a shield of pure cold.
When Maegor swung, Edric met the attack, the instant steam obscuring Maegor's vision for a fraction of a second—a fraction Edric used to reposition or riposte.
Edric's footwork, honed by years of running on mountains and sparring with the best fighters in the North, was flawless. He moved gracefully across the ice sheet he had created, dodging the heavy swings of the larger man, always seeking to counterstrike at the joints of Maegor's armor.
They fought relentlessly. Maegor's heavy Valyrian armor steamed and cracked under the focused pressure of the Ice Blade's cold.
Edric's movements were fluid, his ice magic constantly sustaining the shield of cold around his body, acting as a second layer of defense.
They fought for a terrifying, relentless hour. The Targaryen army watched, frozen in place by the duel and the fortified gates. The sky war continued above, the screams of eagles and dragons occasionally puncturing the sound of the clashing blades.
Slowly, imperceptibly, the momentum began to shift.
Maegor's rage and brute strength were massive, but unsustainable. Edric's disciplined power—the perfect mastery of his elemental control—began to tell. Each parry, each dodging step, cost Maegor more than it cost the ice-wielder.
Maegor was panting, his face red with exertion and fury. The runes on his armor, designed to enhance its strength, were failing where the Ice Blade had grazed them. His movements became heavy, his fire magic flickering instead of roaring.
Edric, by contrast, seemed fueled by the very cold. He was relentless, his strikes coming faster, cleaner, and with a precision that bordered on surgical. He was slowly, steadily, winning the war of attrition.
Maegor knew he was losing. The realization fueled a fresh wave of panic and desperation. He could not be defeated by a northern savage in full view of his entire army and his family. His inheritance, his reputation, everything would shatter with this defeat.
He broke away from the clash, retreating two steps, his chest heaving. He did the only thing a true Targaryen could do when cornered.
He looked up at the black sky, his throat raw, and roared the name of his beast: "BALERION! DRACARYS! NOW!"
Balerion, who had been circling high above, watching his rider's duel with reptilian focus, heard the command. He detached from the battle formation with a terrifying dive, his immense shadow falling over the champions.
The Black Dread swooped low, his head descending toward Edric Stark, his jaws opening to unleash a torrent of death.
Edric did not break under pressure. He knew this was the ultimate test. He poured magic into his hands..
A massive, dome-shaped shield of absolute ice erupted around him—the thickest ice wall possible, a towering glacier of transparent blue that instantly locked him away from the dragonfire.
Maegor, with a final, desperate burst of enhanced power, leaped onto Balerion's back as the dragon passed over him, scrambling to secure himself onto the beast's back.
Balerion was already breathing. The black fire of Balerion's slammed into Edric's Ice Dome. The sound was a deafening CRACK, and the sheer force of the blow drove Edric deep into the ground. The shield glowed with an internal blue light, resisting the heat, steam exploding everywhere.
Maegor, watching from the safety of Balerion's neck, let out a triumphant laugh, believing he had finally ended the duel.
But then, a new figure entered the fray.
A sound like a low, rolling thunder accompanied a blur of grey and white. Edric's colossal Direwolf, Winter, who had been waiting for the exact moment of command, exploded from the shadows of the gatehouse.
Winter was a giant, standing six meters tall, his eyes glowing with an intense, powerful green light—the result of his own steady, enhanced conditioning. He moved with the focused speed of a true predator.
Balerion was fully focused on melting the ice shield. He never saw the attack coming.
Winter reared up onto his hind legs, his massive forepaws tipped with claws the size of scimitars. He slammed himself against Balerion's head.
SCRAPE!
The sound was the terrible grinding of massive claws against thick scales. Balerion's concentration snapped. The dragon let out a shriek of pain and surprise, pulling his head back instantly.
Four long, deep scratches—massive wounds that immediately began to ooze thick, hot, red blood—marred the beast's legendary face.
Maegor, clinging to Balerion's neck, looked down in disbelief at the giant dire wolf who dared to strike the Black Dread. He looked from the wounded dragon to the Ice Shield, still smoking but holding, and finally down at his bleeding, exhausted body.
He knew the battle was lost for now. The gate was closed. His vanguard was drowned. His dragon was bleeding.
Maegor screamed, pulling hard on the saddle straps. "BALERION! TO THE SKY! NOW!"
Balerion, blinded by pain and commanded by his master, obeyed instantly. He beat his enormous wings, spraying mud and water everywhere, and surged upward, climbing high above the melee.
Winter let out a triumphant, earth-shaking howl as the great black dragon retreated, its head wounded and its pride shattered. The Direwolf turned back to the still-smoking Hagel shield, his mighty task complete. The champion of the North, and his King, had survived.