The final moments of Edward Newgate, known as Whitebeard, were filled with blood and thunder. He had stood tall on the battlefield of Marineford, defying death even as the world crumbled around him. His sons—his beloved crew—had escaped to safety, and with his final breaths, he ensured they would live on. Whitebeard, the strongest man in the world, had died standing, defiant until the very end.
Or so he thought.
---
He opened his eyes to the feel of cool, moist earth beneath him. The pain that had racked his body moments before was gone. No gunfire, no cannon blasts, no Akainu. Instead, there was silence—broken only by the rustle of trees in the wind.
Whitebeard slowly rose, his immense body towering over the forest around him. His muscles, which had once ached from age, now felt fresh, brimming with the power he had wielded in his prime. His hand instinctively reached for *Murakumogiri*, and he was relieved to feel its familiar weight in his grasp.
He stood still for a moment, processing his surroundings. This was not Marineford. There were no oceans, no ships. The air was different—heavy and cold, smelling of soil and wood. And the skies were dim, unlike the bright horizon he remembered.
"What the hell is this place?" he rumbled, his deep voice echoing through the forest.
As he looked down at his body, he noticed something strange—his old scars, the battle wounds from decades of fighting, were gone. His hands were steady, his legs no longer burdened by the years. He hadn't felt this way since he was in his prime, before the world had worn him down.
Whitebeard chuckled to himself, his mustache twitching. "Looks like I've been given another shot," he muttered. But where was he? And who would he fight now?
---
Further north, deep within Winterfell, Jon Snow stood on the battlements, looking out over the darkened landscape. Winter had come, and the North was bracing for the onslaught of the White Walkers. His mind was heavy with the weight of leadership, of preparing for a battle unlike any Westeros had ever faced.
But something was stirring in the South. Word had reached him of strange events: a giant of a man had appeared, taking control of entire villages singlehandedly. Tales of this man's strength spread quickly—how he fought with a weapon larger than any sword, and how the very earth trembled beneath his feet.
Jon's brow furrowed. "A man who shakes the ground with his fists? Sounds like a myth."
Tormund Giantsbane, standing beside him, chuckled. "If half the tales are true, Snow, we might just have a new god wandering Westeros."
Jon sighed. "The last thing we need is another pretender to the throne."
---
Meanwhile, further south in King's Landing, Queen Cersei Lannister sat on the Iron Throne, sipping wine and listening to the latest reports from her informants.
"A new warlord?" Cersei raised an eyebrow as Qyburn delivered the news. "Who dares to challenge my rule now?"
"They say his name is Whitebeard, Your Grace," Qyburn replied with a calm, calculating tone. "The rumors suggest he's not from any known house or kingdom. They say he commands no army but needs none. Wherever he walks, the ground cracks, and anyone who opposes him falls."
Cersei's lips curled into a smirk. "Another brute who thinks strength alone can win the Seven Kingdoms? He'll fall like the rest." She waved her hand dismissively. "Send men. Find him. Kill him."
Qyburn hesitated. "Your Grace… if the stories are even half true, this man might be far more dangerous than you realize."
Cersei's eyes narrowed. "I don't care how dangerous he is. No one challenges my rule."
---
In the Riverlands, Whitebeard found himself surrounded by knights and soldiers. They had come in droves to confront him, led by some lordling eager to make a name for himself. Whitebeard could see the fear in their eyes, despite their bravado.
"You're the one they call Whitebeard?" the lordling called out from atop his horse. He was a young man, barely out of his teens, with more pride than sense.
"Aye," Whitebeard responded, his voice booming. "And who the hell are you supposed to be?"
The young lord drew his sword, pointing it at Whitebeard. "I am Ser Alaric of House Hargan, and I am here to take your head and present it to the Queen."
Whitebeard laughed—a deep, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down the spines of the soldiers around him. "You're welcome to try, boy."
Without hesitation, Ser Alaric charged, his sword gleaming in the afternoon light. The soldiers followed, raising their spears and shouting war cries. Whitebeard stood still for a moment, a grin spreading across his face.
As the first wave of soldiers closed in, Whitebeard raised his fist, and the air itself seemed to crack. With a single punch, the ground split open, shockwaves tearing through the earth, sending men and horses flying. Trees splintered, and the river nearby erupted as if the world itself had been struck by a god.
Ser Alaric's charge was stopped cold. His horse bucked and threw him to the ground, and he stared in horror as the battlefield was torn apart by Whitebeard's might. The soldiers who had survived the initial shock trembled, backing away in fear.
Whitebeard strode forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over the terrified men. "This land," he said, looking around at the destruction he had caused, "is weak. Your wars are small. Your kings are nothing."
He turned his gaze toward the direction of King's Landing, as if sensing the power that lay there. "But somewhere out there... there's a throne. And I want to see who's foolish enough to think they deserve it."
With a final glance at the defeated soldiers, Whitebeard continued his march. Westeros had been a land of kings and queens, of dragons and direwolves. But now, a new force had arrived. A force that could shake the very foundations of the world.
Edward Newgate, the Strongest Man in the World, had come to claim his place.
And the game of thrones would never be the same again.