Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 676: The Night King Awakes

Fist of the First Men.

A towering peak of ancient stone jutted into the sky, its summit bare and windswept, defiant against the elements. Below, the snow-covered slopes glistened, stretching far down the mountain's side. Midway up, a sudden shift sent a foot of snow cascading downward, roaring as it swept across the land. In an instant, the avalanche consumed the foothills, burying the quickest path from the Fist of the First Men to the Haunted Forest beneath tons of ice and debris.

Who had triggered it?

Someone—or something—had set off the avalanche.

...

Hardhome.

The only outlet to the sea Beyond the Wall, and the largest gathering place for the free folk. Towering cliffs shielded the settlement from the biting sea winds, while the vast, flat beach below could accommodate the largest of ships. Hundreds of thousands of wildlings were spread across the area, chopping trees to build makeshift shelters, their campfires burning fiercely against the cold.

“This is our base camp,” Baron grumbled as he led Rhaegar through the sprawling encampment, his scowl deepening.

“There are at least 300,000 people here,” Rhaegar observed, scanning the crowd of free folk wrapped in thick animal furs. "What are you all eating?"

Everywhere, small clusters of fires consumed wood at an alarming rate, though they brought warmth and drove away beasts from the edges of the settlement.

Baron shot him a defiant look. “The free folk admire freedom. We take what the land gives us—whether from the mountains or the sea.”

In other words, they survived by catching whatever they could.

“You’re back, King Baron,” came a voice from nearby.

A tall, heavily tattooed man grinned as he approached, his teeth filed to sharp points. He was bare-chested despite the cold, his eyes gleaming with a feral intensity that made Rhaegar narrow his gaze. The man’s stench hit him before the words did—a rank odor of sweat and rot.

“Yo, did you catch a flock of crows?” the man sneered, gripping his axe tightly as he leaned closer, his eyes hungry, as though he might devour Rhaegar and his companions on the spot.

“Senli, back off!” Baron stepped in front of him, his expression fierce. “These are my prey. If you’re hungry, go eat shit.”

Senli’s face twisted in frustration, but out of respect for the King-Beyond-the-Wall, he slowly backed off, raising his hands in mock surrender. Before he left, he shot Rhaegar a venomous glare, his sharp teeth bared like an animal’s.

Rhaegar wrinkled his nose. The smell was so overwhelming, he fought the urge to gag. “And who is that?”

Baron gave a casual shrug. “That’s Senli, leader of the Thenn. Got a strong sense of taste, that one.” He leaned in closer and whispered, “Careful with him—those teeth can chew through bone.”

Rhaegar shot him a cold look, pushing Baron's hand off his shoulder. “Do you think dragon teeth bite harder?”

Baron’s face twitched with irritation, and he pulled his hand back, muttering under his breath.

“Take me to the leaders of all the free tribes,” Rhaegar ordered. His voice turned icy. “They’re all coming with me.”

Without waiting for a response, he strode toward the center of the camp. The air was filled with the dull thud of heavy footsteps. Several towering figures moved toward them, their massive frames blocking out the sun.

Nunu, the giant, was casually stripping the hide off a reindeer, his wide grin showing as he called out, “You actually came.”

The half-skinned reindeer was tossed aside, and Nunu moved in for a hug, his bloodstained hands reaching out toward Rhaegar and Robb.

“No, no! Hold on, brother!” Robb quickly ducked to avoid the giant’s embrace, raising his hands in defense to dodge the bloody grip.

Rhaegar took a moment to survey the scene. Giants of all ages were gathered together—an impressive sight within the free folk camp. With the giants' support, it would be far easier to rally the wildlings into a cohesive force. The giants commanded respect, and their raw strength would make them invaluable allies in the coming fight.

This will save us time—and words, Rhaegar thought, casting a quick glance over his shoulder.

A group of Thenns lingered near the giant camp, their faces painted in vivid colors, watching the giants with a mix of suspicion and malice.

“Hmph,” Rhaegar scoffed, shaking his head with a faint smile. “Frogs at the bottom of a well.”

...

A fortnight later.

The Wall, Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.

The blue-and-green seahorse banner of House Velaryon fluttered atop the Wall, alongside the black banners of the Night’s Watch. Sailors clad in silver-gray armor mingled with the black-cloaked brothers, adding a splash of color to the otherwise bleak scene.

“Roar!”

A massive scarlet dragon circled high above, its furious roar echoing through the cold, northern air.

“Meleys still refuses to accept the cold,” Corlys Velaryon muttered from his perch on the watchtower, his sharp gaze following the dragon’s restless flight. For weeks now, the dragon had been in this uneasy state, flapping and diving with clear agitation.

Rhaenys, dressed in soft black-and-red armor, exhaled a frosty breath. "Meleys has been in a foul mood lately. Even the goats it's fed aren't being eaten. It's barely touching the food."

Among the many dragons of House Targaryen, Meleys was known for its temperament—fierce and proud, yet lazy.

Though the fastest dragon alive, Meleys was now over seventy years old, wise and cunning like an experienced warrior past its prime. Yet ever since nearing the Wall, there hadn’t been a single day of peace.

“Dragons are wild, and we can’t control them entirely,” Corlys remarked, putting a comforting arm around his wife’s shoulders. “At least the king’s dragon can cross the Wall.”

“Don’t try to soothe me,” Rhaenys chuckled, shaking her head. "I’m not nearly as anxious as others might be." She smiled, feeling content. With both her husband and son here, what more could she ask for?

Corlys was about to respond when a distant rumbling cut him off, the sound growing louder with each passing second.

Rumble—

The ground trembled, like the warning of an approaching earthquake, the noise emanating from deep within the Haunted Forest.

Whooo!

The horn of the Night’s Watch blew three times—wildlings were attacking.

“Take care of yourself,” Rhaenys said quickly, breaking free from Corlys’s embrace. “I’ll ride Meleys and scout the area.” Without waiting for a response, she rushed toward the winch ladder, her steps swift and determined.

Corlys’s face grew grim as he peered down from the wall’s edge. The wildling horde stretched far into the distance, a sea of bodies so dense they turned the snow-blackened ground into a dark mass.

"More than 100,000 at least," Corlys muttered, clenching his fists as he calculated the numbers. On a battlefield, anything over 10,000 was already too many to count. But this... this was a moving storm of bodies, a dark cloud blotting out the land.

“Roar...”

A deafening roar suddenly shook the sky, like distant thunder rolling across the frozen sea. The sound reverberated over the battlefield, rattling bones and shaking souls.

And then it appeared.

Out of the thick clouds above, a monstrous black dragon descended, its wings so vast they blanketed the entire landscape and even cast a shadow over the Wall itself. The beast was terrifying—an enormous, two-hundred-meter titan whose sheer size dwarfed everything around it. Its massive, mournful green eyes, like the ghostly fires of purgatory, seemed to pierce through the very souls of those who looked into them.

Corlys’s breath hitched. His eyes widened as he stared in disbelief at the dragon before him. Bigger than Vhagar—the largest dragon alive—and even larger than Balerion the Black Dread in his prime. The scale of this creature was beyond comprehension.

“Land, Cannibal,” came a calm voice from atop the beast.

Rhaegar Targaryen sat upon the dragon’s back, looking down at the scene below with an air of command. His piercing gaze caught sight of a familiar scarlet figure—Meleys—soaring toward the Night’s Watch castle.

Aunt Rhaenys is here too, he thought.

"Roar..."

The Cannibal's piercing green eyes swept over the hundreds of thousands of gathered Free Folk below, radiating menace. As it soared over the Wall, its colossal wings beat the air with force.

Rumble—its massive hind legs slammed into a snowdrift, sending a wave of heat rippling through the cold air, carrying with it the faint smell of ash.

“Rhaegar, you’ve returned!” Rhaenys exclaimed in surprise, rushing up to meet Meleys.

“It’s me, Aunt,” Rhaegar replied with a small smile, teasing, “and I’ve brought along some big ones who’ve finally learned to behave.”

Rhaenys gently patted the black-scaled Cannibal, and the massive dragon lowered its head obediently, its usual ferocity tempered in his presence. Rhaegar slid smoothly down its sleek scales, landing with a solid thud in the snow.

"You convinced all the wildlings beyond the Wall?" Rhaenys asked, rushing over to embrace him.

“Almost,” Rhaegar said, his voice steady as he hugged his long-lost aunt. “There are still some stubborn holdouts.”

The Thenn, for example, had been especially resistant—but the fires of his dragon had quickly dealt with them. As for the scattered wildlings who remained hidden or refused to migrate, they were now little more than a small, disorganized threat.

“Excellent,” Rhaenys said, smiling broadly. “With the Free Folk on our side, the White Walkers will never breach the Wall.”

Her use of the term “Free Folk” rather than “wildlings” did not go unnoticed. It was a subtle acknowledgment of the new alliance.

“And where’s Laenor?” Rhaegar asked, releasing her and scanning the skies for Seasmoke. Ever since he’d witnessed the true horror of the White Walkers, an unshakable sense of unease had settled over him. He felt a growing discomfort with the idea of dragons traveling alone—something about it felt wrong.

Rhaenys paused for a moment, then chuckled. “Laenor has gone to Castle Black. He’s inspecting the Watchtowers along the Wall as well.”

Eighteen Watcher’s Castles stood guard along the length of the Wall, each a crucial defense against the icy threat to the North.

“Tell him to station himself at Castle Black and stop riding the dragon around aimlessly,” Rhaegar said firmly, his tone sharpening with concern. “The Free Folk will begin entering the Wall in groups. We’ll escort them to Castle Black. No one should be caught alone—not even on dragonback.”

Rhaenys nodded, her expression serious now. “Understood. I’ll send a raven to Laenor immediately.”

She admired her nephew's foresight and calm control. Rhaegar had been gone for a month, rallying hundreds of thousands of Free Folk, facing dangers that others couldn’t imagine.

...

The Land of Always Winter.

Snow howled through the barren expanse, where ice stretched unbroken for a thousand leagues. This desolate wasteland lay far north of Westeros, beyond the Fist of the First Men, past the storm-lashed polar glaciers where winter raged eternal. No warmth, no life stirred here—only endless cold and silence.

Sa, sa, sa...

Footsteps crunched in the deep snow, leaving a trail in the frozen wilderness. A pale figure, draped in cold, moved steadily forward. The ice-blue eyes of the figure locked on the valley ahead, where jagged ice crystals jutted from the ground like teeth.

In the center of the valley stood an altar of ice, its surface smooth and flat, gleaming under the pale light.

“Wow~~”

A soft cry broke the stillness. Two tiny arms poked out from the figure’s chest, revealing a bundled baby squirming within the figure’s embrace. The pale figure lowered its head, gazing down at the infant with eyes as cold as the land around them. The baby’s face, flushed red against the freezing air, wriggled in its swaddling, occasionally letting out a soft gurgle.

The figure’s lips twitched slightly, then it gently placed the swaddled baby onto the altar. The child did not resist, its wide, innocent eyes staring up at the sky.

Hummm...

Suddenly, a chilling aura swept through the valley, lowering the temperature even further. The altar trembled, as though something ancient and malevolent stirred beneath it. A pale light flickered, and a shape emerged from the ice—a humanoid figure, its skin as white as snow, clad in ice-forged armor. Horns jutted from its bald head, and its ice-blue eyes opened with a cold, indifferent gaze.

The baby, unaware of the being beneath it, continued to flail about, its tiny limbs trying to turn over.

In an instant, the figure moved. One moment it was beneath the altar; the next, it appeared at its edge, silent and swift. Its back was straight, its posture regal, but slightly hunched as it extended a long, pale finger, its nails as sharp as claws.

Tap.

The finger touched the baby’s forehead, and the child instantly stilled. The humanoid figure’s lips curled into a faint smile, almost paternal in its gentleness. Slowly, the brown in the baby’s eyes faded, replaced by a frosty blue sheen. Its once-lively gaze dulled, and its movements ceased.

The figure tilted its head, observing the transformation with quiet satisfaction. Straightening, it glanced around the altar.

Four White Walkers knelt in the snow, their heads bowed in reverence. They were awaiting the return of their king, their icy lord who had awakened from the long winter. The figure’s cold gaze lingered on them briefly before turning away.

Whoosh...

High atop nearby ice crystals, three more White Walkers stood, mounted on decayed, skeletal horses. Each held an ice spear, standing like sentinels, their forms blending into the frozen landscape.

The pale figure nodded slightly and began walking toward the mouth of the valley.

Step by step, it moved with unhurried purpose, stopping at the valley’s edge. Without a word, it gazed into the distance, its ice-blue eyes growing vacant. It seemed to peer across vast distances, as though seeing far beyond the horizon.

Suddenly, its vision shifted.

A towering peak, surrounded by snow-covered slopes. Avalanches had buried much of the land below. The Fist of the First Men loomed in the vision, stark and silent.

The vision flickered again.

Now, a frozen bay came into view, stretching endlessly beneath a blanket of ice. Countless Free Folk moved across it, migrating south with all their belongings strapped to their backs. The wildlings were fleeing, their destination uncertain, but their path clear.

The scene shifted once more.

The Wall appeared—great, towering, and impenetrable.

Roar!

A silver dragon soared through the sky, its pale scales shimmering against the snow-covered land. It flew over the Wall, its wings casting long shadows on the ice below.

“Seasmoke, we need to hurry to Castle Black,” a distant human voice echoed from the vision, though it was faint, barely a whisper in the icy wind.

Roar!

Seasmoke let out another growl, uneasy, as if sensing an evil presence watching it from afar. The dragon's agitation increased, its body trembling as it twisted in flight.

The vision ended abruptly.

The pale figure stood still, its face expressionless as it broke off a shard of ice from a nearby wall. With deliberate slowness, it began walking out of the frozen valley, leaving behind only silence and the stillness of the Land of Always Winter.

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