Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 680: The White Walkers Invasion

Rhaegar’s face twitched slightly as he looked up, locking eyes with Daemon. The uncle and nephew exchanged a glance, both sharing the same skepticism about what the Child of the Forest had just said.

The first thing that came to Rhaegar’s mind were the prophetic murals of Norvos, which foretold three distinct eras. The Conqueror’s A Song of Ice and Fire was also a prophecy tied to the Others. The legend of the Child of the Forest and the Greenseer's prophetic powers had long been passed down, but how much of it was true?

Rhaegar broke the silence, his voice measured. "The Greenseer is dead. Will there be a new one from your tribe?"

"Not for now," the Child of the Forest replied regretfully, shaking its head. "We have not been recognized by the Heart Tree."

Daemon’s eyes narrowed, his voice sharp. "Then what makes you think that if we find the Heart Tree, we’ll become Greenseers?"

For a moment, the Child of the Forest was caught off guard, unsure of what to say. Instinctively, it responded, "I was guided beyond the Wall to find a new Greenseer."

"By who?" Rhaegar and Daemon asked in unison, their voices firm.

The Child of the Forest jumped down from the table, agitated, scratching its head and pacing in small circles. Its green eyes darted nervously as it muttered, "Who could it be?"

Watching the creature’s uncertainty, Rhaegar raised his hand, gesturing to the others in the room.

...

It was night.

On the second floor of Castle Black’s greenhouse, the cold wind howled outside, and snowflakes pattered softly against the windowpanes. Inside, Rhaegar lay on a hard bed, wrapped in a goose-down quilt.

"Do you think what Billbo said about the Greenseer is true?" Rhaenyra asked, her back to him as she prepared fruit wine at the small table.

The room felt still and intimate. Helaena had gone to rest early in the adjoining chamber, leaving just the two of them. Though Rhaegar and Rhaenyra shared a close bond, they still took turns with him for the night.

"Maybe," Rhaegar mumbled, half-asleep, his eyes already closed.

The Child of the Forest—Billbo, as they had begun calling it—was no mere creature. She had come entrusted with the remnants of a dying race, speaking of ancient magic that was difficult to grasp. The Heart Tree and the Greenseer felt distant and intangible.

Rhaegar wasn’t entirely skeptical. He had once touched the twin Weirwoods in Highgarden and had felt a faint jolt of their magic. But with the Others threatening their very existence, now was not the time to venture beyond the Wall in search of fabled powers. His mind was set on a more cautious strategy—holding the Wall, testing the White Walkers' strength bit by bit.

Knock, knock.

The quiet knock broke the stillness, followed by the sound of footsteps stopping just outside the door.

Startled, Rhaenyra threw a thick cloak over her shoulders and went to answer. As she opened the door, Daemon stood leaning against the frame, his eyes downcast, flickering with uncertainty.

"Daemon, what is it?" Rhaenyra asked, stepping aside as she glanced back at Rhaegar, who was now awake, sensing the weight of his uncle’s visit.

Rhaegar opened his eyes at the mention of his name, already guessing what had brought Daemon here at this late hour.

Daemon didn’t enter the room. He remained in the doorway, silent for a long moment before finally looking up. His voice was quiet but determined.

"To defeat the White Walkers, we need the power of that prophecy."

Having seen the prophetic murals of Norvos, Daemon had slowly come to believe in magic, more than he once had. The Greenseer... was worth seeking.

"You're convinced?" Rhaegar hesitated, his gaze steady on Daemon.

Daemon shook his head slightly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Caraxes can fly over the Wall. Before the White Walkers invade, I'll gather more knowledge."

He didn’t trust the Child of the Forest, but he believed that the solution to the White Walkers lay somewhere in the North. Caraxes was his best chance to cover ground quickly, and in a short time, he could accomplish much.

Rhaegar’s eyes flickered with contemplation. Daemon was undeniably a valuable ally, far more reliable than Aegon or Aemond in the fight against the White Walkers. The mystery of the Greenseer was tempting, and if anyone could find it, Daemon might be the one to succeed.

"Take this with you, Uncle," Rhaegar said, rolling out of bed and reaching for a pale horn. He tossed it to Daemon with a solemn expression.

Bang!

Daemon caught the horn effortlessly, holding it up to inspect it. "What is this, another oddity like the Dragon’s Horn?" he asked with a smirk. His good nephew always had a knack for strange artifacts.

"The Free Folk call it the Horn of Winter. It’s a broken magical relic," Rhaegar explained seriously. "They say it can summon the sleeping giants beneath the earth. Better to have it with you."

Rhaegar had blown into it once, and while its power remained a legend, he couldn’t dismiss its potential. The "sleeping giants" might refer to earthquakes of great magnitude. The ancient Children of the Forest had once shattered the Arm of Dorne with magic, possibly using something like the Horn of Winter.

Daemon raised an eyebrow, surprised at the significance of the horn. It might actually be more useful than he’d first thought. He flipped it in his hand, then fastened it to his belt with a grin. "I’ll take the Child of the Forest with me. It won’t take more than three days to make the journey."

"Be careful on the road," Rhaegar cautioned, offering his farewell.

Daemon, always one to act swiftly, gave a curt nod and turned, leaving the room without a second glance. His nephew had already explained the weaknesses of the White Walkers. Armed with Caraxes and Dark Sister, Daemon felt prepared to face whatever lay beyond the Wall, be it the White Walkers or the army of the dead.

Once Daemon was gone, silence settled over the room.

Rhaenyra hesitated, then asked, "Are you sure?" Her voice carried a note of concern—it was a dangerous mission, after all.

"It’s fine. He’s Daemon," Rhaegar said, reclining back on the bed. His thoughts drifted to Asshai, wondering if that mysterious land held the true key to defeating the Others.

One should always be prepared for everything, he mused.

...

At dawn the next day, Castle Black lay buried under a thick layer of snow. The Night's Watch trudged through snow-filled potholes, their footsteps crunching against the frozen ground.

"Over here, bring the wood over here!" Rhaegar shouted, raising his hand to direct two giants hauling massive logs.

Nearby, veterans of the Winter Wolf Army, bare-armed despite the cold, swung their axes at the trees with sharp, rhythmic strikes, the sound of metal against bark ringing out as they worked to build a new structure.

Dozens of miles away, countless free folk poured into the forest, felling trees to carry back to Castle Black. The news of the closure of several fortresses along the Wall had spread, and hundreds of thousands of free folk had gathered near the castle, desperate to survive the biting cold. With no choice but to build settlements, they cut down the surrounding forest.

Boom! Boom!

The heavy footsteps of the giants reverberated as they worked alongside tamed mammoths, quickly piling logs in towering heaps. They moved with the efficiency of a well-organized construction team.

Rhaegar oversaw the effort, his movements precise and focused. From behind, he heard hurried footsteps approaching through the snow.

Baela appeared, her face flushed red from the cold wind. "Daemon has left," she announced breathlessly.

She had gone to feed the dragons early that morning, only to discover that Caraxes was gone. Knocking on Daemon's door, she had found no answer.

"He's busy, but he'll be back soon," Rhaegar said, offering her a reassuring smile.

But Baela bit her lower lip in frustration. "He didn’t even say goodbye to me." Her voice wavered with hurt. It was as if he had left without a second thought, forgetting that she was his daughter.

Rhaegar sighed softly and placed a comforting hand on her head. Daemon’s inarticulate nature had always left a gap between them.

Before he could say more, Cregan approached, his expression grim. "Your Grace, there’s something you need to see."

Sensing the urgency, Rhaegar gestured for Baela to head back to Castle Black. "Go find Rhaenyra. Don’t dwell on it alone."

Baela hesitated, then took a deep breath and turned to leave, her steps heavy in the snow.

Rhaegar followed Cregan toward the winch ladder, climbing up to the Wall. When they reached the top, a group of weary Night’s Watchmen awaited them, their faces pale and tense.

On the frost-covered tiles lay several frozen corpses, their bodies stiff and unmoving. Judging by their clothing, they were rangers of the Night’s Watch. The bodies were still intact, but their wide, frozen eyes were filled with terror.

"They were found just outside the Wall this morning," said Old Benjicot, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, his face grim. "I suspect the White Walkers are sending a message."

The three rangers were part of a group that had gone missing several months ago. No one could explain how their bodies had suddenly appeared near the Wall.

Rhaegar crouched down to inspect the corpses, his mind racing.

"What did you find?" Cregan asked, curiosity flickering in his voice.

"I'm not sure yet," Rhaegar replied, his eyes darkening slightly as he rose to his feet and unsheathed Blackfyre. "Let me try."

Puff!

With three swift, precise strikes, Rhaegar drove the blade through the hearts of each corpse. The sound was sharp and hollow, like piercing frozen meat.

Suddenly, Roar~~

The three corpses jolted upright, their fangs bared as their dark pupils flashed an unnatural ice-blue. They let out a guttural roar filled with rage and resistance, then collapsed back to the ground, stiff and lifeless.

Their ice-blue eyes faded to gray, leaving them truly dead this time.

Rhaegar calmly sheathed Blackfyre, his voice steady. "It was the White Walkers. Take the bodies away and burn them."

The gathered men were frozen in shock. For most of them, it was the first time they had seen the dead return to life—only to die again.

Old Benjicot, the Lord Commander, swallowed hard before giving the order. "Take the bodies away," he instructed the Night's Watch, his voice heavy. "The fact that the White Walkers could bring these bodies here means their army is close to the Wall."

Rhaegar's expression grew more serious as he addressed the men. "Prepare thoroughly. The underground passageways need to be frozen and sealed off completely."

He paused, then added firmly, "Increase the night patrols. Don’t skimp on the charcoal fires."

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The White Walkers' approach was inevitable. Rhaegar had long expected it.

...

Fist of the First Men

The avalanche had buried the main road under heaps of snow, leaving only a few towering boulders exposed amidst the icy drifts.

A faint sound...

The dull, rhythmic thud of hooves on snow broke through the howling wind. Slowly, a frozen, rotting warhorse staggered forward, its decaying form nearly blending into the swirling snowstorm.

On its back sat a pale figure, clad in ancient, frost-covered armor, gazing coldly into the distance.

"Whoa, whoa..."

Two more rotting warhorses appeared, each carrying a white-haired wight. The undead riders halted behind the leading horse, their lifeless eyes fixed on the figure before them—the Night King.

Expressionless, the Night King looked upon the snow that blocked the path ahead and slowly raised a hand.

Hula—

With a sudden rush, the snow exploded into the air, clearing the way. The Night King, still mounted on his decaying steed, waited motionlessly, holding the reins.

After a brief pause, his sharp-nailed hand swung downward.

"Roar! Roar!"

From the foggy snowstorm, guttural, hoarse roars echoed. An uncountable army of the dead staggered forward, heads hanging like marionettes pulled by invisible strings.

Without a flicker of emotion, the Night King calmly led the army onward, clearing the path through sheer numbers. The dead shuffled past, their movements stirring up snow and wind, blurring everything in sight.

Then, the Night King lifted his head.

A strange glint flashed in his ice-blue eyes, which quickly turned a milky white. Visions swirled before him, like scenes projected onto a screen.

"Roar..."

In the vision, Daemon's brow furrowed as he tugged on his saddle grip. Caraxes, undeterred, surged forward, its serpentine body folding into the flames of Dragonfire.

Poof!

The vision abruptly ended. The Night King's eyes reverted to their chilling ice-blue, his expression unchanged. He turned his gaze northward, sensing something in the distance.

Trot, trot...

A White Walker approached, its skeletal hand resting on its chest as it rode up to him. The Night King glanced at it, then raised a single finger, pointing north.

Understanding the silent command, it tugged on the reins, turning its horse and galloping toward the distant north, cutting through the tide of the dead like a ghostly rider.

The Night King twisted his neck, his cold gaze once again fixed ahead. Without pause, he continued to lead his army of the dead forward.

Their destination: The Wall.

...

Two days later.

The Wall.

Five kilometers from Castle Black, the edge of the Haunted Forest had receded, leaving the ground littered with felled trees.

Rumble, rumble.

Dark clouds, black as coal, rolled slowly across the sky, shrouding the Wall in a heavy gloom. The earth trembled beneath the advancing storm, and wind and snow began to swirl, gradually enveloping the land.

Whoosh!

A horn sounded from atop the Wall, followed by three urgent bell tolls.

The Night's Watch sprang into action, lighting the smoke signal at the top of the Wall. Old Benjicot, wrapped tightly in a bearskin coat, quickly descended the winding ladder to the winch and hurried to the watchtower.

Peering out over the vast landscape, his heart sank as he saw countless figures emerging from the Haunted Forest, closing in on the base of the Wall.

Roar...

The advancing figures had grotesque, frozen faces, their bodies stiff, dressed in the tattered remains of once-living men. They shuffled forward like an army of the dead.

"It's the corpse army!" Old Benjicot Ko’s face went pale. He grabbed the bell ringer’s mallet and struck it hard, shouting at the top of his lungs, "Prepare for battle! The dead are upon us!"

His shout echoed across Castle Black, igniting a frenzy of activity.

The Army of the Winter Wolves, the Unsullied, and the Kingdom's coalition rushed to the battlements, forming orderly lines behind the parapets, bows drawn, arrows notched, and stones ready to be hurled.

Down below, the Night’s Watchmen moved quickly through the tunnels, carrying sealed kegs. Some were filled with fire oil, while others held the deadly wildfire, buried in beds of fine sand.

Rumbling and booming,

The army of the dead continued to close the distance, entering the one-kilometer range of the Wall.

Suddenly, everything stilled.

On the Wall, the allied forces held their breath, the weight of impending battle heavy in the air.

Clop, clop, clop...

A single rotting warhorse pushed through the ranks of the dead, stopping on a high ridge. The Night King sat upon it, his cold, ice-blue eyes fixed on the Wall. He raised a single hand.

With that simple motion, the dead surged forward once more.

Tens of thousands of wights accelerated, charging toward the Wall in a suicidal rush.

"Counterattack! Don’t let them get close!" Old Benjicot barked the order, his voice sharp.

Flaming arrows shot down from the battlements, followed by a rain of fire from the allied forces. The night sky lit up like fireworks as rockets streaked through the darkness, showering the army of the dead in flames.

Pop! Pop!

Each rocket struck true, killing a wight on impact. But the horde behind pressed on, trampling over the fallen without hesitation, driven by a mindless rage.

Despite the first wave of fire, more than half of the wights surged forward, breaking through the initial line of defense. They roared savagely, their jagged claws tearing at the frozen surface of the Great Wall, scraping away the fine frost with a sickening screech.

As they clawed at the ice, dense rolling rocks rained down from above, smashing the wights into bloody pulp. Flesh and shattered bones splattered across the ground, painting the snow in grotesque colors. Some of the undead found the entrance to the underground passages and pounded furiously on the frozen door, but it held firm, reinforced by layers of Dragonstone walls encased in ice, harder than steel.

Watching from afar, the Night King remained unmoved. With a slow, deliberate motion, he raised his hand once more.

From behind him, a White Walker stepped forward, gripping an ice-crystal spear. Leading the second wave, it charged ahead, and the undead army followed in unison.

The Walkers moved swiftly, extinguishing the remaining flames left by the first volley of arrows. The allied forces fought back, unleashing a relentless barrage of arrows and rolling stones. Fire oil was poured down, igniting the battlefield, and the stench of burning flesh filled the air as scores of wights were cut down.

Plop!

The lead White Walker pushed aside the brainless undead in its path and advanced with purpose. The ice-crystal spear swung through the air, smashing anything in its way, reducing rolling rocks to powder.

Clang!

The spear struck the ice wall of the Great Wall with brutal force. The White Walker’s ice-blue eyes gleamed with arrogance as it began climbing, using its hands and feet to scale the icy surface.

Each time it ascended a few feet, it pulled the spear free and smashed another gap in the ice, making the climb easier for the undead swarming behind it.

"Don't let them get up here! Release the scythes!" Old Benjicot shouted, his voice tight with urgency as he drew his sword.

Boom!

Suddenly, a black dragon as dark as night soared over the Wall, its wings blocking out the sky and scattering the storm clouds.

"Dracarys!"

Rhaegar's eyes burned with intensity as he commanded from atop the great beast, gazing down at the swarming dead below.

Roar...

The Cannibal’s emerald-green pupils glinted menacingly as it dove, its massive throat rumbling with the heat of Dragonfire.

In the next instant, a torrent of dark green Dragonfire poured from the sky, drenching the climbing wight in flames.

The White Walker looked up just in time, its eyes wide with fury as the searing Dragonfire engulfed its body. It let out a final, agonized scream before melting into a pool of steaming ice water.

The murky green fire cascaded like a waterfall, incinerating the army of the dead at the base of the Wall. In mere minutes, tens of thousands of wights were reduced to ash, their bodies collapsing into smoldering heaps.

The Cannibal snorted heavily, its wings spread wide as it glided low over the battlefield, clearing a path of destruction.

Rhaegar remained firmly seated on the dragon’s back, his body tilting slightly with its movements, his eyes fixed on a pale figure on the distant slope. Clad in armor and crowned with a horned helm, the figure radiated a cold, commanding presence.

"Is that you?" Rhaegar muttered, his heart surging with murderous intent as he yanked on the reins, urging the Cannibal forward.

Across the field, the Night King tilted his chin, studying the massive black dragon with icy detachment. The scent of ash, more repulsive and dangerous than fire itself, filled the air.

Without breaking his cold gaze, the Night King reached behind him and pulled the ice-crystal spear from his back. But instead of throwing it, he raised it high, pointing toward the sky.

In response, half of the undead army split off, surging toward the towering Great Wall like an unstoppable tide.

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