Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 689: The Tragedy of Seasmoke

Snow fell thick and heavy, each flake settling into a three-foot blanket across the frozen ground.

Shhh...

Rhaegar, cloaked in a black robe, walked alone through the snow, his steps slow and steady.

"Where am I?" he muttered, frowning as he scanned the desolate landscape. The scene felt eerily familiar, like he was near the Fist of the First Men. Yet, something about it was different. After a few steps, he stopped, an uneasy feeling tugging at him. Glancing down at his right hand, he realized he couldn’t feel the usual, dull tremor from his old injury.

In that instant, clarity struck him. This is a dream, he realized, a dream spun from memories.

He continued toward the Great Wall, the thought of his homeland tugging at his mind. "I wonder how things are faring in the North," he mused aloud. His gaze hardened as he thought of the Night King, an opponent of unnatural origin and powers. Rhaegar knew that even one misstep could tip the scales of victory.

A saying echoed in his mind: If you think of something here, it may respond.

As if on cue, the soft crunch of snow was joined by another sound—rhythmic, and growing louder.

Tap, tap...

He paused, looking up. To his shock, an army of undead marched against the howling wind, their dead eyes fixed straight ahead. They moved past him like he wasn’t there, each step mechanical and unseeing. Yet, Rhaegar felt his instincts flare, a whisper of something watching him closely.

A guttural croak sounded, and suddenly, a dream-eating toad crawled out from his hair, perching on his head. Its gray, round body settled, and its dark, greenish eyes turned to the shadows.

Following its gaze, Rhaegar peered back. His eyes met a cold, unyielding stare—a pair of ice-blue eyes piercing through the storm. The Night King stepped out from the blizzard, gripping a spear of crystalline ice, his face devoid of emotion.

An unspoken tension rippled through the air as their gazes locked. The undead around them parted, forming a wide circle between the two figures. A blackened mound of snow lay at its center, a boundary between man and wraith. After a measured pause, the Night King crossed it, his gaze burning with intent.

Rhaegar tightened his grip on Blackfyre, the ancient sword of his house. "You’re real, aren’t you?" he said, voice steady, his eyes never leaving his enemy.

There was no answer, only the Night King’s slow, unyielding approach, his icy gaze promising nothing but death.

Clang!

Blackfyre and the ice spear collided with a resounding crack, shards of ice exploding into the air. The Night King’s movements were rigid, his attacks a series of precise but predictable patterns. Rhaegar narrowed his eyes, suspicion flaring. He’s holding back, he thought, pressing forward with a feint, his blade sweeping low before twisting up to guard his throat.

In that moment, the Night King hesitated, his eyes flickering briefly. Rhaegar capitalized, advancing swiftly, his stance a blend of offense and defense, probing for a weakness in his foe’s icy resolve. The Night King raised his spear, parrying Rhaegar’s feint, but his blue eyes held a flicker of wariness, recognizing the danger now before him.

Clang!

Blackfyre scraped along the ice-coated spear and, with perfect precision, pierced through the Night King's throat, cutting through the icy armor as though it were nothing but brittle paper. The black blade drove cleanly from front to back, skewering the Night King in one swift strike.

“Huh?” Rhaegar breathed, momentarily stunned. It can’t be this easy, he thought, a feeling of unease stirring in him.

With a final glance down, the Night King's body suddenly dissolved into fine powder, scattering into the wind.

Poof!

Rhaegar took a step back, sheathing Blackfyre, yet there was no satisfaction, no sense of victory.

Clatter!

All around him, the dead fell to pieces, limbs collapsing into the pristine snow, scattering the ground with broken remnants of the wight army.

“Something’s wrong,” Rhaegar muttered, eyes narrowing as he scanned the clearing. The Night King had been far more formidable in battle against the Wall’s defenders; his strength shouldn’t have waned so easily.

Hoo-hoo!

A biting wind whipped up a blinding whirlwind of snow, howling and spinning with eerie force. And when it finally settled, the Night King stood once again, wounds healed, advancing with the same icy, unrelenting gaze.

Rhaegar’s eyes widened as he raised his sword to meet the foe once more.

Clang!

The weapons clashed, and Blackfyre sliced through the Night King's chest.

Clang! Another strike shattered the ice spear, and Blackfyre’s blade took the head cleanly from its shoulders.

Clang! Clang! Rhaegar’s blows dismantled the armor, cleaving the body in half, yet no matter how many times he struck, the Night King rose, over and over, a spectral figure reforming each time with unearthly resilience.

Rhaegar panted, catching his breath as he waited, expecting the Night King to rise yet again. “Because it’s a dream… so it can’t die?”

Hoo—

The wind died down, and the Night King appeared once more, unscathed. As Blackfyre and the ice spear met, the strength of the Night King's thrust forced Rhaegar back, the White Walker’s physical power undeniable. Rhaegar stumbled, taking two swift steps back, his eyes darkening with wariness.

The Night King’s ice-blue gaze glinted as he closed in, twisting sideways to deliver a feint—a move Rhaegar recognized as his own from their first encounter.

Clang! Rhaegar’s blade blocked the thrust, slicing the Night King's wrist with a backhanded cut. Yet, instead of pressing the advantage, Rhaegar stepped back, studying his foe’s calculated stance. This was no mere skirmish; the Night King was mimicking his techniques, as if testing him, perhaps honing its own skills.

In a bold move, the Night King crouched, calmly picking up his severed hand. Placing it over his wounded wrist, he slowly twisted it back into place.

Zila zila...

Frost spread over the wound, seamlessly binding the wrist and hand together. Beneath the pale, icy skin, blue veins pulsed back to life, restoring his form as though nothing had happened.

“So he really is immortal,” Rhaegar gasped. His opponent was using this dreamlike state to its advantage, manipulating the endless cycle of death and rebirth.

But Rhaegar wasn’t about to be played with.

With a grim look, he raised a hand and brought it down sharply, slamming it against his head.

“Croak!”

The Dream Eater, hidden on his head and observing the battle, let out an indignant croak.

Pop!

The dream world shattered instantly, fracturing into fragments like delicate bubbles, breaking apart into nothingness.

As Rhaegar’s form began to fade, his gaze held steady, locked on the Night King, who still advanced, unyielding, with that deathless, unblinking stare.

Until both figures finally dissolved—Rhaegar fading into thin air as the Night King’s icy form crumbled into dust, the last remnants of the dream dissipating into the void.

...

The continent of Essos, deep within the Shadow Lands.

“Roar…”

A dragon as black as coal soared through the murky skies. Above the clouds, the air was thick and gray, filled with an oppressive, hazy gloom.

On the dragon’s back, Rhaegar stirred, his eyelids twitching slightly before he opened his eyes fully.

“You’re awake?” came a smooth, magnetic voice beside him.

Turning, he found himself gazing into the face of the red priestess, her features framed by the shifting shadows and the soft glow of her fiery eyes.

Rhaegar blinked, still groggy. “How long was I asleep?” he asked, feeling for something solid. His hand landed on soft skin beneath his head, and he realized she had been offering her lap as a pillow. Kneeling gracefully, her legs folded under her, the priestess looked down at him with a serious expression.

“We’re nearly there,” she said, her gaze steady. “Asshai, at the eastern edge of the world.”

At this, Rhaegar’s eyes widened, and a sharp ache flared at his temples. He pressed a hand to his forehead.

“Roar!” The wind shifted with a keening dragon’s cry as a second shadow streaked past them. Rhaegar turned, spotting a younger dragon trailing close behind, its scales gleaming cobalt blue with a striking copper underbelly stretching from its jaw to its abdomen. The dragon was over thirty meters long, sleek and fierce.

Riding atop it was his younger brother, Daeron. Short silver-blonde hair swept down to frame his ears, and he gave Rhaegar a slight nod. Beside him on the dragon’s back sat a bald man, skin decorated with intricate tattoos—a figure Rhaegar recognized as Varys, the caretaker of the Topless Tower, draped in his own crimson robes. Seeing the two of them helped clear Rhaegar’s disoriented mind.

“Ah,” Rhaegar winced, rubbing his temples. “My head…”

The red priestess gave him a faint smile as he shifted, pulling away from her embrace.

Now I remember, he thought, piecing together the fragments. He had left the North, flying east across the Narrow Sea, determined to find the red priestess and the mysterious Varys to seek healing for his injured right arm.

When they had refused, he’d resolved to go to Asshai. Along the way, in the Golden Fields, he had fallen ill, trembling and convulsing uncontrollably. Afraid for his safety, he’d asked Daeron to accompany him on the journey as his escort.

“We’ve arrived in Asshai,” he said finally, gazing down as they descended. Below, at the juncture of shadowed mountains and the Jade Sea, stretched the strange and sprawling city, shrouded in fog and deep, impenetrable shadows.

This was Asshai, the heart of the Shadow Lands.

...

The North, The Wall.

Snow blanketed the ground, stretching endlessly, blending the sky and earth in a vast white haze. Across the Haunted Forest, a legion of wights marched steadily toward Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Yet, amidst their ranks, the figure of their king was absent.

Far beyond the Wall, footsteps crunched through the snow.

Tap, tap…

The Night King emerged from the Haunted Forest, a solitary figure against the bleak landscape. He stared intently at the Wall’s towering silhouette, distant yet imposing. Above, hundreds of Night's Watchmen stood on the battlements, calling out to one another, stoking their fires as they prepared for the inevitable assault.

This stronghold, situated between Castle Black and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, was strategically positioned to unite the defenses along the Wall’s eastern edge. Few fortresses remained in active use, and the men here were vigilant, yet oblivious to the silent predator observing from the shadows.

“Roar!”

A light silver dragon emerged from the Wall, sweeping along its length in a patrol to the west. The dragon, Seasmoke, stretched over forty meters in length, with scales that glimmered faintly in the cold light, blending almost seamlessly with the snowy expanse. Though young, he was already a gifted leader among his kin.

“Easy now, Seasmoke,” called Laenor, crouched on the dragon’s back, his cloak whipping around him in the icy wind. Assigned to guard this fortress, Laenor took to patrolling the Wall every few days.

Seasmoke, however, was restless. Its light-silver scales shivered as it rose and fell through the air, careful not to stray far from the Wall. The North’s chill gnawed at it, dulling its once lively nature. It had barely eaten since arriving, its appetite fading as the cold numbed its vigor.

Down below, the Night King watched with glacial patience, his ice-blue eyes narrowing. Slowly, he lifted one finger, dragging it across his throat in a deliberate, menacing gesture. Reaching over his shoulder, he drew an ice-crystal spear, sharp and deadly.

...

Above, Seasmoke continued its watchful flight, its breath misting in the frigid air. But then, with startling speed, the Night King hurled the spear.

“Roar!”

A pained scream erupted from Seasmoke as the ice spear pierced its neck, shattering scales and puncturing deep into its flesh. Hot, steaming dragon blood spilled into the snow below, staining it a vivid crimson.

“Hold steady, Seasmoke!” Laenor cried, gripping his saddle as the dragon twisted in agony. But Seasmoke's body convulsed, writhing uncontrollably despite its rider’s attempts to calm it.

“Roar!”

At last, Seasmoke plummeted, spiraling down like a wounded hawk, crashing heavily into the snow just outside the Wall. A great plume of snow exploded on impact.

“Seasmoke is down!”

The Night’s Watchmen gasped in shock, scrambling down from the Wall to reach the fallen beast. Yet a pale figure moved toward the crash site faster than any of them.

...

The dragon’s great form lay sprawled in the snow, eyes dimming, breath shallow. Laenor lay slumped beside him, covered in wounds, one leg twisted unnaturally. In the dragon’s final moments, Seasmoke had shifted to cushion its rider’s fall, sparing Laenor from certain death.

The Night King loomed over them, his gaze fixed on the dragon’s fading, bloodshot eyes.

“Roar~~”

Seasmoke’s mouth opened, a final, desperate breath escaping as it summoned the last of his strength. With a ferocious surge, it unleashed a torrent of Dragonfire, searing hot and mixed with sorrow, its light-silver scales glinting in the fire’s fierce glow. The flames blazed with an intense heat, consuming every ounce of its life force.

One second. Two seconds…

The fire died, leaving the snow charred and blackened. Yet, as the smoke cleared, the Night King stood unscathed, his form dark against the charred ground, eyes cold and impassive.

Seasmoke’s pupils contracted, its wing twitching as it made one last feeble attempt to bite, its mighty jaws opening with a final, defiant snap.

Bang!

The dragon’s head fell, its vision consumed by darkness as his massive body settled into stillness.

The wind picked up, swirling snow in silent spirals. The Night’s Watchmen, just arriving at the scene, halted, paralyzed by the frigid gust that swept past them, a coldness deeper than the North’s chill.

And as they stood, the wind seemed to howl with a lament, a solemn requiem that filled the air as if the very snow and wind mourned the fallen dragon, their silent sorrow heavy on the bitter night.

...

Two days later, in the icy stronghold of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea...

Corlys, draped in a coat fashioned from the pelt of a snow bear, paced along the Great Wall as usual, braving the biting wind. As he passed, sailors from the Velaryon fleet stood at attention.

“My lord,” they saluted.

One of them, a capable young man with short, silver-and-gold hair, was assisting the commander by distributing charcoal fires and hot soup to the men.

“Alyn, what's the situation?” Corlys called out, catching sight of him.

Alyn halted, stepping forward quickly to respond. “My lord, we’re well-supplied, even after sharing resources with Castle Black.”

“Mm.” Corlys nodded thoughtfully.

After a brief pause, Alyn added, “My brother sent word. The Golden Plains garrison has been settled. He asks if we should proceed directly to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea to assist?”

“Not yet,” Corlys replied, his face growing serious. “War is not accomplished in a day, and we can’t commit all of our strength to it just yet. Tell your brother to return to Driftmark Island first.”

“Yes, my lord.” Alyn gave a firm nod and turned to ensure the sailors were properly equipped with dragon glass weapons.

Corlys observed this with a hint of relief.

Just then, hurried footsteps approached from behind.

“Corlys, come quickly!” Rhaenys's voice broke through the wind, trembling slightly with urgency.

Corlys turned, his brow furrowing. “What’s happened that has you so anxious?”

“A letter! It’s from Laenor.” Rhaenys held out an opened letter, her hand unsteady.

Corlys’s gaze turned grave as he took the letter, feeling its crinkled edges under his fingers. Just as he began to read, a sudden roar thundered across the open wilderness, reverberating for miles around.

They turned together, eyes wide with alarm.

Meleys’s fierce pupils glinted with a feral light as it rose slowly, its dark red wings casting a shadow across the landscape. The beast exuded an intense aura of menace, like a crimson bolt of lightning ready to unleash divine wrath.

“Meleys... what’s wrong with it?” Corlys’s eyes widened, sensing something amiss.

Despite its advanced age of seventy years, Meleys had grown increasingly lethargic. Ever since arriving in the North, the dragon had taken to sleeping at the base of the city walls, rarely stirring. For it to awaken in such a state... something was dreadfully wrong.

A deep rumbling rose as snow and wind whipped into a tempest outside the Great Wall. The swirling storm blurred the landscape, but through the chaos, dark figures appeared.

Corlys clenched his fists, his gaze sweeping over the distant horde. “The Others are here.”

Through the howling wind and snow, a vast army of wights marched toward the Wall, countless as ants in an anthill. Their shadowy forms filled the land, and dark clouds loomed over them.

“Roar!”

A piercing dragon’s cry echoed—a strange, eerie sound, as if some dark force constricted its throat.

From the dark clouds above, a dragon with icy blue eyes crashed through, diving headfirst toward the Wall, before rising and hovering above the wight army. Atop the dragon, a pale figure rode in the saddle.

“The Night... the Night King?” Rhaenys's eyes flared with defiance as she gritted her teeth.

With a thunderous rumble, Meleys landed on the city wall, spreading its wings wide, shielding its rider from the piercing cold as the winds screamed around them.

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