Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Night falls, and all sound ceases.

The Wall.

Snow blankets the top of the city walls, and the cold wind howls, whipping up the campfire and enveloping the Night's Watch in the bitter night air.

"Keep warm, everyone, and don't let the fire die out," Cregan called out, his voice firm as he patrolled the battlements, carrying his house sword, Ice. Wind and snow lashed at him as he made his rounds.

He feared the watchmen on duty might succumb to the cold and hunger, drifting off to sleep—never to wake again.

"My lord, our food reserves are running low."

The voice came from a middle-aged man with a straight posture, streaks of white in his black hair. He led the patrol with a commanding presence that set him apart from the others.

Cregan glanced back and reassured him, "Commander Benjicot, just wait a little longer."

The heir prince had already returned south along the same route, and royal reinforcements were on their way.

"My lord, perhaps you should call on your advisers once again for help."

Benjicot Blackwood's face was grave, his tone leaving no room for debate. The wildlings watched the Wall with hungry eyes, and darker, unknown forces lurked beyond it. If the North couldn’t stand united, how could the southern lords be expected to give their best?

Cregan fell silent, his mind churning. He hesitated, pondering Benjicot's words.

The current Lord Commander of the Night's Watch had once been the Lord of Raventree Hall. The father of the late Lord Samwell and the grandfather of the current "boy," Benjicot, had seized a rare opportunity during the Bracken rebellion to block the way for Lord Bracken's counterattack. When House Bracken was destroyed, the elder Benjicot confessed his crimes and took the black, choosing to guard the Wall. His wealth of experience and keen abilities eventually led him to the position of Lord Commander. Approaching sixty, he was now known as the "Old Man of Castle Black."

"My lord, prepare as quickly as possible," the elder Benjicot urged. He tugged at the black cloak around his shoulders and sighed, turning to leave.

Whoosh——

A rough horn blast shattered the silence of the night. Flames erupted from the Haunted Forest, a dense wall of fire closing in on the Wall.

Dum dum dum!

The bells of Castle Black rang out in alarm. Scouts shouted, "The wildlings are here, hurry!"

Amidst the chaos of battle, three times the usual number of bonfires were lit along the Wall.

"I'll go down to command Castle Black. The castle keep is yours," Cregan said, his face pale as he hurriedly descended the Great Wall. The only breach in the Wall was the tunnel gate, guarded by Castle Black.

On the other side...

Beyond the Great Wall, firelight spread across the wasteland.

"Roar! I'll go first!"

A towering giant, eight meters tall, pounded his chest and roared, each step carrying him forward several meters.

Withstanding a rain of arrows, he barreled toward the outer steel fence of the tunnel gate.

Clang! Clang!

He smashed his massive shoulders into the iron fence, dislodging chunks of ice and snow, but the gate held firm.

"Bring the mammoths!"

The giant shouted at another equally imposing giant, whose face was so frozen stiff he could make no further expressions. In each of his enormous hands, he gripped a mammoth covered in long, matted fur, dragging thick tree trunks as they charged.

Behind them, the horde of wildlings surged forward, emboldened by the sight of the giants and mammoths leading the assault. They stormed the Wall like a tidal wave.

To survive. To live.

They had to cross the Great Wall and reclaim the fertile lands their ancestors had lost.

...

The next day, at Winterfell.

It was a rare, beautiful, sunny day.

"Roar..."

Uragax lay prostrate by the lake in the Godswood, feebly nibbling on a charred goat. Even with the clear skies, the chill was ever-present—too cold even for a dragon. Snow covered the ground a foot deep, untouched by the sun’s feeble warmth.

Inside the castle, in the Great Hall, Baelon rose early and made his way to the dining table. Toast baked over a fire, fried eggs, and pork sausage were laid out before him. He took a sip of warm goat’s milk tea whenever he choked on the food, slapping his chest to force it down.

"It’s not bad," Baelon remarked, satisfied. It was already much better than the rations at the Wall.

"Roar! Roar!"

A cold wind whistled past the window, accompanied by the restless neighing of the young dragon outside.

Baelon walked over to the wooden-shuttered window and glanced out. There, he saw Moondancer circling Winterfell. Its light green body resembled a butterfly, fluttering through the air, but its flight was chaotic in the sunlight, accompanied by a harsh, discordant cry.

"Moondancer is still not acclimatized to the cold," Baelon muttered, a grave expression crossing his face. He worried about the long winter ahead. If the young dragon couldn’t fight when war came, the House would be severely weakened.

Suddenly, hurried footsteps echoed down the hall.

Baela appeared, bundled in heavy furs, her face flushed with excitement. "Baelon, come with me quickly."

"What’s happened?" Baelon asked, noting the steam rising from her after her run. Targaryens rarely caught colds, and Baela had already recovered from her earlier illness.

"Don’t dawdle. I promise you’ll be surprised," she said with a beaming smile, leading the way eagerly.

Baelon followed, confused but curious. They left the castle and made their way to the crypts beneath the adjacent Godswood.

Tick-tock, tick-tock...

The crypts were dark and gloomy, built deep underground, with water dripping down the stone walls.

Click!

Baelon lit a torch, the sudden glow revealing something unexpected. "The crypts are warm," he said, surprised. The temperature here was completely different from the bitter cold outside. It felt like stepping into a conservatory, heated by a blazing hearth in the midst of a snowstorm.

"According to the old woman from Winterfell, there’s a hot spring beneath the crypt," Baela said excitedly. "They say there’s an active volcano under Winterfell, which is why it’s so warm down here."

Baelon chuckled, shaking his head. "Unlikely. The hot spring is real, but it’s hardly an active volcano."

Despite his dismissal, the hairs on his arms stood up. He could sense the presence of fire elements in the air. There were likely underground veins of heat, but they were far from volcanic activity.

Baela smiled knowingly, her mind focused on something else entirely. They continued into a larger, open tomb room. The warm air carried with it a strong stench of sulfur.

Baelon wrinkled his nose at the smell, following it until he found the source: a dark heap of dragon dung, shiny and moist, piled in the corner like an oval stone.

Crack!

Baela picked up a stone and struck the outer shell of the dung. With a sharp sound, the casing broke away, revealing something incredible—a jade-colored dragon egg.

"Look, Moondancer has laid eggs," Baela said, her excitement palpable. She waved Baelon over and continued digging through the dung with great enthusiasm. Soon, two more eggs emerged—one a brass color, the other a grayish black.

"A total of three dragon eggs," she said, her face glowing with joy. "The House's wealth has just increased." No wonder Moondancer had been restless, sneaking off to the crypts to lay her eggs.

"We can’t keep the eggs here in the North," Baelon said seriously, picking up the jade-colored egg. "When we return to King's Landing, these will become part of the House’s legacy."

Lord Cregan wasn’t in Winterfell, and the people of the North were known for their rough manners and their hostility toward the South. Coupled with the harsh climate, the odds of the eggs surviving here were slim.

"Very well. I’ll pack my things." Baela didn’t mind getting her hands dirty as she joyfully scooped up the two remaining dragon eggs. "Moondancer just laid them, but she’s strong enough to fly to White Harbor."

...

In the blink of an eye, half a month passed.

King's Landing, Dragonpit.

"Roar!"

"Roar..."

The dragons roared anxiously, their walls marred by scratches and scorch marks, chains rattling with tension. A low rumble echoed through the Dragonpit as a massive, coal-black creature burrowed its way inside. The roars fell silent.

Rhaegar, who had just returned after a long journey, looked puzzled. "What's going on?" he asked.

"Roar!"

A light gray dragon climbed onto the iron bridge, its slender tail swaying back and forth. With a powerful beat of its wings, it soared towards Blackwater Bay. Flying alongside it was a young dragon, covered in black scales, with scarlet dorsal fins and wing membranes.

Rhaegar didn’t try to stop them. He slid down from his dragon’s back, still confused by the scene.

Earlier that morning, they had spotted Silverwing, an ownerless dragon, circling over Blackwater Bay before retreating to the smoky caves of Dragonmont.

"Thank the gods, Your Grace, you’ve returned safely."

Maester Maynard limped over, his pale face even paler than usual. Not only was one of his legs lame, but the other was wrapped tightly in bandages.

"Your Grace," came another voice, as the elderly Dragonkeeper approached, leading several of his wounded colleagues. Each bore fresh scars and bandages that had yet to fully heal.

Rhaegar scanned the scene in surprise. "A riot in the Dragonpit?" he asked. He had only been gone a month—how could things have devolved so badly?

The Dragonkeepers had tended the dragons for years. It was unthinkable for them to be in such a miserable state.

Maynard, looking pitiful, spoke up, "The dragons have been like this lately, attacking anyone who tries to feed them or clean up after them."

Sometimes it was a dragon wing striking out, other times a tail lashing dangerously. The Dragonkeepers were constantly getting injured. "It’s really hard on the bones," Maynard muttered under his breath.

Rhaegar frowned and turned to the elderly Dragonkeeper, whose face was full of grief. He had been among the first of the Dragonkeepers, working in the Dragonpit for decades.

"The temperature has dropped suddenly, Your Grace. There’s frost at night." The old Dragonkeeper’s voice was low, and he murmured in High Valyrian: "The dragons are the last sacred magic of ancient Valyria. They sense danger—they are migrating to habitable places in advance."

Rhaegar fell silent, digesting the words. The three ownerless dragons—Silverwing, Grey Ghost, and Iragaxys—had all returned to live on Dragonstone. It seemed the dragons knew something the men did not.

He hadn’t noticed the chill while riding on dragonback, but the air in King’s Landing was undoubtedly colder than it should be. It was only August, the time of the scorching sun. Yet the temperature in the Crownlands, which usually bathed in the warmth of Blackwater Bay, had dropped significantly. It felt more like autumn than summer.

"Roar!"

Suddenly, a strange dragon's roar echoed from deep within the Dragonpit, followed by the sound of something massive slapping the ground.

Rhaegar turned just in time to see his brother, Aemond, covered in dirt, climbing out of one of the pits.

"Brother?"

"Aemond?" Rhaegar called, startled.

Aemond’s single eye widened in surprise. His already sallow complexion darkened even more as he saw Rhaegar.

"What is that in your hand?" Rhaegar asked, noticing the odd object Aemond was holding.

It was round, squishy, and covered in a brown, leathery shell. Barbs like briars jutted out from its surface, and it looked like a stinking, hardened lump of rotten meat.

"A dragon egg," Rhaegar said, eyes widening in realization. "The Sheepstealer’s?"

The egg’s unsightly, drab coloration could only belong to the wild and untamed Mud Dragon, known as the Sheepstealer.

"Yes," Aemond grumbled, his face as black as the bottom of a pot. He was clearly reluctant to speak. "I always thought the Sheepstealer was a male dragon. But here we are—she laid a big one."

It had been a surprise. When the Dragonkeepers opened the pit, they found the ugly, brownish dragon egg hidden inside. There was only one, but it bore the unmistakable hue of the Sheepstealer’s scales. Small and compact, it was nonetheless a dragon egg.

"Wow..." Rhaegar blinked, tilting his head with amusement. "Looks like you won’t need the royal family to produce dragon eggs anymore."

He hadn’t expected the Sheepstealer to lay eggs at all. That wild, unruly dragon was having a second spring, it seemed.

"Roar!"

The Sheepstealer slowly crawled out of its pit, its sly, vertical pupils dilating as its thin tail swished back and forth.

'Where’s the egg?' its gaze seemed to ask. There was a faint, uneasy scent in the air—perhaps a trace of Dragoneater. Hopefully, it hadn’t been eaten.