Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

The North, beyond the Great Wall.

The Fist of the First Men.

The crunch of footsteps in the snow echoed through the desolate foothills. Three Night’s Watchmen, cloaked in black, led their scrawny horses, trudging through the biting cold.

"I say, we should find a place to get warm," muttered a skinny young man, his teeth chattering. He had shifty eyes, and the way he hunched his shoulders and crossed his arms made him look even more wretched.

"Shut up and save your strength," the burly Watchman beside him snapped, pulling his weary horse along. This was wildling territory, and at any moment, they could stumble upon a migrating tribe. There was no safe haven for the Night’s Watchmen beyond the Wall—here, they were the hated "Crows."

"Quiet," whispered the third man, patting the skinny youth’s shoulder. "We need to find shelter before dark." He fished a piece of moldy dried meat from his cloak and handed it over. Supplies were running low, and hunger gnawed at them all. They could only survive by sharing what little they had.

"Thank you," the skinny man whispered, his eyes flickering with gratitude. After a moment’s hesitation, he tucked the dried meat back into his cloak, patting his chest as if to remind himself of it. Before joining the Night’s Watch, he’d been a thief in the dungeons of the Red Keep, thrown into the cells without trial by the damned Master of Laws.

Clop, clop...

Suddenly, the sound of hooves broke the silence.

All three froze. Without a word, they dropped to the ground, burying themselves in the snow. Their first thought was wildlings. They were Rangers sent to track the migration patterns of the Free Folk, but Rangers seldom lived long beyond the Wall.

The wind howled, and the snow blurred their vision. Dark shapes began to form in the fog.

They gripped their daggers, hands shaking as they stabbed their skinny, half-dead horses in the necks. Blood poured into the snow, and the animals collapsed, their breaths shallow and fading. The horses could not be allowed to betray them.

"Roar..."

The sound of approaching footsteps grew louder, accompanied by hoarse, inhuman groans. Beneath it, the faint clatter of bones.

Clop, clop...

The wind began to die down, and the view cleared. The three men cautiously peeked out from the snow, and what they saw turned their blood cold.

They were surrounded. Thousands of corpses—shambling, frozen, decayed—staggered through the snow. Ragged armor clung to their skeletal forms, bones grinding and rattling with every step. The stench of death and rot filled the air.

The legion of the dead marched aimlessly, their lifeless eyes dull, controlled by some unseen force. They didn’t seem to notice the Night’s Watchmen. Or if they did, they simply didn’t care.

"Woohoo..."

The skinny youth let out a terrified whimper, his jaw hanging open in horror. One of his companions quickly clamped a hand over his mouth, dragging him down into the snow. The three of them huddled beneath a large stone, desperately trying to stay hidden.

Time crawled by as the dead army passed. When it was finally gone, the Watchmen lay there, frozen with fear, hardly daring to breathe.

Clop, clop...

The sound of hooves stopped nearby, sending a fresh wave of dread through them. The air grew unnaturally cold.

The skinny youth, ever alert, turned his head in terror. His eyes widened.

A pale-skinned figure sat atop a decaying horse, long hair whipping in the wind. Its glowing blue eyes locked onto them.

The White Walker stared down at them, its gaze piercing, unfeeling. The creature’s hand slowly reached for its back, pulling out an ice-crystal spear.

Whoosh—

The cold wind howled as the Walker prepared to strike.

"Ahhh!"

A bloodcurdling scream pierced the frozen air, echoing across the snow, as if the very earth itself had fallen into purgatory.

...

"Ahhh!"

King’s Landing, the Red Keep.

Visenya screamed, her tiny hand trapped in her brother Aegor’s mouth.

"Hmph," Aegor grunted, biting down with determination, proving the old adage that even a cornered rabbit will bite. Drool dripped from his face, sour and sticky, as he gnawed on his sister’s fingers.

"Aegor, stop biting your sister!"

Rhaenyra rushed over, quickly pulling the two apart. She cradled Visenya, who was crying loudly, her small fingers bleeding from the sharp bite marks.

"Why didn’t you do anything?" Rhaenyra demanded, shooting a sharp look at Rhaegar, who was calmly flipping through an account book, seemingly oblivious to the chaos.

Bang!

Rhaegar closed the crude account book with a thud, stretched, and walked over. Without a word, he reached into Aegor’s underpants and began pulling out golden dragons and silver stags. Then, not satisfied, he hoisted his youngest son upside down by the legs, shaking him gently.

A cascade of coins clattered to the ground—gold, silver, and even half of a copper star.

"Ooooh..." Aegor didn’t cry or fuss, only grunting in mild protest as his secret stash was exposed.

Rhaenyra blinked in surprise, her face flushing red.

"See? Your daughter did this," Rhaegar said, scooping Aegor back into his arms. He rolled his eyes as he explained, "Visenya’s been using her brother’s underpants as a piggy bank."

Rhaenyra’s eyes widened in disbelief, and she turned her gaze to her daughter, who was still sniffling in her arms.

"Visenya!" Rhaenyra’s face darkened, her voice filled with stern disbelief.

Visenya’s eyes widened in terror as she realized she had been caught. The next moment, her ghostly wails echoed through the halls of the Red Keep.

The attendants passing by kept their heads down, too afraid to comment. They all knew what that sound meant: someone had just been disciplined.

...

The siblings finished with the other pair and made their way to the council hall together.

"Your Grace."

Erryk, commander of the Kingsguard, nodded respectfully and saluted, pushing open one of the large doors with a single hand.

On the opposite side stood another Kingsguard, Hall Reed, a short man with grey hair and green eyes, his youthful face betraying his shy nature. "Your Grace," he mumbled as he pushed open the door from his side.

"You've worked hard," Rhaegar said with a small smile, taking Rhaenyra’s hand as they walked into the hall.

The room was already filled with people—royal advisers, members of the House, all gathered around the council table. Once Rhaegar took his seat at the head, the discussions began.

"Rhaegar, you want to move the capital?" Viserys asked, frowning deeply from within the thick blanket wrapped around him. His voice was heavy with concern.

"Moving the capital is no small matter," he added. "It’s being debated all across the Seven Kingdoms."

Rhaenys, standing beside her cousin, also expressed her disapproval. "The decision affects more than just us. It affects everyone."

Grand Maester Orwyle, Master of Coin Lyman, and Master of Whisperers Tormund exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing, though their faces clearly showed their apprehension.

Meanwhile, some of the younger members of the family seemed uninterested in the weighty matters at hand. Helaena played absentmindedly with a sapphire, while her children, Viserion and Daenaera, sat by her feet. Aegon, eager for distraction, coaxed his children to go and playfully punch another pair of cousins.

"Quiet, you idiot," Aemond muttered, grabbing Aegon by the collar with evident disgust. "You look like you're sick." Despite his sharp words, the blue eye under his black eye patch was glazed, showing his own weariness.

Rhaegar glanced around the room, sighed softly, and addressed the council. "Winter is coming. Harrenhal is a better location for stockpiling food and soldiers than King’s Landing."

He let the words hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "King's Landing is a rat’s nest with vulnerabilities on every side. Aside from the port, it's far less defensible than other castles. Harrenhal, however, is in the warmer Riverlands, with fertile farmland and Gods Eye Lake providing fresh water and fish. It’s large enough to house the royal family and store the grain we’ll need for winter. And," he added, "the underground magma chamber beneath the Isle of Faces has been developed—our dragons can winter there without suffering from the cold as they do in the Dragonpit."

Viserys shook his head, his frown deepening. "King’s Landing has been the capital since Aegon the Conqueror founded the realm. The capital cannot be moved lightly. It’s more than just a city—it symbolizes the king’s authority. If we move to Harrenhal, what will the Seven Kingdoms think?"

"And what of the people in the city?" Viserys pressed. "There are millions in King’s Landing. You can’t just abandon them. Harrenhal may be vast, but it can’t hold an entire city."

Rhaegar remained calm, though his expression was serious. "Father, it’s not that simple. We aren’t abandoning them. If we don’t prepare for the winter, those same people will starve in King’s Landing."

Viserys opened his mouth to protest again, but Daemon intervened, his interest piqued. "Brother, let’s hear him out." He turned to Rhaegar with a glimmer of curiosity. 'My nephew doesn’t make decisions rashly. Let’s see what he proposes.'

Viserys reluctantly fell silent, though his attachment to the city was clear. King’s Landing had been his home for decades, filled with memories of joy and sorrow. He wasn’t ready to abandon it so easily, especially in his old age.

"Father, winter is coming," Rhaegar said, getting straight to the point. His tone was calm but carried the weight of certainty.

"Winter?" Viserys blinked, momentarily confused by the sudden declaration.

Daemon and Rhaenyra exchanged a knowing glance, the conqueror’s prophecy coming to both their minds.

Rhaegar turned to the assembled blood relatives and advisers, his face serious. "Heavy snow has already blanketed the North, and the wildlings are attacking the Wall in large numbers."

He paused, letting the gravity of his next words sink in. "As far as I know, the heavy snow will spread across the entire Seven Kingdoms, bringing a cold not seen in a century."

"Baelon wrote to you?" Viserys asked, a flicker of worry crossing his face as he thought of his eldest grandson.

Rhaegar shook his head. "Not yet. But it’s clear the situation is dire. Harrenhal is easier to defend, and the Hall of a Hundred Hearths will be warm enough to ensure the survival of our House during these harsh times."

Rhaegar’s words carried an unspoken truth—they couldn’t afford to flee to Essos unless absolutely necessary. Harrenhal and Dragonstone were their best options. But Harrenhal, with its fertile lands and strategic location in the Riverlands, was far superior.

"Dragonstone is barren and dependent on maritime trade taxes," Rhaegar continued. "It’s not large enough to house the royal family’s forces. Harrenhal, however, controls the Riverlands, The Vale, and The Reach, stabilizing our rule over the Seven Kingdoms."

Viserys’s expression shifted as he finally recalled the conqueror’s prophecy—the heavy snow in the North, the dragons growing restless. It all pointed to the disaster that had long been foretold.

Rhaegar slid a ledger across the table toward Daemon and spoke solemnly. "We can’t make a spectacle out of moving the capital. Father and the dragons will go first. You’ll remain here as Hand of the King to keep the peace."

King’s Landing would remain the capital in name, but the royal family needed to relocate for their survival.

Daemon glanced at the ledger, then chuckled. "No problem," he said, his tone light as he pulled his daughter closer. "Rhaena, you should stay with your foster mother," he instructed. "She’ll take care of the dragon hatchling for you."

Rhaena’s eyes sparkled, and she instinctively took her brother’s hand.

"Rhaena can return to Driftmark," Rhaenys interjected, her voice gentle as she stroked her granddaughter’s cheek. "She’s Laenor’s heir, and that hasn’t changed."

Rhaena lowered her gaze, clearly unhappy with the idea. Daemon laughed, noticing her reaction.

"No rush," he said. "First, stay with Rhaenys and learn the court’s ways. There’s no need to hurry back to Driftmark."

To Daemon, the notion of Rhaena inheriting mere land was beneath her. It was better that she remain a true Targaryen.

"Very well, then. It’s decided." Rhaegar brought his hand down on the table with finality. "Rhaenyra and I will move the royal household to Harrenhal. Aemond will stay to assist Daemon, and Helaena will return to Summerhall."

He began listing off names and assignments one by one. Helaena was to return to her fiefdom. Daenerys’s, her sister Lyanna and Maekar would be sent to the Vale and Volantis.

Jeyne would remain alone at the Eyrie, braving the winter. Daenerys, with her mastery of Stormcloud, was more than capable of keeping potential threats at bay.

The Golden Fields had secured financial backing from Qarth, allowing Daeron to recruit soldiers and cultivate the land. Maekar, though young, had a talent for business, and his return to Volantis would allow him to oversee Slaver’s Bay and support Daeron’s mission.

"Helaena is leaving too?" Aemond frowned slightly, clearly displeased by the decision.

Helaena looked up, her large eyes blinking with an innocent confusion.

"Summerhall lies in the Dornish Marches, where the climate is warmer than Harrenhal," Rhaegar explained, his tone even. "With her presence in Summerhall, the Stormlands and Dorne will be more stable."

The Five Southern Kingdoms would remain under control, ensuring that the rest of Westeros—The North and the Westerlands—would not stir trouble during the harsh winter ahead.