Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Time flew by, and another half-month had passed. The army left The Twins, officially entering the swampy, malarial lands of the Neck.

"Roar!"

A golden dragon soared above the dense jungle, guiding the army below. The force had swelled since their departure, with more feudal lords from the Riverlands sending troops. House Arryn of the Vale led an alliance of 3,000 Knights of the Vale and 5,000 archers and foot soldiers. More forces continued to gather.

Clop, clop, clop...

The horses' hooves trampled the rotten mud, sending foul-smelling sludge splashing into the air. Rhaegar rode alongside the lacquered white Round Palace carriage. As the curtain parted, it revealed a pretty face.

"A letter from Lord Rowan. The Reach army has crossed The Twins," Rhaenyra said with a bright smile, holding the letter in her small hands.

With the arrival of the Reach army, their northern force would soon number 30,000 strong.

"Put it away for now. There are too many mosquitoes here," Rhaegar replied, waving at the swarm of insects as he gently drew the curtain closed.

"We should ride the dragons," Rhaenyra suggested, leaning against the window ledge and clapping her small hands together. The curtains framed her head, leaving only her bright purple eyes visible.

Rhaegar pulled the curtains fully shut, teasing, "We're almost at Greywater Watch. Next time, just say so sooner."

"Mm-hmm~~" Rhaenyra hummed, retreating into the carriage as she embraced her adopted daughter, whispering softly to her.

The Neck was a natural fortress, sapping the morale of any army that dared pass through it. Furthermore, this was a coalition army, hastily assembled from various kingdoms, lacking true organization. The king's presence, however, boosted cohesion and ensured the arriving forces would follow the same path.

...

The sun set, and dusk gradually settled over the land. In the depths of the jungle, a gray castle covered in rubble appeared before the army. It was neither majestic nor grand—short, old, and weathered. Standing alone in the black and green forest, it resembled a watchtower gazing into the distance.

"Finally, my aching back!" Aegon grumbled, his face twisted with discomfort.

Rhaegar dismounted, looking up and around.

"Roar..."

A loud, muffled dragon's roar echoed from deep within the forest, its enormous body hidden among the trees. Sunfyre and Sheepstealer had landed earlier and were now being herded by the Dragonkeepers as they fed. Above, three dragons hovered in the sky. Syrax slowly descended toward the tower of the gray-white castle, while Moondancer and Morning circled each other like dancing butterflies.

"Your Grace, please forgive the modest conditions of Greywater Watch," Hall Reed, one of the Kingsguard, said respectfully as he led the way. Hall, born to House Reed of Greywater Watch, was the youngest son of the previous Lord Reed. Skilled in martial arts and keenly intelligent, his return to Greywater Watch was like a son coming home.

"Anyone who hosts the king is treated kindly, no matter the circumstances," Rhaegar replied, recalling his correspondence with Lord Reed.

Creak.

The doors of the lacquered white chariot swung open, and Rhaenyra, dressed in black, stepped down gracefully.

"Roar!"

A pale pink Morning flapped its wings and flew toward her, its large body crashing into the side of the chariot. Mud splattered in all directions, just as Rhaena stepped off, catching some of it.

"Haha, Morning loves you so much," Baela mocked from behind, a smirk on her face.

Rhaenyra patted her skirt, checking to see if any mud had landed on her, then took Rhaegar’s hand naturally.

Shortly after, Lord Bard Reed of Greywater Watch emerged and warmly invited the group into the castle.

"Your Grace, please come inside."

...

Night had fallen.

In the dimly lit bedroom of Greywater Watch, the quiet was broken by a sharp crack. The tallow candle on the Weirwood table sputtered, spitting out sparks. Rhaegar sat at the table, carefully reviewing letters from King's Landing and various factions.

The main issues revolved around Golden Fields and Oldtown. Daeron had secured a loan from Qarth, recruiting a large number of homeless people to join the efforts of reclaiming the land. A Dragonstone Castle, on the shores of Dagger Lake, was steadily taking shape, with new land being extended outward to establish a foothold for the town.

But the situation in Oldtown was tense. House Hightower and the merchants of Qarth were at odds, and the young Lord Alan Tarly had gathered 1,000 archers, 800 infantry, and 200 cavalry, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

"Still reading the news?" The door creaked open, and Rhaenyra entered, freshly bathed, her long silver-and-gold hair still damp. She approached slowly, drying her hair with a cloth. Her ample chest pressed against Rhaegar's back as she leaned over, peering at the letters scattered across the table.

"It's all trivial matters," Rhaegar muttered, leaning back into her, resting his head in the curve of her neck, where the sweet scent of her skin enveloped him.

"And a letter from Baelon," Rhaenyra said with a smile, picking up an unsealed letter. It spoke of preparations being completed at Harrenhal, with the Riverlands and the Vale mobilizing for the coming winter. King's Landing remained mostly peaceful, though prices had begun to rise, and half a month ago, in the middle of August, a sudden chill had swept through the city. Firewood and warm clothing were becoming scarce, with Qohor's cheap wool and mulberry silk flooding out of Blackwater Bay.

"The ten years of perpetual summer are completely over," Rhaegar said gravely, glancing up at Rhaenyra. He whispered, "I predict it will start snowing by mid-September. The people of the Seven Kingdoms are going to suffer."

Snowfall in September was rare outside of the North, especially in the Vale. Ten years of summer had caused the people to forget the harsh cold of winter. How many would perish in the snow this time?

"I will be with you," Rhaenyra murmured, rubbing her forehead against his. "We will defend the Wall, drive back the cold and the darkness from the North, and everything will return to normal."

Rhaegar closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of soapberry from her hair, his mind turning to the looming battle against the White Walkers. The conqueror’s prophecy weighed heavily on his heart. The last time mankind had fought the White Walkers was 8,000 years ago. He remembered the ancient murals he'd seen as a child in the underground mines of Dragonstone, their hideous faces etched in stone.

How could he wield his sword against the dead and such monsters?

"I hope they can withstand Dragonfire," he murmured with a wry smile as he rose and made his way to the bed.

Outside the castle, the army was encamped three li away. Bonfires dotted the horizon, casting a glow that illuminated the night sky, while the distant, chaotic singing of soldiers echoed faintly.

As the night deepened, dark clouds rolled in, veiling the bright moon.

"Cuckoo, cuckoo..."

The sound of birdsong drifted in through the window, clear as though the birds were perched just outside. Rhaegar lay down on the hard bed, burying his head against the warmth of Rhaenyra’s bosom. Slowly, he drifted into sleep, where hazy dreams began to take shape.

White.

A vast, endless expanse of pure white stretched out before him, as if the sky and earth had merged into one. Heavy snow blanketed everything in sight, and a biting wind howled fiercely through the desolate landscape.

Tap, tap, tap...

A rotting warhorse, frozen and decayed, trudged slowly through the snow. One of its blue eyes dangled grotesquely from its socket, still loosely connected by strands of blood and tissue. Rhaegar stood amidst the snow, his expression confused as he took in the strange sight. The horse passed by, its large hoof, covered in thick white hair, resembling that of a snow beast as it clamped onto its belly.

"A dead horse?" Rhaegar muttered, his mind slowly processing the unnatural sight. His eyes narrowed as he looked closer.

Boom.

Suddenly, his gaze locked with a pair of cold, icy blue eyes, as lifeless and chilling as death itself. Rhaegar’s pupils contracted, and he instinctively reached for his sword at his waist.

"Hmph..."

The rotting horse snorted heavily, its blue-eyed rider moving further away with each slow, deliberate step. The rider was a hideous creature—pale, wrinkled skin stretched tightly over its skeletal frame, with messy white hair framing its face. The creature's blue eyes scanned its surroundings, cold and merciless, brimming with aggression.

For a fleeting moment, Rhaegar thought the creature had spotted him.

But no—it rode on, pausing briefly at certain spots, as though marking the land.

"Is that... a White Walker?" Rhaegar’s eyes widened in disbelief. His heart raced as he watched the figure vanish into the blizzard. If this truly was a White Walker, it would confirm all his darkest fears. The Conqueror's prophecy, the ancient murals in the Dragonstone mines, the prophecy of Norvos—it was all real. Everything he had prepared for wasn’t just an alarmist fantasy.

Flutter, flutter, flutter...

With a mere wave of the rider's hand, the snow bulged and shifted. From beneath the frozen ground, thousands of corpses and skeletons began to claw their way out, rising to form an undead army. The strange rider looked on with satisfaction as the dead gathered behind him, then continued forward on his decaying warhorse.

Rhaegar stared, utterly overwhelmed. The sight of the dead resurrecting before his eyes struck him to the core. It reminded him of the Shadowbinder’s curse he had once witnessed as a child, stranded on Crackclaw Point. The curse had fed on the shadows of the dead, growing ever stronger, spreading like an unstoppable cancer until it devoured everything in its path.

Pop.

Just as he prepared to observe the rider further, the dream shattered.

"Cuckoo, cuckoo..."

The sharp sound of birds chirping cut through the haze. Their calls seemed more urgent than before. Rhaegar slowly opened his eyes, shaking his head to clear the remnants of the vision.

"Rhaegar, I'm sleepy," Rhaenyra mumbled beside him, her voice soft and drowsy.

Rhaegar groaned, a terrible headache pulsing through his temples. He propped himself up on one hand and rubbed his forehead. As he shifted beneath the quilt, something felt off. He frowned, lifting the edge of the quilt to reveal the pale, mottled Weirwood planks beneath.

Suspicion crept into his eyes as he quietly slipped out of bed. Leaning down, he kissed Rhaenyra’s flushed face softly and whispered, "I'll be back in a bit."

He grabbed the shirt from the bedside table, buckled his sword, Blackfyre, to his waist, and headed toward the door. Before stepping out, he glanced out the window, his mind still heavy with the memory of blue eyes and the rising dead.

...

Greywater Watch, the swamp.

A silver-haired figure moved steadily through the thick brush and tangled obstacles, following the faint trail left by animals. Rhaegar didn’t know how long he had been walking, but he pressed on. Soon, a low-growing species of Weirwood came into view, its crimson leaves stark against the darkness.

Whoosh.

As Rhaegar halted, a figure flickered into view. It was small and thin, no larger than a child. In the moonlight, its skin appeared green, draped in rough animal hides.

"Ula-ula~~"

The figure paused briefly in front of the Weirwood, muttering something incomprehensible to Rhaegar before vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. But even in those brief moments, Rhaegar had seen enough—hair like bark, eyes filled with ancient wisdom, and rags hanging from its frail frame.

Stunned, Rhaegar stepped closer to the Weirwood. The tree's trunk was thick and sturdy, a sorrowful face carved deeply into its surface. In the dim light, the face seemed to bear its suffering, as if confessing long-held pain.

"Did you lure me here?" Rhaegar muttered, eyes narrowing as his hand hovered near the trunk.

Silence.

The swamp, the trees, everything was enveloped in an unnatural quiet. Rhaegar’s face hardened. He slammed his hand against the pale bark, his voice sharp. "Ungrateful!"

Zilla!

Dark scales began to form on his forehead, horns pushing through as black flames surged along his fingers. The flames consumed the Weirwood, charring its bark in an instant, while the red leaves caught fire and burned like tinder.

"Ahhh!" A piercing scream echoed through the air as a magical ripple pulsed from the tree.

Thud.

A small, green figure tumbled to the ground.

Swish!

In a flash, the blade of Blackfyre was at its throat. The creature froze, its hand halfway to its waist, too terrified to move further.

"Children of the Forest," Rhaegar hissed, his gaze cold. He pressed the sword harder against the creature's throat. "Did you lure me here on purpose?"

"Ula-ula~~" The creature gestured frantically, as though trying to explain itself.

Pah!

Rhaegar struck it across the face with the flat of the blade. His voice was ice. "Speak human words."

"I lured you here," the Child of the Forest admitted instantly, now speaking fluent Common Tongue, fear evident in its trembling voice.