Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

The Wall loomed ahead, and the Haunted Forest stretched out like a dark, silent sea. A heavy snowfall blanketed the land, covering the forest's floor in thick layers of white.

With a low rumble, a massive beast trudged forward, its heavy footsteps shaking the earth and dislodging snow from the tree canopies. Rhaegar, draped in a black robe, rode atop the mammoth, its long, shaggy fur swaying as they crossed a frozen riverbank. Every so often, a gust of wind swept by, and the snowflakes felt like needles piercing his skin.

“We should ride a dragon,” came a soft, hesitant voice.

The Child of the Forest peeked out from its basket, hidden beside the mammoth. Its large green eyes blinked against the cold.

Rhaegar kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead, replying cautiously, “Dragons attract the White Walkers. We need to avoid drawing any attention.”

He spoke with measured calm, but his eyes flicked upwards, hidden beneath a black ribbon tied across his face, adding an air of mystery to his stern features. Even the heavy clouds above seemed dull through the dark cloth.

The Child of the Forest whispered urgently, “There are many Heart Trees beyond the Wall, but the true one lies further still.”

Its voice trembled with concern, driven by the need to find the heart tree, reunite with its people, and deliver Rhaegar to the Greenseer. There was something deeply troubling about the resurgence of the White Walkers. By the calculations of countless Greenseers, their resurrection was still supposed to be centuries away.

But then, twenty years ago, a red comet had altered the magical tides, awakening the Others from beneath the frozen soil. Cold and darkness spread across the land, yet the prophesied Prince, the one born of ice and fire, had not appeared. In the Child’s mind, the only human worth trusting now was the man before it—the King who commanded dragons.

But dragons were blood and fire. 'Will they even help?' it wondered.

Crack, crack!

The mammoth’s enormous hooves stomped across the ice-covered river, splintering the frozen surface as it barreled toward the Fist of the First Men.

“Easy, big fella,” Rhaegar murmured, his voice soothing as he tightened his grip on the reins.

Suddenly, a rustling sound broke the quiet. The birds in the forest ceased their flight, and an eerie silence descended, thick and heavy like a shroud. Then, a sharp, resounding noise split the air. The mammoth snorted, taking a few uneasy steps backward. Fear flickered in its eyes, an ancient, primal dread.

Rhaegar’s heart raced. He strained to listen, feeling the tension in his chest rise.

“Go!”

The Child of the Forest leaped from the basket, shrieking as it pushed against the mammoth’s head. Startled, the beast roared and turned to flee.

Whoosh!

In an instant, a volley of bone arrows whistled through the air, striking the mammoth’s thick hide. The arrows pierced deep, embedding themselves in its flesh. With a bellow of agony, the mammoth collapsed to the ground, its body shaking the earth.

Rhaegar quickly rolled off its back, grabbing the Child of the Forest and tumbling into the snow.

“The White Walkers are here!” the Child cried, its voice sharp with fear.

Rhaegar’s ears rang from the shout, but he swiftly rose, drawing Blackfyre from his belt. The ancient Valyrian steel gleamed in the dim light.

And then, the forest stirred. The snow crunched beneath unseen feet, and the ground quaked with the tremors of approaching danger.

“Roar…”

Dozens of pale-faced figures burst from the snow, their hoarse cries echoing through the forest as they charged forward. Their bodies were twisted at the joints, skeletal and covered in stretched, frostbitten skin—resembling nothing more than walking corpses frozen in time.

Rhaegar’s pupils contracted, and a cold sweat began to gather in his palms. This was his first time facing the dead, and he felt a wave of unease wash over him. For a brief moment, he hesitated.

Before he could fully react, even more of the dead emerged from the shadows of the forest, as if they had stumbled into the heart of their lair.

“Hurry! We can’t beat them!” the Child of the Forest cried out, panic clear in its voice. It fumbled frantically in its torn pockets, searching for something.

There was an entire army of the dead before them—how could two beings hope to stand against such a force?

Pop!

Without a word, Rhaegar swung Blackfyre, severing the head of a nearby corpse. The moment the blade struck, something miraculous occurred: the dead man stiffened, its decapitated body collapsing to the ground, unmoving.

It was an eerie sight, and yet, in this strange reality, it seemed almost natural. The lifeless corpse was soon trampled into the snow by the relentless march of the other undead.

“Roar…”

More of the dead lunged toward them, their faces twisted in grotesque grimaces, mouths wide open in silent, eternal screams. Rhaegar, realizing something, moved swiftly. With a powerful sweep of Blackfyre, he sliced through the air in a wide arc, decapitating several of the dead in one stroke.

Pop!

Flames flickered along the edge of Blackfyre, hovering just above Rhaegar’s hand as he brought the sword back into position. His eyes flicked to the glowing blade, and the corner of his mouth curled in satisfaction. The Child of the Forest had been right—Blackfyre could kill the dead.

Or was it...?

“It’s the Valyrian steel,” Rhaegar thought, the realization hitting him like a bolt of lightning. That was the key.

“There are too many of them. We need to find shelter,” the Child of the Forest said anxiously, pulling out two small glass bottles from its pockets. With a quick flick of its wrist, it hurled them toward the approaching horde.

Boom!

Boom!

The bottles exploded on impact, erupting into a brilliant blaze of green wildfire. The flames spread rapidly, engulfing the nearby undead in a raging inferno. For a moment, the advancing dead faltered as the wildfire scorched their ranks, reducing them to ash.

“Wait—protect yourself,” Rhaegar warned, his expression grim as he slashed through the weaker dead, all while keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings.

This wasn’t just a routine encounter. He had ventured beyond the Wall to witness the White Walkers with his own eyes. And where there was an army of the dead, the White Walkers were never far behind, controlling them from the shadows.

Yet something else gnawed at the back of his mind. Robb and the others still hadn’t located the Heart Tree or the Greenseer, as the Child of the Forest had spoken of.

“Roar…”

The dead continued to gather in ever-greater numbers, surrounding them on all sides and cutting off any chance of escape. It was clear now—they were not mindless. Their movements were deliberate, coordinated, as if they were trapping their prey.

“They're no fools, after all,” Rhaegar muttered, pressing his back against the mammoth, which had risen shakily to its feet. Before him, three wights brandished rusted swords, their hollow eyes locked on him.

“Whoa, whoa…”

A sudden, hoarse neigh echoed from the dark recesses of the forest. Rhaegar’s heart sank, and his gaze snapped toward the sound.

Trot, trot, trot…

From the shadows emerged a decaying warhorse, its skeletal body swaying with each unsteady step. Its neck was half-exposed, the pale bones gleaming against the dirty snow. Atop the beast sat a figure—a pale, ghastly creature with the face of death itself. It held an ice-crystal spear, its blue eyes glowing like cold stars.

The creature turned its head slightly, meeting Rhaegar’s gaze with an emotionless stare.

“A White Walker,” the Child of the Forest whispered, her small body tensing as she fumbled in her ragged pockets. The glass bottles she pulled out were meager, inferior substitutes for the pumpkin bombs she had lost.

Rhaegar grinned, his eyes glinting with anticipation. “Haha, finally showing yourself.” He spun Blackfyre in a casual arc, the blade whistling through the air as he kicked aside a skeleton that lunged at him. His body surged forward, powerful and unyielding.

The true nature of the dragonborn awakened within him, and flames flickered along the edge of Blackfyre. This was the moment he had been waiting for. The White Walker had finally revealed itself.

Thud!

The wight commander’s expressionless face twitched as it tugged on the reins. The rotting warhorse leaped high, its hooves crashing down with the force of a drumbeat. The ground trembled beneath it as the undead army roared in response, instinctively parting to make way.

Rhaegar observed this without surprise. The scene before him was eerily similar to the visions he had seen in his dreams—an army of the dead, all controlled by this cold, emotionless creature.

“Hissahhh…”

For the first time, the White Walker made a sound. It was thick and low, a chilling noise that sent shivers down the spine. The dead swayed at the sound, tightening their ranks as they began to encircle the Child of the Forest and the mammoth.

It was a clear message. The White Walker wanted a one-on-one fight, but it also intended to clear the field of any distractions.

Terrified, the Child of the Forest scrambled up the mammoth’s back, using its trunk as leverage, her wide green eyes flickering between the encroaching dead and Rhaegar. She kept a fierce watch on the army surrounding them, her heart pounding.

Rhaegar, however, paid no attention to what was happening behind him. His focus was locked on the White Walker. Step by step, he advanced toward it, his grip tightening on Blackfyre.

Boom! Boom!

Glass bottles shattered behind him, the wildfire exploding and consuming swaths of the dead. But the army was relentless, pushing through the green flames without a shred of pain or fear. Their rotting faces twisted into even more grotesque forms as the fire licked at their decayed flesh.

The Child of the Forest’s panic grew. Her gaze kept darting toward Rhaegar, uncertainty gnawing at her. Could he defeat the White Walker? She didn’t know. What she did know, however, was that the dead would tear her apart if he failed.

Boom!

Suddenly, a powerful gust of wind swept through the clearing, whipping the snow into spirals. Above them, the dark clouds churned and rolled, crashing into one another like storming waves. For a brief moment, a dark shape could be seen, faintly outlined in the weakest part of the cloud cover.

“Roar…”

A dragon’s roar, as deep and thunderous as muffled drums, echoed across the battlefield. The dark clouds in the sky trembled in response, rippling as if alive. The White Walker slowly tilted its head, a flicker of surprise crossing its ice-blue eyes.

Boom!

A jet-black dragon burst through the clouds, its immense, hideous head like a dark iron gate swinging open. Its jaws parted, releasing a pungent wave of ash that filled the air. From its maw spewed an eerie, viscous green dragonfire, glowing unnaturally in the gloom.

Clattering.

The dragonfire rained down in torrents, sweeping across the battlefield like a pillar of molten fury. Wherever it landed, the army of the dead was hammered by a tremendous force, their brittle bodies shattering upon impact.

“Roar…”

The Cannibal, infamous for its viciousness, let out a guttural bellow as it dove from the sky. Dragonfire spewed forth again, dividing the battlefield into flaming sections. The undead army stood no chance—under the dark green flames, they were rendered inert, their broken forms turning to ash, no longer able to rise.

“Your turn, ugly white thing,” Rhaegar taunted softly, pointing Blackfyre at the White Walker.

He had done it—lured the White Walker out of hiding. Now, it was time to fight.

Bang!

Provoked by Rhaegar’s words, the White Walker leapt gracefully from its decaying horse. Towering and menacing, it exuded a cold, oppressive aura.

“Hissah!”

The White Walker snarled in fury, its ice spear gleaming as it charged forward, its movements fueled by indignation at being toyed with by a mere human. It struck first, swinging the spear with deadly precision toward Rhaegar’s head.

Clang!

Rhaegar parried the blow with Blackfyre, the clash of Valyrian steel against enchanted ice ringing through the air. The force of the impact buckled Rhaegar’s knees, nearly knocking him off balance. He gritted his teeth as sweat beaded on his brow.

'The strength of the dead... it's immense,' he thought, eyes narrowing in surprise.

With a swift motion, Rhaegar countered, swinging Blackfyre in a wide arc aimed at the wight’s torso. The White Walker dodged with inhuman agility, deflecting the strike with its ice spear, sending shards of ice scattering through the air.

Both combatants paused, evaluating each other. Rhaegar twisted his wrist, wincing at the red, swelling bruise. His opponent's raw power was staggering, comparable to a giant, towering seven or eight meters tall.

The White Walker, its icy features expressionless, ran a pale hand along the length of its spear. Its eyes, glowing like frozen stars, narrowed in concentration. The spear in its hand was a gift from the cold gods, crafted to shatter ordinary weapons with ease. Yet Blackfyre had withstood the assault, unscathed by the ice’s touch.

The wight’s sluggish mind slowly pieced together the truth: Rhaegar’s weapon was enchanted.

Swish!

A blur of black steel sliced through the air, aimed straight at the White Walker’s head. Rhaegar’s grin was merciless, his attack swift and deadly.

Clang!

The White Walker barely managed to block the strike, retreating swiftly with long, nimble strides. The force of the blow reverberated through its arms, and for the first time, a sliver of emotion crossed its cold eyes—shock.

Rhaegar pressed forward, relentless. His eyes gleamed with a predatory focus, the subtle smile still lingering on his lips. In just two exchanges, he had discerned his opponent's strengths. The White Walker possessed terrifying power and supernatural reflexes—qualities that could overwhelm most elite knights. But strength alone was not enough.

Beneath that formidable, pale exterior, the White Walker’s combat skills were crude, almost clumsy.

The wight swung its spear again, its ice-blue eyes betraying its growing frustration. Each strike was fast, but predictable. Rhaegar moved effortlessly, dodging and countering with precision.

Clang!

With a graceful twist of his wrist, Rhaegar brought Blackfyre down with precision. The Valyrian steel sliced through the ice-crystal spear, leaving a jagged dent along its length.

The White Walker staggered back, eyes wide with shock. Every blow Rhaegar delivered carried immense power, cutting through the cold wind and sending tremors up the wight’s arm.

But Rhaegar did not falter. His every movement was calculated, and he had already learned his opponent’s weakness: brute strength was useless without the skill to wield it effectively.

The White Walker retreated, struggling to regain control. It watched Rhaegar with newfound wariness, its ice-blue eyes now filled with something unexpected—fear.

“You’ve lost, ugly thing,” Rhaegar sneered, stepping closer.

Blackfyre clanged against the ice-crystal spear, the Valyrian steel sliding down its frosted shaft before cutting into the pale, dead hand of the wight. The creature had no time to react—its sluggish mind too slow to dodge. With a hollow clatter, the spear dropped from its grip.

Instinctively, the wight retaliated, thrusting its large foot forward in a desperate attempt to strike. But Rhaegar didn’t flinch or parry. Instead, he angled Blackfyre down, its tip ready to meet the attack.

The White Walker froze. In a moment of panic, it jerked its foot back, stumbling awkwardly and losing balance. In just a few seconds, its fatal weakness was exposed.

“You’re afraid of Valyrian steel, aren’t you?” Rhaegar’s eyes gleamed with the realization. He hadn’t expected such a discovery.

Swish!

Blackfyre arced through the air, aiming directly for the wight’s neck, its pale skin folded and taut. The wight’s ice-blue eyes widened in fear as it lifted its hand in a futile attempt to block the blow.

Puff.

The blade sliced cleanly through the wight’s hand, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. The creature’s mouth opened wide, but no sound escaped. It crumbled silently, its body disintegrating like foam, turning to pale dust that scattered in the cold wind.

Rhaegar stood frozen, watching the remnants of the White Walker drift away. It took him a moment to grasp the enormity of what had just happened.

Clattering…

At the same time, the army of the dead faltered. Thousands of skeletal soldiers collapsed, their bodies turning to powder and dispersing into the air, carried away by the wind like ash.

“Roar…”

Above, the Cannibal circled, its eerie green eyes flashing with suspicion. The dragon tentatively landed, its hind legs scratching at the ghostly green dragonfire still smoldering on the snow. The dead, once wrapped in flame, had long since crumbled, leaving behind nothing but the acrid stench of burning.

“We’ve won!” The Child of the Forest’s voice rang out, filled with joy. It hurried over to Rhaegar, eyes wide with excitement. “The White Walkers can be killed! When they die, their army of the dead dies with them!”

Rhaegar allowed himself a smile as he sheathed Blackfyre. “The White Walkers are this fragile?” he thought. Like paper tigers, useless against Valyrian steel.

“No wonder Valyrian steel is worth its weight in gold,” he muttered, patting Blackfyre at his waist. His gaze shifted to the Cannibal, now sniffing around cautiously. House Targaryen still had several Valyrian steel swords in its possession. And with the dragonglass weapons forged from the mines beneath Dragonstone, the threat of the White Walkers seemed less daunting.

“Not as powerful as I thought… more like a curse,” Rhaegar mused.

“Where are we going now?” the Child of the Forest asked, stumbling to keep up with him, its voice enthusiastic. “We should go to the Greenseer and ask how to fight the White Walkers.”

Its race, after all, lived near the Heart Tree, and relocating the entire group might be necessary.

“No rush. There’s someone else we need to find first,” Rhaegar replied, ignoring the question as he deftly mounted the dragon’s back. The sight of the White Walker’s weakness had filled him with renewed confidence in the war between the living and the dead.

The Child of the Forest’s words, along with the cryptic messages of the witch Quaithe, had left Rhaegar with more questions than answers. If the Greenseer was truly wise, he would come to Rhaegar, not the other way around. Besides, the Shadow Lands of Asshai were full of witches and dark magic. Who knew if any real power there could defeat the White Walkers or even kill the Night King?

“Roar…”

The Cannibal stretched its massive wings, shaking off the remnants of the battlefield. Its head turned toward the towering mountains in the north.

The Fist of the First Men—where Robb and the others might be hiding.

...

“Hurry up, my little crows,” a wildling hissed, urging the captives forward.

At the Fist of the First Men, a ragged line of wildlings climbed steadily, leading a group of prisoners, all bound and clad in armor. Robb, his arms tightly bound with rope, struggled against his restraints, his voice filled with urgency.

“Let us go! The White Walkers are real—they’re here!” he pleaded, anxiety clear in his tone.

A red-nosed wildling with a toothy grin slapped Robb’s side with a filthy hand, the stench of sweat and dirt clinging to him. “Oh, we know the White Walkers exist, crow,” he sneered. “But we’re not letting you go that easily.” The wildling’s grin widened. Capturing a few "crows" wasn’t easy, and they were valuable as hostages.

Robb winced and dodged the wildling’s filthy touch. “Where are you taking us? You should head to the Wall,” he urged. “The king and my father—has convinced the North to let the free folk through. We can fight the White Walkers together!”

“No chance,” came the cold, gravelly voice of the leader—a giant of a man with a face like stone. He looked down at Robb with disdain. “The free folk don’t trust anyone.”

His eyes gleamed with a hard, unshakable confidence. “Once we find the Horn of Winter and awaken the sleeping giants beneath the earth, that Wall won’t be able to stop us.”

“Yeah, yeah…” The wildlings around them echoed the sentiment, their faces alight with hope at the mention of the Horn of Winter. To them, it was more than a myth—it was the key to taking back the North, to finally reclaiming everything their ancestors had lost. Once the horn was blown, the Wall would crumble, and the free folk would rule the North.

Robb frowned in confusion. The Horn of Winter? Sleeping giants beneath the ground? He knew nothing of these legends, but the wildlings believed in them with fervor. His companions had already been separated from him, absorbed into the wildling tribe, their fates uncertain.

And now, they were all being dragged to the Fist of the First Men, in search of this legendary horn.