Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Daemon spotted the White Walkers in the distance, and they were watching him in return. A tall, pale figure dismounted from its horse, pointing provocatively at the ice crystals on its spear. With unblinking ice-blue eyes, it seemed to issue a silent challenge to the humans.

The roar of the undead army drowned out the howling wind and snow. Daemon regarded them coldly, his sword flashing as he swiftly beheaded two corpse ghosts, advancing steadily into an open area.

So, they're White Walkers, are they? Daemon thought, I'll just have to see how good they are.

"Roar..."

Caraxes stretched its long neck, releasing a torrent of Dragonfire that blazed across the battlefield, cutting off the White Walkers' advance. Meanwhile, the Child of the Forest darted along the mountain wall, slashing at the undead with claws and teeth.

Beneath the ancient Weirwood tree, Daemon stood solemnly in the shade, where not a single red leaf remained.

Tap, tap...

The White Walker strode forward, its large, bare feet stamping on the frozen black soil, closing in on its prey.

"Uglier up close, you damned thing," Daemon sneered, his eyes scanning for an opening to strike.

The White Walker’s expressionless face remained menacing as it lowered its spear of ice crystals. If it attacked with the same rhythm as before, it would surely shatter Daemon's weapon.

Clang!

Daemon raised his sword to block the attack, shards of ice scattering and dazzling his eyes. As his nephew had once told him, Valyrian steel could indeed counter the White Walkers. The creature's surprise flickered as its weapon was stopped.

"Haha, I underestimated you," Daemon smirked, giving a devilish grin. With a sudden lunge, he slammed his shoulder into the White Walker’s chest.

The Walker attempted to retreat, but its spear was tangled with Daemon’s blade, leaving it unable to move. Frustrated, it let go of the spear and swung its fist at Daemon.

Bang!

Daemon’s shoulder collided with the creature’s chest, forcing it back two steps. The White Walker was unnaturally strong, but it managed to steady itself, planting its feet firmly on the ground. Daemon’s eyes locked on his enemy’s, his wrists twisting as he angled his sword downward. He gripped the hilt tightly and drove the blade toward the Walker’s abdomen.

The White Walker reacted quickly, crossing its arms to block Daemon's strike. The blade halted just inches from its pale skin.

"You’re finished," Daemon declared, his voice low. Suddenly, he loosened his grip on the sword, letting his right hand slip through the creature’s defenses to reclaim the hilt.

The White Walker hesitated, stunned by the maneuver.

With a cold, metallic sound, Daemon thrust the Dark Sister forward. The blade pierced the Walker’s abdomen as if cutting through paper. The creature opened its arms, as if preparing for one last counterattack, but Daemon was quicker. He stepped back, his movements as swift as a cheetah, and plunged the sword again—this time through its heart.

"A fool with power. I could beat ten like you with my bare hands when I was sixteen," Daemon scoffed, his gaze dripping with contempt. He twisted the hilt slowly, savoring the moment.

Pop!

The White Walker disintegrated into a fine powder, vanishing as if it had never existed.

"So much for that," Daemon grinned, tossing the lithe Dark Sister from hand to hand. He was as bloodthirsty as ever and never showed a hint of hesitation.

At the mouth of the valley...

Boom! Boom!

The Child of the Forest darted frantically, pursued by an army of dead. Just then, an explosion thundered behind him.

At the mouth of the valley...

Boom! Boom!

The Child of the Forest darted frantically, pursued by an army of Orcs. Just then, an explosion thundered behind him.

"Don’t be afraid, Billbo!"

A dozen small, brown-skinned Children of the Forest suddenly appeared, their hands filled with pumpkin-shaped bombs. With swift precision, they hurled them into the midst of the wights.

The blasts tore through the enemy, scattering limbs and bones across the battlefield. One of the dead was blown apart mid-lunge, its jaws snapping uselessly in the air.

"You’ve finally come!" Billbo cried, overjoyed to see her long-lost kin.

With the reinforcements joining the fray, the army of undead quickly crumbled, becoming nothing more than vulnerable, shattered remains. After a relentless barrage, the valley floor was littered with broken limbs and charred remains.

Billbo rushed to join the others when, suddenly, a skeletal hand shot up from the snow and clamped onto her ankle.

"Arba, Arba!" she screamed.

The snow burst open, and a half-destroyed skeleton struggled upright. Another skeleton, nearby, retrieved its fallen skull, placing it back on its neck. The reassembled figure exuded an eerie ferocity, its bony jaws snapping down on Billbo's ankle.

Billbo’s eyes widened in terror as she kicked wildly, trying to shake off the undead grip.

Pat!

Before he could land another kick, the skeleton crumbled to dust. The few wights still struggling nearby also fell still, their eerie glow fading.

"Roar..."

Caraxes climbed the steep cliff, its sharp teeth clamped around the remains of a corpse. Its long neck coiled as its fierce, vertical pupils scanned the valley below, eyeing the diminutive Children of the Forest with suspicion.

Billbo looked up, her expression lighting up with excitement. High above, Daemon strode leisurely up the cliff, Dark Sister in hand. His figure overlapped with that of the Blood Wyrm, the two appearing almost as one. A ray of sunlight illuminated the corner of his eye, revealing the slight wrinkles of age, but his strength remained undiminished by time.

"Strange creatures, you came out of this cave, didn’t you?" Daemon called down, his sword pointing toward a narrow cave opening in the cliff.

...

The dark cave was filled with a strange warmth, a gentle current of air moving through it. Daemon followed the Children of the Forest, holding a torch in one hand. An older female Child led the way, her expression serious as she spoke.

"The White Walkers appeared last night," she explained. "We had to hide."

Daemon furrowed his brow, still unsure why the White Walkers had been drawn to the area. He suspected it had something to do with the Heart Tree.

"Just tell me where the Heart Tree is and how I can become the Greenseer," he demanded, growing impatient. He glanced around the dark, cramped space, his eyes flicking between the strange, squirrel-like people who spoke in whispers.

"The Heart Tree is just ahead," the elder Child said, pausing to glance back at Daemon. Her voice grew more serious. "But whether you can gain its approval depends on your ability."

With that, she dismissed the rest of the tribe, leaving only herself, Daemon, and Billbo to press on. The three made their way through the twisting, dark tunnels of the cave. Suddenly, the passage opened up.

Before them was a massive cavern bathed in sunlight streaming through a hole in the ceiling. In the center stood a towering Weirwood tree. Its pale trunk gleamed in the light, while its vast canopy stretched out beyond the cave. Tangled roots coiled across the ground, clutching the dark soil below.

The Heart Tree awaited.

“This is the Heart Tree,” the older Child of the Forest said, her voice filled with awe as she gazed up at the towering Weirwood. “Touch the trunk, and you will receive guidance.”

She made it clear, however, that it was guidance, not a guaranteed inheritance.

“You both, step back,” Daemon ordered, glancing at the two Children of the Forest. “Caraxes is outside, and it will eat anything in its path.”

Billbo didn't argue. He stepped back obediently, eyeing the massive red dragon lurking beyond the trees. The elder Child gave Daemon a look, something unreadable in her eyes, and whispered, “Be careful.”

Daemon, who often seemed reckless, took note of the fleeting expression on her face as he approached the Weirwood. The trunk was massive, its girth so wide that several people together could barely wrap their arms around it. Its thick, gnarled roots pierced through the dry rock, bulging as if suppressing ancient spirits desperate to crawl out of some long-forgotten purgatory.

Daemon climbed onto a rock, standing directly before the Weirwood. Its pale bark was carved with a face that seemed to pity the world, bright red sap streaming from the corners of its eyes like tears, weeping for a disaster yet to come.

“What exactly are your powers?” Daemon muttered, his sharp eyes glowing with curiosity as he reached out to touch the bark. It felt rough beneath his hand, the sticky sap clinging to his skin.

He closed his eyes, focusing inward, instinctively tuning into the fire magic pulsing in his blood.

A deep, humming sound vibrated through his mind. Suddenly, the world began to spin, dizziness overtaking him.

What’s happening?

Daemon tried to open his eyes, but the words lodged in his throat. The scene around him shifted violently, reality turning upside down. The Weirwood disappeared, replaced by visions—wild and disjointed.

The Three-Eyed Crow, the Night King leading an army of ghouls... He saw it all. Events that were unfolding, events that connected to him, and events that might come to pass.

Boom!

The body of a pale dragon crashed into the snow, its lifeless form sprawled across the frozen ground. Blood dripped from its mouth, hot against the cold, stark white of the snow.

Shocked, Daemon instinctively stepped closer to get a better look, but in an instant, the world shifted again. The sky flipped, and he plunged into icy lake water, his lungs filling with freezing liquid. Panic surged through him as he coughed, bubbles rising to the surface.

The sensation of suffocation gripped him for a moment, but as quickly as it came, it passed. The lake froze solid, transforming into an endless snowfield.

Puff!

A large, dragon-ringed hand burst through the snow, struggling to pull itself free. Daemon gasped, his head breaking the surface of the snow. He lay there, breathless, his heart pounding in his chest. All around him, a battlefield stretched on, littered with corpses and drenched in blood. Blackened scorch marks marred the ground from where flames had once roared.

Pop!

Just as Daemon began to make sense of the vision, the image shattered like fragile glass.

He found himself back under the Weirwood tree, its pale trunk looming above him once again.

“Ahhh!” Daemon's eyes snapped open, a growl rumbling from his chest.

“What did you see?” The older Child of the Forest stood nearby, her gaze sharp with expectation.

“What? What?” Daemon gasped, still catching his breath. He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, his body trembling slightly. What he had just experienced felt like dying and coming back to life.

“This concerns the future,” the Child pressed, her voice urgent.

Suddenly, a new voice echoed through the cave, drawing Daemon’s attention. A fourth figure stepped forward—a male Child of the Forest, stocky and dressed in tattered armor, with a helmet crowned by antlers. He held a spear, its stone tip crudely bound to the shaft.

Daemon gathered his thoughts, steadying his breath as he felt the weight of their expectant gazes.

“I didn’t see clearly,” he muttered, trying to collect himself. “I’ll take another look.”

Without hesitation, he gritted his teeth and placed his hand once more on the sorrowful face carved into the Weirwood. He wasn’t convinced that he had inherited the Greenseer’s legacy. What he had seen were fragmented premonitions—visions, but not the full inheritance. If that's all it was... why not look deeper?

Hum!

That same familiar dizziness washed over him, but this time it was less overwhelming. The cave dissolved around him, and he found himself once again in a vast expanse of snow. Now, having endured the vision before, Daemon steadied himself, focusing on the scene around him.

In the distance, a massive ice wall stretched across the landscape, towering over the snow-covered plains from east to west. Daemon recognized it instantly—the Wall. But something was horribly wrong. The ground was littered with corpses, charred remains scattered in all directions. The smell of burning flesh filled the air.

“Roar…”

A deep, guttural dragon's roar broke through the eerie silence, accompanied by a strong gust of wind that swept across the bleak sky. Daemon looked up just in time to see a massive black creature soaring over the Wall, its enormous wings blotting out the sun as it flew swiftly southeast.

“The Cannibal?” Daemon whispered in shock as the vision zoomed closer, revealing more detail.

On the dragon’s broad black back, a silver-haired figure lay slumped, barely moving. It was Rhaegar. His face was pale, eyes closed as if in a deep sleep. Bandages wrapped tightly around his arm, which trembled uncontrollably.

Daemon’s heart sank. He never could have imagined his nephew would be in such a state. Had the White Walkers attacked while he was away?

As if sensing his thoughts, Rhaegar suddenly opened his eyes, locking onto Daemon’s. For a brief moment, time seemed to stop as the two stared at each other across the vast, surreal landscape. There was something unsettling in the way they connected—an absurd, dreamlike tension filled the air.

Daemon, at a loss, struggled to comprehend his nephew’s condition. Was Rhaegar seeing him, too? The answer came swiftly. Yes, his nephew was aware of him. Somehow, their visions had crossed paths.

Rhaegar, his expression a mix of shock and confusion, opened his mouth as if to speak, but no sound came out. The black dragon beneath him flapped its wings, accelerating its flight over the Haunted Forest, quickly disappearing into the distance, taking Rhaegar with it.

Daemon stood dumbfounded, trying to decipher what his nephew had been trying to say. He strained to make sense of the movement of Rhaegar’s lips...

“Boo~~”

The vision blurred, then shattered completely, leaving Daemon once again under the Weirwood tree.