Barrowlands
Tens of thousands of troops marched like a tidal wave, heading straight for Winterfell in the North.
"Roar..."
A huge black creature streaked across the sky, slowing down as it hovered above the Kingsroad. The sound of hooves stamping the ground was deafening. Facing the coalition army head-on, a cavalry unit galloped toward them.
"Whoa..."
The strong, white-haired old man tugged on the reins, a massive two-handed sword strapped to his back. All the soldiers wore the thickest leather coats, with two or even three horses each, carrying weapons, food, and armor.
Boom.
The Cannibal landed with a long, echoing howl. Thousands of warhorses flinched and neighed, rearing back in fear. The knights tightened their reins, struggling to keep their horses from collapsing under the dragon’s presence.
Rhaegar sat upright in his saddle and recognized the leader of the army before him. "Lord Roderick Dustin, are you also heading north to the Wall?"
The strong old man was indeed Lord Roderick, who had recently visited King's Landing. He was a powerful warrior and strategist, known to the people of the North as ‘Roddy the Ruin.’Clop, clop, clop.
Roderick, carrying the banner with the head of a direwolf, bellowed in his rough voice, "Thank the Old Gods, Your Grace, for leading an army to the aid of the Wall. The North will never forget!"
As he shouted, his weathered face broke into a broad smile. His army, the Winter Wolves—comprised of the North's first 'warriors'—was about to march to the Wall. They would resist the cold with their own flesh and blood, sacrificing their lives to give their families an extra mouthful of hot food. With the dragon-riding King of the Seven Kingdoms leading them, they might even eat well before they die.
As Rhaegar looked at the laughing old lord, he felt a deep sense of awe. "Return to your unit. All provisions will be taken from the coalition army."
The Winter Wolves were all older men from the North, many with graying beards like Roderick. But their expressions were solemn, and they were unafraid of the snowstorm or the dragon. They were truly elite.
"Thank you, Your Grace," Roderick said, dismounting. He strode up to the black dragon, bowing on one knee. Though easygoing, the old man valued tradition and kindness. The South’s support for the North was an indelible bond.
Rhaegar slid off the dragon's back, and Roderick watched him with shining eyes, fully aware of the dragon’s terrifying power.
"How many men are in your army?" Rhaegar asked.
"Over 2,000 in total, along with tens of thousands of cattle, sheep, and horses," Roderick replied matter-of-factly. "This year's harvest was destroyed, and every household can only rely on food stored from previous years to survive the winter. We had to bring any extra men and livestock."
Not only did those staying behind need food, but so did the men marching north. Livestock was the best source of sustenance.
"The army will first settle in Winterfell, then the cavalry will march to the Wall ahead of the others," Rhaegar declared. He gazed out over the barren, snow-covered land. "The Riverlands will send food supplies without fail. There’s no need to worry about hunger or cold."
The Others were the true enemy, and only with their defeat could victory come. To that end, the entire realm must support the North. With Rhaegar I of House Targaryen’s reputation, the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms would obey.
"Thank you, Your Gracious Grace," Roderick replied, his voice carrying across the desolate wilderness. He was no flatterer, but his gratitude rang clear and true.
...
Days of Marching
Winterfell, Godswood.
Drizzling...
Warm spring water gurgled softly, sending faint ripples across its surface as the black dragon's tail skimmed the water. The Cannibal crouched nearby, half its massive body immersed in the hot spring. Its green, vertical pupils were half-closed as it dozed peacefully.
In the vast forest surrounding Winterfell, the snow blanketed the ground more than three feet deep. A cold wind blew from time to time, swirling snowflakes and dropping them onto the dragon’s thick scales.
“No! You can’t do this to the Heart Tree!” A shrill shout suddenly pierced the air, followed by the sound of stomping in frustration.
Rumble...
A towering tree crashed to the ground with a deafening noise, sending snow flying in all directions. Soon, more trees followed, falling one by one.
The Winter Wolves, clad in thick furs and wielding axes, worked tirelessly to fell the trees of the Godswood and the surrounding Wolfswood. Watching in dismay, the Child of the Forest gnashed her teeth in protest. "You must respect the Heart Tree! You can’t cut down the forest!" it cried.
The trees had long served as a protective barrier for the Children of the Forest, and eight thousand years ago, the ancestors of the present men had cut down most of the forests and Heart Trees when they first landed on the continent of Westeros.
"They're not cutting down Heart Trees, just ordinary wood," Rhaegar said calmly, placing a hand on the chestnut-brown head of Billbo. "Winterfell needs firewood, and Wolfswood is part of the North. Sacrifices must be made."
“No, if you cut down the forest, nature will take its revenge,” the Child of the Forest warned, her large green eyes glaring. She climbed around the trees like a nimble monkey, occasionally darting behind Rhaegar and grabbing at his clothes, trying to scramble up him.
Rhaegar shook her off and paid her no mind. “The weirwood will remain. If you're afraid of losing your home, you can always move to Kingswood or Rainwood.”
After spending some time with them, Rhaegar had come to find the Children of the Forest surprisingly fun. Simple-minded, small, and largely unthreatening, they were also clever and adept at magic. No wonder they had been unable to compete with the First Men and were driven north of the Neck.
...
Leaving the Godswood, Rhaegar made his way through the muddy water left by the melting snow, heading back to the castle. As soon as he pushed open the door, he saw Rhaenyra directing her servants, who were hard at work repairing the castle and walls, settling the troops, and carrying provisions to the storage cellars.
Rhaenyra was dressed in a long, heavy black gown, her regal presence commanding. Her aloof demeanor radiated the majesty of a queen, and she had naturally taken up the role of Winterfell's hostess. With Lord Cregan's wife having died young, the great fortress was still run by the aging Maester.
“Rhaegar, you’re back,” Rhaenyra called as she briefly glanced up from her work. She quickly pulled a piece of paper from her sleeve. “Where are Baela and the others?”
Rhaegar looked around but saw only the bustling servants. “They’re tidying the crypts. It’s warmer down there, better for the dragons,” she explained, her eyes full of concern as she stepped closer, standing on tiptoe to adjust his collar. Moondancer and Morning, the young dragons, were too small to withstand the cold of the North. Thankfully, the crypts were large enough to shelter them.
Rhaegar leaned down slightly, letting his chin rest on Rhaenyra’s soft shoulder, savoring the warmth of her presence. He slipped his hands under her arms, took the letter, and began to read it.
“This is from the Wall. Is something wrong?” Rhaenyra asked, craning her neck to peek at the letter.
Rhaegar’s face darkened as he skimmed the words. Gently, he cupped her narrow waist with one hand, holding the letter with the other. “It’s not good news,” he said gravely. "The wildlings attack the Wall every few days, and the Night’s Watch is exhausted from defending it day and night."
“I suppose I have to go,” Rhaegar murmured, though his voice carried a weight to it. The long-standing conflict between the North and the wildlings seemed unresolvable, and the Wall had become a great divide between them.
“Leave Winterfell to me. Send word if you need anything,” Rhaenyra whispered softly, offering her final instructions.
Rhaegar nodded, though his mind was already racing with ideas on how to resolve the issue with the wildlings. The appearance of the Others posed a threat to all living people, both inside and outside the Wall.
The wildlings attacked out of desperation, seeking survival. If possible, Rhaegar knew it would be best to allow tens of thousands—perhaps hundreds of thousands—of wildlings to migrate south of the Wall. Otherwise, those left outside would inevitably join the ranks of the army of the dead.
...
King’s Landing
The Red Keep, Council Chamber.
Daemon sat at the head of the table, his patience thinning as the discussion dragged on.
“Lord Jason Lannister has yet to send his troops,” one councilor began, frustration clear in his voice. “Even the Lord of Golden Tooth has already dispatched his cavalry north.”
“Lord Jason is bedridden,” another chimed in, “but we have no idea how serious his condition is.”
“He's defying the Iron Throne!” Lord Lyman growled, his face dark with anger. “Ignoring orders in the kingdom’s time of crisis!”
The king’s authority was sacred and inviolable, and yet, here was a Lord openly disobeying the crown.
'How can the Lord of Casterly Rock lead the way in disregarding royal orders?' Lyman seethed.
“Forgive me for speaking plainly,” a new voice interjected, “but as far as I know, Lord Lyman’s house hasn’t sent anyone north either.”
All eyes turned to Lord Desmond of White Harbor, the Northern representative seated at the Small Council. Lyman’s face flushed red with fury, momentarily lost for words.
“That’s not true!” Lyman stammered. “Ser Alan Beesbury answered the call and is defending against foreign forces.”
Otto Hightower, seated to the side, quietly diffused Lyman’s embarrassment. “Indeed,” he added, “Ser Alan has responded in your name, Lord Lyman.” Otto’s presence in the council room was a recent development; though he had been away in Norvos, the royal court had been short-staffed, and his return was timely. Though not universally liked, he was capable of resolving administrative issues efficiently.
Desmond narrowed his eyes at Otto’s interference. “The merchants of Qarth had an agreement with His Grace,” Desmond said pointedly, “and White Harbor has not driven them away.”
“That’s because White Harbor is frozen for half the year,” Otto retorted coolly. “And there isn’t a single Manderly bank to speak of.” His tone carried a clear edge. Both men were old foxes, masters at hiding their true motives. Desmond, unable to reply, looked away, embarrassed.
Sensing the moment to press his advantage, Lyman spoke again. “Lord Jason has openly disobeyed the king’s orders. He must be punished.”
“And what punishment do you suggest?” Desmond asked, intrigued. He hoped for something that would align with his own interests.
“Whatever His Grace deems appropriate,” Lyman replied smoothly, pulling a letter from his sleeve.
Grand Maester Orwyle stood up, took the letter, and passed it to Daemon. “The king’s intent,” Orwyle whispered as he handed it over, “is that Lord Jason’s delay in sending troops must be addressed. A dragon should be sent to ‘examine’ the situation. Only then can the royal family’s authority be restored.”
Otto nodded, clearly in agreement. His displeasure with House Lannister was evident.
Daemon read the letter slowly, his gaze sweeping across the room, taking in the faces of the council members. He paused for a moment, then, without warning—
Bang!
He slammed the table, the noise echoing through the chamber. “Very well,” he said, his tone cold. “Let’s see just how ‘sick’ Lord Jason really is.”
“Roar...” A shrill, eerie screech pierced the air, coming from outside the window.
...
In the back garden of the Red Keep, the ground was dusted with thin layers of snow. October's delicate flowers were wilting under the cold. From the snow rose a scarlet dragon, its body as slender as a serpent. Snowflakes scattered as it shook itself, its sharp, devilish head tilting upward. Its long, piercing cry reverberated through the keep. The dragon, restless and eager, awaited its next command.
...
The Wall
Dum dum dum!
The dull, powerful beat of war drums echoed through the frigid air, causing the snow-covered ground to tremble.
"Charge!"
Tens of thousands of wildlings surged from the Haunted Forest, their roars filling the icy expanse as they launched wave after wave of relentless assaults.
Before they could even reach the Wall, a rain of arrows descended upon them, striking with lethal precision. Blood splattered in bursts across the snow, and the bodies of wildlings fell like discarded rags, littering the ground. But more came. They trampled over their fallen companions, driven by desperation, pushing ever closer to the Wall.
"Release the arrows! Pour the fire oil down as well!"
Old Benjicot's voice boomed from atop the Wall, his sword drawn as he commanded the Night's Watch to fight back against the onslaught.
"This won’t hold!" Cregan yanked Benjicot over, his eyes filled with worry. "Sooner or later, we’ll run out of arrows and fire oil."
"What else can we do, my lord?" Benjicot shook off the younger man’s grip, his face stern. "The Night's Watch swore an oath to guard until the very end." Even if it means starving. Even if it means running out of ammunition.
A sudden roar from below shook the ground. Cregan’s heart sank as he raced to the watchtower for a better view. His eyes widened at the sight below.
The wildling horde had parted in a wide, orderly fashion, creating a path. From within their ranks, a towering mammoth lumbered forward, dragging a massive tree trunk behind it. Its snorts filled the air as it charged, swinging its long trunk like a battering ram.
Behind the mammoth came a terrifying sight—giants. A dozen of them, towering seven or eight meters tall, their bodies clad in animal skins and thick furs. They stormed toward the Wall in a tight formation, shoulder to shoulder, an unstoppable force of sheer muscle and rage.
At the head of the pack was an ugly giant, brandishing a monstrous, modified mace. With a deafening crash, it smashed the weapon into the underground passage gate of the Wall, shaking the ancient stone fortress to its core.
"Quickly! Pour the oil!"
The Night's Watchmen scrambled in terror, hoisting oil drums toward the parapets. One man, in his panic, lost his grip, and the barrel slipped from the wall before it could be opened.
Boom!
The barrel exploded violently upon hitting the ground, but the blast did little to halt the advancing giants. Led by the monstrous giant, four or five of the towering creatures huddled at the base of the Wall. Together, their immense strength focused on the iron gate, which groaned under the weight of their combined efforts.
The gate began to lift. Slowly, with a rumble that seemed to shake the entire Wall, it rose, revealing the thick wooden door behind it.
"I’ll handle this!"
One of the giants moved clumsily but with frightening strength, hoisting the trunk the mammoth had dragged. With a loud crash, the trunk was wedged beneath the gate, raising it a full foot off the ground. The wooden door shuddered as the wildlings, driven by savage fury, prepared to breach the final barrier that stood between them and the realm beyond.
“Haha, the giants are unstoppable!”
“Damn the crows!”
The wildling horde charged through the flames ignited by the fire oil, pushing deeper into the tunnel. With the iron fence destroyed, the solid wooden door stood no stronger than paper before the savage assault. Wild men hacked at it recklessly, and in no time, a groove was chiseled out of the thick wood.
The Night’s Watchmen atop the Wall looked on in horror, their hands and feet growing cold as they watched the door give way.
"Ten men, with me!" Cregan shouted, stepping forward and drawing his house sword, Ice. His voice was cold, determined. "We’ll block the door to the underground passage!"
Ten brave Night’s Watchmen broke away from the larger group, grim resolve etched into their faces. With death in their eyes, they followed Cregan toward the winch ladder.
Boom!
Boom!
The muffled sounds below were the giants hammering against the remnants of the iron fence, attempting to tear it apart. Cregan held his breath, silently praying to the Heart Tree. There was no enemy too strong, no situation too desperate.
Boom!
The iron fence groaned as large chunks of stone crumbled from the wall. Cregan stepped onto the long ladder of the winch, closing his eyes tightly in anticipation.
Suddenly, a sound pierced the chaos—a deafening roar that shook the air, like thunder rumbling across the land.
Sigh...
Cregan's heart leapt. His eyes snapped open.
Boom!
A dark shadow fell over the snowy battlefield, spreading across the land as it approached the Wall from the distance. Massive black wings, as dark as coal, loomed like a curtain in the sky. As they flapped, the wind howled, extinguishing the light of the sun.
"Dracarys!" A cold, commanding voice echoed from above.
“Roar...”
The black dragon sliced through the sky, its sharp hind legs landing on the battlements of the Wall. Lowering its head, it unleashed a torrent of greenish-black dragonfire. The flames fell like ash, drifting gently but devouring everything they touched. Wildlings, caught in its deadly path, screamed in agony as the dragonfire clung to them, burning with the intensity of bone ash.
Rhaegar, pale and grim, slid down the back of the black dragon, drawing Blackfyre from his waist.
Roar! Roar...
Moments later, the sky filled with the thunderous roars of two more dragons. The magnificent golden dragon and the grotesque mud-colored beast flew in pursuit of the black dragon, their mouths agape as they spewed their own dragonfire. Yet no matter the commands of their riders, the two dragons refused to cross beyond the Wall, circling overhead but never passing the ancient barrier.
Boom!
The Cannibal clung to the edge of the Wall with its massive forelimbs, its talons digging into the stone. It stretched its long neck, spilling as much of its dark green dragonfire as it could across the battlefield below. Its glowing, green vertical pupils were narrowed in concentration as thick, scorching smoke billowed from its body. It was as if some great threat lurked beyond the Wall, drawing the dragon's relentless gaze.
...
Meanwhile, at the entrance to Castle Black’s underground passageways, Rhaegar advanced steadily, Blackfyre in hand. His eyes were cold, focused, as he moved toward the exit between the multiple gates. The true power of the dragonborn manifested—wisps of black flame swirled around his body like shadows.
His forehead and heart were marked with dark, scaly patches, and his left arm had transformed—covered in black scales, it had tripled in strength. With every step, the air around him crackled with raw power, as if the dragon within him had fully awakened.
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