Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

“Who said that?”

As the words hung in the air, a cold voice cut through the stillness, picking up the conversation. The wildlings froze, startled by the unfamiliar tone. It was a voice none of them had heard before.

“Where are the wargs?” the voice demanded.

The red-nosed wildling’s eyes widened, scanning the ranks for the wargs. As a scout, how could he have allowed an enemy to get so close? Turning his head, he spotted the male Skinchanger—a thin, dry-haired figure—his face expressionless, eyes rolled back in his head.

“Huh!”

Above them, a grey hawk shrieked in alarm, circling the sky frantically. From the blind side of the mountain, two figures emerged—one tall, one short—walking toward them with deliberate steps.

Rhaegar, his Blackfyre sword in hand, approached without haste, his face indifferent. “A team with Skinchangers is rare, even among the free folk.”

His gaze drifted, landing on Robb, whose chapped lips and bound hands betrayed the hardships he'd faced.

“Your Grace,” Robb exclaimed, excitement bubbling up as he tried to move forward, only to be held back by his captors.

“The giants… they’re being held at the free folk camp, Your Grace,” Robb answered quickly, his shoulders shaking. Even with the king here, they had still dared to bind him.

“How did you slip past the Skinchangers?” The red-nosed wildling stepped forward, drawing his axe and standing defensively before the immobilized Skinchanger.

“Hide?” Rhaegar blinked, his tone almost casual. “I didn’t.”

Suddenly, the Child of the Forest darted out, her green eyes fixed on the grey hawk above. With a sharp cry—“Kee!”—the hawk let out a mournful screech and tumbled from the sky. The Child of the Forest caught it gracefully, cradling the bird in her slender arms.

The wildlings gasped in shock.

“A Child of the Forest!” the red-nosed wildling stammered, stepping back in disbelief. “Who… who are you?”

The Children of the Forest had vanished from the world thousands of years ago, their presence reduced to myth. Even the natives of The Neck rarely saw one. Yet here stood one, following a young man.

Rhaegar strode forward, planting Blackfyre into the snow with a calm authority. “Didn’t you hear what your prisoner just called me?”

The Valyrian steel sword glimmered, its black surface reflecting the faint ripples of water across the pristine snow.

The red-nosed wildling sucked in a sharp breath, his voice quivering. “You’re the King in the Wall?”

“Let me go, you fool!” Robb’s voice rang out, powerful and clear, as he kicked at the wildlings who held him. Breaking free, he straightened, his voice loud with pride. “Before you stands Rhaegar I of House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, the only King on both sides of the Narrow Sea, and Lord of Slaver’s Bay and Old Valyria!”

A cascade of titles spilled from his lips, but there were still many more that went unspoken. The wildlings exchanged stunned looks, unsure of how to respond.

Leaning casually on his sword, Rhaegar offered a faint smile. “And who are you?”

The wildling with the red nose opened his mouth, then hesitated, glancing at the towering figure standing beside him. “Er... he’s Balon.”

The tall wildling puffed out his chest, sending a quick glance to his second-in-command. Understanding instantly, the red-nosed wildling corrected himself. “Balon, King-Beyond-the-Wall.”

“The king of the wildlings,” Robb scoffed, freeing his companions from their bindings.

“I am the King-Beyond-the-Wall,” Baron said, his voice calm but firm. “Chosen by the free folk.”

He was an imposing figure—at least seven feet tall, with muscles rippling beneath his furs, exuding raw power.

Rhaegar tilted his head, eyeing Balon with a chuckle. "King-Beyond-the-Wall... where's your crown?"

Balon adjusted the bearskin hat on his head, stretching his neck as he replied, "The free folk don’t need crowns. They're just shackles, a yoke of oppression on their people."

Rhaegar’s smile faded, his tone growing more serious. "Without a crown, how do you distinguish a king from a commoner?"

Drawing the gleaming Blackfyre, Rhaegar’s voice hardened. "A crown isn’t about being superior to others. It’s about standing taller when the sky falls."

He spoke with the weight of command, like a king who leads by example. In the face of danger, when the dead rise and the night grows long, it is the king who must stand firm. And as long as he didn’t retreat from the North, neither would his vassals.

Balon sneered, tightening his grip on his enormous axe. "Enough with the big talk. What do you really want?"

Rhaegar met his gaze, stepping closer. "Take me to the remaining free folk and lead them through the Wall with me."

Balon’s face twisted in anger. "Who’d believe your lies?" he shouted, swinging his axe in a wide arc.

Clang!

In a flash of black steel, the axe flew from his hands, spinning through the air. Balon froze, staring in disbelief at the broken handle in his grasp. The cold edge of Blackfyre pressed lightly against his neck, sending a chill straight to his core.

Rhaegar didn’t flinch, his voice calm. "Lead the way, great King-Beyond-the-Wall."

Balon’s bravado crumbled. He stood speechless, his defiance draining away.

Robb, eyebrows raised in triumph, stepped forward, grabbing a rope. "Shall I bind them?" he asked, ready to tie up the wildlings.

"No need," Rhaegar waved him off. "They're on our side now."

The wildlings shared a common enemy with them—the White Walkers—and there was no sense in wasting strength on needless fighting.

Robb nodded, but couldn’t resist one final act of payback. He grabbed the red-nosed wildling by the collar and delivered a hard punch to his eye socket.

"Ugh!" the wildling grunted, stumbling back.

"For every punch you gave me," Robb growled through clenched teeth, "I’ll return one."

The red-nosed wildling kept silent, not daring to provoke him further.

Rhaegar surveyed the ground, picking up the scattered Dragonglass weapons. His gaze shifted to the Child of the Forest, who sat nearby, cradling the damaged Horn of Winter in her delicate hands.

"What is this?" Rhaegar asked, sensing a faint, unfamiliar magic in the air.

It wasn’t the blood and fire of his Targaryen lineage, nor the icy cold of the Others. It felt closer to the elemental magic of the Rhoynar’s Water Wizards, but richer—like the vibrant, natural aura of the Children of the Forest. The scent of earth and fresh morning mist seemed to fill his senses, as if he were standing in a spring forest.

"A damaged sacred object," the Child of the Forest whispered, her voice trembling with sorrow. Her green eyes were full of regret. "Thousands of years ago, after we signed the peace with the First Men, many of our ancient treasures were lost. The Horn of Winter was one such relic, once shared between us and the giants. It was thought lost forever, until now."

"And what does it do?" Rhaegar crouched beside him, comparing the horn to the Dragon Horn he carried. The Dragon Horn, made of Valyrian steel and towering over two meters long, was a giant among horns. Only those with the blood of dragons could sound it; anyone else would be consumed by fire.

The Child of the Forest gently caressed the Horn of Winter, its ancient surface worn but still powerful. "It can summon the sleeping giants beneath the earth. It’s nature’s greatest weapon."

Her brown-green cheek pressed against the horn, but her eyes were filled with sadness. The horn, though once mighty, was now damaged. Its true power could no longer be unleashed.

"More powerful than the Dragon Horn?" Rhaegar asked skeptically, taking the Horn of Winter from her. He bent down, scooped up a handful of snow, and wiped the mouthpiece with disdain. Then, without a second thought, he brought it to his lips.

Wo—

The pale horn vibrated gently in his hands, releasing a deep, resonant sound that echoed across the snowy expanse. The melody stirred the air, causing the falling snow to lift and swirl, forming a graceful arc in the sky.

...

King’s Landing, the Red Keep.

In the council chamber, Daemon Targaryen lounged lazily in the main seat, his legs draped over the armrest, holding a letter in his hand. His expression darkened as he read its contents. Across from him, advisors Lyman and Orwyle exchanged uneasy glances but dared not reprimand him for his casual disrespect.

“The King has gone beyond the Wall, and the people of the North are asking for more aid,” Daemon announced, frowning deeply. He wasn’t just displeased with his nephew’s reckless decision to venture into the frozen wilderness, but he also held little respect for the people of the North.

In Daemon’s mind, if the people of the Vale were little more than "bronze-armored peasants," then the North was filled with even worse—a rabble of lowborn savages fit to rot in the frozen wasteland beyond the Neck. They were no different from the wild lords of Crackclaw Point, bastards of the cold and wilderness. In his view, north or south of the Wall made little difference—they were all savages.

"Your Grace may be far away, but the Wall still has Princes Aegon and Aemond," Lyman spoke up, his voice trembling as his slow mind processed the situation.

“Both uncles are here, but their dragons may refuse to cross it,” Baelon, seated at the lower end of the table, chimed in while supporting the elderly Lyman.

“That’s troubling,” Lyman murmured, his brow furrowing.

Daemon’s eyes flicked toward Orwyle, who had been watching the exchange quietly. “Grand Maester, why can’t the dragons cross the Wall?”

Orwyle hesitated, then finally spoke, choosing his words carefully. “According to historical records, your grandmother, Queen Alysanne, faced the same issue. Her dragon, Silverwing, refused to leap the Wall as well. It seems related to the dragons' innate nature.”

"Silverwing couldn’t do it, but Vermithor did, didn’t he?" Daemon’s eyes flashed with impatience. "I don't want old tales. I want facts."

He waved away the explanation, clearly uninterested. “My nephew has rallied the wildlings beyond the Wall, and the Wall needs royal reinforcements now.”

Baelon leaned forward, his hand brushing the dragon-taming whip at his waist. “Do you want me to go?”

“No,” Daemon snapped, sitting upright. “I’ll go myself and see these so-called White Walkers.”

He had heard enough of the prophecies—A Song of Ice and Fire spoke of ancient threats rising in the North, and Daemon didn’t take such things lightly. Rhaegar might be strong, but the companions he had gathered were another matter. Daemon would need to see for himself.

“Prince, you are the regent,” Tormund, the Master of Whisperers, reminded him gently, choosing his words with care. “The merchants of Hightower and Qarth are officially at war, and the kingdom requires someone reliable to keep peace in the realm.”

Daemon waved him off dismissively. “What about Helaena? Send her to her mother’s family—she can fly around on her dragon if she’s bored.”

Tormund hesitated. “Princess Helaena received a raven this morning. She’s already left for the Wall.”

Daemon laughed, though his thoughts were still on the White Walkers. “She’s eager to leave the royal court behind, it seems.”

He looked at Baelon, who sat beside him, a young man with fire in his veins but uncertainty in his eyes. “I’ll go to the North. You, Baelon, will stay and manage King’s Landing.”

“Me?” Baelon blinked, pointing at himself in disbelief.

“Yes, you,” Daemon replied, giving him a once-over. “Can you handle it?”

Baelon hesitated for only a moment. In the distance, a loud boom shook the Red Keep’s gardens. Outside, a massive moss-colored dragon rose from the snow, shaking off the white frost that had settled on its scales. Moments later, two more great beasts followed suit—Vermithor and Vhagar, their bronze and dark green forms emerging like ancient mountain peaks from the snow.

Baelon’s eyes widened at the sight of the dragons awakening, but then a steely resolve filled him. He took a deep breath, the confidence building within him. “No problem. I’ll take care of King’s Landing.”

Daemon nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Good. You’ve got a bit of your father’s courage.”

He cast his gaze across the room, thinking of the broader realm. For the moment, Westeros was quiet—no major conflicts, save for a few skirmishes in Oldtown. The army in the Westerlands hadn’t yet crossed Bitterbridge, and it was important to spur them northward.

His mind was made up. Daemon would lead the army to the Wall. There was no time to waste. He couldn’t be chained to King’s Landing when there was a war to be fought beyond the Wall. The North needed fire and blood.

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