Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 669: The Army of the Dead

Chapter 669: The Army of the Dead

Casterly Rock, the Westerlands

A towering, craggy cliff loomed over the land, with a steep, ancient castle built against the mountainside.

"Roar..."

A long, piercing dragon roar echoed through the air. It was as if a scarlet serpent-like dragon was climbing the steep walls of the city.

Below, the guards stood pale and trembling, their hands barely steady as they gripped their weapons.

Inside the castle’s grand hall, Daemon held the Dark Sister close and whispered, "I heard someone was ill, but it doesn’t look that way to me."

"Prince, please calm yourself," pleaded a young, handsome knight, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword as he watched Daemon’s every movement with nervous intensity.

"Oh, do I seem impulsive?" Daemon tilted his head, pressing the Dark Sister’s blade closer to the neck of the man sprawled at his feet.

Jason Lannister lay stiffly on the floor, pale as the stone beneath him, his hands raised in submission. A cold Valyrian steel blade rested against his throat, while Daemon’s heavy boot dug into his chest, pinning him mercilessly. Looking up, Jason met Daemon’s icy gaze and cursed his luck. He had underestimated the reckless nature of the Rogue Prince.

His attempt to offer a warm welcome—hoping to cover up his mistake of delaying his troops—had failed the moment Daemon kicked him to the ground, stomping on his pride as easily as his chest.

"Am I reckless, Lord Jason?" Daemon asked, lifting Jason’s chin with the tip of his sword, his expression half-amused, half-menacing.

"N-no, of course not," Jason stammered, shaking his head quickly. He dared not contradict the prince, forcing a weak smile to hide his fear.

"You see, Ser Adrian," Daemon continued, now addressing the young knight who had dared to stand his ground. His tone was playful, but his words sharp. "I come in friendship—as a friend of House Lannister."

With that, Daemon lifted his foot, releasing Jason, who immediately scrambled behind the safety of the guards, his body trembling with relief.

Adrian Tarbeck, however, was not so easily cowed. He drew his sword and stepped between Daemon and his lord, his stance tense.

"Don’t be nervous," Daemon said, his voice almost dismissive as he sheathed his sword and pulled up a chair. "If I wanted to kill someone, you wouldn’t be able to stop me."

Adrian frowned but said nothing, though his distrust was clear. He opened his mouth to respond when suddenly, another dragon’s roar echoed from outside—long and thin, carrying with it a warning to all within the castle.

Daemon smiled faintly, listening intently. His arrogant posture betrayed no concern for the men around him.

"Prince, what brings you here?" Adrian asked through gritted teeth, though he already knew the answer. Behind him, Jason Lannister still cowered, his once-pristine blond hair now a disheveled mess.

"The Kingdom Alliance has already reached the North," Daemon said, his expression darkening. "Why have the Westerlands delayed sending their forces?" His gaze shifted to Jason, who flinched. "From what I’ve seen, Lord Jason doesn’t seem to be as ‘unwell’ as you claimed in your letter."

Daemon’s eyes narrowed as he recalled the sight of Jason earlier, drinking and indulging with whores—far from the ailing man described. His boot on Jason’s chest had been a fitting punishment for such deceit.

"We’ll send troops—right away!" Adrian said quickly, pulling on Jason’s sleeve to snap him out of his stupor.

"Yes, yes, of course!" Jason stammered, still dazed. "We’ll march from Golden Tooth immediately."

Daemon’s eyes lingered on the two men, cold and calculating. "This is your first warning. Next time, Dragonfire will do the talking."

With a sharp movement, Daemon stood, pressing his hands on the armrests of the chair as he rose. His dark attire, sleek and powerful, made him appear more dangerous than ever. His long, silver-gold hair flowed behind him as he strode toward the exit, leaving the room in tense silence.

...

Outside the castle, Caraxes waited.

"Roar..."

The scarlet dragon stretched his long neck, opening his sharp maw to let out another shriek. He flapped his wide, leathery wings, lifting off the ground with a thunderous beat. His two hind legs, small but powerful, spread as he launched himself off the towering cliff, diving downward.

Through the thick layers of mist, the scarlet dragon tore through the barrier of clouds, disappearing from view. The proud lords of the Westerlands could only watch in awe and fear as the red dragon vanished into the hazy skies, its presence a sharp reminder of the power Daemon Targaryen wielded.

...

The Wall, to the North

The crunch of light footsteps echoed in the snow as a small group moved slowly forward.

Grey Worm, clad in black armor, marched at the front, his olive-toned face hardened by the cold, now marked with frostbite from the relentless wind. His determination remained unshaken despite the harsh conditions.

"How long do we have to keep walking?" came a muffled voice from a tall giant wrapped in thick animal furs, his rough hands gripping the reins of a mammoth. His bulk made him look more like a bear than a man.

"Soon, just a little longer," replied Giant Nunu, turning to glance back at the rest of the group. Nunu carried a newly acquired war hammer on its back and led six other giants—four large and two small—along with two mammoths draped in animal skins and straw.

The giants, like Nunu, were wrapped in heavy furs, dragging sleds loaded with supplies behind them. These were her people, survivors of the harsh cold, now on the verge of a new life within the Great Wall.

"Okay, whatever you say," the tall giant muttered, satisfied with the answer. Not known for his brains, he fell silent. The other giants, grunting softly, kept to themselves, more like silent shadows as they trudged forward.

Robb, riding his emaciated warhorse, glanced over at Grey Worm. "We’ve notified more than a dozen free folk tribes, but we still haven’t seen a single Shadow of the Dead."

"Just wait a little longer," Grey Worm said, his eyes fixed ahead, unwavering in his loyalty to the king's orders.

Robb sighed inwardly. Without Nunu’s help, the free folk beyond the Wall might have torn them apart by now. But the Shadows—those legendary creatures of death—they weren't something that could just appear on command. His eyes lifted to the darkening sky, sensing an approaching snowstorm. If they didn’t return to the Wall before it hit, they might all be stranded.

"Owww... oww... ow..."

A mournful howl suddenly cut through the cold air, drifting from deep within the forest. Robb’s senses sharpened. He quickly disassembled his longbow. "Something’s up," he said, his sharp eyes scanning the snow-laden trees.

"Don’t worry. It’s probably just a pack of wolves hunting," Grey Worm replied, though he too unstrapped his spear and round shield, sensing the growing tension.

Nunu sniffed the air, it's large nose twitching. His expression shifted, a trace of concern crossing its features. "No... that’s not an ordinary wolf. That’s the howl of a direwolf."

"Direwolf?"

The dozen or so humans in the group froze, exchanging uneasy glances. None had ever encountered such a beast before. Like the White Hart, the Giants, and the Shadow Creatures, Direwolves were creatures of legend, rarely seen and even less often survived.

"Owwww..."

The rustling of bushes grew louder, the wolf’s howl more piercing and frantic.

Plop!

Suddenly, from the thicket, a massive white wolf burst into view, charging out of the forest in sheer panic. Its snow-white fur gleamed against the grey sky as it ran for its life.

"Direwolves are solitary," Robb muttered, watching in awe. "To see one flee..."

The Direwolf, a creature at the top of the food chain, wouldn’t run unless something far more terrifying was close behind.

Whatever was coming, it was worse than anything they had expected.

"Everyone on guard! It could be the Thenns!" Robb shouted, drawing his bowstring tight.

The Thenn were a breed apart from the other free folk—ruthless, bloodthirsty, and notorious for cannibalism. But there were no bone arrows whistling through the trees, and the forest was eerily quiet.

The snow-white direwolf bolted south, heedless of the blood dripping from its wounded hind leg. The unseen pressure weighed heavily on the group, a growing dread gnawing at their hearts.

Robb and Grey Worm remained locked in place, eyes fixed on the treeline, nerves taut as bowstrings. The giants, sensing danger, hefted their wooden weapons and began slowly dragging their supply-laden sleds backward.

But whatever lurked in the forest had no intention of letting them retreat.

Rustle... rustle...

A sudden burst of noise broke the silence—heavy stomping, as if a thousand feet pounded the snow at once. Yet the forest remained still, the only other sound the wind stirring the leaves. It was as if the very trees harbored ghosts, watching and waiting.

"Be careful, everyone. Retreat slowly," Grey Worm ordered, his voice low and measured. He was an experienced warrior and knew when to fall back.

Rumble... rumble... rumble...

The ground beneath them seemed to shake, the sound swelling, growing louder. Grey Worm's eyes widened, his body tensing as an icy shiver ran down his spine.

"Roar..."

Out of the forest charged the first wave of the dead—dressed in tattered wildling clothes, their ghastly grey faces contorted in a savage snarl. Their eyes glowed with an eerie blue light.

"They're wights! They're here to eat us!" Nunu bellowed, furious, as he swung its massive battle hammer.

Bang!

Two of the dead crumpled under the weight of the hammer’s blow, their bodies reduced to pulp under the one-meter-wide head of the weapon. The force of the strike scattered the other ghouls, and Nunu’s roar echoed across the frozen landscape.

Crackling...

But a moment later, the fallen ghouls began to twitch, their joints rotating unnaturally, limbs twisting as they scrambled back to their feet. As if nothing had happened, they lunged once more.

Nunu, caught off guard, was tackled to the ground by a wight that clung to his chest, teeth bared.

"Roar!"

More wights swarmed, like ants descending on a fallen prey. Their hideous growls filled the air as they piled onto the giant.

"Help! Save Nunu!" Grey Worm shouted, his face pale with alarm. Without hesitation, he drove his spear into the chest of an advancing wight, but the undead horde showed no signs of slowing.

Pop!

A miraculous scene unfolded. The undead, impervious to the warhammer’s crushing blows, suddenly froze in place. Their bodies disintegrated like fragile building blocks, collapsing into dust.

Grey Worm stood momentarily stunned, then glanced at the spearhead in his hand—polished with dragonglass.

"It’s the dragonglass! Dragonglass can kill the undead!"

With renewed vigor, Grey Worm spun his spear with lightning speed, creating an impenetrable barrier as he cut through the swarm of wights. His movements were swift and precise, the black blood of the dead spraying in all directions.

The others quickly followed suit, drawing their dragonglass daggers. The giants, lacking such weapons, wielded their massive wooden clubs, which—while not as lethal as dragonglass—still packed enough force to flatten a wight with a single blow.

"Roar! Come to Nunu!"

Despite the hundreds of wights, Giant Nunu roared in fury, rising to his feet as he ripped the undead clinging to his body away, hurling them to the ground. Each impact sent up a cloud of snow, the stiff bodies of the wights breaking apart beneath the relentless assault of the giant’s fists and feet.

"Hurry! Throw everything away!" Grey Worm shouted, urgently stripping the young giants and mammoths of their heavy supply bundles.

Shhhhhh...

The army of ghouls pressed in closer, their numbers unrelenting. Like swarming mosquitoes, they bit and clawed at the living with savage fury. The situation was growing dire. Nunu, swinging his warhammer with one hand, scooped up Grey Worm and Robb in the other. His massive feet kicked away the stumbling wights, each step sending corpses flying.

"Whoa, whoa..."

A sudden, hoarse neigh echoed from the distance.

In an instant, the chaotic horde of ghouls froze, as if they had received some unseen command. Grey Worm, cold sweat dripping down his face, poked his head out of Nunu’s grasp to see what had caused the sudden halt.

At the edge of the forest, deep pits had formed in the snow. Emerging from the shadows was a decaying warhorse, its rider pale and haunting. The strange man sat tall in the saddle, his face expressionless and lifeless, one hand gripping the reins, the other slowly rising into the air.

He moved like the commander of this ghastly army.

The air grew thick with dread as the man opened his mouth, though no sound came. Yet the effect was immediate.

"Roar..."

The army of ghouls erupted into motion, their ice-blue eyes flashing with renewed menace. Thousands of them surged forward, as if driven by the silent will of their mysterious leader.