Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 674: The Real Horn!

Chapter 674: The Real Horn!

The wildlings continued their climb up the mountain, turning their backs on the captive "crow". Robb buried his head, his fingers secretly slipping into his cloak to pull out a few dragonglass arrows. He would throw one away after every stretch of the journey—a quiet ritual of psychological comfort.

...

The Wall, Castle Black.

Cregan Stark gathered his advisers in the silent hall. The air was thick with tension. The big man from House Umber, unable to bear the silence, muttered, "The king has been gone for half a month. Shouldn't we be preparing?"

His words were immediately hushed. The cold beyond the Wall was unbearable now, and the threats of rebellious wildlings and the unpredictable White Walkers loomed. The king had taken a grave risk by venturing beyond.

"I was right. We can't just sit here and do nothing," the Umber man continued, raising his voice, his tone brimming with Northern grit. "What’s the point of huddling in this drafty hall? We might as well kill the wildlings already inside the Wall and rally every man of the North to defend it."

Knock, knock.

A dull thudding sound silenced the growing murmur. All eyes turned to Cregan, who leaned forward with a serious expression. "The King has a dragon by his side," he reminded them, his voice low but commanding. "That’s why we must focus on the task at hand even more."

"My lord, saving those savages is not a task," the Umber man was quick to object, his face contorted with anger.

"The King let those savages in—who will manage those sons of bitches?"

The room erupted as a dozen nobles stood, their objections ringing out in unison. Among them, Cregan noted the men bearing the sigils of House Bolton—the "Upside-Down Flayed Man"—and House Manderly of White Harbor, marked by the "Male Merman Holding a Trident."

As one of the most powerful and ancient houses of the North, House Stark held sway over many ancient vassals, but the Bolton and Manderly lords had influence over much of the population and controlled the only major northern port.

Bang!

The table shook violently as Roderick Dustin slammed his fist down, causing the wine jugs to rattle. He sprang to his feet, shouting, "Sit down and listen to the Lord!"

The old man was tall and fierce, his fury palpable. Silence fell swiftly over the hall. The lords who had opposed allowing the wildlings past the Wall exchanged frustrated glances but sat back down reluctantly. Roderick's reputation and the ferocity of the Army of the Winter Wolves kept them in check, despite their simmering anger.

The other northern nobles watched with varying expressions. The representatives of House Karstark, House Mormont of Bear Island, and other senior houses—those loyal to House Stark—fixed their eyes on the young Lord. As the purest descendants of the First Men, they had centuries of blood feud with the wildlings. They wouldn’t dare directly oppose the King’s command, but Cregan knew they expected an explanation.

After all, House Stark did not have a dragon.

"My lords, I have only one question: Who is your Lord?"

Cregan Stark slowly rose to his feet, unsheathing the massive sword strapped to his back. He placed it heavily on the table with a cold finality. Silence fell over the room.

Looking down at his advisers, his expression hardened. "The North belongs to the people of the North. If even we doubt the defense of our homeland, who will protect our families, our women, and our children?"

His voice dropped as he invoked the words of his house. "Winter is coming." He paused, letting the weight of the words sink in. "The White Walkers are here, and the entire North is in peril. The wildlings are an essential part of the fight against the Others—they cannot be abandoned."

BANG!

Roderick Dustin slammed his fist on the table, his voice booming with fervor. "My Lord, I, an old man, stand with you. I’ll crush the testicles of anyone who dares oppose you!" He glared fiercely at the room, his eyes daring anyone to challenge him.

"Who else objects to the wildlings entering the Wall?" Cregan asked calmly, scanning the faces of those gathered.

No one spoke.

"Good," Cregan continued, his tone measured but firm. "I will send a raven to the royal court, requesting more aid before the King returns."

Then, with sudden intensity, he slammed his hand on the table and declared, "Winter is coming, and no one can retreat!"

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The advisers of the North pounded their fists in unison, their frostbitten faces alight with determination.

"Winter is coming!" they shouted, the passionate chorus echoing through the hall.

...

Winterfell.

"Quack..."

A raven, black as night, fluttered through the open window. The elderly Maester gently removed the letter tied to its leg, his expression serious.

"What news?" Baela asked eagerly, her eyes alight with excitement. She had been cooped up in Winterfell far too long, the stillness rusting her spirit.

The Maester frowned as he unfolded the message and slowly handed it to the Queen. "Your Grace, a letter of assistance from the Lord."

Rhaenyra sat at the head of the hall, sipping hot wine as she tallied the endless accounts. Day after day, she faced growing demands: aiding nobles whose castles had collapsed under the heavy snow, sending men to clear roads and farms, rescuing orphaned children... the list seemed never-ending, and no matter how hard she worked, she struggled to keep up.

When the Maester passed her the letter, Rhaenyra wiped her lips and opened it with a flicker of anticipation. It had been too long since she had last heard from Rhaegar, and any news from beyond the Wall was rare. The siblings exchanged letters whenever ravens could make the treacherous journey, though messages came few and far between.

As she read the letter, Rhaenyra’s joy faded. The problems piled up quickly: a shortage of supplies, equipment requests, wildlings entering the Wall and in need of land. And worst of all—Rhaegar had left the Wall.

"Seven hells!" she cursed, slapping her forehead as she slumped back into her chair, groaning. As if The North didn’t have enough problems already.

The White Walkers had yet to strike, but there was plenty of trouble brewing within the North itself.

"Your Grace, let me see that," Baela said, her hand on her hip as she leaned over to read the letter with her.

Rhaenyra passed the letter, brushing her long silver-blonde hair aside. Her deep violet eyes flashed with helplessness. "Lord Cregan’s given me a difficult task this time. The Last Hearth, closest to Castle Black, was granted to the Night's Watch during the reign of the Old King. The people of the North won’t allow free folk to settle that close to their lands."

Baela frowned. "And now Rhaegar’s left the Wall too. What’s he thinking?"

Rhaenyra sighed, though she trusted her brother’s abilities. Beyond the Wall lies nothing but uncertainty. Even Rhaegar can’t guarantee safety there.

"Your Grace, don't trouble yourself with these matters," Baela urged.

But Rhaenyra’s mind was already racing. "The free folk want land. We could start by offering promises—grand ones—to calm both them and the northern lords."

Baela raised an eyebrow. "Promises? We don't have any land to give, Rhaenyra."

Rhaenyra smiled, stroking Baela’s silky hair, thankful for her adopted daughter’s boldness. "No, but we do."

Baela’s confusion turned to curiosity as Rhaenyra reached for her quill. "Daeron has reclaimed vast tracts of fertile land in the Golden Fields. If the free folk truly seek land, they can cross the sea to the east and settle there."

Baela paused, her eyes widening as the solution clicked into place. Of course... the Golden Fields.

That’s why the crown could support the North so confidently—because they had thousands of acres of fertile land to fall back on. The royal family had more resources than anyone had realized.

Baela, however, was less concerned with politics. "So... when do we go to the Wall?" she asked, her voice filled with impatience. Adventure, not strategy, burned in her veins.

Rhaenyra’s violet eyes sparkled with the same desire. "Let me think on that," she said, her thoughts drifting northward.

The Wall still called to her.

...

The Foot of the Fist of the First Men.

Snow had long since buried the footprints of the ancestors, leaving the ground a vast, unbroken stretch of white. Black boots crunched into the snow, sinking deep into the frozen pits. Rhaegar braced himself against the biting wind and bent down to pick up a dark arrow.

“Dragonglass,” he muttered.

The Dragonglass weapons gifted by the Children of the Forest had been reserved for the most critical missions, and they were now scattered ahead of him.

“They’re just up ahead,” he said, gripping the arrow tightly.

His expression turned solemn as he began to climb the ancient hill. Heat radiated from his body, melting the snow and turning the wind away as if it couldn’t touch him. Every few steps, he found another indentation in the snow—a footprint not yet covered by the storm, and next to it, another dark arrow.

The Child of the Forest walking beside him scanned their surroundings, her gaze growing darker as they approached the summit. The Fist of the First Men looked eerily familiar to her.

...

The Summit of the Fist of the First Men.

Robb and a handful of Unsullied worked in haste, freeing themselves from the ropes binding their supplies, swinging their picks to break through the frozen earth and stone.

“Hurry! We’re almost there,” urged the red-nosed wildling, kneeling on the ground and shoving aside the packed snow and dirt with frantic hands.

In no time, they had dug three feet into the frozen ground at the mountain’s peak.

“Stop!” the wildling shouted, his voice trembling with excitement. He reached into the hole, his hands shaking as he pulled out a rag-covered object. The cloth was old and blackened, rough to the touch.

Robb bent over to inspect it. It was unmistakable—Night’s Watch cloaks, tattered and ancient.

"Ha! At last!" the wildling cried, rubbing his hands together feverishly as he unwrapped the bundle.

The first thing to catch his eye was the gleam of dark Dragonglass—daggers, spearheads, arrowheads, all glinting under the dim light of the storm.

“What is this junk?” the wildling scowled, tossing the Dragonglass aside in frustration. Beneath it, still wrapped in the black cloth, lay a horn—pale and engraved with tiny runes. The horn was three feet long, its surface smooth like polished bone.

“The Horn of Winter!” the wildling gasped, his eyes widening as he lifted the artifact above his head, trembling with awe.

“Be careful, idiot!” growled a tall wildling, slapping him on the back of the head. He snatched the horn from the trembling man’s hands and inspected it closely. It appeared undamaged, its ivory surface unblemished. He was about to raise it to his lips and blow when he noticed something odd—a faint flaw at the mouthpiece.

His stomach knotted with dread. He shook the horn near his ear.

Clang, clang...

The hollow interior echoed with the unsettling sound of something rattling inside.

“What the hell is that?”

The other wildlings gathered quickly, surrounding him with anxious looks.

“The horn’s broken!” the tall wildling growled, his fury rising. He made a move to hurl it into the snow.

“Let me try!” the red-nosed wildling protested, snatching it back. He raised the horn to his lips and blew.

A high-pitched, squeaky sound emerged—a far cry from the deep, ancient tone of legend. It was no more than a child’s toy whistle.

“It’s broken... It’s really broken...” the red-nosed wildling groaned, collapsing into the snow, his face a mask of despair.

Legend held that the Horn of Winter was a sacred artifact coveted by both the Children of the Forest and the giants. During the invasion of the First Men, the Children used it to awaken giants from the earth, sending a wave that shattered the Arm of Dorne. Later, during the Andal invasion, the Horn of the East was said to have summoned the sea to flood The Neck, attempting to divide the North from Westeros.

But something had gone wrong, and instead of breaking the land, it only drowned a large part of the forest, creating the swampy mire known today as The Neck.

“We’re finished!” the red-nosed wildling cried out in despair, grabbing a fistful of snow and throwing it to the ground. “Without the Horn of Winter, we’ll never breach the Wall. We’re doomed to become corpses—slaves to the Others!”

He buried his face in his hands, as the wind howled and the snow fell harder.