Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day - Chapter 668: The Presence of the Others

The North, The Wall.

The towering ice structure had reformed with frost, blocking the bitter cold wind from beyond the Wall.

“Hurry, pile the bodies together.”

“Work quickly, finish before dark.”

For the first time in half a year, the black-cloaked Night’s Watch set foot outside the Wall to clear the battlefield. The ghostly green Dragonfire had long since died down, and the blackened scorch marks were buried beneath the snow. Yet, the stench of burnt flesh still lingered in the air.

The Haunted Forest swayed slightly, causing the snow on the treetops to fall.

The clatter of hooves echoed in the distance, growing louder.

Roderick led the Army of the Winter Wolves out of the forest, their horses moving slowly. Each veteran soldier had a rope tied to their ponytail, dragging behind them a long line of captured wildlings. The wildlings had scattered in all directions after their defeat.

“By order of the king, arrest all rebellious wildlings.”

Bound and defeated, the wildlings hung their heads, their faces as white as mourning clothes.

…

Inside the Wall, heavy thuds echoed through the snow. Thud. Thud. The boots that made the noise were as large as millstones. Giants, several of them, moved slowly, their chests and backs weighed down by baskets filled with dark, steaming slime. The pungent stench of sulfur filled the air without the need to look down.

“Damn humans, you make Nuno carry the shit.”

The ugly giant stood at the base of the Wall, defiant, his face twisted in displeasure. Two black-cloaked crows, armed with shovels, loaded a fresh, sticky lump of excrement into his basket.

“This is dragon dung, you idiot,” Rhaegar warned, his glare menacing. “You destroyed the gate to the Wall, and now I’m cleaning up your mess.”

The underground passage had been wrecked by the giants’ recklessness. Repairing it with surface stone was impossible, so black Dragonstone was the best solution.

“I don’t want to carry it. It stinks,” Nuno grumbled, his already ugly face twisting further in disgust.

“You should be grateful the Cannibal can still defecate in the cold,” Rhaegar replied lightly, taking a step back.

The coal-black dragon lay nearby, quietly observing. It opened its miserable green, vertical pupils and stared at the giant, who, compared to the dragon, was no more significant than an insect.

Nuno stiffened and obediently prepared his basket. “Dragon dung is very good and very hot,” he muttered.

The Child of the Forest approached cautiously, circling the dark dung. “I can feel the black Dragonstone you melted contains fire magic.”

“Will it keep away the White Walkers?” Rhaegar asked, his tone serious.

“The answer requires proof,” murmured the Child of the Forest, her green eyes shimmering faintly. “When Brandon the Builder raised the Great Wall, he used magic to imbue it with power to repel the Others.”

The black Dragonstone and the Wall contained different kinds of magic, but their effect was the same. It was like lighting a cluster of fireworks to ignite a pile of dull candles—both dispelled the darkness, but one was far brighter.

Rhaegar’s brow furrowed slightly, as though he understood only in part.

“We’re back, Your Grace!”

Roderick’s shout echoed through the air as the Winter Wolves poured out of the underground passage in perfect unison.

Rhaegar glanced sideways at the sound.

“Behave yourselves and get in the snowdrift!” the old lord barked, hot-tempered as ever. He untied the horse’s tail and cracked the whip, driving a dozen wildlings into a corner. The rest of the Winter Wolves followed suit, treating the wildlings—ancient enemies for centuries—with roughness.

Rhaegar’s frown deepened. Without a word, he turned and ascended the winding ladder toward the winch.

…

Atop the Wall, the Night’s Watch was busy repairing the battlements.

“Your Grace,” Cregan greeted him, bowing respectfully as he approached. The relief on his face was clear—dealing with the wildling army had been no small feat.

“Where is the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch?” Rhaegar asked, scanning the area for the figure in black robes and white hair.

“Lord Commander Benjicot is at the watchtower. Follow me.”

Cregan led the way, and soon they came face to face with the emaciated “old man.”

“What does Your Grace command?” Benjicot asked, his grave expression matched by the stern wind that whipped at the fur around his collar.

“I need to speak with you about the wildlings,” Rhaegar said, looking at the Lord Commander with mixed feelings. Once the Lord of Raventree Hall, Benjicot had been banished to the Wall—yet here he stood, risen to a position of power once again. Little did Rhaegar know, competence always finds its way to the surface.

“I know what you mean. Let’s speak under the shed,” Benjicot said, tightening his collar as he led the king and Cregan to a corner, sheltered from the wind.

The fire flickered gently, sparks splashing into the air as the three sat around it, reaching out to warm themselves. Rhaegar wasted no time.

“There are White Walkers beyond the Wall, and the free folk cannot simply be killed off,” he stated bluntly. “The best solution is to move them within the Wall.”

He couldn’t make the mistake of “killing the goose that lays the golden egg.” Allowing the wildlings to die or be driven into the arms of the Others would only swell the ranks of the undead.

“Your Grace, I understand your ambitions,” Benjicot said, stirring the fire with a branch to make it burn brighter, his eyes dark and thoughtful. “But this is the North. The wildlings and the Northerners have been enemies for generations. Even the Night’s Watch is filled with hatred for them.”

Integrating the wildlings behind the Wall would be no easy task. Trusting them was one thing, but persuading the people of the North to accept them was another.

“The people of the North believe in order and tradition. Reconciling them with the wildlings will be nearly impossible,” Cregan added, shaking his head with a sigh. As Lord of the North, his authority was clear, and his perspective carried the most weight. From birth, the wildlings had been seen as enemies—those views were deeply ingrained.

“It has to be done,” Rhaegar said sternly, his voice leaving no room for debate. “If the free folk aren’t allowed behind the Wall, the Others’ numbers will skyrocket.”

“I can persuade the opposition within the Night’s Watch,” Benjicot said, his face expressionless. The wildling attack had decimated their ranks. Out of the original 2,000 members, barely a few hundred remained, and half of the 3,000 new recruits had been lost. With so few left, and a proper reshuffling of roles, opposition could be contained.

After speaking, Benjicot’s sharp old eyes shifted toward the young Lord of the North.

Cregan looked hesitant, but after a long pause, he finally nodded. “I can arrange for the wildlings to be given the Gift’s less fertile lands. I’ll do my best to appease my advisers.”

That was as much as he could offer.

“Let’s do it.” Rhaegar tossed a log onto the fire, patting his hands to rid them of snow.

“I’ll speak with Lord Roderick first,” Cregan said, rising quietly, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. He left without another word, disappearing into the growing night.

By the fire, only Rhaegar and Benjicot remained. After a few moments of silence, Rhaegar broke it. “Are you doing well at the Wall?”

There was something different about a man who had lived through the passage of time, and Rhaegar felt it in Benjicot.

“Not bad, though the Wall doesn’t have the warmth of the Riverlands,” Benjicot replied with a laugh, his weathered face crinkling. From his features, it was clear he had been a handsome man in his youth.

“Your grandson has inherited Raventree Hall and serves at my eldest son’s side. He’s a courageous lad,” Rhaegar remarked, sounding weary as the conversation drifted to more personal matters.

“I heard Samwell died a heroic death,” Benjicot said calmly, his voice steady even as he spoke of his only son’s demise. “He was worthy of being my son.” There was a quiet, generous dignity in his eyes as he delivered the painful news.

Rhaegar nodded, but said nothing. Samwell had been a good man, but it was a pity he had fallen to the Ironborn.

“Do you remember the maesters and prisoners you banished?” Benjicot shifted the conversation with a light joke. “When I first arrived, the Maester of the Dragonpit—who had lost his hand—was still alive. He froze to death the following winter.”

The Citadel had been abolished, replaced by the royal school, and its former prestige had crumbled. The maester, who had once harbored selfish ambitions for the dragons, had fared no better.

Rhaegar barely reacted, raising his eyelids with disinterest. The old stories of his youth held little appeal now.

The two men chatted in fits and starts, as the fire burned brighter with each log added. Darkness deepened, and beyond the flames, the wildlings were being rounded up by the Night’s Watch and brought back to the Wall.

Suddenly, Benjicot pulled a silver flask from his coat and asked, “Have you ever met your grandmother?”

“Huh?” Rhaegar blinked, taken aback by the sudden question. He shook his head. “No, I’ve only seen my mother once in my dreams.”

“Your grandmother was a beauty,” Benjicot said, his eyes reflecting a distant memory. “Daella Targaryen, the sixth daughter of the Old King, had skin as white as milk and a temperament as gentle as a kitten.” There was a trace of regret in his voice, as if her memory still stirred something within him.

Rhaegar frowned slightly and replied casually, “It’s normal for my great-grandfather to have traveled the Seven Kingdoms and visited Crow’s Nest Hall with my great-grandmother.”

Rhaenyra had been there too. Samwell Blackwood, had been among her suitors.

He had even stabbed a Bracken for making a rude comment.

“No, it was more than just a visit,” Old Benjicot said, his expression turning serious. “Your grandmother was of marriageable age at the time, and I was fortunate enough to be one of the candidates.”

The young Princess Daella had met many promising men from across the Seven Kingdoms. Unfortunately, few had managed to impress her. On one occasion, she faced an insult from House Lannister, which enraged the Old King, already anxious about his daughter’s future. But fortune smiled upon Princess Daella when she visited Raventree Hall and met the eldest son and heir of the Blackwood family: The Old Benjicot, now sitting across from Rhaegar.

Rhaegar, unfamiliar with the past, listened quietly. Benjicot had been one of the most handsome men of his time—skilled in archery and swordsmanship, proficient in the harp, and well-versed in history. It was easy to see why Daella had fallen in love with him at first sight. They had even shared an affair during her stay at Crow’s Nest.

However, the Faith of the Seven had poisoned many hearts. Devout as she was, Princess Daella had been horrified to discover that the Blackwoods worshipped the Old Gods. Heartbroken and fearful, she fled from Crow’s Nest, and their relationship was never consummated.

The Old King, frustrated and tired of the endless obstacles, eventually married his daughter to Lord Arryn, who had retired from public life. At the age of 18, Daella entered The Eyrie, only to die of puerperal fever at 19.

“My grandmother was an innocent maiden,” Rhaegar said, his voice flat and tinged with coldness. “Like many of her sisters, she didn’t have a happy ending.”

He knew well the tragic fates that had befallen his mother, grandmother, and many of his great-uncles and aunts. Saera Targaryen, who had traveled to Volantis, had once remarked that the continent of Westeros was too cold to welcome the Targaryens with their fiery blood. The Faith of the Seven and the Citadel had long been targets of suspicion and retaliation.

“If your grandmother had married me, things might have turned out differently,” Benjicot mused. “She was truly a wonderful woman, but the Old King never had much patience when it came to his daughters’ marriages.”

Having many children had been one of the Old King’s greatest strengths, but the misfortunes that plagued his children became the darkest stain of his later years.

“No one is perfect,” Rhaegar murmured softly, reluctant to pass judgment on the figures of history. Without the help of the Explorer’s System and the care of Rhaenyra from an early age, he knew he wouldn’t have achieved what he had.

Benjicot gave a small smile, raised his silver flask, and said, “To Princess Daella.”

Taking a sip, he passed the flask to Rhaegar, who stared at it for a moment before taking a small sip himself. “To my great-grandfather, Old King Jaehaerys I.”

Benjicot chuckled, patting his thigh as he stood up. Before leaving, he offered a parting word, “I support your decision. The free folk are also part of the Kingdom.”

With that, he returned to the gathering of Night’s Watch.

Rhaegar sat in a daze, staring at the flask’s empty bottom. He began to understand the meaning behind Benjicot’s words. The elder had a unique perspective, shaped by his origins in the Riverlands—a view that differed from the rigid prejudices of the North against the free folk. The divide between the Northmen and the free folk, after all, was rooted only in which side they had chosen when the Wall was built.

…

The next day…

The main force from Winterfell arrived at the Wall. Leading the way were 5,000 Unsullied, marching into Castle Black with precision and imposing discipline.

“Your Grace, we’ve brought plenty of food and livestock,” Grey Worm reported, standing tall and proud after commanding an army of over 10,000 men on the long journey.

“Well done, you’ve had a long journey,” Rhaegar praised, watching as the carts of supplies were unloaded. With this abundance, they now had enough resources to sustain a major battle.

“Thanks to Her Grace, the Queen,” Grey Worm added quietly as he passed. “She also asked me to tell you to rest.”

Rhaegar’s heart warmed at the message. He turned and gave Grey Worm a nod. “The wildling army has collapsed. Select some men and go beyond the Wall to scout the situation.”

Beyond the Wall, the White Walkers roamed freely. While the White Walkers could glean information from the free folk inside the Wall, the free folk remained ignorant of the growing threat. Reliable eyes were needed to assess the danger.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Grey Worm replied loyally, without hesitation.

By the afternoon, the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, and Castle Black came to life. The newly arrived allied forces set up camp and lit fires, bringing a rare buzz of activity to the usually quiet stronghold.

…

In front of the underground passageway, Grey Worm stood ready, a spear in his hand. The steel tip had been replaced with a dragonglass dagger.

“Is this thing really useful?” Robb asked, seated on his warhorse, doubt in his voice. Half the arrows in his quiver had been replaced with dragonglass tips, as ordered by the King.

“I don’t know,” Grey Worm responded matter-of-factly, testing the spear with a few practice swings. “Just follow orders.”

“Don’t worry, use it. It’s meant for the White Walkers,” a voice piped up. The Child of the Forest, hidden in a corner, spoke without stepping any closer.

Grey Worm and Robb exchanged a glance before each turned to gather their selected men.

“Porus, come with me. Bring me a weapon that suits me,” Grey Worm called.

A small giant, five meters tall, strode over, clad in heavy silver-gray armor.

“Nothing for you, half-blood giant,” the Child of the Forest remarked, tilting its head in amazement.

Porus frowned, clearly displeased. “Porus is a small giant, not a half-blood giant,” he corrected, swinging a massive battle hammer that hung from his back with great force. The ground seemed to shudder slightly under his movements.

Bang! Bang! Heavy footsteps echoed from behind.

The giant Nunu approached, his eight-meter-tall frame towering over the smaller giant. His voice rumbled like distant thunder as he asked, “You’re also a giant. When did you enter the Great Wall?”

“I’m from the south,” the little giant replied proudly, lifting his head to observe Nunu’s ugly, weather-beaten face and rough leather coat.

“The armor you’re wearing is sturdy,” Nunu noted, his eyes filled with envy as he knocked his fist against the little giant’s solid armor. It was clear he had taken an immediate liking to this smaller counterpart. Supplies were scarce among the free folk, and they lacked the resources for proper equipment. Most iron weapons were either seized from the crows or bought from passing merchant caravans.

For giants, who required enormous amounts of metal for their armor and weapons, it was rare to see anyone so well-equipped. Even having an iron-studded mace was considered a powerful asset.

“Of course. It was forged by the best craftsman,” the little giant said with pride, his honest face glowing. He clenched his fist and playfully knocked it against Nunu’s chest. “You’re quite the beauty yourself—so tall and strong.”

Nunu’s grin stretched wide, laughter booming like thunder across the snow.

“What? A woman?” Robb asked, stunned, as he stared at the shaggy, rough-looking giant.

Grey Worm, trying to maintain composure, muttered, “Maybe.” He, too, wasn’t sure. The giants, large or small, were both part of the expedition, but given Nunu’s appearance, who could tell their gender?

“Here, take my hammer,” the smaller giant offered, scratching his head before handing over his cherished battle hammer.

Nunu accepted it with a grin, then returned the favor by handing over the oversized bow and quiver slung across his back.

The Child of the Forest, who had been observing nearby, clapped his hands in excitement.

“Child of the Forest, go away. You’re not allowed past the Great Wall,” Nunu said, frowning as he flicked the small figure—who resembled a squirrel more than a man—into a nearby snowdrift.

Coughing and spitting out a mouthful of snow, the Child of the Forest scurried away angrily.

With a grunt, Nunu straightened up and opened the repaired iron gate. It’s ears and fingers, which had been severed by Blackfyre, had miraculously healed, thanks to the special medicine of the Children of the Forest—and, of course, the incredible resilience of the giants.