The dark clouds gradually dispersed, allowing the moonlight to bathe the earth. The Blackfyre's flames extinguished, leaving the Weirwood charred and reduced to ashes. Rhaegar stepped on the fallen Child of the Forest, raising Blackfyre slightly as he loomed over it.
"Who are you, and why did you lead me here?" he demanded, his mood soured from being woken in the dead of night.
The Child of the Forest, small and timid, whispered in a soft, trembling voice, "You may be the Prince from the prophecy. You were meant to receive guidance from the Heart Tree."
"Heart Tree?" Rhaegar echoed, glancing at the blackened Weirwood behind him, skepticism flickering in his eyes. Is this the supposed divine guidance they offer?
The Children of the Forest were once mysterious and revered, legendary beings. Yet, as Rhaegar looked down at the frail creature beneath him, he couldn't help but think of their fall. First defeated by the First Men with their bronze weapons, then the First Men were overthrown by the Andals wielding iron. In the end, the Dragonlords of Valyria drove away the Andals, cementing their place at the top of the world's hierarchy.
He stared at the Child with a strange expression. "You're weaker than I imagined," he said coldly.
The Child of the Forest looked up, defiant despite its fear. "We have magic," it retorted sharply, its voice shrill, hands waving in frustration. "We don't need the brute strength of a stupid giant."
Rhaegar's eyes darkened, his patience wearing thin. The creature at his feet was small and delicate. Judging by its facial features and the bandeau around its chest, it was female, with chestnut curls, large green eyes, and round ears—nothing like the mythical creatures described in history books.
History often falls short when compared to reality,Rhaegar thought with a sigh, releasing his grip on the tiny figure.
"I really do have magic!" the Child of the Forest huffed, rising to its feet. In a fit of frustration, it rummaged in its pocket and pulled out... a pumpkin. Without hesitation, it hurled the pumpkin toward the swamp.
Boom!
The pumpkin exploded with a force that startled even Rhaegar, its blast powerful enough to rival a young dragon's Dragonfire. His eyes widened in surprise as he assessed the destruction.
"See?" the Child of the Forest said, its green eyes gleaming as it sensed an opportunity. "I can help you. I will guide you to the way to fight the cold and the darkness."
Pop!
Rhaegar's hand cracked across the Child's face, sending it sprawling back onto the ground with a shocked grin. He bent down, yanking the torn pocket off the creature's animal-skin skirt.
"Give it to me," he demanded coldly, pocketing the strange weapon. Why lure me here with tricks if you weren't going to share something this useful? he thought. A race as weak as theirs should have remained hidden, huddled in the shadows.
"Ahhh!" The Child of the Forest, enraged and humiliated, yelled in frustration. "The White Walkers are coming! Do you want to win this war or not?!"
Her magical weapons—her greatest leverage—had been stolen, and the human dared to strike her.
"You know how to fight the White Walkers?" Rhaegar asked, eyeing the Child of the Forest with renewed interest, though most of his attention remained on how many more "pumpkins" the creature had in its pocket. One, two, three, four... Six or seven, he estimated. He thought about giving a few to Rhaenyra for self-defense.
"I know how to kill them," the Child of the Forest replied, clenching its small fists. From its waist, it drew a black dagger made of dragon glass. "Obsidian contains traces of fire magic. It can break the Cold God's curse on the White Walkers."
At this, Rhaegar's expression turned serious. He didn't reach for the dagger this time. Dragon glass—also called obsidian—was rare in Westeros. Fortunately, there was a known deposit under Dragonstone.
"Dragon glass... It can truly kill a White Walker?" Rhaegar crouched down, picking up the frail figure before him.
The Child of the Forest clutched the obsidian dagger tightly to its chest, watching Rhaegar's every move. "Yes. White Walkers are the physical embodiment of the God of Winter on Earth. Only fire magic—its opposite—can counter them."
The creature paused, its voice turning more menacing. "My people possess many obsidian weapons. I can provide them to help you fight the White Walkers."
"Thank you," Rhaegar replied, though his tone remained flat, as if speaking to a child. He then asked, softly but with growing curiosity, "Who is this 'Cold God'? Even the White Walkers have a faith?"
This was the first time he'd heard of such a deity. The First Men believed in the Old Gods, the Andals in the Faith of the Seven, the Valyrians had their own gods... What kind of god is the Cold God? Rhaegar wondered. Could it be like the Faceless Men's God of Many Faces, or the Ironborn's Drowned God, born out of specific experiences and cultures?
"The Cold God is the embodiment of winter itself—of cold and darkness," the Child of the Forest explained with both anger and fear in its voice. "He created the White Walkers and uses them to lead his army of the dead."
Rhaegar frowned, still puzzled. "Does the Cold God have a physical form, like the Heart Tree?"
He needed to know whether this god was a tangible force, or just an abstract figurehead, like the Seven. Many gods had shown signs of existence—the Heart Tree, the Lord of Light—but what of this Cold God?
"No one knows for sure," the Child of the Forest admitted, its eyes clouding with memories. "But the Cold God cannot be killed. He has taken the form of a human leader to command the dead."
"The Night King?" Rhaegar guessed.
"Yes." The Child of the Forest nodded eagerly, hope flickering in its eyes. "The Night King hasn't awakened yet. You still have time to defeat the wights."
Rhaegar paused, his mind racing as he tried to piece everything together. The Conqueror's prophecy was real. The Night King and the wights were real. But the Night King, while powerful, was not necessarily the Cold God itself—just its human embodiment.
The Night King still slumbered in the Land of Always Winter, while his White Walkers had already stirred beyond the Wall. Their movement had alarmed the Children of the Forest, driving them south, seeking help from those who might stand a chance.
"So..." Rhaegar's thoughts shifted as he regarded the Child of the Forest with a calculating gaze. His voice turned cold as he posed his question, "Why should I help you?"
The Child of the Forest froze, startled by his bluntness. "The White Walkers will cross the Wall," it said anxiously. "You and your people will die."
"Not necessarily," Rhaegar replied, a confident smile spreading across his face. "The White Walkers can't swim, can they?"
He considered the natural defense of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, where the Wall met the cold, fast-moving waters of the Shivering Sea. If he moved his House across the Narrow Sea to Essos, the White Walkers would be unable to follow.
"Those are your advisors speaking!" the Child of the Forest insisted, its voice urgent. But it failed to grasp the full cunning of human nature. Wasn't it the duty of a king to protect his people, even if it meant abandoning the land? Hadn't the hero Azor Ahai made similar sacrifices 8,000 years ago?
Rhaegar chuckled softly, brushing his hand through the Child's chestnut curls. His tone was light, but his words were sharp. "I'm no Warden of the North. I have no reason to sacrifice everything."
He could lead the people of the Seven Kingdoms to safety, just as the Warrior Queen Nymeria had once done with the Rhoynar, fleeing from their doom. But if he was to stay and fight, the Child would have to show him that victory against the White Walkers was within reach—and give him a reason worthy of the risk.
The Child hesitated, its green eyes narrowing. It opened its small hand, which had been plucking leaves nervously from its hair, and spoke with renewed sternness. "What do you want, greedy Valyrian?"
The Child's resentment was clear. Once, the First Men had been their most fearsome enemies. Then came the Andals, even more ruthless. And the Valyrians—the cruelest of all—had crushed them both.
Rhaegar smiled, the look of triumph unmistakable. "Your pumpkins," he said casually. Then, his voice hardened, like the roar of a dragon. "And the magic of the Children of the Forest—including their obedience and loyalty to their king."
"You want the Children of the Forest to serve humans?" The Child's voice rose in shock, and it spun around in a frantic circle. With its small frame, large ears, and sudden movements, it looked like a panicked squirrel.
"Why not?" Rhaegar shrugged, unfazed. The Children of the Forest possessed ancient magic and legendary knowledge. And the Targaryens, with their dragons and lineage, were an old and noble House—one that commanded respect. "As they say, 'Empty vessels make the most noise.' It's time for a forgotten clan to resurface, to share the burden with the Targaryens and their dragons."
Besides, Rhaegar thought, those pumpkin bombs were highly effective. Who knew how many could be produced or what other magical weapons the Children might be hiding?
The Child stepped back, fear and indignation flashing across its face. "No," it said, shaking its head. "We signed a pact with the First Men, agreeing to live in peace."
Humans cannot be trusted, the Child's mind screamed, drawing from centuries of bitter experience. Safety lies in staying far away from them.
Rhaegar stood up, resting his sword, Blackfyre, on the ground. "Am I a First Man?"
The Child of the Forest froze, taken aback. Of course not—Rhaegar was a Valyrian, one of the ancient and fearsome dragonlords, far more dangerous than the First Men.
Rhaegar's lips curved into a soft, gentle smile. "Then what do I have to do with the agreement you made with the First Men?"
"The Children of the Forest and humans can't coexist," the creature replied impatiently, clearly agitated. Its mind raced, searching for an answer. "Dead men can't swim, but the White Walkers are intelligent."
Rhaegar crossed his arms, listening intently.
"We once shattered the Arm of Dorne," the Child said gravely, its eyes full of warning. "The White Walkers know ice magic, and they could cross into the mainland the same way—through the remnants of the Arm."
Rhaegar's expression darkened, the weight of the threat sinking in. The Child of the Forest, sensing his fear, pressed on. "If the White Walkers aren't stopped, countless living people will be turned into wights, and the world will fall into cold and darkness."
Even the Children of the Forest would be hunted down and destroyed by the White Walkers. They had nowhere to hide if the dead came.
Rhaegar sighed, sheathing Blackfyre. "Allegiance can wait. For now, let's focus on what else can stop the White Walkers."
Without hesitation, he scooped up the small Child of the Forest with one hand and started back toward Greywater Watch, striding through the swampy terrain. In his eyes, the creature was already a prisoner—and he would extract every bit of value from it.
The Child's mood brightened, and it spoke eagerly. "Your sword, Blackfyre, and the dragons in The Neck—they're all weapons against the White Walkers. Your army needs to be armed, and I can provide thousands of obsidian weapons."
Rhaegar didn't show much reaction, remaining indifferent. "I'll send word to King's Landing immediately. They'll begin mining more dragonglass."
But his thoughts wandered back to the mysterious "pumpkin bombs." He had never seen them before, but their power was clear—they were easier to use and more convenient than wildfire.
As they neared Greywater Watch, Rhaegar asked, "What's your name?"
The Child of the Forest, now resigned to its fate, answered listlessly, "Billbo."
Rhaegar raised an eyebrow, finding the name oddly endearing for such a strange creature. "That doesn't sound like a woman's name."
"Children of the Forest don't need to mate," Billbo replied flatly.
Rhaegar smirked, already imagining Rhaenyra's surprise and delight when he presented this strange new ally.
...
The North, The Wall.
Night had fallen, and the cold wind howled through the frozen expanse.
Bang! Bang!
"Roar! Put your backs into it!" A desperate voice echoed across the battleground as two giants slammed their massive bodies against the iron bars of the Wall's gate, loosening the ice spikes that clung to its surface.
Arrows, burning with flames, embedded themselves in the wildlings, their bodies dripping with blood as they struggled to press forward. A ring of fire, fueled by oil, blazed on the ground, holding back the wildling horde. Neither side dared to make the next move—the wildlings unable to breach the Wall, the Night's Watch unwilling to step beyond its protection.
Only the two giants remained, throwing themselves against the gate in a desperate attempt to break through, enduring the cold wind and scorching heat of the flames. The fire singed their hair, and the ice on their heads melted, trickling down in streams of water.
"I can do it!" an ugly giant bellowed, his rough voice carrying across the battlefield. With both hands gripping the iron bars, he strained, lifting the gate a foot off the ground.
Whoosh!
A volley of arrows rained down, finding their mark in the neck of his companion. The second giant let out a low groan before collapsing with a thunderous crash, his massive body falling into the flames. The stench of charred flesh mixed with the already heavy air, adding to the grisly scene, not far from the burnt corpse of a mammoth.
"Ah, you're dead!" the ugly giant cried in anguish, his strength faltering.
Clang!
The iron gate crashed back down, sending a cloud of snow into the air. The barrier had held, but only just.
"Charge!" a voice roared from the wildling ranks.
The fallen giant's body extinguished much of the fire, and the horde surged forward, trampling over the corpse. The ground trembled under their weight as they advanced.
Rumble.
Suddenly, the Wall itself seemed to come alive. The ice groaned, and the firelight cast a chilling, eerie glow upon its frozen surface.
Swish!
A massive scythe, suspended by an iron chain, dropped from the heights of the Wall like a bolt of lightning. It swept across the battlefield with terrifying speed, cutting through the wildlings in its path. Bodies were cleaved in two, and blood splattered across the snow in a gruesome display.
The carnage was instant, devastating the barbarian ranks and sending a wave of terror through their hearts.
Whoooosh—
A long, mournful horn sounded from the rear of the wildling army. It was the call for retreat.
(Word count: 2,486)