Chapter 656: The Wall

Dragonstone, at the edge of a cliff.

The Cannibal crawled across the grass, its heavy body crushing the blades beneath it. Its labored breathing was like a searing torrent of heat.

A deep, guttural roar rumbled from its throat.

"Roar~~"

...

A shrill scream echoed from the massive beast, sending grass and dust whirling into the air.

Rhaegar lay on his side beside the black dragon's wing, eyes open as he watched two young dragons sparring. One had gray-green scales, scarlet dorsal fins, and wing membranes, with a sharp head that lacked a horned crown. The other, black with streaks of purple, bore a fierce appearance with a long, curved horn crown.

"Roar!"

The gray-green young dragon bellowed, unleashing a blast of scorching scarlet dragonfire that hit the mottled black dragon square on the head. The force knocked the latter over, leaving it dazed.

"Haha, the two little guys," Rhaegar chuckled, tossing a piece of fresh wyvern meat toward them.

The scent of blood caught the attention of the young dragons, and they lunged at the meat like starved cats. One bit the other, while the other kicked back. They couldn't even eat peacefully.

Another low growl came from the Cannibal, its eyelids fluttering. Its massive mouth opened slightly in an impatient rumble.

The two young dragons froze at the sound, then quickly tore off pieces of wyvern meat before flying away, each clutching their share. They were no bigger than hunting dogs, their wings still weak and unsteady as they wobbled in mid-air, much like young children carrying heavy loads.

"You've scared them," Rhaegar said, shaking his head, though there was a note of amusement in his voice. He flapped his own pitch-black wings. The two dragons, much like Moondancer and Morning, had hatched from eggs laid by Syrax. Rhaenyra had named the newborns Arrax and Tyvarix.

'Like Lyanna's Vermax,' Rhaegar mused, 'named after the deities of Syrax, the goddess of fertility. They represent the warrior, the spear, and thunder... While Vermax represents wisdom and enlightenment, they are all warden dragons of the Mother Goddess.' He smiled at the thought. 'Very affectionate.'

The Cannibal opened its miserable green vertical eyes, its wings flapping irritably. One of the young dragons hovered tantalizingly close, as if daring it to strike. The Cannibal's pale dragon head twitched—it hadn't yet fully digested its last meal, but the thought of fresh, tender meat tempted it.

"Tsk tsk..."

Rhaegar smirked, climbing onto the saddle along the Cannibal's wing. He had no time to play with his old companion. The dragon seemed to sense this, bracing its wings and gazing across the coast, its monstrous head cocked toward the horizon.

"Let's go. Velaryon's fleet should be setting sail." Rhaegar fastened his black cloak around him, his mind already working over the plans for developing the golden fields. King's Landing was under the care of his father and Rhaenyra, while the Good Uncle and Aemond had joined the Small Council. He felt relieved, bold, and eager for news from his eldest son in the North.

"Roar!"

With a powerful flap of its wings, the Cannibal let out a mighty cry, soaring into the sky. Its thick tail slashed through the cliff face as it launched itself into the air.

"Roar!"

A young dragon, scales shimmering cobalt blue with a copper belly, flew out from the Stone Drum Tower, trailing far behind the Cannibal. Daeron rode on its back, one hand clutching a golden key, the other a map.

"Alas, another long journey," Daeron muttered. 'With great responsibility comes great power, I suppose. Not like Brother Aegon, who has less power and fewer burdens to carry.'

The two dragons flew over Blackwater Bay, one leading, the other trailing. Slowly, they disappeared beyond The Gullet.

Below, a fleet flying the banner of a green seahorse sailed across the sea. A dozen large ships carried cargo and sailors. On the deck of one ship stood a young man with a determined expression, his gaze lifting toward the soaring dragons.

"I wish I were a rider too," he murmured, eyes gleaming. Addam turned and began barking orders to the sailors with renewed vigor.

...

The North.

The Wall, Castle Black.

Creak...

The winch-ladder embedded in the frozen stone wall slowly ascended toward the top of the towering Wall. The bitter wind howled, snowflakes slipping through the iron fence.

Baelon shivered, shaking his head to free the snow from his silver-and-gold shawl.

"You should dress more warmly, Prince," said Cregan, standing straight and tall, a broad greatsword slung diagonally over his left shoulder.

"It's exciting to finally see the Wall up close," Baelon replied, smiling, his eyes drifting past Cregan's greatsword.

House Stark sword—Ice.

Baelon's hand rested on the hilt at his waist, fingers curling around Dragonclaw, the House sword his father had gifted him. The Dragonbone handle radiated warmth.

"Winter is coming. This is no occasion for excitement." Cregan's brow furrowed deeply, concealing a deeper worry.

"Winter? Do you mean... something beyond the Wall?" Baelon was quick to understand and thought instantly of the prophecy.

"You are right." Cregan's eyes flashed with a fierce light, and he murmured, "This is just a sprinkle of snow at the end of summer. The real winter will be... devastating."

"You brought me here to the Wall. We'll face it together." Baelon stood tall, showing the bearing of a heir prince, his vision not limited by youth.

"You are kind, just like your father," Cregan remarked, allowing a rare smile to break his stern features. Teasing, he added, "At least you didn't threaten me with a dragon like when my ancestor, Torrhen Stark, faced the Black Dread."

Baelon couldn't help but smile. "I thought you wouldn't like to discuss that part of history."

"Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt," Cregan said, with an unusual perspective, "isn't remembered in shame. He brought the men of The North home safely."

Just then, Cregan's gaze caught movement in the sky.

Roar...

The massive, mountain-like dragon lay in the snow outside Castle Black, shaking its head in protest as its wide wings swept snow away. It was colder than Winterfell, and the Great Wall loomed behind, emanating an aura of forbidden magic.

"Dragon," Cregan muttered, a fierce light igniting in his eyes.

Clang!

The winch-ladder shuddered violently as it struck the wooden boards at the top of the Wall.

"Watch your step," Cregan said, snapping back to the present. He pushed open the ladder's gate and stepped onto the Great Wall.

As far as the eye could see, battlements rose higher than head height, their frost-covered stones barely concealing the fierce north-south wind. Men of The North, bundled in thick fur coats, waited respectfully near the stairwell, their eyes on the Lord and the young Prince.

Plop—

Baelon leapt onto the hardened layer of ice, while the torches along the Wall swayed in the cold wind, casting flickering shadows across the ancient fortification.

"It's cold," Baelon muttered.

"This is only the tip of the iceberg. You'll have to learn to accept it."

Cregan, like an amiable teacher, took the young prince's hand and walked onward. Despite being only in his twenties, Cregan had already known love and loss. After enduring many trials, he had become remarkably open-minded. The heir, just ten years old, felt almost like his own child to him.

"This way, my lord," said a seasoned Night's Watchman as he approached, leading the pair toward the watchtower.

Cregan nodded. "I'll show you the view beyond the Wall so you can tell your father about it when you return home."

"I'd rather take a leak," Baelon joked, his face reddened by the cold. His voice carried a hint of exasperation as he added, "My cock's shriveled into nothing, and I can't stop thinking about peeing."

He marveled at how the Night's Watch could endure this endless winter, understanding now why the oath forbade wives and children. No one would be in the mood in this cold.

When they reached the watchtower, it turned out to be a simple wooden structure jutting from the Wall. Cregan pointed toward the distance with a large hand.

"Over there is the Haunted Forest, wildling territory," he said.

Baelon followed his gaze, noticing the arrows lodged in the walls and the dark bloodstains scattered in the snow below. Some of the arrows were nearly two meters long, as imposing as the steel spears used on scorpion crossbows. Red patches bloomed on the snow, staining the frozen remains.

"Those are the marks the wildlings left behind," Cregan whispered gravely. "They feel winter coming too and are doing everything they can to cross the Wall."

"Why don't we just let them in?" Baelon wondered aloud.

Both knew the true enemy lurked far beyond the Wall. The wildlings were merely unfortunate souls, living on the wrong side when the Wall was built. Like the people of The North, they were descendants of the First Men.

"I can't be certain of their threat," Cregan said calmly, showing no annoyance at the question. "Besides, the people of The North can barely feed themselves. They can't afford to care for outsiders."

He explained that even the sons of the nobility volunteered for the Night's Watch to spare their families' dwindling rations. The wildlings were unproductive, and letting them pass the Wall would be disastrous.

Baelon remained silent, inwardly pursing his lips. The kingdom is still too weak. That's why people live on the edge of survival. If possible, he wished for a day when everyone could eat their fill.

Whoosh—

Cregan bent down, about to speak again, but the sound of solemn horns echoed from the Haunted Forest, cutting him off.

Sa sa sa...

Dense footsteps crunched through the snow, shaking the forest lightly. Baelon's eyes widened, and an unease crept up his spine. From the trees, a procession of wild men emerged, draped in animal skins, their ranks solemn and indifferent to death.

At the front, a massive beast, towering several stories high and covered in long, matted hair, trudged forward.

"Mammoth," Baelon whispered, eyes widening as they reflected the enormous creature. There were two mammoths, their thick waists bound by ropes, dragging behind them massive tree trunks.

Two giants, seven or eight meters tall, trudged alongside the beasts, their grotesque faces framed by ragged animal skins. Longbows and arrows, identical to those embedded in the Wall, were strapped to their backs.

Roar...

A heavy, thunderous dragon roar reverberated from behind them, temporarily drowning out the echo of the horns. Uragax soared into the air, circling the Wall, its amber eyes filled with alarm.

Baelon and Cregan stood side by side, their backs to the dragon and their faces turned toward the cold wind and gathering snow.

...

The Great Grass Sea of the Dothraki.

An afternoon. A shoddy tent.

"My brother was the smartest man and the dumbest idiot." Aemon's eyes grew distant, filled with memories.

A faint flush returned to his pale cheeks as his voice rasped, as though something blocked his throat.

"What was he like?" Leah sat cross-legged on a worn woolen rug, holding a plate of cooked horse meat.

"Him..." Aemon bowed his head, forcing a smile. "He was better than me. I'm not as good as he was."

"No!" Leah protested, her eyes widening as she held up a small dagger. "You're a Prince, and so was he. You're a real dragon, just like him. How could he be better than you?"

"That's different."

Aemon gently pushed the blade aside, picking up a piece of horse meat. He chewed slowly, wincing as his jaws ached from the effort. The tough meat resisted, refusing to fall apart.

Gritting his teeth, Aemon forced himself to swallow. I used to savor the finest food thanks to my parents, he thought bitterly. Now, the life of the Dothraki is like being orphaned and left to drink brown soup in a flea-ridden pit.

"Are you sad?" Leah leaned closer, peering into Aemon's purple eyes.

"No," Aemon lied.

Leah tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. "You had a dragon. What was it like?"

"It was big... a great big one." Aemon's throat tightened, and a flush crept up his neck.

"It's dead, isn't it?" Leah, sharp as ever, saw through his attempt to hide the truth. If the dragon still lived, it would have found its way back to him by now.

Aemon's face darkened. In frustration, he grabbed the dagger and stabbed at the horse meat, cutting it with unnecessary force.

"Don't be sad," Leah said, her voice bright, as if she were offering a gift. "In a few days, I'll give you a little horse. Then you can ride with me, instead of walking with the slaves."

Aemon: ...

I didn't want to talk. My thoughts were consumed by memories of the Trickster—the wild dragon I saw that night. It never returned. I regained the will to live, but without a goal, without direction.

"Woof woof~~"

A playful barking pulled Aemon from his thoughts. Leah was lying beside him, trying to cheer him up with a curtsy that looked more like a game.

Blushing, Aemon leaned back. "What are you doing?"

"Your dragon is gone, isn't it?" Leah's eyes sparkled with hope as she offered, "I'll be your dragon now. I'll take you for rides across the Great Grass Sea."

Aemon couldn't help but laugh, shaking his head. "That's not how dragons sound."

"Then how do they sound?" Leah asked eagerly, sitting down beside him. Her enthusiasm undiminished, her wide eyes flitted between Aemon's fair face, which grew more captivating the longer she stared. His short silver-blonde hair and purple eyes shimmered like the moon and stars.

Leah sniffed the air and grinned. The stench of sweat and dirt had faded, replaced by the smell of mutton and grass. "So, how do dragons really sound?" she repeated, her curiosity undeterred.

"A dragon is a dragon. You can't imitate it." Aemon shifted uncomfortably, but Leah followed, sitting even closer.

With no other options, they both turned their attention back to the horse meat. Leah retrieved the small dagger, slicing it into thin strips as they ate in silence.

Outside the tent, the open-air stables buzzed with activity. Cas Khal, the stern-faced leader, stood stroking his warhorse. His expression gave nothing away, but he exchanged a knowing glance with his Bloodrider.

The scarred Bloodrider nodded in understanding. Without a word, he unsheathed his curved knife and made his way toward the tent. His sharp eyes glinted with a dark, complex intent.

(Word count: 2,431)