The Frosted Throne

The cold beyond the Wall was as merciless as the whispers of winter's secrets. Daeron's imposing silhouette on Acnologia, his mighty dragon whose wings carved paths through the frozen lands.

Before venturing too far, Daeron made a brief stop at a remote watchtower on the edge of the Wall. There, in a lonely outpost battered by wind and snow, he met Lord Commander Harrion Ryswell again. The old commander, wrapped in layers of furs and authority, eyed Daeron with a mix of caution and grudging respect.

"Prince Daeron," Harrion greeted, voice rough like gravel. "I'd not have imagined your journey would lead you to these forsaken lands again."

Daeron's eyes glinted with quiet amusement. "Nor I, Lord Commander. But when the winds of change blow, even the most secluded corners of the North must heed their call."

He paused, letting the words settle before adding in a lower tone, "I come as an emissary of a better future—if you'll allow me a few moments of your time."

Harrion snorted, though there was a hint of a smile beneath his hardened exterior. "Better fate? Out here, survival is its own reward. But speak, if you must. What news do you carry?"

Daeron leaned forward, his breath misting in the frigid air. "The free folk—the wildlings scattered beyond the Wall—are in turmoil. They live in a harsh land and must attack others for survival out there.

They scavenge a semblance of order by clinging to old legends. But I intend to offer them something more: refuge, purpose, and unity under a banner that will banish the endless winter."

Harrion's eyes narrowed. "And you think to settle them, gather them as your loyal subjects?"

Daeron's smile was wry. "I do. For those who value life over mindless anarchy, I offer a new beginning. It will both save them and make your job easier.

And those who choose otherwise… well, they shall learn that the dragon does not tolerate ingratitude." With that, he concluded "Now, if you excuse me, I must press on."

With little more than a curt nod from the commander, Daeron swung back onto Acnologia. The great beast soared over the tundra, its green-tinged scales catching the weak sunlight as it glided through turbulent air. Daeron's mind was already on the task ahead: finding the camps of the wildlings and distinguishing between those willing to embrace a better life and those too far gone in madness.

It wasn't long before the expansive snowfields yielded a sign of life—a hastily constructed camp, billowing smoke and scattered makeshift tents among the drifted snow. Daeron circled low, eyes squinting at the figures moving below.

As he dismounted near the perimeter of the camp, he found his suspicions confirmed: a horde of cannibals, their eyes wild and ravenous, charged out in a frenzied rush as soon as they spied him. 'Must be Thenns, huh' Daeron thought.

Daeron's reaction was swift. He stepped back and surveyed the scene with a grim detachment that bordered on disdain. "So, you prefer to dine on the flesh of your own kind," he muttered, half to himself, half as a rebuke to the unruly mob. With a curt nod, he called out to Acnologia. "Acnologia, Dracarys!"

In an instant, the dragon roared in reply. Green flames erupted from his maw, licking at the air with scorching intensity. The cannibals' frantic charge halted abruptly as the searing heat met them, their shrieks muffled by the roar of fire and the crackle of burning wood.

Within moments, the camp was reduced to a smoldering field of ashes—a grim reminder that even in the chaos of the north, cruelty would be met with unyielding force.

Daeron shook his head, a dry chuckle escaping him despite the gravity of the act. "Cannibals… I suppose some people prefer their cuisine extra charred," he mused with subtle humor as he resumed his search, leaving the burnt remains behind.

Not far from the carnage, Daeron soon discovered a different camp—the one he had encountered before. The tents were huddled together beneath the skeletal branches of ancient pines, smoke curling lazily into the frosty sky.

Approaching with a measured stride, Daeron dismounted and was met by a towering wildling with skin weathered by the elements and a presence as formidable as the ice itself. This was Shaka, a burly man whose reputation among the free folk had grown over countless bitter winters. The man Daeron spared and sent to spread the message.

"Silver Dragon Prince," Shaka greeted with a deep, rumbling voice, his eyes both wary and curious. "I almost thought you had forgotten about us.."

Daeron offered a small, knowing smile. "There is little time for idle conversation, Shaka. I require answers. Why did you not gather all the others as I instructed? Didn't you tell them what was coming?"

Shaka crossed his massive arms over his chest, his gaze steady. "Truth be told, few believed your words. Only a handful of horn-footed kin near Frost Fangs and the Ice-River clans took you seriously. Most prefer to bide their time, waiting for the Night King or simply clinging to old ways.

And some like Thenns are arrogant. … some of them dream of the taste of dragon meat," he added with a wry chuckle, shaking his head as if the very notion was absurd.

Daeron's smile was cold and resolute. "Then gather those who wish for a better life—a life free from the tyranny of endless winter and senseless feasting on our kin. Bring them here to Hardhome.

I will send my fleet to Hardhome in a few months, and together we will forge a new destiny in a new land. But know this: loyalty is the only currency I accept. Those who follow my rules will never again know hunger, cold, or despair. They will live a life they never even dreamt of."

Shaka's brow lifted in a mix of respect and mirth. "Kneeling is better than freezing to death, eh? I'll rally those who can still see reason. But tell me, what of the rest of the free folk? What of the Thenns, who feast on everything ?"

Daeron's eyes hardened. "If they remain here, they will only swell the Night King's army of dead. I will make an example of them—so that all may understand the futility of defiance." He paused, then added with a hint of smirk, "Besides, cannibals are hardly the ideal dinner guests."

Shaka laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that echoed across the snowy plain. "Giants, on the other hand… They care little for our squabbles. As long as they see the dragon, see your strength, they will follow you, my Prince. Let us speak of them next."

Before the discussion could delve deeper into the matters of alliances, word came from Shaka: the Thenns were amassed in a valley not far away, driven by a hunger for dragon flesh. Daeron's eyes gleamed with a mix of disdain and determination. "So they wish to dine on the very embodiment of our salvation? Let them taste dragon flames then as their last meal."

Mounting Acnologia once more, Daeron soared to the valley where the Thenns had gathered. Below, thousands of men, their eyes wild with madness and mouths salivating at the mere thought of fire-roasted dragon, assembled. With a single, commanding gesture, Daeron shouted, "Dracarys!"

Acnologia answered with a resounding roar, unleashing torrents of wild green fire. The flames consumed the Thenns in a horrifying speed and precision. Even the snow that has lasted in the valley for centuries, started melting into water, then blowing into steam and vanish.

Panic spread like wildfire, and amid the chaos, the valley became a incinerator. Only a few managed to escape the green inferno, but the price was steep—tens of thousands perished beneath the relentless assault.

Later, as Daeron returned to Hardhome, he found Shaka awaiting him with a grim expression that softened upon hearing the news. "The Thenns… they are no more," Shaka whispered, his voice low with a mix of relief and fear.

Daeron's reply was measured and biting. "Let them serve as a lesson to those who would turn to savagery instead of seeking life. Those left behind will only add to the ranks of the dead. From now on, we build a future based on order and loyalty."

Gathering the survivors at Hardhome, Daeron stood before a sea of weathered faces—men and women who had endured the unyielding cold and brutality of the far North. The camp buzzed with a cautious hope as the wildlings huddled together, eyes fixed on the prince who had traversed ice and flame to save them.

"My people," Daeron began, his voice echoing across the assembly. "The moment you decided to follow me, you have changed your destiny. The days of endless winter and despair are numbered.

I have come to offer you a future—a future in Essos where snow gives way to sun, where the bitter cold is replaced by warmth and abundance. Never will you die of cold and hunger, and have to live a life of pain. But this future comes at a price: your unwavering loyalty and obedience."

A murmur passed through the crowd, mingled with both fear and anticipation. A burly wildling with scars that spoke of countless battles stepped forward. "And what of us who have suffered under the yoke of the southerners? What assurance do we have that you will protect us from the darkness that gathers?"

Daeron's gaze swept the crowd. "I am the 'prince that was promised,' destined to stand against the coming night- or so I have been foretold. I am only trying to potect you from certain death and rising up as wights. I will send my fleet from Hardhome to transport you to a land of promise.

There, you shall have food, shelter, and protection from the cold. You will live happy life. But you must follow my rules obediently—only then will you know true peace."

The wildlings erupted in a mix of cheers and defiant roars, their voices rising to proclaim Daeron as "The King Beyond the Wall."

A ripple of humor underpinned the declaration, as even in the harshest of circumstances, hope found a way to smile at fate.

Shaka, still standing near Daeron, added with a wry grin, "Kneeling is indeed better than freezing to death. I'll gather my kin, and we will follow you—if only to avoid the chill of this cursed land, my King."

Daeron nodded gravely. "See that you do. For those who remain here, they will serve only to swell the ranks of the dead. I will make an example of the Thenns. Let their fate be a warning to all."

Before long, Daeron summoned Shaka and a small retinue to accompany him on the next leg of his mission: a meeting with the giants.

High among the rocky crags near the edge of the known lands, Daeron met with a towering figure—the king of giants, a giant known as Loki.

His broad, furrowed face and deep-set eyes spoke of wisdom and a life spent in the embrace of ice and stone. Beside him stood his young son, Magg the Mighty—a giant warrior in training, who Daeron recalled with a wry smile as if remembering a character from an old, half-forgotten tale.

"Dragon prince," boomed Loki, his voice resonating like distant thunder, "what brings you to our frozen realm?" ( Yeah they can speak here)

Shaka interrupted, " He is 'King beyond the Wall' now, Loki."

Daeron inclined his head respectfully. "Great Loki, I seek allies in the coming darkness. The free folk and the wildlings under my banner would be stronger with your people by our side. Will you come within the Wall, live among the humans, and help us forge a new future?"

The giant king chuckled, a sound that rumbled through the ice. "We giants care little for the petty squabbles of men, but the promise of unity under a dragon is… intriguing. And as long as you don't betray our trust , we shall follow your lead."

Magg the Mighty, his eyes wide with admiration, piped up in a deep, playful tone, "I like your dragon, King. Can I ride it someday?"

Daeron laughed, a sound rich with genuine amusement. "Perhaps one day , my young friend . Although it will be harder if you grow bigger than you are now."

Loki rumbled his assent. "We agree to join you, but only if your uncle—Lord Stark—grants safe passage for my kin within the lands of North and never attack or try to instigate against us."

Daeron's smile was measured. "I will send word immediately. For now, let us celebrate this alliance, for together we shall stand against the coming darkness."

In the days that followed, Daeron oversaw the gathering of over twenty thousand free folk from across the northern wastes. Under his direction, hunters embarked on daring expeditions along the icy shoreline, bringing back whales that would feed the hungry masses.

There were moments of laughter amid the grim work—a wildling jesting that even a whale's song was sweeter than a Thenn's groan, or a seasoned fighter remarking that the only true ice they should fear was the kind that cooled their ale.

At last, with his new subjects assembled at Hardhome, Daeron prepared for the final leg of his northern campaign.

Mounting Acnologia once more, he flew back to the Wall, where preparations were underway to integrate the free folk into the greater realm of the North.

He sent a raven, sealed with the sigil of his house , to his uncle, informing him to settle the giants near the lands of New Gift for the betterment of north.

In a separate missive, he ordered Nessa—his shrewd spymistress—to inform Orlen to dispatch all available ships to Hardhome for the grand migration.

When his uncle's reply arrived—a curt command ensuring the giant's and some free folks settlement, and to ensure the safe passage —the mood at the Wall was anything but celebratory among the Night's Watch. A heated murmur arose from the ranks as the wild, unbridled free folk were ushered into the cold corridors of the ancient fortress.

A grizzled commander of the Watch voiced his discontent loudly, "These savages have no place within our walls!"

Before the clamor could swell into chaos, Daeron strode forward, his presence commanding silence. "Listen well," he declared, his tone both authoritative and laced with dry humor.

"By the decree of Lord Stark, they are now part of the North. And if any of you have a problem with that, remember: Acnologia hasn't eaten yet, and he has a very particular taste for those who disrupt order."

A tense silence followed, broken only by a few nervous chuckles. The men of the Night's Watch exchanged glances, understanding that defiance was a luxury no one could afford in these perilous times.

In a final gathering before the fleet's departure, Daeron addressed the assembled free folk at Hardhome one last time. The frigid air was heavy with both hope and trepidation as he spoke, his voice steady and resonant.

"My people," he began, "we stand on the brink of a new era. The long night is approaching, and with it, a threat that will test us all. But here, in this moment, we choose life over death, hope over despair, unity over division."

He paused, his eyes sweeping across the gathered crowd of wildlings, giants, and survivors. "In a few months, my fleet shall sail from Hardhome to Essos—a land where the sun shines and the cold is but a distant memory.

You will have food, shelter, and the warmth of a new home. But you must follow my rules and stand united as one.

In return, I promise you protection from the coming darkness and the assurance that your children will know nothing but warmth and happiness."

The crowd erupted in cheers and shouts, the sound reverberating across the icy expanse. "Long live the King Beyond the Wall!" they roared, voices raised in a chorus that was equal parts defiance and hope.

Daeron allowed himself a brief, almost imperceptible smile—a smile tinged with irony at the wild fervor of his newfound subjects. "Indeed," he murmured quietly to himself. "For those who choose life, even the coldest winter can be overcome."

As the echoes of the celebration faded into the frigid air, Daeron gathered Shaka and a select few trusted advisors. "Now," he said in a low, measured tone, "it is time to prepare for our next move. I shall send word to my uncle to finalize the arrangements for the giants near New Gift, and soon after, we shall begin our journey to a brighter future."

Shaka grinned broadly. "Kneeling is better than freezing to death, as I always say. And if the giants can help, then by the gods, we'll have plenty to share around the fire."

Daeron laughed softly. "Just ensure they do not mistake our dragon's flames for a dinner invitation. We cannot have every wildling expecting a roast every time we pass through."

The subtle humor in his words did little to mask the seriousness of their mission, but it served as a reminder that even in the darkest of times, hope and a touch of levity could be found.

With the alliances secured and the fleet poised for departure, Daeron finally prepared to lead his assembled forces northward. He mounted Acnologia one last time, the dragon's vast wings unfolding like the promise of destiny.

As they soared over the Wall, Daeron's thoughts were a turbulent blend of responsibility and resolve. His next steps would determine the fate of not only the free folk but the very future of the North itself. But for now, He would return to Winterfell and bid his goodbye to his uncle and his family.

Meanwhile, in a frozen castle, A being made of ice opened his shimmering blue eyes. His voice was raspy and frightening, " The prince is here, I can sense him. Prepare my army. the time has come to engulf this world in ice and death."

His loyal white walkers bowed before him and replied, " It shall be done , your majesty."

( They can also speak , sue me 💀)