Game of Thrones: Bastard? I’m the Damn Heir!

Chapter 375 375: The Northern Campaign!

Three months had passed since the birth of the king's eldest son and the launch of King Kal's northern campaign, codenamed "Long Summer."

In those three months, along the frozen coast, two waves of troops had landed in succession—two armies totaling thirty thousand men. For a time, the once desolate icefields became unusually "lively."

And among the armies stationed upon that frozen shore, amid snow and ice, three sisters of differing looks and temperaments had appeared at some unknown point, without a sound.

One of them wore plate armor and carried a longsword at her waist, her hair a vivid blood-red.

No one knew who she was, or where she came from.

Yet in this bitter cold, she moved with greater ease than even the native inhabitants known as the walrus folk. Rumor had it she came from a northern tribe herself, a powerful warrior—perhaps even a guard to that king.

The other two seemed more like women of the south. One had lustrous black hair and was adorned in jewels, like a lady kept by some noble in a royal court.

The last had dark skin and loose, curly hair, resembling a woman from the Free City of Myr. She was secretive by nature, and her gaze was sharp as a blade, often lingering on a man's throat or other vital places, sending chills down the spine. Some whispered in private that she might be a witch.

These three women, so different in appearance and temperament, claimed to be sisters and were never seen apart.

Within the camp, they shone like moonlight—dazzling, irresistible.

Yet whenever some bold northerner or free folk tried to slip into their tent, they would inevitably be found at dawn the next day, tied to the flagpole, shivering in the cold.

Even so, no one grew afraid of them. If anything, such incidents only stirred greater curiosity and desire—or perhaps, a sense of challenge.

Among the slowly advancing northern host, in this frozen wasteland, the soldiers found themselves a source of amusement. Some quietly set wagers, guessing who would ultimately win the beauty.

And so, such challenges naturally began.

Knights who fancied themselves gentlemen pursued the three women openly, employing every method at their disposal.

Some would deliberately display their strength before the warrior woman, hoping to draw her attention.

Before the noblewoman, they offered gifts, sang songs, or recounted the "legendary" exploits of their lives in all their supposed grandeur.

As for the Myrish witch, they were more restrained—for her eyes always gave the impression that she might devour you and drink your blood dry.

...

"I didn't expect him to be a king…"

Inside an unremarkable tent, the red-haired warrior spoke as she applied something to the noblewoman's skin.

A faint fragrance of lotus drifted through the air.

"He is far more than just a king."

The witch, seated nearby with a book in hand, spoke without even looking up.

At her words, the other two paused.

They knew well what she meant—or rather, the moment they had been taken from their world, they had already come to understand certain things.

Exchanging glances, faint, complicated smiles appeared on their faces.

"He asked us to keep watch over this army… He truly thinks highly of us. Thirty thousand troops, and with all the logistics moving back and forth, the number reaches sixty or seventy thousand at least."

"We don't need to do much. Just keep an eye on certain key individuals. When the time comes, he can arrive at any moment."

Hearing this complaint, the witch finally looked up, closed her book, and rose, walking to the entrance of the tent to gaze outside.

Since the latter half of the night before, a snowstorm had crept in without warning, and it showed no signs of stopping.

The magical perfume Kal had given them—or rather, the improved sunscreen—was always kept close at hand. After all, vampires still feared the sun.

And now… it might already be time to fight.

As the witch's words fell, a resounding horn suddenly echoed through the camp. Tens of thousands of men stirred at once, torches igniting amid the raging wind and snow.

The storm grew ever more violent.

A staggering figure stepped onto the snow, each step crunching softly.

Behind it, within the endless white, more such figures began to appear.

…

Within the army stationed at the harsh outpost, a swordsman bearing a longsword had appeared at some unknown time.

His name was Gabriel—silent, taciturn, his brow always shadowed by a hint of melancholy.

Yet such a peculiar man was accompanied by a strikingly beautiful and alluring nun.

The two kept to themselves, as though they stood at the edge of the army. No one who tried to approach them could stir their interest.

No one knew where they came from, nor which god the nun worshipped.

This led some undisciplined and coarse northerners, emboldened by drink, to attempt to take advantage of her.

Only after they inexplicably fell asleep—and awoke to find themselves castrated, lying upon the dining tables—did more people abandon such thoughts.

Before any outcry could even arise, those who had acted were already beheaded.

The army's commanding officers knew of the pair's nature and tacitly protected them, preserving both their presence and their way of life.

Thus it continued—until a snowstorm blew in from the deeper north.

Seated upon a rock, quietly admiring the snowy forest before him, the swordsman slowly rose, lifting his hand to pull back his hood, drawing the greatsword from his back.

The nun in her striking red robes stepped from her tent and stood by the shore.

Further within the bay, even the sea had frozen solid under the bitter cold. Upon that ice, staggering figures emerged—dragging their broken bodies as they slowly advanced toward the living.

A slender rapier, its scabbard the same vivid red, appeared in the nun's hand.

She cast off her hooded cloak, revealing her graceful waist, and slowly drew the silver-white blade.

At the same moment, the two standing guard at opposite ends of the army raised their swords, pale light blooming along their edges.

…

The Children of the Forest—whom the giants called "squirrel folk"—watched with curiosity at the dozen or so giants they had never seen before.

They had to crouch in the trees just to reach the giants' height.

Of these giants, a third were women—beautiful, like enlarged versions of humans, bearing none of the ugliness, coarseness, or dullness of the giants that roamed the frozen plains.

Although they all spoke in a language she could not understand, in the span of tens of thousands of years, they had never heard of—nor seen—giants so different as these.

"These are weapons Kal had us prepare specially for you. We spent a long time forging them… and are you truly certain this will not be a problem for you?"

The Child of the Forest whom Kal called "Squirrel" possessed an astonishing gift for languages. In just a few months, she had learned a new tongue and established communication with this peculiar band of giants.

At the same time, she had come to learn certain things… about Kal's secrets.

"You're worried about us? Hah—poor little squirrel girl. Sometimes I truly wonder if you're a goblin yourself. Kal commands an entire army of goblins."

"Those green-skinned rats are fearsome—and strong. Even the mightiest warriors of our tribe could fall to them."

The red-haired giantess spoke as she took hold of the so-called weapons, her gaze teasing as she looked at the Child of the Forest, who stubbornly insisted on standing atop a tree to speak with her.

The weapons were spheres bound together with vines, packed full of jagged shards of black glass.

There were also logs—each nearly half the height of a giant.

These logs had been stripped from the toughest timber in the forest and roughly shaped, their surfaces embedded with fragments of shattered dragonglass, fixed in place with resin.

She weighed one in her hand—good balance.

As for the logs… compared to the weapons specially forged for them, they were better than nothing.

As the two spoke, another giantess approached—her hair a silvery white, like that of House Targaryen.

"They are clever. They mine ore and smelt it into iron."

"And then Kal used dragon eggshells as well, having smiths forge armor for us. Look—how fine it is. I never imagined I would one day wear armor."

"Most days, we cannot even afford such equipment. Even a cup of mead is hard to come by."

Hearing the silver-haired giantess, Squirrel replied, "I never imagined I would see giants clad in armor. I cannot fathom your strength."

There were not many giants—only a few hundred in total. Yet a force of several hundred giants clad in heavy, well-crafted armor… it exceeded her imagination.

As she spoke, she turned to the silver-haired giantess who had addressed her.

"Perhaps you could challenge a dragon. You might even take a name for yourself, like the Targaryens. Only you would not be a dragonlord house—but a slayer of dragons."

That silver hair shone brightly in this world, and Squirrel herself had witnessed the might of dragons—she had lived for more than two hundred years.

Yet at her praise, the red-haired giantess merely smiled faintly. Over her imposing armor, she wore a cloak fashioned entirely from black raven feathers, lending her an even more heroic bearing.

"If you had seen a true dragon, you would not speak so."

"A true dragon is not merely a lizard that spits fire. Its tongue—and its very body—are weapons of true power."

"And now… let us see whether these weapons you have given us will serve."

As the two spoke, a creeping frost began to spread through a narrow valley within the Haunted Forest.

Several Others, mounted upon giant spiders or strange corpse-horses, hid behind ranks of wights, silently observing this "nail" driven into the forest.

…

Within the lands of Frostfang, among the remaining free folk tribes beyond the Wall, a small army of green-skinned, sharp-eared creatures had appeared at some unknown time.

They bore fanged mouths and bloodthirsty eyes—yet possessed a strange and rigid discipline.

More disciplined, even, than the men of the North—or those of the South.

Orders were given, and instantly obeyed.

"That is… the Children of the Forest?"

"No. We are goblins."

When they first encountered this sudden army, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, Robb Stark, and all others present looked upon them with confusion. The entire force stood scarcely half their height.

At their head stood a green-skinned woman; second to her was a darker-skinned witch.

They commanded the army—yet proclaimed Kal to be their king.

As for themselves… they were the king's wives.

Since when did Kal have such wives?

A great question rose in Robb's mind. If he remembered correctly, his own sister, Sansa Stark, was Kal's queen.

And she had only recently borne him a son.

Yet according to these two self-proclaimed goblin women, every soldier in this army… was Kal's child.

"…"

So which was the truth?

…

"We've set contingencies at every position. Even if something unexpected happens, we will have time to respond."

"And then our true main force will move swiftly to reinforce."

At Kal's side stood a drow witch, along with several cloaked figures whose faces remained hidden beneath their hoods—since their arrival, they had scarcely spoken, merely observing this world with curiosity.

The main force?

As Kal spoke, confusion spread among those present at the council.

Six armies, advancing along separate routes, would ultimately converge north of the Land of Always Winter, depending on how events unfolded.

Before that, each army had but one purpose: to find the Others—or rather, to discover where they were based.

Perhaps such a place did not even exist. Perhaps the beings that commanded the dead had no need for such a stronghold.

Yet regardless, if they wished to launch an assault upon the Others, this was the only viable course.

"Are there any difficulties with the supply lines?"

Having finished the previous matter, Kal turned his head toward Jon Whitewolf at his side. Upon learning that the king would march north against the Others, he had volunteered himself for the front.

Kal did not refuse.

As Governor of the Mander and acting Lord of Highgarden, Jon Whitewolf was precisely the kind of man Kal required.

With him—alongside Benjen Stark, Samwell Tarly, and even Aemon Targaryen, who had already taken a post in King's Landing yet returned to the Wall to aid the front—Kal had the assistance he needed.

Kal had entrusted most matters of logistics to these men, while he himself spent this time arranging matters of greater import.

Such as the war now before them.

Outside the tent, having crossed the Wall for the first time, the golden dragon Robert—now grown to the size of a small hill—kept his distance, as though unsettled by something. His massive body lay upon the snow, his posture oddly uneasy.