After all, a legendary magical horn ought to have been made of something as hard as Dragonbinder. How else could it have survived for so long?
That meant the real Horn of Winter was very likely the black horn Jon, Samwell Tarly, and the others had found at the Fist of the First Men.
At the very least, that black horn had eventually made its way to the Citadel in Oldtown with Sam and had appeared quite often. Even if it was not the true Horn of Winter of all those extraordinary legends, something mentioned so many times could hardly be useless.
Viserys's gaze lingered on the circular recess for a moment before shifting away.
There was no rush to deal with the Horn of Winter. It should still have been at the Fist of the First Men, but the place was enormous. He could hardly expect to turn up, dig at random, and find it as Sam and the other men of the Night's Watch had.
The more pressing matter was how to open the door before him without a key.
He reached out again, pressing his palm flat against the ironwood door. He pushed harder, but it did not budge. He pushed again, with the same result.
"Your Grace, this ironwood door really is too hard." Robb stood beside him, a hint of anxiety in his voice. "Should I summon all the craftsmen in the city and have them dismantle it bit by bit with chisels and wedges?"
Viserys shook his head and said evenly, "No. That would take too long. I don't want to keep waiting." He withdrew his hand and took half a step back, his gaze settling on the circular recess at the lower left corner of the door. "Benjen, are you certain the thing