Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Time flies, and days pass.

In Meereen's arena, the sound of clashing metal echoed, with occasional sparks lighting the air. Rhaegar sat on a high platform, observing the fight below. A rugged Dothraki Bloodrider wielding a curved blade faced off against a heavily armored knight.

Despite his armor, the knight struggled against the nimble Bloodrider. After a dozen rounds, the knight finally emerged victorious. Rhaegar turned and smiled, “Rao-Khal, see? Armor has its uses.”

Rao replied in strained Valyrian, his expression blank, “Dothraki... never wear... iron clothes.”

“Oh, suit yourself,” Rhaegar said, respecting the Dothraki's traditions despite his good mood.

Rao glanced at the defeated Bloodrider, who angrily cut his braid, a gesture of disgrace among the Dothraki. He and Rhaegar shared a history. Rao-Khal had been hired by the Prince of Pentos during the siege of Myr and had received a generous gift from Rhaegar after the war, allowing his tribe to flourish. This time, the Great Masters of Meereen had employed him, only for him to be captured by Aemond at the Mother of Mountains. Under the threat of the Sheepstealer and Rhaegar’s name, he chose to follow Aemond in the counterattack on Meereen.

As the two men conversed, the Sea Snake approached from the audience. He first looked at the victorious knight, who removed his helmet to reveal a young face with silver hair and dark skin. Then he walked over to Rhaegar and whispered, “Your Grace, the representatives of the various houses have all arrived.”

“Do they agree?” Rhaegar asked.

The Sea Snake squeezed out a smile, “Don't worry, no one will refuse an extra asset.”

Slaver's Bay had fallen, and the slave masters of the three Free Cities had been dethroned. The Targaryen dynasty couldn't extend its reach so far, at least not in Rhaegar's generation. The region was too distant, thriving on slave trading—a thankless task for any ruler. But after toppling the long-established Slaver's Bay, Rhaegar was unwilling to leave it as it was. With his knack for leveraging situations to his advantage, he devised a plan to benefit himself while disadvantaging others.

Rhaegar rubbed his chin thoughtfully, “In addition to the Hightowers and House Lannister, Crownlands nobles like Darklyn, Rosby, and Staunton will each receive an extra share of land.”

If the Targaryens couldn’t directly govern Slaver's Bay, they could grant it to nobles loyal to them, encouraging them to colonize and influence the region. Over time, Slaver's Bay would still fall under the Iron Throne's influence.

“You are very generous, Your Grace,” the Sea Snake remarked.

The Crownlands nobles, not being wealthy, would benefit from new lands overseas, sending their second sons to develop them. This would ensure the royal family’s favor and support from the nobles.

“It’s a necessary evil, Lord Corlys,” Rhaegar stood up, adding, “Rao-Khal has given the Iron Throne a hundred scorpion crossbows. Don’t forget to return the favor when he leaves.”

These scorpion crossbows, high-priced Meereenese defense devices from Qohor, had been confiscated in their original packaging.The Sea Snake understood the implication and said, “Qohor makes many weapons and is very resistant to the Iron Throne.”

Free Cities ruled by religion posed a potential threat at any time.

“When I have time, I will visit Qohor myself,” Rhaegar affirmed, intrigued by Qohor’s ancient heritage and knowing several top craftsmen there but never having set foot in the city.

Before leaving, he warned, “Prepare a large ship. I'm returning to Westeros.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the Sea Snake replied.

...

King's Landing, Red Keep.

The Small Council convened in the dimly lit chamber, the weight of recent events hanging heavy in the air. Viserys sat on the Iron Throne, his weary body slumped as though the burden of the crown was too much to bear.

“Your Grace, Lady Cassandra of House Baratheon has passed away. Her sister, Lady Maris, has succeeded her as the Lady of Storm's End,” Lord Lyonel Strong announced, his voice slow and gentle, as if he were speaking to an elderly man in his final days.

Viserys blinked, a frown creasing his brow. “Cassandra is dead?” he asked, his voice tinged with confusion and disbelief. She was his daughter-in-law; how could she die without a clear cause?

Lyonel sighed deeply. “Indeed, Your Grace. It is a great loss, and no one regrets the death of Lady Cassandra more than House Baratheon.”

“By the Seven, what terrible news,” Viserys muttered, his forehead beading with cold sweat. His already pale complexion turned ashen.

Before anyone could respond, Jasper Wylde, known as Iron Rod, suddenly spoke up. “Luck alone does not always determine a person's fate, Your Grace.”

Viserys turned to him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

The other advisors exchanged uneasy glances, clearly disapproving of Jasper's boldness. Ignoring their silent rebukes, Jasper continued, “According to the testimony of Steffon Connington, the captain of the guards at Storm's End, Lady Cassandra's death was not an accident. It appears to have been a deliberate murder.”

Lyonel's frown deepened, his voice filled with warning. “Speak with evidence, Iron Rod. Such accusations are serious.”

Viserys, sensing the gravity of the situation, interrupted, “Let him continue. We must uncover the truth.”

Jasper gave Lyonel a sly look before explaining, “On the eve of Lady Cassandra's death, Storm's End hired a group of new servants. One of them was the maid who served Lady Cassandra her supper that night.”

He had proof: this was indeed murder.

His animosity from House Baratheon was clear; they had never honored their marriage alliance with him.

The heir to Storm's End now seemed unlikely to ever secure the throne. Viserys was stunned by the revelation. He never imagined Cassandra would met such a violent end.

Lyonel, concerned for the aging king's health, spoke cautiously, “Your Grace, this is a complex matter. Lord Jasper might be jumping to conclusions.”

Reports from across the Narrow Sea suggested Prince Aemond had hired an assassin to kill the White Worm. White Worm was known to be Daemon's close confidante. It was widely recognized that Prince Daemon was notorious for his vindictiveness and womanizing.

Jasper pressed on, “I have a statement from Steffon Connington implicating Maris Baratheon in the murder.”

Whether true or not, Jasper's tactic was clear: cast suspicion first.

Lyonel was silent, his face flushed with anger.

Tormund, the Master of Whisperers, with his hands hidden in his sleeves, spoke in a measured tone, “Lord Jasper, how can you be certain of Steffon Connington's testimony?”

Jasper replied confidently, “He was Lady Cassandra's most trusted captain in the guard.”

“Oh?” Tormund drawled, his gaze fixed intently on Jasper. “Don't you think their relationship might have been too close?”

As Master of Whisperers, Tormund knew secrets even the king might not be privy to. He was privy to information that, if revealed, could destabilize the realm.

Jasper, caught off guard, suddenly recalled something and closed his mouth in anger.

As the meeting dragged on, the atmosphere grew increasingly tense. Viserys, sensing the evasion and concealment around him, burst out, “Who is the murderer? Do you all think I'm an old fool?”

“Your Grace...” Lyonel began, but his voice trailed off, laden with mixed emotions. After all, it was his brother accused of killing his son's fiancée.

“Tell me, who is it?” Viserys demanded, his rage causing his breath to come in short, erratic gasps.

Lyonel wiped the sweat from his forehead, feeling the immense pressure.

Bang!

The door to the council chamber flew open, and a cool breeze swept in. Viserys turned in surprise, squinting against the sunlight.

Daemon stood in the doorway, a calm yet determined look on his face, a hint of longing in his eyes. “Brother,” he greeted quietly.

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