Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Volantis.

The back garden of the new Magister’s residence.

“Ssshh... Roar...”

A scarlet dragon lay on the ground, stretching its neck and issuing a low, warning growl.

“Roar!”

Another scarlet dragon hovered above, weaving through the thin clouds, its piercing pupils locked onto the ground below.

...

In the attic, the servants stood nervously.

Daemon, his face slick with sweat, devoured the food on the table, oblivious to the stares of those around him. The servants kept their eyes downcast, noses nearly touching the ground, not daring to provoke the unruly Rogue Prince. An oppressive atmosphere filled the room, making it hard to breathe.

The door suddenly opened, and Rhaenys entered, dressed in a beige tunic. “Cousin, is your dragon injured?” she exclaimed.

Daemon paused mid-chew, struggling to swallow the remnants of his meal. “Slaver's Bay is in an uproar,” he finally said. “I'm here to stay for a couple of days.”

“I know,” Rhaenys replied, crossing her arms as she paced. “The Unsullied army is advancing down the Skahazadhan River, nearing the Smoking Sea. They’ve killed the Great Masters and Wise Masters, disposed of the false Dragonlord, and even relocated a large portion of the slave population from the Free Cities. Slaver's Bay has been drained of its resources and has lost its strategic importance. Whether there’s a riot or not makes no difference now. The key is that the 5,000 Unsullied have withdrawn safely, and the timing of that decision was crucial.”

At the mention of the “Smoking Sea,” Daemon seemed to recall something unsettling and gulped down a mouthful of wine.

“What happened out there?” Rhaenys asked, her eyes narrowing with concern. “The Blood Wyrm’s injuries are unusual.” As someone who had lived through the heyday of the Old King, Rhaenys had seen similar wounds before. She knew her nephew Rhaegar was intent on exploring the Smoking Sea and felt it was vital to be fully informed. If there was great danger, it was not a place to enter lightly.

Daemon sighed deeply, leaning back with a restless air. “You may not believe it, but I didn’t see what that thing was,” he admitted in a low voice. “It appeared suddenly and attacked without warning. If the Blood Wyrm hadn’t been so agile, it would have sliced him in half.”

Rhaenys’ face grew serious. “Tell me everything about your journey into the Smoking Sea, down to the smallest detail.”

Daemon glanced at her, grabbed a piece of bread, and stuffed it into his mouth before reluctantly beginning his tale.

The story was strange and unsettling. As soon as the two ships entered the Smoking Sea, they were capsized by a massive wave. One ship wrecked on a boiling reef shortly after. Half the crew was attacked by creatures known as Pounders when they passed a landmass, turning them into living dead. Eventually, Daemon and his dragons discovered a continent with six intact ships. There were volcanoes, smoke, and reefs, but a few miles from the mainland, Daemon saw a fertile grassland untouched by smoke.

“The Lands of the Long Summer?” Rhaenys narrowed her eyes, puzzled. As a descendant of ancient Valyria, she had a natural longing for the Lands of the Long Summer and knew much about them.

“I saw a snow-capped mountain rising into the sky,” Daemon said, his face softening with nostalgia. Then, with a self-deprecating laugh, he added, “Who knows where it is?” He had been unable to set foot on the continent and was swept away by a strange storm, encountering an undersea volcanic eruption. The sky filled with molten rock and black ash that seemed to bury the world. The fleet couldn’t escape and was destroyed by the ash. Caraxes flew out of the eruption zone and landed on a shattered island to rest, only to be attacked by an unknown creature with tentacles, nearly killing them both.

Rhaenys listened intently, her heart pounding. “Was it a fireworm?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. Aerea Targaryen, the third rider of Balerion the Black Dread, had died from a fireworm’s parasitic attack. Could it be that Daemon and his dragon had faced the same deadly creature?

“No!” Daemon denied it decisively. “Firewyrms and dragons are natural enemies, and they can even spit fire, but they would never cause the kind of injury I saw.”

“Are you sure?” Rhaenys asked, still doubtful.

Daemon's gaze grew distant, and he replied quietly, “There’s a living Firewyrm on that island.”

“The Maesters at the Citadel exaggerate,” he continued. “It's just a long worm that spits fire. Not only could an adult dragon easily overpower it, but even an ordinary person with a sword could wound it.”

Rhaenys paused, stunned for a moment, before sighing sincerely, “You should be grateful you weren't bitten by that creature—its fire would have burned your blood from the inside out.”

The tragic story of Aerea, recorded in the annals of history, was a grim reminder of that danger.

Bang!

Daemon abruptly stood up, wiping his mouth. “Thanks for the hospitality. I'm leaving now.”

“Where are you going?” Rhaenys frowned, tilting her head. “You said you’d stay for a couple of days.”

She still had much to discuss with him. Laena had lost a lot of weight recently, and Daemon, as her husband, couldn’t shirk his responsibilities.

Daemon turned away, avoiding her gaze, and replied indifferently, “I’m going back to Tyrosh, my own territory.” After failing to explore the Smoking Sea and losing control of Slaver's Bay, it was the one place he still had to call his own.

“Are you sure?” Rhaenys’ frown deepened, and she spoke in a low, stern voice. “Daemon, you're running away again, as usual.”

Her words caught him off guard, freezing him in his tracks.

Rhaenys took a deep breath, her tone unyielding. “Viserys may be weak-willed, and you always believe you're better than him—the best son of brave Baelon. But I tell you, you’re wrong!”

Clunk!

Daemon’s eyes darkened as he drew his sword, pointing it at Rhaenys’ throat. “Do you think I won’t kill you?”

Her words had struck a nerve, provoking him deeply.

“Haha, go ahead if you’ve got the guts.” Rhaenys laughed, as if mocking him. She continued without fear, “Viserys was the king, facing hundreds of problems daily. Though his solutions may not have been admirable, the kingdom thrives under his rule. He has his weaknesses, but in the face of adversity, he still upholds the Targaryen legacy.”

“I don’t need you to judge my brother,” Daemon hissed, pressing the sword’s tip closer, his expression growing colder. He hated comparisons, whether favorable or not.

But Rhaenys didn’t flinch, even as blood trickled down her neck. She held her head high. “And you, my cousin—you’re a pathetic little worm who can never shoulder responsibility.”

“You’re talking nonsense!” Daemon retorted, his eyes cold and unyielding.

Yet Rhaenys continued to look down on him, as if she were standing above him, even though they were on equal ground.

With a calm smile, she asked, “Name one thing you’ve done that was responsible and meaningful. Just one!”

Was it the death of his sister-in-law in childbirth? The reckless declaration of "One day heir" while his nephew was sick? The so-called reconciliation with Viserys while secretly seducing his niece? The assassination attempt on his nephew, or the disastrous battle in Tyrosh that nearly cost his wife life? Or was it the vengeful plotting against his other nephew?

One by one, there was no honor to be found, no sense of responsibility to correct the wrongs he had caused.

Rhaenys looked at him with pity, shaking her head gently. “Daemon, I regret marrying my daughter to you. You failed to protect her. You’ve only survived on Viserys’s charity and forgiveness. Without your brother’s protection, you have no place in this world.”

Each word was a sharp cut, each sentence a blow, delivered with the precision of someone who had waited for this moment, just to provoke him. But each strike hit its mark, exposing the ugliness in Daemon’s heart, leaving him feeling naked in the harsh light of truth.

“Ah!”

He roared in frustration, swinging his sword with all his might.

...

Outside the door, at the corner of the corridor.

“Prince, the Princess has matters to attend to, and you haven’t finished your lessons,” Tyland said, his face flushed with embarrassment as he tried to dissuade the young prince.

“I can do it later,” Maekar replied calmly, clutching a baby dragon doll. ‘I want to see my great-uncle. His dragon is hurt.’

Tyland’s expression soured, and she sighed helplessly. “Daemon is not known for his patience, especially toward your father’s bloodline.”

Daemon was a wandering prince, a figure who danced between light and darkness, his actions always bold and dangerous. Who could guarantee he wouldn’t do something reckless?

“No, Lord Tyland.” Maekar raised his chubby face and marched toward the closed door.

Clang!

Suddenly, a loud noise echoed from the other side, followed by the sound of a sharp blade striking the floor.

“Hurry!” Maekar’s eyes widened as he dashed forward on his short legs.

“By the seven gods!” Tyland, even quicker, leaped over the little prince and kicked the door open.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his eyes darting around the room nervously.

Maekar quickly caught up, hiding behind his adviser’s legs and peeking into the hall.

At that moment, a deep gash marred the mahogany dining table, with half of a sword embedded in the wood, while the remaining blade and hilt lay on the ground, spinning in place.

Daemon sat slumped in a chair, looking dejected. His head hung low, his pride shattered as he wrestled with deep self-reflection.

There was no denying that his brother had always defended him. As the sons of the brave Baelon, the bond between the brothers was as strong as steel. But that wasn’t what Daemon truly wanted.

Covering his face with his hands, Daemon was tormented by his pride and buried desires.

“Daemon, stand up,” Rhaenys commanded firmly, kicking the broken sword aside as she reached for the blade at her waist.

“What more is there to say?” Daemon’s voice was hoarse, his eyes empty.

“You still have a chance.” Rhaenys held the sword with both hands, her tone solemn. “Go back to your brother, to your wife, and to the king. Return with dignity.”

Daemon blinked, startled, his eyes falling on the familiar sword.

“The bloodline of brave Baelon must not be tarnished, nor should it bear a stain in the history books,” Rhaenys continued, her voice forceful despite the trace of reluctance in her eyes. “Don’t dishonor the sword that the Old King gave you!”

For a moment, the air was so still that even a pin drop would have echoed in the hall.

Daemon’s emotions churned, his vision blurring with unshed tears. His lips trembled as he whispered:

“Dark Sister…”

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