Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

"Roar!" A black dragon steps onto the cliff by the sea, spreading its wings and soaring into the sky.

Out on the sea, a fleet bearing the flag of House Velaryon sets sail. Behind them, the ruins of the Free Cities of Tyria are shrouded in smoke, which billows up towards the sky. In the distance, the mournful wails of ghosts echo through the air.

Drizzle...

A heavy rain begins to fall, washing away the tainted dragon blood that should have died long ago.

...

The next day...

The Smoking Sea. A dense fog obscured the horizon.

"Roar..."

On the deck of the long Sea Snake, a young dragon with dark blue scales curled into a ball.

"Roar..."

Thunderstrider blinked and approached its dragon's snout, rubbing against it with a pitiful whine.

The young dragon, over ten meters long, bore deep claw marks across its chest and lower abdomen, each wound tearing through its scales. The worst injury was on the side of its neck, where blood flowed uncontrollably. These were the scars of a fierce battle with another young dragon.

"They're young, but they all have quite the temper," Rhaegar remarked, winding a Rune Serpent around his finger as he glanced up at the sky. Above the fog, a black dragon's shadow loomed over the fleet like a massive, ominous umbrella.

"Roar!"

A black young dragon flew beneath, playfully weaving around the masts of the fleet. After the violent clash, the dragons had finally calmed down.

"Cough, cough..."

A salty sea breeze blew through, causing Rhaegar to cough a few times. Thunderstrider twisted its head, its pupils flashing with confusion.

"Your Grace!"

The Sea Snake's voice came from behind, accompanied by a large group of people. Rhaegar pursed his lips and asked, "Is everything ready?" He turned, revealing the face beneath his hood.

The Sea Snake, who had been full of energy, now seemed deflated, like a firecracker that had fizzled out. He saw the young king standing tall, with long, silver-gold hair cascading naturally down his back and deep, intelligent purple eyes. However, Rhaegar's skin was pale as paper, and his cheeks were slightly gaunt. Standing in the sea breeze, draped in a black robe, he exuded a sense of fragility, as if a gust of wind might topple him.

The Sea Snake swallowed nervously. "Your Grace, are you all right?" he asked. Since yesterday, the king's radiant beauty had noticeably faded.

Rhaegar touched his cheek and replied with a bold yet careful smile, "It's nothing, just a harmless aftereffect."

"Harmless?"

The Sea Snake was dumbfounded, wondering what kind of pain the king was enduring. In just one night, he had lost so much weight. Rhaegar only smiled, offering no further explanation.

He opened the system panel:

[Rhaegar Targaryen]

Talent: Dreamer (Gold)

Bloodline: Dragonborn (+67%)

Runes: Bronze (Green), Serpent (Blue), Dream Eater (Purple)

Blood Magic: Binding Spell (Blue), Dragon Dance (Purple), Blood Dance (Purple)...

Relics: Blood and Fire, Dreamscape, Pure Water...

Special items: Space Necklace, Dragonhorn (Special)

Comment: "A rare descendant of true dragons, still needs time to grow into his power."

First, in the bloodline column, the bloodline was rapidly purifying. Rhaegar's eyes flashed as a cluster of dark flames flickered in the depths of his pupils. This refinement had gradually allowed him to master the state of Dragonborn and better control his flames.

Secondly, the Dragonhorn had now recognized its master. When blown, it summoned dragons. But that was not its only power. Through the "Dragon Dance" and "Dance of Blood," it could also calm and inspire the dragons' fighting spirit, enabling them to unleash their full strength on the battlefield.

Rhaegar wiped the space necklace around his neck, where the exquisite giant horn was placed. Its surface, glistening with a metallic sheen, bore three dragon-shaped inscriptions of varying sizes. One was completely black, the mark of the Cannibal. The other two were black and blue, representing Iragaxys and Thunderstrider. When dragon blood dripped into the horn, it left an imprint inside, enabling communication regardless of distance. The message was transmitted when the horn was claimed by its owner.

The top Dragonlord families would imprint the marks of their dragons on these horns. This practice was not only convenient for recalling distant companions but also crucial for controlling the house's dragons, preventing them from being stolen or hunted.

Rhaegar had used dragon blood to subdue the Dragonhorn and played the complete "Dance of Blood," incorporating the three dragons' birthmarks in succession. This process had taken a toll on him, leaving him visibly exhausted.

'Without guidance, it's like walking on thin ice,' Rhaegar thought to himself with a sigh, but there was nothing he could do.

"Your Grace, please take a look."

Noticing the king's silence, the Sea Snake gestured to the sailors, who promptly brought over several large boxes. As the boxes were opened one after another, they revealed mostly old antiques. The Sea Snake carefully lifted a model of a sailing ship from within, his eyes alight with excitement. "This is a model of a ship from ancient Valyria. It's said that the sails were woven with magic, allowing them to withstand the strongest winds and waves."

"If you like it, you can keep it," Rhaegar said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

The model did indeed contain a faint trace of magic, but replicating such craftsmanship would be nearly impossible. Besides, the Targaryens commanded both the skies and the earth, and they had little use for the seas. Ancient Valyria had produced many ships and boasted countless magicians, yet none had ever conquered a continent with them.

"Thank you very much, Your Grace!"

The Sea Snake, who rarely smiled, tucked the model ship away as if it were a priceless treasure. While the Dragonlords might not value ships, House Velaryon, with its blood tied to salt and sea, coveted them dearly.

"Next," Rhaegar whispered.

No matter how impressive the ships were, the fleet would always remain a vassal of the Targaryens. Now that he possessed the Dragonhorn, any internal family threats had been neutralized, and he no longer feared that a marriage to a vassal would make them too powerful. Instead, he worried they might not be strong enough to keep pace.

Reinvigorated, the Sea Snake ordered another item to be brought forward—a half-round shield, black as ink and difficult to discern. Rhaegar's sharp eyes recognized it immediately. "A shield of Valyrian steel."

"That's right," the Sea Snake confirmed, holding up the shield and tapping its concave surface. "It's a shame to see such a treasure in the hands of deformed dragonlords descendants."

Tyria was a desolate city, its people once well-equipped but now worn down by the passage of time. Like this half-shield, much of their former glory had faded.

Rhaegar glanced at the shield. It was no larger than a washbasin and contained only a small amount of steel. He reached out to touch it, but it didn't trigger any reaction.

The Sea Snake took a step back and opened a sturdy wooden chest.

Clang!

The lid hit the deck, revealing a dozen fossilized dragon eggs and various precious ores. But what truly caught Rhaegar's eye was a curved longsword.

"Dragonclaw!" Rhaegar exclaimed, his voice tinged with surprise and delight.

The Dragonclaw was just as Rhaegar remembered it, with its rippling blade, Dragonbone handle, and serrated edge. However, the sword was now bent in the middle, as if it had been violently gripped. The cold steel was marred by nicks, dust, and cobwebs, yet despite its wear, it remained as sharp as ever.

"My old friend," Rhaegar murmured, a smile of genuine happiness crossing his face as he gripped the familiar, warm Dragonbone hilt once again.

"Daemon found all of this in a dragon's nest," the Sea Snake revealed, not withholding anything. He then pulled a glass bottle from his coat. "And this—Daemon also instructed me to give it to you."

Rhaegar, still lost in the joy of rediscovering the Dragonclaw, glanced at the glass bottle. Inside was a small amount of blood, warm to the touch and unmistakably dragon blood.

"He’s really something," Rhaegar chuckled, shaking his head as he gazed toward the scarlet dragon shadow looming in front of the fleet. The contents of the bottle were the blood of Caraxes. Daemon's intention was clear: he wanted the Blood Wyrm's mark to be imprinted on the Dragonhorn—a gesture symbolizing loyalty or a return to the family fold.

"Who says that good uncles don't have hearts?" Rhaegar remarked with a smile as he carefully stowed away the dragon blood, planning to wait until the aftereffects had subsided before using it.

The dragon's imprint on the Dragonhorn was not a slave mark. It served as a means of communication and an aid in moments of extreme emotional turmoil. However, it did not grant absolute control over the dragon. In ancient Valyria, the relationship between dragons and their riders was understood as follows:

The bond between the rider and the dragon was stronger than the Dragonhorn's call. The call, in turn, was stronger than the "Dance of the Dragon" and "Dance of the Blood" commands used in battle. This hierarchy maintained the status of the dragon rider. Anyone who believed they could control a dragon solely through a magical item was a fool.

Besides, who but a true Dragonborn could blow the Dragonhorn? If your bloodline isn’t pure enough, you would perish at the mere touch of fire.

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