Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

The war raged on, growing ever more brutal by the hour. As the Sheepstealers soared towards the temple, the fiercest battles erupted between the armies.

"Ooooo~"

"Where are the sellswords...?"

Thousands of civilians were dragged from the cellars, subjected to unspeakable inhumanity. Soon, the city was overwhelmed by wails, screams mingling with flames and billowing smoke.

Whoosh—

A gust of wind swept through, carrying the acrid smell of ash, and suddenly the earth was shrouded in shadow.

"Pull out one person."

A cold voice, filled with an oppressive air that seemed to look down on all living things, echoed through the chaos.

The next moment...

A Dothraki, caught in the midst of committing atrocities, looked up and let out a miserable scream.

Pop.

A massive, charcoal-black dragon's claw slammed down from the sky, crushing the man into pulp and splattering his remains onto a nearby roof.

"Roar...?"

The Cannibal's eerie green pupils rotated as it struggled to rise from low altitude, dragging one hind leg. It had grown too large, too quickly, and its strength was uncertain. It hadn't noticed and had overdone it.

Rhaegar slapped his forehead, muttering something in his native tongue.

"Roar..."

The Cannibal, defiant, opened its jaws in a cruel arc and swooped down again, snatching several Dothraki on horseback. It shook its dark wings and swiftly left the battlefield.

Everything happened so quickly that those below only saw a dark shadow—a monstrous dragon—before hearing the howls of fear that barely sounded human.

Since all those who disappeared were Dothraki, the local civilians fell to their knees. They wept and prayed aloud, believing they had encountered a true god.

...

The masked temple of worship stood in ruins. The beautifully laid-out forecourt was reduced to ashes, the once-lush canopy of trees now stripped bare, with two dried monkey carcasses hanging from the charred branches.

Rumble—

The Sheepstealer folded its wings, one hind leg crushing the shattered courtyard wall beneath it.

"Guard the gate. Don't let anyone get close," Aemond commanded, barely able to contain his impatience. Drawing his Scarlet Forger, he leapt off the dragon's back.

He was determined to find those damned bearded priests, cut off their heads, and shove them down the toilet. 'And those holy women,' he thought, 'so clean on the outside, yet undoubtedly whores in the sack. They deserve to be thrown to the Dothraki and reduced to the role of a stable toilet.'

“Roar!”

The Sheepstealer let out a deafening roar, shifting its massive body forward, its pupils dilating with alarm. As a wild dragon, its primal instinct was survival.

"Get out of my way!" Aemond snarled, bypassing the dragon's flayed and broken tail as he charged menacingly into the temple.

The priests, who had plundered the people's wealth, had likely only ever faced Sellswords. But Aemond feared no one in this world, save perhaps his brother Rhaegar and his uncle Daemon. Even Ser Cole, a multiple Tournament of Champions winner, was merely a stone on which to sharpen his sword.

“Roar!”

The Sheepstealer, squinted and slowly lay down on the ground, watching as Aemond stormed ahead.

...

Entering the dilapidated temple, Aemond held the Scarlet Forger tightly, his single eye scanning the surroundings with vigilant intensity.

"Come out, you scum!" he shouted defiantly, his voice echoing through the windswept hall. His eye swept across the fluttering door curtain, searching for any sign of movement.

But after a long moment of silence, there was nothing. No sound, no response.

Aemond's lips curled into a sneer. "A bunch of gutless sewer maggots," he muttered. Without wasting any more time, he kicked open a wooden door that led to the backyard and headed directly for the secret passage.

As a proud Targaryen, Aemond held disdain for anyone who wasn't a dragon rider. Whether commoner or noble, in his eyes, they were all just ants to be crushed underfoot.

Bang!

He reached the withered backyard and kicked open the hidden entrance to the secret passage. The dim, damp tunnel was dimly lit by wall lamps, their weak glow casting eerie shadows on the walls. Aemond glanced around briefly before drawing his sword and stepping into the passage, staying close to the wall as he advanced.

Tick-tock, tick-tock...

Water dripped through the gaps in the stone ceiling, the sound sharp and crisp as it hit the floor. Aemond's impatience grew, and he quickened his pace. The tunnel was long and narrow, with no unnecessary twists, leading him ever deeper underground.

After what felt like a quarter of an hour, the passage suddenly opened up into the outside world, revealing a lush green meadow. Aemond squinted against the blinding sunlight, his eye filled with disgust as he stepped out of the cave.

Birds chirped and animals cooed around him, their sounds irritating in the silence.

"Baa!"

A herd of goats nibbled at the grass, led by a strong black goat. Aemond paid them no mind, his gaze fixed instead on a red-roofed temple built into the hillside. 'So this is where they're hiding,' he thought with a smirk, certain that the bearded priests had taken refuge there.

Without hesitation, Aemond strode toward the temple. Clang! Clang! With two swift sword slashes, he broke through the tightly shut wooden doors.

"Ahhh!"

A dozen red-robed priests cowered inside the main hall, screaming in terror as if the devil himself had come for them. At the front of the hall, a statue of a black goat loomed over two bloody corpses laid out as offerings. Aemond's eye caught the colorful gauze skirts beneath the bodies—those of the temple's so-called holy women.

These skirts, designed without ties or crotches, allowed the priests to defile the women and believers at will.

"Don't kill us! They forced us!" several nuns in tattered colorful dresses cried, falling to their knees in desperate pleas.

But Aemond's face remained cold and expressionless. There was no mercy in his heart for these whores.

"He's only one man—kill him!" one of the red priests shouted, emboldened by the absence of the dragon.

...

Pop!

Before the priest could react, the Scarlet Forger flashed, and his head was severed from his neck.

The room fell into stunned silence. The remaining priests, who had initially considered resisting, were now frozen in fear. Aemond's single eye was cold and calculating as he wiped the blood from his sword on the lifeless corpse. "Anyone else?" he asked, his voice dripping with indifference.

'How presumptuous,' he thought, 'A bunch of fat pigs like you daring to resist a true dragon.'

"We surrender!" croaked an elderly priest with a hunched back and a grey beard, his voice frail and trembling. The other priests, too terrified to speak, clustered around the old priest for protection.

Aemond sneered. "Surrender? You are prisoners, slaves waiting to be slaughtered."

The old priest closed his eyes helplessly, silently praying to the black goat of his faith. But Aemond was unmoved. Brandishing his sword, he demanded, "Tell me who is helping you in secret, and I might let you live."

"The black goat god will not allow us to betray our allies," the old priest replied, his voice calm, his expression even more devout.

"Oh?" Aemond's patience was wearing thin, his demeanor growing colder by the second.

"I know!" a sudden voice rang out, breaking the tension. A silver-haired woman stepped forward from the group of holy women. Aemond turned to see the silver witch, the one who had once performed a divination for him. Like him, she was a descendant of a Dragonlord, barely acceptable in his eyes.

The silver witch's gauze dress still exuded an air of purity as she spoke sternly, "I can tell you the truth—it's behind the main hall."

"Lead the way!" Aemond's eye gleamed with interest. He had been dissatisfied with the result of her last divination, but he couldn’t deny that she possessed some power.

"Follow me," the silver witch said, swaying her hips as she walked barefoot around the black goat statue.

"Wait!" the old priest cried out, his voice filled with desperation as he reached out to stop them.

Swish—

Aemond swung his sword, severing the old priest's hand.

"Ahhh!" the priest screamed, his eyes bloodshot as he clutched his bleeding stump, wailing in agony.

Aemond's face remained stony as he continued to follow the silver haired witch. Rumors had long circulated about the strange magic of the Masked Temple, a power bestowed by the black goat deity. Having just received the ‘Bronze’ rune from his brother Rhaegar, Aemond was more interested in magic than ever before.

...

On the far side of the field, the Cannibal soared above the Masked Temple, its sharp eyes spotting the Sheepstealer feasting below.

“Roar!”

Without waiting for its rider's command, the Dragoneater's natural instincts took over, and it let out a thunderous roar. The Sheepstealer looked up, startled, and saw the massive form of the Cannibal—twice its size—with a hideous maw spewing wisps of green fire.

“Roar!”

Panicked, the Sheepstealer flapped its brown wings and took off, rolling and scrambling to escape. It sniffed the air frantically, searching for its lost rider.

“Let's follow them,” Rhaegar commanded, his brow furrowed in concern. Something felt off.

The Cannibal's green vertical pupils glinted with cunning as it pursued the Mud Dragon at a leisurely pace, its enormous wings casting a menacing shadow.

“Roar!”

The Sheepstealer, terrified by the predator looming behind it, fled with all its strength.

...

In no time, two dragons descended upon the meadow behind the mountain. The Sheepstealer, terrified, dove into the forest, abandoning even its favorite goat, and huddled in fear, shivering.

"Alright, enough scaring it," Rhaegar said, sliding off the Cannibal's back. He approached the red-roofed temple cautiously.

Creak.

The long-closed door groaned as it swung open, sending a cloud of dust into his face.

“Ahem...” Rhaegar coughed, waving a hand to clear away the cobwebs clinging to the curtain. As he stepped inside, he surveyed the lobby, taking in the scene with a sharp eye. The place was in shambles—the wooden floor thick with dust, the black goat statue in the center shrouded in cobwebs, its eerie, vertical pupils seeming to follow his every move.

"It doesn't look like anyone's been here," Rhaegar muttered, though his instincts told him otherwise. There was something unsettling about this temple, a creeping sensation that made his skin crawl. It felt as though unseen eyes were watching him from the shadows, yet no matter where he looked, he found nothing.

Silently, Rhaegar drew Truefyre, the blade glinting ominously in the dim light. His toes scraped the dusty floor, leaving marks as he advanced. His gaze swept the room intently. The dust patterns varied in thickness, creating the illusion of something being cut.

Whoosh!

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a shadow darting in the corner of the hall. Rhaegar whipped his head around, only to find the space empty.

“Truly strange,” he murmured, tightening his grip on his sword. The flame at the blade's tip flickered and glowed more brightly. He knew he couldn't afford to retreat—Aemond was missing, likely somewhere in this very temple.

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed with determination as he approached the statue of the black goat. With a quick motion, he pulled down the curtain from one side and draped it over the statue, concealing it completely.

...

Then, suddenly, his expression hardened. "If you don’t want your heritage to be extinguished, get out of here!" Rhaegar commanded fiercely. As he spoke, a trace of black fire flickered in his eyes, and black scales and horns began to form on his forehead.

Since the magical tides had surged, the magic and wizards he had encountered had become increasingly diverse. The Song of Ice and Fire had broadened his horizons in ways he hadn’t imagined. Regardless of whether the Black Goat was tied to the strange and supernatural, it was still just a remnant of an ancient Valyrian fire peak mine, organized by the beliefs of slave revolts.

It didn’t deserve his respect.

After a tense moment, the Black Goat statue remained inert, still as lifeless as any ordinary object. Rhaegar stood his ground, and the elusive shadow that had flitted across the room earlier was nowhere to be seen. The air even seemed fresher, with less dust swirling in the hall.

“Keep your hands off my business,” Rhaegar muttered, dismissively snorting as he walked past the shrouded statue and made his way toward the back hall of the temple.

As soon as he stepped across the threshold, he heard a familiar voice.

“Where is the person you were talking about?” Aemond’s tone was icy, as though he were interrogating someone.

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed as he noticed the scene before him. Opposite Aemond stood a beautiful woman with cold, silver hair cascading down her back. There was something unsettling about her, something that made Rhaegar hold his breath and observe silently.

The back hall was thick with the heavy scent of incense, and in the dim light, stone carvings lined the room—statues of the compassionate Mother, the shackled Harpy, the unique night lion of Yi Ti, and many others. It was as though every major deity was represented here, including the Lord of Light and the black goat from the front hall.

Just then, the cold-looking woman lifted her silver hair and moved closer to Aemond. Rhaegar frowned slightly, sensing that she wasn’t trying to seduce him.

With a sharp rip, the Maiden tore off her face, revealing a flaccid, human skin mask that fell away to expose the face of an unremarkable man beneath.

“Valar morghulis! (All men must die!)” the man declared, his eyes dark and menacing as he drew a hairpin from the back of his head, his true intent finally revealed.

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