Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

In a flash of lightning and fire, the hairpin pierced Aemond's throat.

"Faceless Men!" Rhaegar's murderous intent surged as he reversed Truefyre and plunged it into the floor.

A wisp of black flame sprang forth, racing away like a tongue of fire. A distant roar of rage echoed from midair.

At that moment, Aemond's eyes were dull, his grip on the sword slack. He did not feel the wind as it blew, bringing the hairpin ever closer. The Faceless Men remained calm, long since indifferent to death. Suddenly, a cold light reflected in his eyes. Instinctively, he moved to the side to avoid the unknown danger.

Bang!

The black flame was faster, wrapping around the Faceless Men’s feet and up their waist, tightening like a vice. The Faceless Men screamed, dropping the hairpin from their grasp.

"Die!" Rhaegar roared, drawing Truefyre, and plunged it through his unprotected chest. Blood sprayed as flames licked at the wound.

The Faceless Men fought to the death, gripping the black sword in one hand while kicking the hairpin towards Aemond's face. The hairpin shot forward with the speed and precision of an arrow loosed from a bow.

Rhaegar’s expression changed as he reached out to intercept the silver hairpin.

The hairpin struck Aemond’s black eye patch, shattering the fake sapphire eye beneath it. The force was so great that the useless gem instantly crumbled. Taking advantage of the brief pause, Rhaegar seized the hairpin’s end.

"Fortunately, he already lost an eye!" Rhaegar’s eyes were sharp as a falcon’s. He flipped the hairpin in his hand and drove it into the Faceless Men’s brow.

Pop!

The hairpin pierced through soft flesh, shattering the hard skull beneath. The Faceless Men’s eyes widened as layer after layer of the fake human skin mask peeled away. His body collapsed backward, hitting the floor with a muffled thud.

Rhaegar drew Truefyre sideways and looked down at the Faceless Men, whose eyes remained wide open even in death.

"Valar... Dohaeris (All men... must serve)," the Faceless Men mouthed, dead beyond death.

Rhaegar used his sword to lift aside the pile of fake skin masks, but for a moment, he couldn’t discern which face was real. It was just as the House of Black and White had said: 'A nameless and faceless men.'

"Luckily, I arrived in time, or else you would have been in trouble." Rhaegar let out a sigh of relief after confirming the death was real. He glanced at Aemond, who was still making a strange face, caught in the effects of the drugged air.

"You are lucky to be alive," Rhaegar remarked with a smile, grabbing Aemond by the collar. The eye patch had a hole in it, and the fake sapphire eye was half-broken.

His gaze fell on the Valyrian blade strapped to Aemond’s waist, the leather sheath revealing part of the blade. The earlier blinding light that had startled the Faceless Men had come from this blade.

Rhaegar’s expression was peculiar as he patted Aemond on the cheek. “Your one eye has saved you twice.”

Aemond remained unresponsive, still lost in a daze.

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed slightly, a kind smile playing on his lips. “Let me help you wake up, my friend.” With one hand, he grabbed Aemond by the collar and made a fist with the other.

Bang!

Rhaegar’s hard punch landed squarely on Aemond’s unprotected right eye. Aemond let out a muffled grunt, his body leaning backward.

“That wasn’t even close!” Rhaegar pretended to be disappointed before going in for another strike.

Bang! Bang!

His fists rained down on Aemond’s numb face, each blow heavy and deliberate. While this was a chance for Rhaegar to exact a bit of revenge, his true intent was to save his brother from the daze he was trapped in. After all, they were brothers, and even though Rhaenyra had given him strict instructions before leaving, Rhaegar knew he had to be careful.

Bang! Bang!

The thought crossed Rhaegar’s mind as he swung his fists without mercy. Aemond’s nose bled, and his face grew bruised as the punches continued. Stars began to dance before his eyes.

“Stop! Stop...” Aemond’s voice broke through in terror as his eyes suddenly cleared, struggling to escape the assault.

Bang!

Rhaegar’s next punch connected with a sharp crack, breaking Aemond’s high, straight nose.

“Uhhh!” Aemond’s breath caught, and his eyes rolled back as he fainted.

“Oops, you’re awake?” Rhaegar exclaimed in surprise, quickly catching his unconscious brother in his arms. The sight of blood trickling from Aemond’s nostrils was almost heartbreaking.

“Let’s go, brother. I’ll take you back.” Rhaegar suppressed a smirk as he hoisted the limp Aemond and began to carry him out of the temple.

...

Soon, they emerged through the temple doors.

“Roar!”

Sheepstealer crawled out from behind the temple, its dry, weathered dragon head extending forward, eyes locked on the unconscious Aemond.

“Stand down,” Rhaegar commanded in High Valyrian, reassuring the beast, "Be quiet, all will be well."

“Roar!” Sheepstealer, understanding the command, shook its tail and backed away. Moments earlier, it had sensed its rider in danger and roared in haste, uncertain if the foolish rider had heard it.

Rhaegar glanced at Sheepstealer’s rugged form before shifting Aemond’s weight on his shoulders. Fortunately, Aemond had become only the second person in House Targaryen’s history to ride a wild dragon. Likewise, he was also the first to be sought out by one.

By taming a wild dragon at such a young age, Aemond had ensured he would never again be seen as a wild man without a dragon...

Pentos.

The Prince's Palace, cliffs at the rear.

A group of richly dressed nobles gathered at the foot of the city walls, their eyes fixed on the vast, smoke-covered coast. They were utterly engrossed, as if coveting the lands across the Narrow Sea.

Boom!

A scarlet behemoth soared low over the sea, its wide, fleshy wings flapping mightily as its forked tail split the waves. The dragon’s long, serpent-like body swayed with each movement, its ferocious, menacing head a hideous sight.

"A dragon!" someone exclaimed in alarm. The scarlet beast leaped into the sky with a mighty thrust, its tail sweeping the waves, splashing water over the assembled crowd. Drenched, the dignitaries couldn’t conceal their excitement as they wiped the seawater from their faces.

“Roar...”

Suddenly, a deep, resonant dragon roar echoed through the air. A massive, dark green dragon burst through the clouds, revealing its weathered, enormous head. As soon as it appeared, its vast wings cast a shadow over the sky as it chased after the slender Blood Wyrm.

Daemon smiled faintly and leaned back, spreading his arms wide.

“Roar...” Caraxes flew steadily and swiftly, carrying its rider higher and faster.

Laena, beaming with pride, shouted as she chased after them, “Dracarys!”

Boom!

A torrent of orange dragonfire mixed with thick black smoke erupted, blocking Caraxes’ path. Caraxes’ pupils narrowed as the dragon charged headlong into the searing flames. In an instant, man and dragon broke through the blazing fire and dove downward. Covered in ash, Daemon shook his head with a laugh. Thanks to the Targaryens' fire resistance, Laena might have accidentally killed her husband if she hadn’t done so already.

“After them!” Laena’s face flushed as she pounded on Vhagar’s back, whose dark green scales were as tough as iron plates. Vhagar growled, and with a powerful lunge, overtook Caraxes by sheer force and momentum.

With a rumble, the two dragons—one green, one red—soared past the castle perched on the cliff, sending gusts of wind so fierce that the nobles below struggled to stand upright. The dragons circled the sea twice before slowly descending outside the castle.

...

Night had fallen.

The Prince's residence hosted a grand banquet, welcoming two old friends as honored guests.

At the head of the table, Prince Reggio, his large belly straining against his tunic, frequently raised his goblet in a toast.

“To our Prince of Tyrosh and his wife, Lady Laena!” he declared. “To you both!”

The gathered advisers and nobles echoed the toast, raising their glasses, careful not to show even the slightest hint of neglect. Reggio downed his wine in one gulp, then turned to Daemon, who was seated across from him. With a sincere expression, he said, “Prince, you and I are both princes, and we shall be as brothers.”

“I have a grand venture in mind and would be honored if you joined me in making a fortune together!”

“Oh? I’m honored,” Daemon replied with a smile, glancing at his wife beside him.

Six months ago, Braavos and Pentos had formed an alliance, aiming to spy on The Gullet and control the Narrow Sea, only to be thwarted by his two nephews’ forceful retaliation. Now, six months later, it was time to usher in peace.

The couple, after negotiations led by the Sea Snake and Rhaenyra, had come to meet with Prince Reggio of Pentos. Reggio, an old friend and a shrewd businessman, had immediately welcomed them with open arms upon seeing the two dragons descend from the sky.

Reggio gulped down another glass of wine and leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I'll let you in on a secret. Someone paid me a hefty sum to organize a fleet to transport food and medicine to the Basilisk Isles.”

“That place is part of Sothoryos, a chaotic land with little to no governance,” he continued. “I have no idea who’s behind this, but could it be they’re looking to establish a trading post?” Reggio laughed heartily, already anticipating the profits.

“Good luck,” Daemon replied, raising his glass in a toast, all while gently stroking his wife’s rounded belly with his palm. 'She shouldn’t have come,' he thought. 'Riding a dragon isn’t exactly the safest thing.'

Laena, sensing his concern, took his hand and smiled. "Don’t worry, I’m fine," she reassured him with a pat on her belly, covered by a flowing white dress. She then whispered in his ear, “He’s doing well, too.”

“In a few days, we’ll head back.”

Though Prince Reggio’s hospitality was too generous to refuse, Daemon had little desire to linger in Pentos. Yet, the allure of solidifying alliances and winning over the people was tempting. Besides, it had been far too long since the couple had ridden their dragons together.

...

Half a month later.

Deep within the mountains of the Forest of Qohor...

“Roar!”

A massive, brown-and-tan beast soared through the sky, its scrawny body cutting through the lush canopy below. In its hind claws, it clutched a howling black boar. The dragon's sharp talons pierced the boar's flesh, and with a swift motion, it flung the disemboweled carcass into the air.

Boom!

The dragon's dried-up head snapped wide open, devouring the boar whole in a single gulp.

Meanwhile, deep within the forest:

The Cannibal lay sprawled, its grotesque dragon head resting lazily on a bush, hot breath stirring the leaves around it. Nearby, a low hill rose from the earth. As his thick tail swept across the ground, it revealed the entrance to a hidden cave at the hill's base.

...

In the dark cave, a three-legged furnace cast a red glow, illuminating the space with a fiery hue.

Clang! Clang!

Two old men, their hair thinning and white stubble marking their age, swung their forging hammers in rhythmic unison, striking the molten sword blanks with precision.

“Masters, are you sure you don’t want to reconsider moving?” Rhaegar asked as he moved a chair closer, absently playing with the polished Dragonbone hilt of a sword.

Silence was his only answer, save for the relentless clang of hammers against metal. The two old smiths kept their mouths shut, focused solely on their solemn work.

“Who cares what they do? They’re just a bunch of smiths,” Aemond said dismissively.

Rhaegar glanced at him but said nothing. Aemond’s face went pale, and he fell silent. Though half a month had passed, the bruises on his face had only just begun to fade, except for the bandage stuck to his nearly crooked, broken nose.

Rhaegar turned his attention back to the smiths, patiently observing their superb craftsmanship. As they chanted in High Valyrian, the sword embryo was quenched in water. White smoke billowed up, obscuring the view for anyone uninitiated in the art of forging.

The sword submerged in the water was the Dragon’s Claw, a blade that had been lost in the Smoking Sea and claimed by the wild dragon Morghul, who had stored it in its lair. After many twists and turns, the sword had finally returned to Rhaegar’s hands, just in time for the capture of Qohor and its subsequent reforging.

“My grandfather wants to return to Oldtown,” Aemond muttered, his face long with reluctance.

Rhaegar frowned. “What’s the point of going back? Our priority is to govern Qohor.”

Qohor was in dire straits after the Dothraki raid, nearly destroyed in its entirety. Only the intervention of the Cannibal had driven the raiders away, sparing the civilians from complete annihilation.

Aemond crossed his arms. “What else is there to do?” His thoughts drifted to retreating and waiting for his position as Triarch of Qohor. Bartimos, a narrow-minded villain, had already been driven back to Claw Isle, while Cole, lacking in governance, had reluctantly recruited some Dothraki to train an army.

Hearing this, Rhaegar understood what needed to be done and said calmly, “Do as you wish. Qohor is under the watchful eyes of many, and it needs a cunning mind to take root.”

Another thing was that Qohor, though sparsely populated, was rich in resources. Like the cave they stood in, which was actually a long-dormant extinct volcano. The smiths of Qohor had discovered this place generations ago, and it had become a sacred site for forging ever since.

Rhaegar could feel the abundant fire magic beneath the earth. There had to be magma deep within the rock formation. This extinct volcano significantly increased Qohor's value—it was an ideal nesting place for dragons, and with it, the Targaryens may had found a sanctuary to thrive and reproduce.

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