Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

As he spoke, the smile on his handsome face mirrored that of his daughter, Visenya. But mother and daughter were practically identical.

Rhaegar sat up straight and, unexpectedly, asked, "Baelon, have you considered taming a dragon?"

His eldest son had been resolute, repeatedly refusing to claim the Grey Ghost over the years. Could it be that he could no longer resist the allure of dragon riding?

"No, Father," Baelon replied, scratching his head with embarrassment. He muttered, "I just wanted to try. But Silverwing doesn't seem right for me."

Silverwing was a magnificent and formidable dragon, its gentle nature making it ideal for younger siblings. But Baelon couldn’t admit that his interest had been sparked by his mischievous uncle Aegon. It was too embarrassing to admit he’d been tricked by a fool!

Rhaegar had anticipated this and sighed. "If you have the ability, you should have tamed a dragon by now."

The other children had already become admired dragon riders, their names celebrated throughout the realm. In contrast, Baelon, the eldest, remained dragonless. Nobles across the kingdom had begun to gossip behind closed doors about a weak heir to the throne—a serious concern.

"I’d still like to wait a bit longer," Baelon said, lowering his head and pleading softly, "Maybe not for much longer."

Rhaegar rubbed his brow and said, "Then you must decide soon. Silverwing is in the Dragonpit, Iragaxys is on Dragonstone, and Vhagar and Seasmoke are roaming about, all in foul moods."

There were only four unclaimed dragons left. With the Targaryen family flourishing and its descendants growing stronger, if Baelon didn’t act quickly, he would inevitably be surpassed.

"I will, Father," Baelon said, nodding earnestly. He felt a sense of relief, as if he had been forgiven. Deep down, he knew that the day he would ride a dragon was approaching. The feeling grew stronger every day, gnawing at him like a persistent itch, leaving him a bit uneasy.

Seeing his eldest son, who now looked like a child who had made a mistake, Rhaegar didn’t want to disturb his thoughts further. The Targaryens were a blend of madness and greatness, and their line produced geniuses who often strayed from the conventional path. Rhaegar himself had, at the age of six, dared to tame the Cannibal, a fearsome dragoneater. His eldest son shared that bloodline, and it wasn’t cowardice that held him back from taming a dragon.

"Alright, let’s discuss some matters of governance," Rhaegar said, patting Rhaenyra’s slender waist, signaling that the children were still present.

Rhaenyra smirked, stood up, and went to scold Visenya, who was using her brother as a cushion while playing. Poor Aegor, sitting obediently on the ground.

With the children occupied, the room cleared, and Rhaegar and Baelon were left alone. Rhaegar pulled out two letters and placed them on the table.

“What is this?” Baelon asked as he approached.

“Government affairs—though I prefer to call them troubles.” Rhaegar held up three fingers, then pushed the envelopes forward, his expression serious. “You're not young anymore, Baelon. It's time you started sharing the burden.”

“Yes!” Baelon responded eagerly, ready for the challenge.

“There are three matters. You can choose any one.” Rhaegar’s gaze was intense as he pointed to the first envelope, revealing his trump card. “The Red Kraken of the Iron Islands—a ruthless Ironborn who burns, kills, and plunders. Can you handle it?”

Baelon was taken aback. “A Greyjoy?”

“That’s right.” Rhaegar’s face remained impassive as he waited for his eldest son’s reply.

Baelon frowned, lowering his head in thought. The Red Kraken’s fearsome reputation had spread far and wide, commanding thousands of Ironborn. Baelon had no dragon, no army. It was a battle he couldn’t hope to win.

“Forget it. Let’s move on.” Rhaegar didn’t push him, picking up the second letter. “The Wyvern eggs on Dragonstone have hatched again, and the Wyverns from the previous brood are now roaming free, causing havoc in the Crownlands, Gulltown, and the Stormlands.”

“I...” Baelon’s forehead was damp with sweat. He couldn’t bring himself to accept the task. Wyverns were wild beasts with no intelligence. After hatching in large numbers, they terrorized the people near Dragonstone, preying on herds. If this problem had been given to his younger siblings—Aemon, Maekar, or even Dany—they could have dealt with it, each with their own dragon, more formidable than any Wyvern.

But Baelon...

His disappointment was palpable as he muttered, “I can’t.”

Rhaegar’s expression remained unchanged as he reached for the third letter.

“Rhaegar!” Rhaenyra’s eyes were full of concern, and she shook her head at him. Their eldest son had no dragon, and they had worked hard to raise him to be cheerful and generous. If pushed too hard, he might become another cruel Maegor.

Rhaegar met her gaze briefly before turning back to Baelon. “Keep your head up. There’s a third task.”

Rhaenyra’s brows knitted as she started to protest.

“I said there’s a third task!” Rhaegar’s voice grew louder, cutting off Rhaenyra’s words and startling Baelon, who had been staring at the ground in silence.

Summoning his courage, Baelon gritted his teeth. “The third task—I’ll do it, no matter what.”

Even if it was difficult, even if it required a dragon, he would find a way. At worst, he’d seek out Silverwing and try to earn the dragon’s approval. He had to prove to his father—and to the world—that he was not a coward.

Rhaegar chuckled. “Old Tully has died, and his grandson Elmo Tully is set to inherit Riverrun. The royal family needs a representative to attend the funeral.”

“Huh?” Baelon’s eyes widened in surprise. He had been prepared to make a great sacrifice, perhaps even risk being burned while taming a dragon.

“Silly boy, it’s not as complicated as you think,” Rhaegar said, leaning back casually. “But it’s not without its challenges either.”

“What should I do?” Baelon asked, taking the task seriously.

Rhaegar looked off into the distance, a touch of nostalgia in his eyes, before changing the subject. “Do you remember the Song of Ice and Fire I told you about?”

“Of course.” Baelon nodded. He had never forgotten such an important legacy.

“In the prophecy, it says that darkness and winter will come to the North.” Rhaegar tapped his knuckles on the table, a hint of doubt in his voice. “After ten years of long summer, does that mean the next winter will be even more severe?”

To be honest, he had recently had a nightmare—one where winter had come, and darkness had swallowed the land. Upon waking, he consulted Varys and the Red Priestess, and both had given the same cryptic warning: “When the water is full, it overflows; when it overflows, it must empty.”

House Targaryen had reached unprecedented heights, and the kingdom was more prosperous than ever. But all signs pointed to a coming test of fire and ice—one that would determine whether the Targaryens and Westeros could survive together.

Baelon held his breath, listening intently.

Knock, knock.

Rhaegar stopped tapping his knuckles and made his decision. “Forget the conqueror’s prophecy. Our house has always faced trials and tribulations.”

The Free Cities of Essos, the remnants of the Triarchy—these were only the enemies they could see. Many more vultures were circling, eager to feast on the dragon’s remains. This was something they had to prevent at all costs.

Meeting his eldest son’s expectant gaze, Rhaegar pushed an envelope forward, his voice grave. “The Seven Kingdoms are too divided, and many nobles are duplicitous towards the royal family.”

“If disaster strikes, how will the Targaryens hold Westeros together?”

“Should I win over Lord Elmo Tully?” Baelon touched the envelope, feeling a heavy sense of responsibility wash over him.

“No,” Rhaegar replied, shaking his head seriously. “Not just the Tullys. You must also win over the powerful nobles of the Riverlands, ensuring their true loyalty to the crown—and to you.”

Baelon was momentarily stunned. “But they’ve always been loyal to the royal family. Your influence even exceeds that of House Tully.”

Before his father had inherited the Iron Throne, his base of support had been in the Crownlands, the Vale, and the Riverlands. The old Lord Tully had been obedient, and the Riverlands’ nobles had played a major role in the campaigns against the Stepstones and the Triarchy. To this day, many widows and orphans remained in the Riverlands because of those wars.

“Influence isn’t the same as control,” Rhaegar said, his kind expression turning cold. “The royal family must have control over the unstable elements.”

Rhaegar had sought the counsel of Maesters, traveled to the East and West, and observed different systems of governance. He had learned that while the feudal system allowed for stable rule, it also made it easy for a monarch to be sidelined. In contrast, the more progressive parliamentary and federal systems of Essos centralized power but were plagued by instability and frequent regime changes.

“We are descendants of Valyria, outsiders in Westeros,” Rhaegar said, thinking deeply. “This means the best option for the Targaryens is to integrate rather than disrupt the existing system.”

Remaining rational, Rhaegar continued, “There are nobles in every kingdom who do not fully respect the king’s commands. Your task in the Riverlands is to rally those loyal to the crown and suppress the neutral and wavering factions.”

“That will provoke a backlash from the nobles,” Baelon said, understanding the dangerous nature of the task. Nobles, when threatened, would fight back with all their might.

“Don’t worry,” Rhaegar reassured him. “With the royal family’s influence over the Riverlands, it won’t be difficult to eliminate dissent. The Tullys, Strongs, and Blackwoods are all loyal and powerful. With them leading, neither the crown nor the nobility will falter.”

“Riverlands, Vale...” Baelon muttered, suddenly thinking of his sisters Dany and Anna, who had returned to the Vale. Lady Jeyne was rumored to be hosting a grand event in Gulltown, and the sisters had been summoned.

“You’re thinking of something?” Rhaegar asked, smiling slightly at the mention of the Vale. “The Riverlands and the Vale are perfect places to strengthen central authority. In time, we’ll focus on the Reach and Stormlands as well.”

The most challenging regions would be the North, the Westerlands, and Dorne. If Baelon and Jeyne succeeded, the Reach and Stormlands would be manageable. As for the remaining three, Rhaegar wouldn’t hesitate to use dragons as a deterrent.

In short, under Rhaegar’s reign, the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms would all face hardships.

“Yes, I can do it!” Baelon’s enthusiasm surged, and he felt more than ready to take on the task.

Rhaegar released the envelope, and Baelon quickly pulled it toward him. Rising to his feet, Rhaegar said, “Lord Lyonel and his eldest son, Ser Harwin, will accompany you. They’re nobles from the Riverlands and can assist you in every way.”

Then, as he walked out, Rhaegar added, “Follow me. You’ll need to present yourself well when you’re away from home.”

Baelon’s face lit up with joy, and he eagerly followed his father like a shadow.

...

They left the house and headed to the King’s chambers. Rhaegar, calm and composed, opened the door to his private quarters. In truth, he rarely stayed here. Most nights, he spent in the Queen’s chambers, which had once been Rhaenyra’s Princess bedroom.

As the door swung open, the sunlight was immediately blocked by heavy curtains. Rhaegar entered, his gaze fixed on a wall near the fireplace.

“Wow!” Baelon’s eyes lit up as he followed his father’s line of sight.

The wall was adorned with intricate carvings and frescoes, but what truly caught his attention was the row of Valyrian steel weapons hanging from top to bottom. Among them were the recast “Dragon’s Claw,” the “Truefyre” with its inlaid flaming red heart, and “Blackfyre,” the symbol of kingship. Beside them hung a spear known as “Dawn.”

Directly above the fireplace, there was an imposing dragon’s horn, completely black and too large to be held by two people. Above the horn, a three-pronged arrow made entirely of Valyrian steel was displayed.

Rhaegar raised his chin slightly and said, “Choose one, my son.”

Baelon’s excitement was palpable as he rushed to the fireplace, carefully examining each Valyrian steel weapon. The Truefyre was dark as night, with star-like patterns glittering on its blade. The Blackfyre, once wielded by the Conqueror, bore the weight of history.

Baelon ran his fingers over each weapon before finally settling on the Dragon’s Claw. It was cold to the touch, with a blade so sharp it could cut a strand of hair. The black dragonbone hilt was carved into claws, gripping the rippling watery blade.

“A symbol of fearless courage,” Baelon murmured, his eyes resolute. With both hands, he lifted the ornate Dragon’s Claw. Turning to his father, he said, “Father, I will take the sword you first chose.”

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