Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

The next day...

As dawn broke, a black dragon erupted from the garden of Summerhall. It crossed the Boneway and soared over the Sea of Dorne, where the wreckage of broken ships piled up along the shores.

...

Coastal area of Sunspear City.

The fishermen quietly set sail, hoping to catch fish and shrimp in the early morning calm.

Boom.

A massive black creature flew past, its wide wings casting a shadow that swallowed the sky, like a thick, dark cloud blotting out the sun.

"A dragon!"

The fishermen screamed in terror, abandoning their boats and leaping into the sea. The fear instilled by the Dragon's Wroth ten years earlier still haunted their memories, passed down even after two generations.

Luckily, the fierce beast only skimmed the coast of Dorne, continuing its flight toward the junction of the Narrow Sea and the Summer Sea.

High above, Rhaegar laughed and patted the dragon’s neck. "You scared them, Cannibal."

"Roar!" Cannibal let out a low, rumbling roar, its chest rising and falling as it picked up speed. The man and the dragon had risen early to bid farewell to the beautiful surroundings of Summerhall.

This was merely a detour, as Rhaegar paid a visit to Helaena and her two children. The mother, son, and daughter were no ordinary family; they bore the burdens of House and Kingdom alike.

Margaery, the Little Rose of Highgarden, and Maris Baratheon of Storm's End—both close friends of Helaena—stood by her side. Together, the three women supported one another, uniting The Reach and the Stormlands, and for years, they safeguarded the Dornish Marches.

The civil war in Dorne raged on, with the rebels, known as the "Greenblood Orphans," mastering the art of guerrilla warfare, striking swiftly and vanishing just as fast.

Led by Prince Qyle of Sunspear, they blocked The Prince's Pass and the Boneway, confining the rebellion to the barren deserts of western Dorne, whenever the rebels attempted to storm the passes, it was Helaena who drove them back with Dreamfyre, maintaining the fragile peace in the Dornish Marches.

"After we return from Sothoryos, we'll take the children back to King's Landing for a while," Rhaegar said, breathing in the cool sea breeze as he resolved his thoughts. His children could grow to be dragons or mediocrities, but they would never be sheep.

"Roar!"

Suddenly, a thunderous dragon roar echoed across several nautical miles, radiating boundless fury.

"Cannibal!" Rhaegar exclaimed, startled. He quickly steered the dragon toward the source of the roar.

Cannibal’s glowing green eyes narrowed, its thick neck twisting as it flapped its wings and sped eastward. Soon, small islands began to dot the vast sea ahead, and a cluster of glaring flames came into view, accompanied by billowing smoke and distant screams.

"Roar! Roar!"

A pale silver dragon shot into the sky, flapping its wings with a mournful cry.

"The Triarchy pirate ship!" Rhaegar recognized the burning vessel at once, along with the scorched and melted scorpion crossbows on its deck.

"Roar!"

Seasmoke circled low, a gaping hole torn in its right wing membrane, blood trickling from the wound. Rhaegar frowned as he watched the pale silver dragon ascend into the clouds and vanish from sight.

This was near the Stepstones, the treacherous waters lying between the Narrow Sea, the coast of Dorne, and the Summer Sea. The islands were loosely garrisoned between Bloodstone and Grey Gallows, leaving the edges vulnerable. Slave ships, stowaways, and pirates often bypassed the garrison, sneaking through these waters unnoticed.

It was unfortunate for this Triarchy pirate ship to have crossed paths with Seasmoke, which had been roaming the area. Seasmoke might not recognize the banners of House Targaryen or House Velaryon, but it surely remembered the foul stench of the Triarchy pirates. Its first flight had been during the first battle of the Stepstones, a conflict that had dragged on for years.

As Rhaegar looked down, he saw that the pirate ship had burned to the waterline and was sinking, while several smaller ships remained intact nearby. One of these ships flew the sails of a Harpy, clearly marking it as a slave ship from Slaver's Bay.

Rhaegar’s eyes gleamed with the temptation to set it ablaze. But just as he was about to act, a group of dark-skinned people emerged from the slave ship, waving white flags in surrender.

"Indigenous people of the Summer Isles?" Rhaegar muttered, intrigued. He had heard that the people of the Summer Isles were often enslaved, valued for their strength, robustness, and resistance to illness. Grey Worm had once mentioned that half of the Unsullied in any given training cohort came from Summer Isles stock. However, their natural resistance to discipline meant that their survival rate in the harsh training was low.

Now, these dark-skinned natives fell to their knees on the deck, pleading for mercy in broken Valyrian. It was clear they had been coached by the cunning slave traders.

Rhaegar hesitated, pondering for a moment. He did not give the command for "Dragonfire." Instead, he decided to let them go and return to Slaver's Bay. Perhaps it was better to give them a chance at survival there rather than consign them to death by dragonfire.

With a final glance, Rhaegar looked away. "Let's go, Cannibal."

"Roar..."

Cannibal’s eyes remained cold and indifferent, not sparing the pitiful creatures below a second thought as it turned and flew straight toward the continent of Sothoryos.

...

The man and the dragon soared away, disappearing into the horizon.

Meanwhile, a few slave ships sent crews to salvage the gold and silver treasures from the smoldering remains of the pirate ship. After hastily dividing the spoils, they set sail, eager to escape before trouble found them.

Three ships crossed the Narrow Sea, making their way back to Slaver’s Bay on the distant shores of the Eastern Continent. One ship, however, veered off course, choosing to sail independently. It bypassed the endless coastline of Dorne and ventured into the Summer Sea, heading toward Oldtown.

The sea breeze whipped fiercely, and the ship sliced through the waves with determination. Below deck, in the cramped, dimly lit cabins, men, women, and children huddled together, their clothes ragged and their faces etched with despair. On this vessel, their origins and races meant nothing; they were all slaves, subject to the whims of their captors.

“Brother,” a voice called softly.

By a small, barred window, a young man with white hair crouched, his arms wrapped tightly around his legs. His ordinary features were marked by a pair of deep blue eyes that seemed out of place in their vividness.

“Don’t worry,” said another, his tone reassuring. The older man, with silver-blonde hair and a serious expression, pulled his younger brother close. “We’re not being taken to the ruins of the Old Empire of Ghis to rebuild the slave cities.”

The young man tilted his head back, his white hair brushing against his brother’s chin as he reached up to stroke the stubble there. “I heard the dragon’s roar. It was thrilling.”

The silver-blonde man lowered his head, his eyes filled with longing. “A living dragon… that’s incredible!”

...

It was nearing noon in the Green Hell of Sothoryos.

"Roar..."

The fearsome dragon, 180 meters long, stood imposingly, its pitch-black scales gleaming with a metallic sheen under the harsh sunlight. Its massive jaws clamped down on a green-spotted wyvern, tearing into the struggling creature as its feeble chirps faded into silence. Sharp claws ripped open the wyvern’s belly, spilling its innards onto the jungle floor.

At the edge of this gruesome hunting scene, Rhaegar, clad in a black robe, knelt by a campfire, roasting a skewer of fruit. He had recently returned from the Basilisk Isles, where the stench of parasites still lingered in his memory, feeding off the cries of the starving. The islands were now under the control of the remnants of the Triarchy, who had replaced the slave traders and smugglers. Only the unfortunate prostitutes had been spared; no one would bother to drive away those who sold their bodies for survival.

Rhaegar's inspection had revealed that the Basilisk Isles had become a stronghold for Triarchy pirates, serving as the first line of defense against foreign threats. Meanwhile, three new Free Cities had sprung up along the coast of Sothoryos. These were based on the Isle of Tears, the Isle of Axe, and the Isle of Naath.

The Isle of Tears, hidden behind the Basilisk Isles, was a swampy, muddy place, once home to the now-ruined colony of Gogossos, abandoned by both Valyria and the Old Empire of Ghis.

The Isles of Axe and Naath were located on the eastern coast of Sothoryos. The Isle of Axe, shaped like its namesake, had been visited by Nymeria during her legendary voyage, though pirates had driven her away. Naath, independent of the mainland, was situated in the southwestern corner of the Basilisk Isles, surrounded by satellite islands rich in resources.

The Triarchy had chosen their locations well for rebuilding the Free Cities. If all went according to their plan, they could establish a new Triarchy, one that might rival the previous empire.

"But it won’t go well," Rhaegar murmured, his thoughts turning to the prospect of colonizing Sothoryos. The last time they had conquered Slaver’s Bay, their hold was fleeting, and they hadn’t even had time to divide the land among nobles. It would not be easy for the Triarchy to establish a strong foothold on this hostile continent.

"I need to rethink our strategic goals when I return," he muttered to himself. The ongoing war in Qohor had already drained the kingdom, yet it was a fight they could not afford to abandon. If they shifted their focus to Sothoryos, they risked being drawn into a war on two or even three fronts.

"A House Council is necessary," Rhaegar decided, determined to prevent his enemies from gaining any advantage, even at the cost of economic growth.

Boom.

A gust of wind swept through the jungle, the moss-covered canopy shuddering with the reverberation of a dragon’s roar. Rhaegar looked up to see a massive beast flying low overhead.

"Roar..."

Uragax, the old dragon, stretched its neck and let out a low, rumbling growl at the Dragoneater below. The foul stench of the dragon’s breath reached Rhaegar even from a distance.

"Roar..."

The gluttonous dragon howled in return, its malicious green eyes filled with hatred. Rhaegar shook his head, choosing to ignore the simmering enmity between the two beasts.

The more time he spent with them, the more he realized that Uragax was a wise, ancient dragon, indifferent to most things and content to stay within its territory. It was Cannibal who was vicious by nature, hostile toward all dragons.

No dragon that had crossed paths with the Dragoneater had escaped without knowing fear or hatred. Its fighting style was brutal— a heartless predator that preyed on its own kind, striking at their weakest points.

"Uragax, when you’re healed, come with me!" Rhaegar shouted into the sky, casually tossing the charred fruit skewer aside.

Boom.

The only response was silence, save for the dry leaves and dust kicked up as the old dragon landed.

"Roar..."

Uragax shook its massive head, and its two large, curved horns sliced through tree trunks, carving a battered path through the dense forest. Rhaegar stood before the old dragon, welcoming the scorching breath that washed over him, and the shadow that gradually engulfed his form. The dragon, though aged and battle-worn, was still a formidable presence, its sheer size commanding awe. If it were pitted against another, even Vermithor, the Bronze Fury and third-largest of the house, would struggle to match it. Only Vhagar might stand as its equal.

Rhaegar’s eyes gleamed as he raised his hand high. "Uragax, come back to Dragonstone with me."

"Roar..." The old dragon lowered its head in silence, resting its rough jaw in Rhaegar’s palm as it slowly eased its mountain-like body down to the ground. At that moment, Rhaegar’s gaze sharpened as he noticed something troubling—a deep, ragged scratch across the dragon’s forehead. The wound was gruesome, oozing foul-smelling blood that still emitted wisps of smoke.

"What is this?" Rhaegar’s expression darkened as he examined the injury more closely. "Did you fight another wild dragon?" The severity of the scratch suggested a fierce opponent, not one to be easily dismissed.

"Roar..." Uragax’s pupils closed as it hung its head sorrowfully, refusing to respond as it lay down. Rhaegar was puzzled but continued to press. "If something can hurt you like this, it’s even more reason for you to leave with me." Whether the adversary was a wild dragon or something else, Rhaegar’s goal was clear: to bring this ancient, rebellious dragon back under Targaryen control.

Since the Red Comet had fallen, the tide of magic had surged, reviving long-dormant forces across the world. Dragons like Morghul of the Smoking Sea, Iragaxys hatched by the Braavosi, and Thunderstrider had all risen again. Even Rhaegar himself, along with others like the elusive Shadowbinders and the Water Wizards, had felt the resurgence. If there was indeed another wild dragon in Sothoryos, Rhaegar would not be surprised.

'Enough of this,' Rhaegar thought, deciding to take a more forceful approach. He retrieved the Dragon Horn, a relic he had long prepared to use.

Ooooo~

Rhaegar closed his eyes, summoning the ancient power of his dragon blood as black fire encircled his body. In an instant, his black robe began to flutter wildly in the wind, twisting and swaying like a living shadow.

"Roar..."

Cannibal roared, its pale green pupils glowing with a dragon-shaped rune. With a powerful flap of its wings, the beast soared into the sky, leaving the crushed remains of the wyverns behind without a second glance.

"Roar!"

The old dragon before Rhaegar widened its vertical pupils in surprise, a strangely human-like expression of wariness crossing its face. It crawled backward cautiously, recognizing the sound of the horn that had echoed through the cold depths of the Dragonpit more than once—each time heralding the fall of one or two of its kin.

"Woo-woo-woo..."

Unmoved, Rhaegar produced a bloodstained, moss-colored scale from his sleeve. The scale, about the size of an adult’s palm, was cracked and weathered, a remnant shed by the old dragon after sustaining an injury. Calmly, Rhaegar rubbed the scale against the dragon horn, and the scalding blood was absorbed into the dark Valyrian steel surface.

Hum...

In an instant, the horn glowed with a hazy reddish hue, and tiny characters began to appear, overlapping and intertwining until they formed an azure dragon-shaped inscription.

"Roar!"

Uragax’s pupils widened further, a newfound sense of kinship stirring the blood in its veins. Although puzzled, the old dragon remained still, recognizing the bond it shared with the silver-haired human before it, unwilling to harm him.

"Roar!"

Rhaegar blew the horn with all his might, secretly employing the ancient technique of the "Dragon Dance." Gradually, the old dragon calmed and prostrated itself once more.

"Come with me," Rhaegar urged when the sound finally ceased. His face was pale from the effort, but he extended his hand in invitation. "You are already a Targaryen dragon—you can’t run away."

"Roar..."

Uragax tilted its head as if contemplating the words, then rose to its feet and took flight.

Boom.

Cannibal swooped low, landing back in its original position, its tail lashing past Rhaegar as if in impatience.

"Let’s go!" Rhaegar commanded as he climbed onto Cannibal’s back, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

"Roar!"

Cannibal shot into the sky, quickly catching up to the rejuvenated old dragon, spitting out a mouthful of dark green Dragonfire in protest. But the old dragon paid it no heed, crashing headlong through the ashen flames as it headed toward the Summer Sea.

For a dragon, moving was no big deal.

...

Dorne, Sunspear.

Prince Qyle, a young man with a troubled expression, paced restlessly through the palace. Worry gnawed at him. Dorne was beset by internal and external threats, and now the Red Kraken had appeared to add to his woes.

The Greenblood River, the lifeline of Sunspear, was under the control of the Iron Throne, with only 30% of its profits allocated to Dorne each year. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to maintain a comfortable lifestyle for House Martell. Now, however, the Red Kraken in the Iron Islands was wreaking havoc, abducting natives of the Summer Isles and plundering merchant ships in the Summer Sea. This relentless piracy was devastating maritime trade and cutting deeply into the income of House Martell.

“What should I do?” Qyle muttered to himself, his face pale with anxiety as he nervously scratched at his hair.

"Roar..."

Suddenly, a deep dragon roar echoed through the palace. Qyle’s spirits lifted, and he rushed to the nearest glass window. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of the three towering walls of Shadowtown.

Boom!

A black dragon shadow streaked across the sky, swiftly pursuing an ink-green dragon. The two mighty beasts hovered side by side above Sunspear, their presence casting ominous shadows over the city.

"Excellent!" Qyle’s face lit up with a rare smile as he dashed out of the palace. He recognized the dark dragon immediately—it was Cannibal, the infamous “Deathwing,” known for its terrifying appetite not only for people but for other dragons as well.

His father, Prince Qoren, had met his end in the flames of this very dragon.

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