Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

'My teacher is useless!' Maekar thought bitterly.

“No, it was a kind attempt to keep me here,” Tyland said with a sheepish smile, offering a weak excuse.

“Mm-hm,” Maekar grunted, casting a sideways glance at the silver-haired woman in the distance. A Valyrian becoming the Queen of Meereen and ruler of Slaver's Bay? 'There’s something off about the teacher’s teachings if even a fallen Valyrian can claim to be a ruler over and over again.'

“Prince, what is your name?” Irina stepped forward, her eyes burning with curiosity as she looked at the young boy on the dragon. He appeared to be around seven or eight years old, his translucent platinum blonde hair catching the sunlight. His gloomy blue eyes were almost as dark as purple, and his pale face had an oddly endearing quality.

Maekar first glanced at the nearby slave soldiers before responding flatly, “Before asking someone else, you should introduce yourself first.”

As he spoke, he discreetly waved at Tyland.

“Oh,” Tyland nodded vigorously, then scrambled up the rope ladder on all fours.

Irina didn’t attempt to stop him. After introducing herself, she asked, “Targaryen’s younger brother, can you speak now?”

The Targaryens, far away in the Western Continent, were the only family capable of controlling dragons. The two houses had once been closely allied.

“Maekar Targaryen,” Maekar replied, standing tall and pulling back his shoulders. “Third son of Rhaegar Targaryen the First, Prince of Volantis.”

“Prince?” Irina echoed, momentarily confused.

“Yes,” Maekar nodded. “Your slave ships have disrupted trade in my Free Cities.”

Of all his siblings, only his eldest brother Baelon held the title of heir and Prince of Dragonstone. Maekar, stationed far away in Volantis, bore the title of Prince, though it was prefixed with "Interim." He could officially inherit the title when he came of age.

Irina’s eyes gleamed even brighter at his words, and she took a step closer. “I have entertained your teacher. Would you honor me by joining the banquet?”

A boy with a potent dose of dragon blood, accompanied by a magnificent, powerful sub-adult dragon—it was as alluring as a drug.

“No!” Maekar refused outright, frowning. “My mother told me to stay away from bad women.”

Did she think he was a fool? The way she looked at him, it was as if she wanted to carve a piece of flesh from him—something that might compromise his innocence.

“You can stay. I swear on my life and the honor of my house that I will never harbor the slightest ill will towards you,” Irina said, raising her hand in a solemn vow.

“Save it.” Maekar tugged on the reins and issued a stern warning. “I won’t be taken in by your sweet talk, just like I don’t believe in your fake last name.”

House Daeryon, the supposed Dragonlord lineage she claimed, had perished long ago in the Doom.

“I sincerely hope you’ll stay as my guest!” Irina's eyes sparkled as she added, “I admire your father greatly, and I could even invite him to visit Meereen.”

At the mention of his father, Maekar’s expression darkened slightly. “You don’t want him here.”

“Perhaps I could go to King’s Landing to meet him?” Irina suggested boldly. Her commanding presence matched her frank tone. “I share the same blood as your family, the ancient Valyrian Dragonlord blood.”

She had no dragons and no living relatives. Her great-grandmother had perished halfway there, never escaping the smoke that had haunted her all her life. But Irina ruled Slaver’s Bay, and alongside the other coastal Wise Masters and Good Masters, she held the power to influence the war. A Dragonlady without rivals but with considerable strength shouldn’t be dismissed by the petty Targaryen kings. The best path forward for the descendants of Old Valyria was to renew the alliance between their houses.

Maekar’s face scrunched up like a bun, and he hesitated before saying, “You still haven’t given up.”

Was she really planning to ask his father for a marriage? Regardless of her bloodline, Maekar didn’t like older girls. It was one of the few things he and his father differed on.

“You can think of it that way, but I’m not that desperate,” Irina declared, puffing out her modest chest with pride. “I just want to see your father. He owes me some sheep.”

Pat!

Maekar pulled out a handful of gold dragons and tossed them at her, bluntly retorting, “He doesn’t owe anyone anything, you old woman.”

Then he patted the silver-gray scales of his dragon, signaling it to take off.

“Roar!”

Tyraxes raised its head and roared, spreading its massive wings before launching into the air with a powerful kick. As the dragon soared over the smoky Meereen, Tyland’s panicked screams echoed in the distance. The roar of the beast reverberated across the Free Cities.

...

Across the Narrow Sea, in Driftmark, at the docks of Hull...

The Sea Snake walked alone along the dockside, his long, tigerish eyes scanning the shipwrights and sailors hard at work.

Sizzle...

A figure with short silver hair sat cross-legged nearby, methodically polishing an axe blade on a whetstone.

“Addam,” the Sea Snake called out as he approached the handsome young man, who was dressed as a shipwright.

Addam looked up, surprised to see the Sea Snake. “My lord, why are you here?”

“Just wandering around. The kingdom needs our ships,” the Sea Snake replied with a natural ease. “Your brother Alyn has joined my fleet. He’s a better sailor than you.”

Addam’s eyes darkened, and he forced a smile. “He’s a great lad—works hard and never complains. Much better than his older brother, who has to fight off seasickness every time he goes to sea.”

With that, Addam returned to sharpening the axe blade, occasionally testing its edge by chopping into a wooden board.

Four years ago, he had defied the orders of the one-eyed Aemon and led the army back to Hull. As a result, Corlys had called him in for a private meeting, where he was stripped of all titles and dismissed as a sailor. His status plummeted, and he returned to his old trade as a shipwright.

The Sea Snake observed Addam’s despondency but turned away without a word.

Addam clenched his lower lip, stubbornly watching the old man's retreating back.

“By the way,” the Sea Snake suddenly turned back, his tone thoughtful, “there will be more wars in the kingdom. Do well at the shipyard—there’s no shortage of opportunities for a hero.”

Without waiting to see if Addam understood, the Sea Snake turned and left.

Addam stood there, stunned and at a loss.

“Shipyard?” he murmured to himself.

His maternal grandfather had been an old shipwright, his mother a ship’s captain, and he had inherited the family shipyard. In Driftmark, families like his were numerous, all living off the sea and their crafts.

Addam was momentarily confused, but then he recalled a sail plan he hadn’t been able to understand at all. It had been sent from a wizard of Asshai for study and was kept strictly confidential.

...

Late afternoon in High Tide City...

A dragon as black as coal lay in the castle courtyard, devouring a goat fed to it by the guards.

“News from Qohor: Daemon and Aemond burned Lorath and forced the Four Cities Alliance to retreat,” Mysaria, the White Worm, reported, her voice calm and measured.

“Lorath is just a barren Free City,” Rhaegar replied.

“Norvos is equally barren, but it can still sway the course of war,” Mysaria countered, standing slender and graceful in front of the window, recounting each detail with precision.

Rhaegar sat on the king’s throne made of driftwood in the Hall of Nine, rubbing his temples as a headache began to form. 'Only when you become king do you realize how difficult it is to be the most powerful person in the world,' he thought.

Qohor was embroiled in war, the remnants of the Triarchy were resurging, and a new ruler had emerged in Slaver’s Bay seemingly out of nowhere... It was no wonder that no king in history had ever sought to expand their territory excessively. Even the revered Old King had focused on consolidation and strengthening his rule.

The dynasty's territory was expanding, and enemies were on all sides.

“Hah...” Rhaegar sighed, lamenting softly, “The Freehold Empire had a thousand dragons and ruled the Valyrian Peninsula and much of eastern Essos. Am I being too ambitious if I try to dominate both sides of the Narrow Sea?”

The thought had crossed his mind more than once—conquering Braavos and Pentos, eliminating two of the Nine Free Cities. That would leave only Norvos and Lorath, both militarily and politically weak. Norvos lacked a warm port, and Lorath didn’t even have one. Together, they might be a tough challenge, but divided, they would be easy prey. The pressure would be much less.

“Your Grace, I advise against this,” Mysaria said, leaning against the window frame, her voice rational and steady. “All the major banks in the world owe money to the Iron Bank; we cannot afford to make enemies on every front.”

To put it more bluntly: more than half of the noble families in Westeros were indebted to the Iron Bank. If the king led an army into battle, not only would the Lords be difficult to manage, but they might also sabotage his efforts behind his back. This was the inevitable complexity of politics, where everything was entangled and complicated.

The Freehold had once considered attacking Braavos, but the Iron Bank’s influence and the courage of the then-Sealord had deterred them, leading to an alliance instead.

Braavos’s unique location—with no arable land and natural protection by a fog barrier—made it a costly and pointless target.

Rhaegar’s jaw tightened as Mysaria continued. The more they talked, the worse his headache became. The Iron Islands, the Basilisk Isles—difficult locations with little strategic value, yet filled with troublemakers.

“But there is some good news,” Mysaria added with a small smile. “Daemon and Aemond have returned victorious, and Lord Tyland has safely returned from Slaver’s Bay.”

This news was only half a month old, but it had been a relief. The king had hurried back from Dorne to prepare the fleet for an anticipated attack on Slaver’s Bay. Thankfully, the threat of war had not materialized.

As they conversed, Rhaenys entered the hall, holding a young boy with short silver-blonde hair in her arms, beaming with excitement. “Rhaegar, come with me to the Dragonpit.”

“What is it, Aunt?” Rhaegar asked, rising from his seat, confused.

...

The former site of High Tide City, now serving as a temporary Dragonpit...

“Roar!”

A 20-meter-long ethereal blue dragon let out a thunderous roar, flapping its silver-white wings.

“Quiet, Thunderstrider,” the two elderly Dragonkeepers called out, their bamboo canes knocking against the ground as they attempted to drive the dragon back.

With a low rumble, Thunderstrider retreated into a corner. From the shadows emerged a massive dragon with cobalt blue scales and copper-colored claws, jaws, and belly.

“Tessarion,” Daeron said softly, as he and Rhaena stood hand in hand before the elegant dragon.

“Roar...”

Despite being over thirty meters long, Tessarion still retained the temperament of a little princess. A female Dragonkeeper stepped forward from the shadows, holding a slender chain in her hand. The chain clanked noisily as it swung from the dark yellow claw of a young dragon.

“Roar~~”

The young dragon, its earth-yellow body covered in scales and fine horns on its forehead, flapped its wings restlessly, its scarlet vertical pupils darting around. The female Dragonkeeper’s voice was calm and soothing as she led the young dragon toward Daeron. “Prince, this is the first offspring of your dragon.”

“I can hardly believe it—Tessarion hatched a young dragon so quickly,” Daeron exclaimed with joy, reaching out to touch the young dragon.

Dragons do not have fixed genders; the one that lays eggs is typically regarded as female. Shortly after Tessarion reached adulthood, she laid a clutch of five eggs—an unprecedented feat.

“Roar~~”

The young earth-yellow dragon hissed sharply, unleashing a mouthful of yellow flames at the large hand approaching it. Daeron jerked his hand back in surprise.

Rhaena, eyes wide with amazement, held a small boy with silver hair and purple eyes in her arms. “Aenar, look how fierce this young dragon is. Do you like it?” she asked encouragingly.

The little boy, about three or four years old, was small and delicate, with a face that bore a striking resemblance to Daemon’s. His timid expression masked a hint of immature ferocity.

“It’s a bit ugly,” Aenar remarked, his pale skin like his mother’s and his serious purple eyes reflecting his judgment. On his back, he carried an exquisite basket, inside of which lay a scarlet dragon egg adorned with spiral patterns.

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