Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

After half a month.

The hills of Norvos, a high mountain fortress.

The sky was perpetually dark, cloaked in thick, impenetrable clouds. The cold, damp air clung to everything, and the jagged mountains below were surrounded by towering peaks and dense forests of pine and cypress. Of all the Free Cities, Norvos was known for its harshest environment.

"Keep your spirits up! Don’t let the dragon catch you unaware!"

From the battlements, red-robed priests with long, scraggly beards shouted at the soldiers standing watch. The men, armed with heavy battleaxes, bore green axe tattoos branded onto their faces—a sacred tradition of Norvos, symbolizing their eternal bond with their weapons. They were bound to their axes for life, a marriage of iron and duty. The priests’ scolding was sharp, and the soldiers obeyed in fearful silence, too afraid to show any sign of defiance.

“Never underestimate the Dragonlords of Valyria! They are cunning beyond belief!”

The priests spoke with thick Valyrian accents, their sallow faces filled with grim seriousness. Just ten days ago, the Sellswords of Qohor had mobilized and taken positions throughout the hills surrounding Norvos. Three days ago, an army had gathered at the foot of the high mountain fortress. There was a palpable tension, the unmistakable sense that something terrible was about to unfold.

And then it happened...

"Roar..."

A massive black dragon appeared over the mountains, its enormous wings blocking out what little light pierced the clouds, casting the fortress in shadow. The creature’s presence was overwhelming, like a dark storm descending upon the world.

Rhaegar, riding high on its back, smiled wickedly. “Dracarys!”

Boom!

The Cannibal, the ancient and terrifying black dragon, unleashed a torrent of greenish Dragonfire, a sickly flame that resembled ash, pouring it across the fortress like a lethal mist. The sky above turned a sickly green as the fire spread with eerie ease.

“No! No!”

The garrison soldiers’ eyes widened in horror, and chaos erupted on the battlements. The Dragonfire, dark green and relentless, clung to everything like a curse. The stone walls melted under its heat, and the flames seemed alive, spreading faster than anything they had ever seen.

Zilla zilla...

The fire consumed all in its path, burning with unnatural ferocity. Soldiers screamed, their bodies alight as if they had been touched by the Black Death itself. Their wails echoed across the fortress as they flailed in agony, rolling on the ground only to be reduced to skeletons by the relentless flames.

“Protect me! Someone, protect me!”

The bearded priests, their faces drained of color, grabbed soldiers in a panic, using them as human shields. But it was in vain. The Dragonfire descended like a fishing net, trapping everyone within its burning embrace.

A single wisp of the green flame caught on a priest’s hairband, and within seconds, it erupted into a blaze.

"Ahhhh!"

Screams of agony filled the air, the heat of the fire dispelling the biting cold of the Lonely Hills. Even the snow that had once blanketed the ground began to melt under the intensity of the flames.

"Roar..."

The Cannibal, its menacing green eyes glowing, turned back slowly toward the snow-covered pine forests. With its wings trailing fire, it soared away from the destruction it had wrought.

“Well done, old friend,” Rhaegar murmured with satisfaction, tightening his grip on the reins as the dragon swooped down. The chill wind whipped against his face, but his smile remained as cold as the air around him.

How long could Norvos withstand this, when every three or five days Dragonfire would rain down again, each time leaving less and less behind?

...

At noon, sunlight filtered through the dense forest.

"Roar..."

The Cannibal lay sprawled in a clearing filled with thorn bushes, its growl low and lethargic, almost half-dead in sound. The ground within a kilometer of the dragon was scorched black, the air thick with the acrid stench of ash.

"Winter really isn’t kind to dragons," Rhaegar muttered with a grin as he strode toward the tent. The Cannibal wasn’t injured—just sluggish from the cold, perhaps throwing a tantrum. It had been lazy lately, showing little interest in much of anything.

As Rhaegar entered the tent, several figures were gathered around a map, discussing their next move. Daemon glanced up briefly before continuing. “The rivers of Lorath and Norvos are connected, and Sellswords from Pentos are already on their way. We need to quicken the pace of this war.”

“How fast can we go?” Otto replied, his brow furrowed in frustration. “It’s only been ten days! Half of our soldiers are still wearing their underclothes, barely ready for battle.”

“Who cares if they die? As long as they can hold a weapon, that’s enough,” Daemon said coldly, his tone sharp and calculated. He wasn’t one for sentiment when it came to battle. Delaying would only give their enemies more time to gather reinforcements, making things far worse.

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed as he considered Daemon’s point. “Norvos’ defenses are weak. A full-scale assault now has a high chance of success.”

“Your Grace,” Otto interjected seriously, “the army isn’t following orders properly. There’s a real risk of mutiny if we push them too hard.”

“So what?” Daemon snapped, glaring at him. “You’re a Southerner. If you can’t handle the cold, you’re free to retreat to Qohor.” His tone was biting, with no room for sympathy. As long as they moved quickly, the army wouldn’t have time to fall apart.

“Daemon!” Otto's face flushed with anger, his hand twitching as if he were ready to slam the table in protest. He had been Daemon’s rival for over twenty years, and the bitterness between them was well-known.

Daemon’s gaze hardened, daring him to push further.

“Enough!” Rhaegar’s voice rang out, silencing them both. “We attack tonight. Order the army to start cooking and slaughter the goats for soup. It will warm the soldiers before battle.”

Otto, still seething, nodded stiffly. “Yes, Your Grace,” he replied in a low, defeated tone. There were limited supplies; the faster they finished the war, the better.

Daemon’s expression lightened, satisfied with the decision. “We’ve burned all the fortresses surrounding the high mountain stronghold. We can strike Norvos directly along the main road.”

“No prisoners,” Rhaegar added, his eyes cold as he spoke of the coming bloodshed. War demanded brutality, and there would be no mercy for the defenders of Norvos.

...

Midnight, Norvos.

Dong! Dong! Dong!

The deep tolling of three ancient bells echoed across the city, their solemn tones drowning out the wails and cries beneath the flames. The once-majestic Free City, nestled beneath the mountains and along the rivers, was now engulfed in fire and the clash of steel.

"Roar..."

A massive black dragon, its wings spanning the night sky, soared above the burning city. As the Sellswords stormed through the shattered gates, cutting down any who dared resist, countless citizens of Norvos fell to their knees, weeping and praying for deliverance.

But the gods of the bearded priests remained silent. The gods of the Andals and Valyria had long since vanished from the world. In this moment, the only true god was the Deathwing, the dragon feared on both sides of the Narrow Sea.

On a towering hill, the three ancient bells swayed ominously, their ringing slowing. An old priest, his beard white with age, fell to his knees, tears streaming from his weathered eyes. With a choked voice, he muttered, “Great Other... it is not yet our time.” He clung to the teachings of his god—when danger looms, it is not time to meet death.

“There's another one! Catch him!”

Bloodied and ruthless, the Sellswords spotted him. They seized the frail priest, roughly pinning him to the ground and binding him in thick ropes.

As the priest was dragged away, the three ancient bells, once proud symbols of Norvos, ceased their swaying. Their mournful toll was silenced, like the city itself, consumed by fire and death.

...

The next morning.

Hills of Norvos, Palace.

Heads were mounted on spears, neatly lined up in a grisly display.

“Soothe the civilians, and don’t touch the three ancient bells,” Rhaegar commanded, pacing briskly as he gave orders to his men, ensuring the aftermath of the siege was managed efficiently.

“Your Grace, I have an urgent matter,” Otto intercepted him, dark circles under his eyes from a sleepless night. No one had rested easily.

“What is it?” Rhaegar asked, continuing to walk, his mind still occupied with directing Sellswords to extinguish the palace fires. The siege had gone smoothly, but now they faced the tedious task of repairing the damage, including replacing every shattered roof tile.

Damn it, Rhaegar thought bitterly, we should have brought Aegon and Aemond to help with clearing the rubble.

Otto kept pace, his expression grave. “Daemon captured the bearded priests' temple. Inside, he found a strange mural. You should take a look.”

Rhaegar paused, his curiosity piqued. Of the nine Free Cities, many held ancient secrets, particularly those like Qohor and Norvos, which had existed for thousands of years. These old fortresses often concealed mysteries beneath their stone walls.

Take the red-roofed temple in Qohor, for instance. The Faceless Men had nearly assassinated Aemond there. The incense used in the temple had strange hallucinogenic properties, though Rhaegar had yet to fully unravel its secrets.

“Interesting,” Rhaegar murmured, setting aside his duties for the moment. “Let’s go see this mural.”

...

They wound their way through the temple, a foreboding structure of black granite. Inside, Daemon stood before a stone wall embedded deep within the ground, his fingers tracing the faded, indistinct murals.

Rhaegar glanced at the wall, his brow furrowing. The mural was an ancient composition, depicting a dragon, a wight, winter, and the Wall, all etched in deep, heavy lines. It felt primordial, carved long before their time. The scene showed an army of the dead bringing winter, standing beneath the towering Wall. Snow whirled and howled, concealing the dark forest behind them. A dragon, spewing flames, was pierced through the neck by a spear and fell to the ground, where the dead consumed it.

Further along, the mural depicted two dragons locked in battle in the sky, each breathing fire. One spewed black fire, while the other unleashed an eerie, ice-blue flame. The flames themselves were outlined with a distinct pigment, suggesting a particular reverence for fire.

At the end of the mural, a grotesque face stared out—a twisted, unnatural visage. It resembled a human, yet more closely resembled a corpse, its turquoise eyes filled with ambition and disdain for the world.

"Is that the Others?" Daemon asked suddenly, his expression grim as he turned to Rhaegar.

Rhaegar’s gaze lingered on the hideous face. "Yes," he replied in a low voice. "The darkness of the North." But what did it signify? The mural hinted that thr Others could slay dragons and perhaps even ride them. How could that be possible?

Daemon seemed lost in thought, his voice barely a whisper. "Could my brother have been right?" Since becoming king, Viserys had occasionally spoken to him in private, warning of White Shadows, the darkness to the North, and the conqueror’s prophecy.

Daemon had always dismissed it as nonsense, an excuse for Viserys’ perceived weakness. But now, standing before this ancient mural, he found his worldview shaken. This was far more unsettling than anything he had seen, even in the Smoking Sea.

“And here,” Otto interrupted quietly, pointing to another section of the mural near the cave’s entrance. This part depicted a shepherd encountering a dragon for the first time, followed by scenes of the rise of the Valyrian Freehold, the fall of the Old Empire of Ghis, and the enslavement of thousands to mine the depths of the earth.

Another scene showed a fleet of ships sailing toward Westeros, and beyond that, the continuous eruption of the Fourteen Flames, destroying dragons mid-flight.

“It’s all a prophecy,” Rhaegar said, his expression darkening as he examined the mural closely. But then, his fingers grazed the surface, and his eyes narrowed. “No... the scratches are from different times.”

Rhaegar paused, touching three distinct sections of the mural. Suddenly, he realized each part came from a different era. "The shepherd and the dragon—this part is the oldest, at least a thousand years old. The depiction of the Others is newer, but still ancient, likely three or five hundred years old. The scene of Aenar’s exile? That was carved just a century ago."

Daemon looked at him, his mind elsewhere. "So, what’s the difference?"

“The difference is enormous,” Rhaegar said sharply. “It tells us whether these are prophecies or records. At least Aenar’s exile is a record, carved long after the fact.”

Otto, thoughtful, added, “Perhaps we should ask someone who knows.” He called for the Sellswords, instructing them to bring someone in.

Moments later, an old, bearded priest was dragged into the temple. His spirit seemed broken, and a rag was stuffed into his mouth. The Sellswords forced him to his knees before Rhaegar.

Rhaegar pulled the rag from his mouth, getting straight to the point. "What is the meaning of this mural?"

The priest gasped for air, his clouded eyes flickering with a madness born of fear and fanaticism. "Lose one dragon..." he muttered hoarsely, his voice trembling. "Gain another."

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