Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

King's Landing, the Red Keep.

The Hall of the Council.

"Lady Maris of Storm's End has sent a raven, offering 800 men to support the heir prince."

"Lady Margaery of Highgarden is willing to do the same, offering 1,500 men and half of Arbor's fleet."

Jasper, the Master of Laws, and Lyman, the Master of Coin, reported one after the other.

"Not bad. Add the fleet of House Velaryon, and we'll have an army of over 3,000 men," Viserys remarked, seated in the main chair with a satisfied smile. His grandson's declaration of war seemed more like a jest to him.

An army of 3,000 men would have no trouble taking the Iron Islands, but the Basilisk Isles would require further consideration.

"Your Grace..." Grand Maester Orwyle hesitated, as if holding back something.

Rhaenyra, seated to the left of her father, interrupted, her expression troubled. "Father, you should consider the motives behind their support." Her face showed clear disappointment.

"Yes," Rhaenyra added impatiently, a sneer tugging at her lips, "the Black Widow of Highgarden wants Visenya engaged with her brother, she is simply blackmailing us."

Viserys frowned but said nothing.

Grand Maester Orwyle continued, "According to Lady Elenda of Storm's End, Prince Aemond killed Lady Maris's fiancé in a duel. The two were deeply in love."

The fiancé in question was none other than Ser Steffon of the Griffin's Roost, Lady Elenda's lover and the late Cassandra's beloved.

"What are you saying?!" Viserys was flabbergasted, certain he had misheard.

Aemond, his third son, was already married to Lady Celine of House Celtigar.

They had been wed for years, though their marriage was childless and their relationship strained. Rumors had recently surfaced that Aemond was involved with Lady Elenda of Storm’s End, a scandal in itself. How could he have become entangled with Lady Maris so soon after?

"Your Grace, I understand your impatience, but please don't be hasty," Orwyle urged helplessly. "Prince Aemond is young and impetuous. It’s possible there’s nothing to it."

"Hah!" Rhaenyra sneered, her disdain clear. 'That one-eyed boy is the most opportunistic person I know. To him, women are just playthings. And the women of Storm’s End? They’re no better; all they do is use each other.'

Viserys, overwhelmed by the growing confusion, found himself unable to make a decision.

Lyman hesitated before speaking again. "Your Grace, Lord Lyonel of Highgarden has proposed a marriage alliance with the royal family. What is your will?"

"No!" Rhaenyra cut in sharply. "There's no need to discuss this further. Neither Rhaegar nor I will allow our children to be used as bargaining chips."

Lyman fell silent, glancing uneasily at the old king. Though the King’s presence in King's Landing was limited, his words still carried more weight than Rhaenyra's.

Rhaenyra's face darkened, visibly displeased.

"We'll discuss this matter again later," Viserys said with a nervous laugh, rising from his seat. "For now, instruct the two ladies to send the agreed-upon troops without delay to the frontlines."

After issuing his command, he patted Rhaenyra on the shoulder, signaling for her not to be so upset. 'It’s just a condition, isn’t it?' he thought. 'Like merchants making deals: they pay first, then we decide whether to deliver on the promise or not. The vassals pay in soldiers, and the royal family will see whether they get what they’re after.'

"Your Grace is wise," the Sea Snake, who had been silently observing, remarked. Rising, he followed the royal party out, his tall figure moving gracefully beside the other advisers.

Viserys, having spent a lifetime navigating the court, had mastered the art of appearing oblivious. Yet, despite his long reign, he had never suffered a true political defeat.

...

At the same time.

Naath, the barren jungle.

"Work harder, and hurry up!"

"..."

Accompanied by the creaking of hacksaws, towering ancient trees fell to the ground. A large number of slaves stooped, and a dozen or so of them worked together to carry a thick log on their backs towards the shore, gritting their teeth as they struggled under the weight.

Clang!

Dalton's face was grim as he swung his axe and chopped at the tree trunk. He had just received the news that the Iron Islands had been destroyed. Pyke had been burned to the ground. The parents, brothers, wives, and concubines of his crew were all killed in the fire.

The more Dalton thought about it, the angrier he became. Suddenly, he sneered, "Well, good riddance. After all, the crew is all dead." It just so happened that the entire family went to meet the Drowned God in an orderly manner.

At that moment, a skinny slave walked over and accidentally tripped while picking up a tree branch.

Bang—the slave hit the ground the previous second, and the sharp blade of Dalton's axe struck the back of his head the next. The skull cracked with a sickening sound, and blood sprayed as Dalton pulled the axe free.

Dalton's eyes were dark as he continued chopping, muttering, "When I have built my fleet, I will show you what true cruelty is."

The slave's body lay beside him, crushed into a grotesque pulp as the tree was felled. Dalton didn't even glance at it, as if it were no more than a fallen leaf on the ground.

Clatter...

Suddenly, the primeval forest was filled with noise, and birds scattered in all directions. Dalton's brow furrowed, and he looked up warily.

Boom—

The clouds above surged violently, as if some enormous beast were rushing through them, stirring up an inexplicable, chaotic wind.

"What is that..."

Dalton's sharp vision caught the movement in the sky. His pupils contracted. A pale shadow appeared above the clouds, its tattered wings blocking out the sun. A grey-white tail, sharp as a bee's sting, dangled downward.

"Dragon!!" Dalton exclaimed, his face changing drastically.

The grey-white tail vanished in an instant, but he knew exactly what it was. He would recognize those terrifying creatures that had burned through his family fortune even if they had turned to ash.

...

Essos, Forest of Qohor.

"Roar!"

The magnificent Moondancer soared through the air, gliding above the primeval forest. Baela's short hair whipped around her face as she surveyed the vast expanse below.

"Fly faster, Moondancer."

After roughly scanning the eastern area, she tugged on the saddle ropes, guiding the dragon towards another region.

Moondancer blinked its vertical pupils, its round dragon head turning as it flapped its wings, speeding westward. Though the daily patrol was tedious, the dragon never refused its rider's commands.

As the sun began to set, Baela sighed wearily, "Let's go back, Moondancer." She gently patted the dragon's back, a small gesture of comfort.

"Roar!"

Moondancer cried out happily, soaring high into the sky to greet the setting sun as they made their way back to Qohor.

...

Qohor.

Rhaegar sat in the newly rebuilt temple hall, discussing food and supplies with several of his advisers. Across from him, Daemon idly toyed with an exquisite jade wine cup.

Cole, clad in gleaming silver armor and a white robe, stood tall behind the king, having fought his way to Qohor in loyalty to the crown.

A gentle rustling... followed by the sound of orderly footsteps. Baela walked into the hall, alone.

Rhaegar noticed her and asked, "How did it go? Was everything all right today?"

The construction of the castle at Dagger Lake was progressing well, but the enemy’s counterattacks were becoming increasingly aggressive. First, Norvos had risen in rebellion, and then the towns and markets in the Golden Fields had gathered mobs to resist.

Recently, Braavos and Pentos had rallied the Dothraki across the Great Grass Sea, leading them in raids that burned, killed, and looted their way to Qohor and the Golden Fields.

In just one month, chaos had swept across the continent of Essos.

"Your Grace, all is well," Baela replied, removing her slung pack as she stood at attention, her expression weary. She had been responsible for patrolling the Forest of Qohor to prevent Dothraki invasions, but after more than a month on patrol, she hadn’t seen a single trace of the enemy.

Rhaegar smiled gently. "No one is ever truly safe. Daeron won't be as lucky as you." He paused, his gaze softening. "You've had a long day. Take a seat and rest for a while."

Baela was many things to him—his cousin, his adopted daughter, and his future daughter-in-law. She deserved some measure of special treatment.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she replied with a forced smile. "Though, I'd rather have some bad luck than waste all this effort for nothing."

With that, she moved to sit down next to her father.

Bang—Daemon smashed the jade wine cup onto the chair without even looking up.

Baela flinched and stared at her father in surprise.

"Do you think fate favors the unlucky?" Daemon's voice was low, his eyes sharp. "Daeron fought day and night in the Golden Fields. You should be grateful."

Baela’s eyes widened in defiance, and she shot back, "Do you take me for a coward?"

There were only two main battlefields, and Daeron, had gained fame in the Golden Fields. Half of Essos was singing about "the bold Daeron" and the "Blue Queen." Meanwhile, she and Moondancer, though eager for action, had been stationed at the rear, their achievements paling in comparison.

Daemon, used to his daughter's frustrations, replied indifferently, "You're not even a coward." His gaze was cold. "How can you call yourself a warrior if you don't have strength at your core?"

Baela’s temper flared. "What? Don't you think that's unreasonable?" Her pent-up emotions from the past month erupted. "Don't I want to go to war? Who was it that captured the war elephants pounding the ground at Dagger Lake?"

She had been stationed in Qohor only because her father and cousin had arranged it. If it had been up to her, she would have joined Daeron in quelling the rebellion in the Golden Fields, where she felt her skills belonged.

"But a few elephants and frightened mercenaries," Daemon retorted, his irritation growing. With an air of superiority, he ordered, "You should have stayed in King’s Landing with your foster mother and fiancé. The battlefield is no place for a girl."

Daemon’s temper flared further as he added, "Tyrosh sent word that Aegon was nearly killed by the Bastard of the Iron Islands in the Stepstones."

Baela’s frustration reached its peak. "If a man can do it, I can do it too." With that, she grabbed her pack and stormed out the door, determined to find Daeron and join the effort to quell the rebellion in the Golden Fields.

Qohor and Norvos had each set ghostly green and scarlet fires that had nearly crushed the uprisings, leaving only scattered mobs in the Golden Fields still fighting.

The headstrong maiden left without a second thought, ignoring her father's protests.

Daemon’s face was a conflicted mix of emotions, the soft words he wanted to say stuck in his throat. In that moment, he caught a glimpse of his late wife, Laena, in his daughter’s retreating figure.

Rhaegar, who had watched the entire argument, took a sip of his wine and remarked softly, "Your children are grown. There’s no harm in letting her explore the world with Daeron."

Though the youngest, Daeron was also the most composed, and the two young dragon riders had proven capable of quelling riots with ease.

Daemon, who had been somewhat placated by his good nephew’s words, scowled suddenly. "Damn this Velaryon blood. Born to rebel." He immediately cast blame on the Sea Snake, who was far away in King’s Landing.

Rhaegar smirked, suppressing a laugh. "Perhaps a daughter is not meant to be controlled by her father."

In truth, Baela’s fearless spirit reminded Rhaegar more of a certain Rogue Prince than of the Sea Snake. Both were wild, unruly, and unwilling to accept any limits.

His second son, Aemon was really "blessed".

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