Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

"Aren't you welcoming me?" Laenor asked indignantly. "Or are you dissatisfied with your wife and taking it out on a woman?"

He really couldn't figure out what was going on. What was the purpose of the relentless mockery?

Aemond's expression turned cold as he said gloomily, "Compared to you, I hope it's my poor nephew who returns."

"Who?" Laenor was taken aback, unable to understand. He only knew that his cousin became the king, had taken the throne and fathered many children. He wasn’t even aware that one of them had met with an accident.

"Don’t you know yet? It was half a month before you returned." Aemond's one eye darkened as he continued in a sharp tone, "Isn’t it a coincidence that the day after the child was born, someone saw a wounded dragon on Tarth—and then you came back?"

Aemond did not lower his voice, ensuring the entire audience could hear. According to his inquiries, his nephew Aemon shouldn’t have been attacked by a wild dragon. There was another dragon involved, one that had been chased, and the situation clearly implicated Laenor and his dragon.

At these words, many people’s faces changed. Rhaenys frowned and began to speak, but Laenor quickly cut her off.

"This has nothing to do with me." Laenor felt confused and denied it vehemently. "The culprit is the wild dragon you mentioned. Seasmoke is innocent."

"I don’t care if you’re innocent or not!" Aemond suddenly raised his voice, stepping forward and slamming his chest into Laenor's. He stared him down and said fiercely, "You—you never should have come back."

"Aemond, watch your words," Corlys and Rhaegar both interjected, one rising quickly to his feet while the other frowned slightly. Rhaegar seemed conflicted but held back from further reprimand. Some things could be said, while others could not. Just because something couldn't be spoken didn't make it untrue.

Laenor’s route back was suspicious, especially since it passed near Shipbreaker Bay, where Aemon’s accident had occurred. Seasmoke was also mysteriously injured. No amount of explanation could withstand close scrutiny.

Corlys, however, glared furiously at Aemond and demanded, "Are you doubting my son, or are you defying House Velaryon?"

Laenor was the face of House Velaryon, and as his father, Corlys would never allow anyone to humiliate him.

But Aemond wasn’t intimidated in the slightest. With a playful smile, he replied, "Velaryon? You ask who the heir to Driftmark is, so I’ll ask you the same question."

At these words, Daeron and Rhaena paled. In theory, they were the confirmed heirs, and Driftmark should have belonged to them. Aemond tilted his head, waiting for an answer. He had every reason to reject Laenor—his nephew’s accident, Rhaena’s claim to inheritance...

The return of a Velaryon had cost his house far too much.

"Aemond, you've asked your question." Rhaegar stepped in, determined to stop the growing farce. The future of House Velaryon was at stake, and this was no longer a matter for casual discussion. Laenor was the most legitimate heir by virtue of his presence.

"Your Grace, I should be the one to handle my family's internal matters," Corlys retorted to Rhaegar, his tone firm. "My son has returned, he has done nothing wrong, and he should not be subjected to such vile accusations."

"Then how does he explain Seasmoke's injuries?" Aemond shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at Laenor's past. "Ser Fishmonger."

"This is slander," Laenor shot back, his eyes resolute, undeterred by the weight of the past decade.

Corlys' face darkened like a stormy sky. He was ready to unleash his fury on the one-eyed Aemond.

"Have you had enough?" Rhaegar's patience was wearing thin, his voice flattening as it grew colder. He had no time for this endless nonsense. His child was dead, and the inheritance returned to someone else. The bitterness gnawed at him, and he had no desire to prolong the argument.

Aemond and Corlys locked eyes, the tension between them crackling like lightning.

"It's hot. Let’s sit down and have a drink first," Rhaenyra interjected, placing a calming hand on Rhaegar’s shoulder. She raised her glass in a conciliatory gesture. If they continued like this, the two opposing sides might not fight to the death, but the volatile situation around them was certain to explode.

Helaena clapped her hands and laughed softly. "Yes, we still have business to discuss."

"Humph!" Aemond and Corlys each snorted in contempt before reluctantly returning to their seats.

Laenor, feeling deeply depressed, switched seats with his neighbor, Daeron. Across the room, Celine covered her face and wept, and Rhaena quietly escorted her out.

After a brief silence, the council formally convened. The topic was simple: formulating a strategy for the distribution of the Basilisk Isles. All adult dragon riders in the family were to go to war, while the older children—like Baelon—would stay behind to care for their younger siblings and guard the home base at Volantis.

This was the first time that all members of House Targaryen had visited Essos, so close to the ancient land of Old Valyria. The threat of the Four Cities Alliance, including Braavos, loomed large, meaning the war had to be swift. With the old king in King’s Landing commanding Vermithor but in poor health, the defense fell to Gulltown in the Vale and the White Harbor fleet in the North.

Rhaegar raised his wine glass and said solemnly, "For the honor and prosperity of the House, I ask that you do your utmost to eradicate the remnants of the Triarchy."

"For the House!" came the chorus, as one by one, they raised their glasses and drank.

Above them, dragons danced in the sky, roaring and weaving through the clouds. It was the dawn of a magnificent era.

...

Half a month later.

Basilisk Isles, Isle of Tears.

A massive fleet docked at the shore, soldiers bearing the red three-headed dragon emblem on their armor swarming ashore, their numbers no less than two thousand.

"Roar!" Above them, a yellow jade dragon hovered in the sky, unleashing scorching golden Dragonfire.

"Dracarys, Syrax!" Rhaenyra shouted, her eyes blazing with intensity. She wore a black dragon rider's suit, her silver hair braided and tied back, with the clan sword, The Realm’s Delight, strapped to her waist. At that moment, she almost embodied the regal bearing of Queen Visenya.

The battle was about to begin, and it was quickly turning one-sided. Syrax roared with wild ferocity, showing none of the restraint of a tamed dragon. Golden flames engulfed the island, wrapping it in a blinding halo.

Miles away, along the southern mainland coast...

"Roar..."

The Cannibal crouched low, stretching its long neck and letting out a ferocious roar. High above, Dreamfyre, with scales the color of pale blue sky, circled slowly, almost blending with the heavens.

"Is she always like this?" Rhaegar asked, leaning against his black dragon.

"Just blowing off steam," Helaena replied, watching the havoc on the Isle of Tears with a smirk. "Syrax is truly a fierce golden beast."

Rhaenyra had been under immense psychological pressure since losing her son, and this was her way of releasing it—by raining Dragonfire on the Triarchy's pirates.

The battle progressed swiftly. With the dragons' help, the Royal Fleet drove the Lyseni pirates into the sea, routing them entirely. Rhaegar kept a watchful eye on the skirmish.

"What’s the situation on Naath?" he asked.

"The Sellswords of Tyrosh are holed up," Helaena answered, tilting her head thoughtfully. "Aemond’s been burning them for seven days."

Naath's defense was held by the three brothers—Aegon, Aemond, and Daeron—along with their dragons. Supported by the combined fleets of Hightower, Lannister, and the Arbor, they had achieved a great victory early on. However, Naath’s natural defenses made it difficult to attack, and Tyrosh's Sellswords were renowned fighters.

"Quack, quack..." A black raven swooped down, landing gracefully on Rhaegar's shoulder. The bird twisted its neck, raising one claw.

"Tormund’s raven," Rhaegar recognized it immediately, taking the letter from its talon and reading quickly.

War had erupted on all fronts, and the battle lines had clearly been drawn. The Triarchy pirates had been given no quarter, and the full might of their enemies bore down upon them.

Helaena leaned over, resting her chin on Rhaegar’s shoulder as she pouted playfully. "Great victory at The Axe... Wyvern remains... traces of a wild dragon?" Her voice was curious, eyes wide with interest. Despite being mothers now, both she and Rhaenyra still acted like children at times, even squabbling over food with their younger sister, Visenya.

Rhaegar's gaze grew distant, and he inhaled deeply. "Finally, I've waited long enough," he muttered. Damn that wild dragon. It was really were hiding in plain sight all this time.

"I’ll go with you," Helaena said eagerly, turning toward Dreamfyre.

"No," Rhaegar refused flatly, concern shadowing his face. "You stay with Rhaenyra. Caraxes, Meleys, and me are enough."

Daemon and Rhaenys were already stationed at The Axe with their children, and the combined strength of two prime-aged dragons and an adult dragon made for formidable combat power. By the time the Cannibal arrived, the wild dragon would surely be slain.

"Be a good girl, and I'll bring you back some special treats," Rhaegar teased, pinching Helaena’s soft cheek and giving her a playful smack.

Helaena blushed, her face reddening. Since giving birth to her two children, much of the pressure from the uncertain future had lifted, allowing her to reclaim some of the carefree joy of her younger days—something her young dragons adored.

"Roar..."

The Cannibal shook itself, flapping its massive wings to scatter the dirt clinging to its scales. With a powerful thrust, it took to the sky, carrying its rider toward the distant battle.

...

Half a day later...

The Axe, In a mountain range.

A faint rustling echoed through the steep mountains. The jungle shrubs swayed violently, their green leaves withering and falling at a speed visible to the naked eye. A pungent stench of decay filled the air, spreading across the landscape for nearly a kilometer.

Small animals foraging nearby froze in terror as the foul odor reached them.

Grunting...

A pale dragon’s head emerged from the jungle, its blood-stained mouth crunching down on an ugly lizard crushed into the mud. One of its eye sockets was an open, bloody wound, mangled and grotesque. The creature looked like a demon straight from the depths of hell.

"Roar..."

Suddenly, a huge, dark red serpent-like beast flew overhead, emitting a sharp, continuous hiss as it passed. The pale dragon’s head lay motionless on the ground, its remaining eye tracking the serpent-like creature as it disappeared over the mountains, where it landed among the bushes, panting heavily.

"Roar!"

A pale silver dragon streaked by, its wings flapping softly as it slowed its pace. The pale wild dragon’s pupils shrank, and its fangs dripped with saliva.

Zilla, zilla...

The drops of its putrid saliva fell to the ground, burning through the leaves and scorching the earth. The dragon wasn’t just wounded—its entire body reeked of rot, as though the flesh beneath its scales was decaying inch by inch, maggots feasting on the festering wounds.

"Roar..."

The pale wild dragon shook its head, its bony wings trembling as it slowly crawled toward its den in the mountain.

The dorsal fin along its lower abdomen scraped the earth, leaving a jagged furrow in its wake. Despite its hideous appearance, the dragon’s body was strangely slender, and the pale, marble-like scales glimmered in patches where they weren’t rotting.

But its head—twisted into a sickly visage of madness and ferocity—looked like the face of death itself.

Boom!

A gust of wind ripped through the jungle, tearing apart large sections of the canopy and spreading the choking smell of ash. The pale wild dragon’s pupils contracted as it tensed, raising its head in what almost seemed like human surprise.

Crack!

A tall tree snapped, its dense vines tumbling down like thin, writhing snakes, covering the pale scales.

In the next instant, a massive pair of pitch-black wings, as wide as the sky itself, blotted out the sun.

“Be careful, Cannibal,” Rhaegar’s voice called down from above, his gaze sweeping over the hidden den below. He searched the terrain, alert.

The Cannibal's glowing green eyes peered down with disdain. It snorted, flapped its massive wings, and soared higher into the clouds.

"Roar..."

The pale wild dragon exhaled a foul breath, shaking free of the clinging vines and quickening its crawl. But as it moved, the sky darkened again.

The black dragon returned, its green vertical pupils glowing with menace. Swinging its head from side to side, it glared down at the jungle below, scanning for the elusive prey.

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