Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

The night deepened.

The Red Keep, a guest room.

A single candle burned on the table, casting a flickering light that dispelled the daunting darkness.

"Your grandfather was the brave Baelon, one of the most daring knights in the Seven Kingdoms."

"If you trace your ancestry properly, the bloodline is no less thick than Rhaegar's."

Daemon's lazy voice echoed in the room, laced with supreme confidence. His dark eyes were particularly deep as he spoke.

There was a brief silence. Leaning back in his chair, Daemon spoke indifferently, "The boy wants to take you to the North. Have you made a decision?"

His gaze narrowed slightly, revealing a trace of inquiry, as if confirming something.

Across the room, Baela stood by the fireplace, kindling the stacked firewood.

The flint struck together, producing a few sparks. As the firewood began to catch, the growing flame gradually dispersed the damp chill lingering in the room.

"I have no such intention," Baela replied lightly, rising to tidy the mess of books on the bookshelf. They were all her father’s pastimes. She picked up one at random, and the cover read, The True History of the Ancient Dragonlords.

Daemon glanced at it and remarked nonchalantly, "That's a rare copy from the library of Pentos. Your mother packed it in her luggage. We were truly in tune with each other back then."

At his words, Baela paused, her hands stilling over the book. She closed her eyes slowly.

Bang!

The book slammed into the cabinet, sending a layer of old dust into the air.

Her eyes snapped open, cold and sharp. "What is it that you really want to ask? Don't use my mother as bait."

Her mother, who had died in childbirth, was a constant, painful thorn in her side. If not for the unbreakable bond between her and Daemon as father and daughter, she might have turned her back on him long ago.

Daemon's expression remained unchanged as he spoke with measured calmness. "Baelon is young and headstrong. He needs a wise and understanding companion by his side."

His hawk-like gaze locked onto his eldest daughter.

"My fiancé has just died!" Baela's voice trembled with incredulity. "Do you think I would forget the past, marry a boy years younger than me, and then compete with my younger sisters?"

Mentioning Aemon, her deceased fiancé, caused her composure to fray.

"I'm sorry," Daemon said after a brief pause, though there was an unmistakable note of relief in his voice.

"I won't go to the North. You can reject cousin," Baela said flatly, her exhaustion evident. She turned away, resuming her task of tidying the room, clearly no longer interested in the conversation.

Daemon poured himself a glass of wine, his expression faintly bored. "It’s all about the debts of children. Even the king has to tread carefully."

Baela ignored him, picking up a feather duster and dusting the bookshelf vigorously. Daemon shrugged, unconcerned. He had no doubt that his eldest daughter imagined she was dusting away more than just dirt.

“You shouldn’t be in King’s Landing,” she suddenly blurted out, then, after a moment’s thought, added, “You should be in the fields of Essos, riding your dragon, dressed in black and flying recklessly.”

Baela was hot-tempered and born to be on a dragon’s back. Just look at her now. She was wearing a red dress that didn’t match her skin tone, her short silver-blonde hair combed up, dangling earrings swaying as she moved, and she carried a feather duster in her hand.

She looks like a servant girl at the Red Keep.

Daemon was drinking and grumbling, a nagging old man in his fifties. But despite his cold, unruly face, and his thin frame, his body was still full of power. You couldn’t guess his real age.

“Don’t you think you’re being noisy?”

The longer Baela listened, the darker her face became, and she couldn’t help but furrow her brow. If it weren’t for her filial piety, she might have shoved the feather duster in his mouth.

“Haha, then say something useful.” Daemon gave a carefree laugh before suddenly turning serious. “Has that boy asked you to go to the North with him? Have you made a decision?”

Baela’s breathing quickened, her fiery temper barely contained. The same question over and over again. Has he gone senile?

“Cut the crap, you should go.” Daemon tapped his fingers on the table for emphasis. “There are hidden dangers in the North. You must go there yourself and bring me back the most realistic news.”

Baela was confused. ‘Why do you all attach so much importance to the North?’ Even Baelon’s expression grew grave whenever the North was mentioned.

“You will find out in the future,” Daemon resumed his lazy posture, adding, "It’s better not to know. It’s quite a disaster."

“I can go to the North. What else?” Baela knew she had no right to refuse and sought to satisfy her curiosity.

“Look around, experience the local customs,” Daemon said indifferently, leaning back. “Think of it as a vacation. Don’t let yourself get depressed.”

“You’re concerned about me?” Baela frowned.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Daemon scoffed.

Baela stood by the fireplace in silence, warming herself. To be fair, her mood had been quite unstable lately. She wanted to go across the Narrow Sea to look for Aemon but was afraid of finding only a mangled corpse. But since Uncle Laenor had returned alive, she firmly believed there might still be a chance for Aemon.

After a while, Daemon had dozed off in his chair when he heard the door creak open. He didn’t move, keeping his eyes closed.

Baela pushed the door ajar and glanced back at her father, pretending to be asleep.

“Haha,” she sneered to herself, stepping out of the room. “It’s good to get some fresh air,” she murmured, her magnetic voice barely audible before the door clicked shut.

...

The next day...

King's Landing, Dragonpit.

"Roar!"

A moss-green behemoth soared from the Bronze Gates, its milky-yellow wings flapping as it rose into the sky. The old dragon circled King's Landing once, then flew off toward the Vale, following the path of the Dragon Gate.

Trailing close behind was a young dragon, pale green, flying low in the sky. It stayed in the shadow of the larger beast, as if it were a part of the old dragon's immense presence. Together, the two—one large, one small—resembled moss-covered land and towering pine trees.

...

The Red Keep, the meeting hall.

Rhaegar leaned against the window ledge, watching as the two dragons disappeared into the distance.

“You got what you wanted,” Daemon remarked, circling the conference table. He stopped at the first chair on the lower left side, the seat meant for the Hand of the King. The chair's arms were carved with hands clutching keys, symbolizing the Hand’s authority.

“You make it sound like I’m pining for your daughter,” Rhaegar grumbled reluctantly. “If it weren’t for the fact any other family members couldn’t be spared, it wouldn’t be the children leading this mission.”

“As long as you're willing to let go...” Daemon responded absentmindedly, his eyes fixed on the chair. My good nephew dares to send his eldest son, his heir, to the North, and also sets his wild daughter loose.

“Uncle, the House still needs to seize opportunities from the outside.” Rhaegar grew serious, his voice thoughtful. “The Golden Fields must be developed. Its annual grain yield could feed half the continent of Westeros.”

“Who will you send this time?” Daemon asked, finally shifting his attention from the chair, a spark of interest in his eyes.

“I’ll go myself,” Rhaegar replied with certainty, distrust clear in his tone. “Before that, I need to choose a Hand of the King to govern in my absence.”

“Oh?” Daemon’s eyes narrowed slightly, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a sly smile.

...

Mid-July, and the heat showed no sign of relenting.

King's Landing bustled with activity. Hundreds of large ships were anchored at the Mud Gate, each flying the banners of nobles from all over Westeros. The king’s selection of a new Hand of the King had spread like wildfire, drawing many self-important lords eager to try their luck.

...

Red Keep, the throne room.

“Your Grace, the price of Stormlands stone has suddenly doubled. We may need to increase the funds we’ve set aside,” Jasper reported in his usual slow, methodical tone. No sooner had he opened his mouth than he was talking about draining the treasury.

Lyman, sitting nearby, listened in a daze, his ears pricking up at the mention of funds. Someone wants to empty his coffers?

“Lord Lyman, how much more can the treasury allocate?” Rhaegar asked calmly from the Iron Throne, his face betraying little emotion.

Lyman, however, was far from calm. He frowned, his irritation palpable. “Your Grace, the treasury is not inexhaustible! There's something very wrong with the price of stone from the Stormlands.” He scowled at Jasper. 'The king has already been generous enough to pay the workers building the prince’s palace. And now you dare ask for more?'

He doesn’t care about my old bones, Lyman fumed silently, glaring daggers at the man who dared request more money.

Rhaegar’s eyes twinkled, his tone sharpening as he turned to another member of the court. “Lord Iron Rod, do you agree with Lord Lyman?”

Jasper hesitated, then offered his rehearsed excuse. “Your Grace, the situation in the Stormlands is... unique.”

“It’s all the king’s land. What’s the difference?” Lyman shot back aggressively, his question landing like a challenge. His sudden vigor was palpable.

“Er…” Jasper froze, caught off guard. A fine sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. The old man is really on edge today, he thought.

Lyman straightened in his seat, ready for a fight. No way he’d let anyone take more money from his pocket.

Rhaegar watched the exchange with amusement, his gaze resting on Jasper, who squirmed under Lyman’s relentless questioning.

This is why Lyman has served as senior adviser through three dynasties, Rhaegar mused. The man had clung to his roles as Master of Coin and Lord Treasurer for decades, fiercely guarding the realm’s gold.

Even in his old age, Lyman’s miserly dedication remained unshaken, and for that, Rhaegar knew, there was no one better suited to watch over the crown’s coffers.

“Your Grace, I have done my best,” Jasper said, his face clouded with disappointment. It was clear he was defending himself, implying that his work on the Prince’s Palace had been done solely at the king's command, all in an effort to ease the burdens of the Hand of the King. Even if there is no glory, there is hard work, he seemed to suggest.

Rhaegar’s expression darkened, his brow furrowing as he sneered. “The position of Hand has not yet been decided, Lord Jasper. You’re already reaching beyond your station.”

As he spoke, Rhaegar glanced across the hall. Aegon, Aemond, and Daeron stood together, each leaning in different poses, poking at one another and chatting casually. On the opposite side, the royal advisers, led by the Sea Snake, stood in a formal line, watching the proceedings intently.

“He’s looking at you,” Aegon whispered with a mischievous grin, his hands resting on his stomach as he leaned in toward Aemond.

Aemond, not bothering to hide his disgust, pushed Aegon away and stepped forward. “Your Grace, the Hand of the King shapes the future of the realm. It is vital you choose someone you trust.” His voice was firm, and his chest puffed out with determination. His single eye gleamed, a clear indication of his ambition.

He wants the role too, Rhaegar thought, observing his brother’s resolve. Aemond had been preparing for this moment for ten long years.

Rhaegar rested his chin on his hand, his gaze sharpening as he weighed Aemond’s words. He seemed to be seriously considering whether the young prince was ready for the responsibility.

“Your Grace, Prince Aemond is still too young!” Jasper blurted out, clearly losing his composure. “We should select a capable man from the Small Council, not someone simply because they’re your kin.”

“Lord Jasper is right,” came another voice before Rhaegar could respond. Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, stepped forward, his tall, commanding presence impossible to ignore.

“What is Lord Corlys’ opinion?” Rhaegar asked, his tone neutral, though his eyes flicked between the three men now vying for his attention.

Corlys’s gaze was fierce as he spoke, his voice filled with quiet authority. “Compared to the previous two Hands, my qualifications and abilities are no less. I come from the wealthiest house in the Seven Kingdoms, and I ask for the honor.” His words were laden with ambition.

Only the position of Hand of the King is worthy of my status, Corlys thought to himself. With the king leaning toward peace, House Velaryon must seize more influence, especially in the affairs of Driftmark and Laenor.

“Lord Corlys, please, calm yourself,” Daemon interjected with a smile, standing at the side of the hall.

Corlys turned sharply, incredulous. “Daemon, are you vying for the position of Hand as well?”

The two men were old rivals, their enmity well known. Each understood the other’s ambitions intimately. Daemon, who attended Small Council meetings thanks to his wife’s influence, had long skirted the lines of power despite his own formidable experience.

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