Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 623: Two Wisps of Smoke on the Sea

King's Landing, the forecourt of the Red Keep.

Rhaegar strode briskly, his tone light. “I hear the docks in Volantis are full of ships?”

“The Mud Gate is still a bit small,” Daeron joked solemnly, following close behind.

His nephew Maekar had returned to King's Landing, unloading a dozen large ships filled with the specialities of Essos at the docks.

Suddenly, Daeron, young and bold, asked, “I heard about what happened to Lord Lyonel.”

A loyal Hand of the King who had done his duty, yet had not been protected.

Rhaegar was silent for a moment, nodding slightly. “Lord Lyonel’s efforts will not go unrewarded.”

His eldest son had been attacked, and several lords loyal to the throne had been killed.

Even if his son intended to seek revenge himself, some form of retribution needed to be taken in advance. The only question was who was behind it. The Iron Islands, the Braavosi, or the remnants of the Triarchy?

Seeing his brother’s smile fade, Daeron realized he had said the wrong thing and quickly changed the subject. “Lord Lyonel’s retirement is not necessarily a bad thing. Although both of his sons are dead, Ser Harwin has left him three adorable grandchildren.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Rhaegar replied, a little taken aback. He was puzzled. “When did Harwin get married?”

Even if he was the commander of the City Watch he had never heard anything about Harwin’s marriage.

“It was an alliance with the daughter of a minor noble family in the Westerlands. The wedding was hastily held at Stone Hedge,” Daeron explained, grinning. “I also heard Lord Lyonel named one of his blond-haired, blue-eyed grandsons Larys, in memory of his youngest son with the bent foot.”

Rhaegar was pleased for a moment, but then his smile faded. “Blond-haired and blue-eyed?”

The Strong family was known for their brown hair, lion-like noses, and their sturdy, robust appearance.

“Yes, all three grandchildren are blond and blue-eyed, and their high noses give them a very heroic appearance,” Daeron continued, oblivious.

Hearing this, Rhaegar suddenly fell silent. Could a marriage that existed in name only have performed the miracle of altering the family’s defining traits?

“What’s wrong, brother?” Daeron asked, finally catching on. As realization dawned, he too fell silent. He lowered his head, picking at the skin around his nails in frustration. Damn it! All those years of studying, and for what?

As they continued to walk, Rhaegar could no longer bear the silence. He asked in a low voice, “Where did Aemond run off to?”

Whoever is behind this, we’ll start with the Ironborn in the Iron Islands. We can’t let loyal advisors die without consequences.

“As soon as Aemond left the battlefield, he ran to Storm’s End,” Daeron said, flushing.

Seeing Daeron’s discomfort, Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed. “Why would he go to Storm’s End when his marriage to Cassandra has already been annulled? The Stormlands won’t welcome him.”

Daeron stammered, “Well, Lady Elenda…”

He hesitated, unable to say more.

Rhaegar frowned. Why mention the widow of Lord Borros?

“He, they…” Daeron blushed again, then grit his teeth. “Aemond has abandoned Lady Celine and is now entangled with Lady Elenda.”

“Huh?” Rhaegar’s eyes darkened with disbelief.

“How dare he?” he muttered, almost stumbling, teeth clenched in frustration. That’s the widow of a Lord of the Realm, the Regent of Storm’s End with half the real power! Even if you count by age, she’s far from young!

“Brother, don’t be angry,” Daeron said seriously. “Aemond hasn’t caused any real trouble; it’s just his private life that’s… not proper.”

“Not proper?” Rhaegar could no longer contain his outrage. As far as I know, both the late Cassandra and the unmarried Floris have already shared his bed. Isn’t that enough? Must he now involve himself with Lady Elenda too?

“And what kind of example is this setting for her children?” Rhaegar muttered, rolling his eyes. He shrugged and marched on ahead, his frustration palpable. “Send a raven to Storm’s End. Tell Aemond to take his dragon and attack the Iron Islands. Teach the Ironborn a lesson.”

He has to be of use after all. He’s left me with such a mess and wants to act like Aegon? No way!

...

The next day, the Small Council was convened.

Rhaegar sat in the main seat, flanked by his father, Viserys, and his uncle, Daemon. The rest of the Small Council members were arranged around them. Across the table, Aemon and Maekar sat side by side, facing their father, who exuded a majestic presence.

Knock, knock!

“My lords, we have won the battle of Qohor. What should we do next?”

Rhaegar tapped the black and green stone ball on the table, surveying the room.

“Of course, we fight on!” Aemon, eager and brimming with excitement, was the first to raise his hand.

Maekar’s face tightened as he secretly tugged his brother’s sleeve, signaling him to be quiet. Rhaegar glanced at his two sons, choosing to ignore their excitement for the moment. “Who would like to speak?” he asked calmly.

Though his eldest son wasn’t in King's Landing, both his second and third sons would one day be key figures in the realm. It was important they become familiar with power, even if they held no real authority yet. The scene grew quiet and somewhat awkward, until Daemon leaned back in his chair and spoke casually, “I agree with my grandnephew’s suggestion. Foreigners will never be honest unless they’re beaten.”

“That’s right,” Aemon chimed in again, beaming with energy.

“Quiet!” Rhaegar snapped, cutting off his son’s over-eager nonsense. Of all his children, Aemon, with his restless spirit, was the most troublesome. Chastened, Aemon wilted, his enthusiasm draining like a blade of grass under the sun's heat.

Turning back to his uncle, Rhaegar’s tone was sharper now. “Tell me your thoughts. The Four City Alliance has yet to be truly crippled.”

It was the height of the long summer, and the prophecy of the conqueror loomed ever closer. Two critical tasks lay before the kingdom. First, they needed to centralize power and raise a large enough army to repel any invasion before disaster struck. Second, they had to quell external threats, starting with the Four City Alliance, the Iron Islands, and the Basilisk Isles. Only once these were accomplished could they hope to face the greater trials ahead.

Daemon, though unfamiliar with the prophecies of A Song of Ice and Fire, had his own strategy. “Qohor is our foothold in Essos,” he began, his voice steady with confidence. He paused, then pulled a map of the two continents onto the table, pointing to the location of Norvos. “The Four City Alliance has the advantage of geography, army, and wealth, but their inability to unite weakens them significantly.”

He traced the path across the Norvos Mountains. “As long as we can break through Norvos' defenses, the rest of the Alliance will falter. They won’t be able to cross the mountains or penetrate our strongholds at Qohor.”

Rhaegar frowned thoughtfully, following his uncle’s logic. The mountains in northern Essos were a natural barrier, especially the Norvos range that split the region. With their dragons, if they could secure Norvos, the other Free Cities would be unable to join forces, and Qohor would remain untouchable.

“That’s a solid plan,” Rhaegar acknowledged.

Viserys, however, was more cautious. He stroked his chin and spoke slowly, “But after this battle, the treasury has suffered a great loss. Continuing the war will strain our resources, especially if trade across the Narrow Sea is disrupted.”

The kingdom’s income depended heavily on the three Free Cities. Prolonging the conflict could cripple maritime trade, plunging the kingdom into financial turmoil.

“Father, we don’t have much time,” Rhaegar whispered, his voice low but urgent. “We must find a solution soon.” His concern wasn’t just with Essos. Recent news from the North weighed heavily on him. Just days ago, more reports had arrived from the Wall. The wildlings beyond the Wall were gathering in force, moving southward with an army rumored to include giants and mammoths.

It sounded extraordinary—almost unbelievable—but in times like these, even the absurd was beginning to feel all too real.

...

Viserys sighed. “You know, war requires money.”

“Yes, the royal treasury cannot sustain such heavy spending,” Lyman said slowly, his eyes dimming. “The income from the three Free Cities has already been invested in fortifying the Stepstones, and funds were recently allocated to the Greenblood River as well. The expenses have been considerable.”

As the Master of Coin and guardian of the royal treasury, Lyman took his role seriously. Even the king couldn't spend a single golden dragon recklessly. Failing to balance the kingdom's finances could lead to its ruin.

Before Rhaegar could respond, Daemon interjected. “Lord Lyman, do you have any idea how fierce the war across the sea is? It’s a lot more than just sitting here, counting money.”

His tone was mocking, and the meaning behind his words was clear. Lyman, already elderly, glared back angrily. “Prince, no one is forcing you to go to war. My sons and grandsons have also sacrificed their lives for this kingdom.”

“Haha, a loyal family for generations,” Daemon scoffed, taking a sip of wine. A faint smile played on his lips. How could an adviser who had never faced battle understand the brutal reality of blood and fire?

Seeing the tension rise, Tyland, more lighthearted and cautious, tried to defuse the situation. “Your Grace, I agree we need to fight, but perhaps it would be wiser to focus on Slaver's Bay instead.”

His brother was still imprisoned in the dungeons of Slaver’s Bay.

“You be quiet for now, Lord Tyland,” Rhaegar said, his tone cross, clearly unimpressed. Tyland grinned sheepishly and retreated into silence.

The other council members, the Grand Maester and the Master of Whisperers, remained quiet. Jasper, the Master of Laws, hesitated before speaking up in a low voice. “Your Grace, whether or not we wage war, King's Landing needs a capable Hand of the King.”

“This is the most constructive suggestion I’ve heard!” Viserys’s eyes lit up as he patted the table in approval. Lyonel’s resignation had been weighing heavily on him.

Rhaegar looked around. His council wasn’t keen on the war, but they were certainly eager to debate the next Hand of the King.

Sigh...

He sighed deeply and waved his hand dismissively. “Given all your enthusiasm, who do you suggest as a suitable candidate?”

He knew his advisers, including his father, all too well. They were experts at infighting but amateurs at handling external threats. When it came to pressing matters, they would feign ignorance or dodge responsibility, yet they’d argue endlessly over trivial details. They wouldn’t even entertain a battle plan until the question of the Hand was settled.

After speaking, Rhaegar rested his hand on his forehead and looked down, frustration building.

Daemon, observing his nephew’s weariness, smirked wryly and raised his glass in a silent toast. He, too, had once been fed up with the endless debates in the Small Council and had spent much of his time among the City Watch and flea market dwellers instead.

Rhaegar gave him a discreet wink, signaling they would continue the real conversation in private.

“Mm-hm,” Daemon grunted, gulping down his drink and resting his hand on the hilt of Dark Sister at his waist. As a Prince of House Targaryen, his duty was clear.

...

Three days later.

Shipbreaker Bay.

"Roar!"

A grotesque dragon, caked in mud, soared across the bay. Its massive, dirty wings flapped heavily, casting a shadow over the churning sea. Though enormous and fearsome, it was undeniably ugly—a monstrous blend of size, power, and raw ferocity.

“Faster, Sheepstealer!” Aemond urged, gripping the reins tightly. His black shirt clung to his body, his silver hair streaming wildly in the wind. His single eye scanned the lands of Dorne below, filled with simmering hatred.

The dragon surged forward, and in a flash, man and beast vanished into the clouds above.

...

Time passed, unmeasured.

"Roar!"

An urgent roar split the heavy clouds as a pale silver dragon shot forth—Seasmoke. Beneath it, several pirate ships from the Triarchy rampaged near the Stepstones, preying on a lone cargo ship from Oldtown.

Boom!

Seasmoke dived, unleashing torrents of flame that devoured the sails and deck of the pirate vessels. The ships were soon engulfed in dragonfire, their wooden frames crackling and collapsing under the inferno.

The dragon soared triumphantly back into the sky, nimble and proud, its movements swift. Yet, as it dodged a scorpion bolt fired from one of the pirate ships, Seasmoke’s turn was slightly stiff—its wing membrane bore a large tear, an injury from a previous battle.

With a final splash, the pirate ship sank beneath the waves.

Boom...

A pale shadow streaked across the sky, climbing back into the clouds. Upon closer inspection, a bloody gash could be seen on the dragon’s gray, battered wing. Its long, skeletal tail swung lazily from side to side, the tip—resembling a bee’s sting—dripped with dried blood.

Two smoky dragon silhouettes flashed through the clouds, and the sea grew calm once more.

“There’s a ship here! Look!”

Out of the mist, a pirate ship from the Triarchy appeared, drifting aimlessly toward the wreckage. The dozen pirates aboard sniffed the lingering sulfur from the dragonfire, hesitant but greedy. They began looting the half-empty ships abandoned by Oldtown’s merchants.

“Someone’s here!”

A bearded pirate kicked open the cabin door, allowing sunlight to pour into the dark interior. Huddled inside, pale-faced slaves flinched from the sudden brightness.

Amid the group, two silver-haired men embraced. Their violet eyes, filled with exhaustion and desperation, now glimmered with hope as they looked toward the light.

“We are saved.”