Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day - Chapter 259: A War Without Blood

Creak…

Elmo pushed open the door and froze at the sight.

Inside, the fireplace blazed brightly, dispersing the early spring chill. Rhaegar sat on a low stool, roasting two sausages over the flames.

On a cushioned seat, Old Lord Grover Tully, once seemingly unconscious, sat up, full of energy, gnawing on a pear. Lord Lymond, missing since the previous night, was beside him, the two men exchanging contemptuous glances and muttered insults.

“Grandfather, you’re awake?” Elmo’s voice trembled, unsure how to interpret the scene.

Without looking up, Rhaegar turned the sausages around and said flatly, “Not exactly. Your grandfather didn’t sleep a wink last night.” He hadn’t slept much either and was hungry now.

Elmo’s eyes flickered, his mind was racing.

“Come here, Elmo,” Old Tully beckoned, his voice low and hoarse, still betraying his illness. Elmo, knowing he couldn’t avoid the confrontation, walked over.

“You did well,” Old Tully praised quietly, tossing the pear core aside.

Elmo’s head snapped up, his eyes shining with hope.

Old Tully grinned. “You were quick on your feet, taking out your two uncles in one fell swoop. You have a bit of your grandfather’s style.”

“Grandfather, did you pretend to be sick on purpose?” Elmo asked apprehensively.

“I had a terrible headache a few days ago, but after some bloodletting I felt better,” old Tully explained.

Elmo looked at Lord Lymond and whispered, “Did you invite Lord Lymond?”

As far as he could remember, this Lord always looked down on his uncles. Since Lord Lymond was staying with his grandfather, it was clear that there had to be an arrangement between the two.

Lord Lymond, polishing his heavy sword, sneered. “In times of war, these young fools are not enough to invite me to support their cause.”

He sheathed his sword. “The Ironborn have been raiding the coastal villages. I came to Riverrun for supplies.”

All his life he had considered honor as his life. How could he come to Riverrun as a fighter for a stupid son-in-law?

However, Old Tully repeatedly begged him to protect his heirs and not let them kill each other in public.

Only then, at Old Tully’s urging, did he agree to a few duels.

Elmo looked to his grandfather for confirmation, trusting him for the moment. Old Tully nodded, a dark expression clouding his face. With two sons and a grandson, he had his hands full. He had feigned a coma to see which of them might prove worthy, but none had met his expectations.

Elmo had acted only after Rhaegar’s prodding and had merely imprisoned his uncles, rather than eliminating them. It was a disappointment to the old man, who had hoped for more decisive action.

The sausages sizzled in the oil, sending bursts of flame and heat into the air. Rhaegar, unfazed by the heat, picked up a roasted sausage and took a bite. The meat was juicy and rich with spices, a comforting taste amidst his contemplation.

He pulled out a letter with a roaring lion seal from his pocket, ignoring the Tully grandfather and grandson nearby. The letter was from Tyland Lannister, overseeing the construction of the Prince’s Palace.

Firstly, Tyland reported that the palace construction was about a third complete. Rhaegar had deliberately withheld the method of creating Black Dragonstone, viewing it as a crucial strategic asset too dangerous to risk in a populated area.

The letter then shifted to Dorne. The arid, drought-prone desert was seeing a rise in vagrants near the Vulture’s Roost, threatening the Prince’s Pass. Tyland warned that these vagabonds might attack, aiming to raid the Riverlands.

Rhaegar frowned and took a heavy bite of sausage, remembering the never-ending conflict with the Triarchy.

Even after their last significant attack, the city-states held a deep grudge against the Targaryens. Small-scale raids continued, pirates attacked supply ships in the Narrow Sea, and trade was stifled by alliances between the free cities.

Prices soared, and Westerosi merchants faced increasing taxes that cut into their profits. Rumor had it that Prince Qoren of Dorne had recently married the widowed daughter of the Sea King of Braavos, forging a new alliance. Clearly, Qoren Martell was planning something more significant.

“Triarchy… Free Cities…” Rhaegar muttered, staring at the letter. He remembered his promise to Rhaenyra and his father’s obsession with expanding the realm. Perhaps the answer lay in Essos, a land once held by the Targaryens.

But it wasn’t the right time. Targaryen strength wasn’t at its peak. Daemon’s dragon, Caraxes, was still injured, and Rhaenyra’s Syrax was unfit for battle. Only Rhaegar and Aegon were full-fledged dragon riders, and Aegon’s Sunfyre, not yet grown, was not yet fully formidable.

Rhaegar needed more time for his younger brothers to mature and master their dragons. Aemond, at ten, had yet to tame a dragon, and Daeron, at seven, had tamed Tessarion, but his dragon was no bigger than a horse. It would be at least a decade before they could be counted on.

There was also the matter of Alicent and Otto Hightower. While Rhaegar was away from King’s Landing, they were busy rallying lesser nobles who felt marginalized. Their intentions were unclear-whether they sought the throne or held a grudge against the current power dynamic was yet to be determined.

“The dark currents are swirling, and none of them give me any peace of mind,” Rhaegar mused.

Taking the last bite of his sausage, Rhaegar flipped open the letter and read the final paragraph.

“Boremund of Storm’s End. Lord Baratheon is gravely ill and dying; the maester’s prognosis is grim…”

Rhaegar’s spirits lifted, his expression becoming grave. Lord Boremund was not a mediocre figure like Old Tully. He was a renowned man from the time of Rhaegar’s great-grandfather, Jaehaerys I, and had made his mark in battles, leading the Stormlands army to a significant contribution.

Boremund was a wise and generous man. Although he supported his niece, Princess Rhaenys, he never defied the orders of the royal family. His respectability was unquestionable.

If Boremund died, his only heir would be his eldest son, Borros Baratheon – a man with a strong ego, but a fool nonetheless. Unlike his father, Borros had a low opinion of the crown.

During the War of the Stepstones, he had indulged in drinking and mischief, distancing himself from both the royal family and Rhaenys, creating a great deal of uncertainty.

After reading the letter, Rhaegar crumpled the paper, his face darkening. The Stormlands was a crucial region for the Targaryen Dynasty, controlling the southern approach to Dorne and defending against attacks from the Narrow Sea.

If the king was in trouble, the Stormlands could provide immediate support via the Kingsroad. Boremund’s passing would be a major blow to the royal family.

After a few moments of silence, Rhaegar stood up and approached the quiet lord, dissatisfied. “Old Tully, Elmo has defeated his two uncles. It’s time to decide on the heir.”

Had he not discovered Old Tully’s fake illness, Rhaegar might still be in the dark, contributing to the old man’s plans. But he was no longer interested in playing along. He told Elmo directly to fight for his claim and resolve the matter quickly.

Hearing this, Elmo looked at his grandfather with expectant eyes. Old Tully, his eyes flickering, replied, “Not yet. Elmo has done well, but not to my satisfaction.”

In his mind, when his uncles were in trouble, Elmo should have seized the opportunity to eliminate the threat once and for all. But Elmo had hesitated, had waited passively. If Rhaegar had not intervened, the uncles could have caused more chaos, which was not the behavior of a true leader.

“Grandfather, what terms would meet your requirements?” Elmo asked boldly, emboldened by the night’s events.

Old Tully thought for a moment. “The prince mentioned a tournament of strength. You and your two uncles will participate, and whoever ranks highest will be the heir.”

“A contest of strength?” Elmo was taken aback.

“No! You can choose knight representatives to fight. I will only see the results,” Old Tully clarified.

The three heirs lacked heart, determination, and remarkable skills. If Elmo had eliminated his uncles the night before, there would be no more tests. However, the two Tullys were also his children, so a final test of leadership was in order. It would measure their ability to rally support and secure the position of Lord of Riverrun.

Without hesitation, Elmo agreed, “Yes, I will participate.”

After the previous night, his prestige in Riverrun had already surpassed that of his uncles, making victory seem within reach.

Knock, knock…

A knock at the door interrupted them and an Oath Knight announced, “My lord, two priests from the Faith of the Seven wish to see Young Master Elmo.”

Old Tully frowned and said, “The priests are insignificant. Why should my grandson see them in person?”

He knew the behavior of these priests all too well – cannibalizing for money and power, even forcing one son to murder the other. In the name of the Seven Gods, they committed acts uglier than those of common villains.