Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day - Chapter 639: Burning Storm’s End

A day and night had passed.

King’s Landing.

Roar…

In the morning, a massive, jet-black creature soared over Blackwater Bay, casting a long shadow over the capital. Its pitch-black wings stretched across the sky, and where they passed, the smell of ash lingered in the air. It felt as though destruction could fall at any moment, the dragon’s presence thick with suppressed fury.

At the Red Keep, attendants scurried about in tense silence, while the guards stood at their posts, wordless and rigid.

Tap… tap… tap…

The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor, each step sharp and deliberate, as if the very floor beneath trembled in response.

Erryk, Commander of the Kingsguard, stood vigil outside the king’s chambers. His eyes widened as the figure approached, and he hastily shouted, “Your Grace!”

“Your Grace!” echoed the Maesters, nobles, and ministers gathered at the entrance. They bowed their heads and curtsied in a constrained, uneasy manner.

Creak.

Rhaegar, his face grim, pushed open the heavy door.

“Father…”

Inside, two boys stood, their eyes brimming with unshed tears. Baelon and Maekar had returned as soon as they heard the news.

Rhaegar’s gaze lingered on Baelon, whose face mirrored his own, and the familiar pang of grief struck him. Aemon had looked so much like him, almost indistinguishably so. His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard.

“Leave us,” he said quietly, his voice raw.

It wasn’t just two boys inside the king’s chambers, and this was not the place for their youthful grief.

“Father, grandfather is very ill,” Maekar whispered, glancing toward the bed.

Rhaegar nodded curtly. “I know.” He waved them away.

The boys shared a look before slipping out the door, leaving their father to the silence of the chamber.

Rhaegar parted the bead curtain and stepped inside. His father lay on the sickbed, his once strong frame now frail. Surrounding him were Rhaenys, Corlys, and Helaena, their expressions heavy with sorrow.

“Rhaegar…”

Viserys’s face was pale, his eyes clouded with guilt. He looked at his eldest son, whose face was etched with sorrow, and tears welled in his own eyes. He had failed—he hadn’t been able to protect his grandson, and now tragedy had descended upon them.

Rhaegar’s gaze swept the room, his emotions turbulent, but there was one absence that stung him: Rhaenyra was nowhere to be seen.

“Your Grace,” Grand Maester Orwyle whispered, stepping close to Rhaegar. “The Old King is overwhelmed with grief. Please, for his sake, restrain your emotions.”

Rhaegar closed his eyes briefly, signaling for the Maester to leave. He was exhausted—utterly drained, inside and out. Too tired to speak, too weary to feel anything but a hollow ache.

“Your Grace, my deepest condolences for what transpired at Shipbreaker Bay,” Corlys Velaryon said, approaching solemnly. “House Velaryon stands ready to answer your call.”

He placed a firm hand on Rhaegar’s shoulder, his expression weighed with sorrow. Corlys, too, had known the boy—had watched him grow. He had even named him after his father-in-law. If fate had not been so cruel, Aemon would have been his grandson-in-law.

Rhaegar didn’t open his eyes. Silence was his only response.

Rhaenys followed her husband’s lead, embracing her nephew. Her voice, soft and laden with grief, whispered, “The gods are cruel. They always take away those we need the most.”

Rhaegar opened his eyes, a dark shadow flickering within them, but said nothing as she left.

Helaena approached next, her face drawn with a complex mix of emotions. Her once-beautiful features now held a hint of helplessness, her violet eyes downcast. Who could have expected a simple task to end in such a devastating loss?

Rhaegar’s voice, hoarse and strained, broke the silence. “Where is Rhaenyra?”

He ran a hand through Helaena’s silver hair, grief and fatigue pulling at his features. He wasn’t alone in his sorrow.

“She’s over there,” Helaena replied softly, her violet gaze drifting out the window, toward the distant coastline.

…

The coast of the Stormlands.

A group of fishermen had gathered along the beach, shouting as they pulled at their heavy nets.

“It’s a dragon wing!”

“It really is a wing…”

One by one, the fishermen murmured, their faces pale with fear.

Roar!

Suddenly, a deep dragon roar echoed through the sky. The men looked up in terror as a yellow-jade dragon swooped down from above.

With a thunderous thud, Syrax landed, sending sand and gravel flying in every direction. The powerful flap of its wings stirred up a fierce wind, scattering the terrified fishermen, who fled, yelling, “Dragon!”

A silver-clad figure slipped gracefully from the dragon’s back, sliding down one of its wings. As she landed, her feet faltered, and she rushed toward the tangled fishing net.

The fine mesh was soaked, and within it was a dark green dragon wing, its flesh pale from the seawater. Blood oozed faintly from the wound, tainting the sea with its sadness.

Plop!

The figure fell to her knees. Her hands tore apart the damp net, revealing a red cloak, its fabric hooked onto the dragon’s limp forelimb.

It was Aemon’s cloak.

Roar!

Syrax crouched low to the ground, letting out a mournful, melodic wail that echoed across the shore. Even the great dragon couldn’t hide the grief it shared with its rider.

Boom!

Syrax’s wings spread wide, casting a shadow over the beach, and with a mighty gust, it overturned the moored fishing boats, the wind howling with sorrow.

Rhaenyra stood nearby, her eyes red and swollen from days of fruitless searching. When she turned and saw the tall figure approaching, she sobbed, her voice a broken whisper: “The cloak… his…”

For days and nights, she had searched for her son, and now, her heart was breaking beyond words.

“I know,” Rhaegar whispered, his steps slow and careful as he closed the distance, desperate to hold her.

“Aemon…” Rhaenyra choked, clutching the soaked red cloak to her chest. Her child—her second son. The pain was too much to bear.

Tears streamed down her face as she pressed the cloak tightly against her, trying to find any trace of his scent. But there was nothing, only the bitter smell of seawater and death.

“Don’t be sad. They will all pay,” Rhaegar said softly, his own eyes red with grief as he pulled her into his arms.

Feeling the warmth of his body, Rhaenyra’s icy hands and feet slowly began to thaw. Her mind, numb with despair, finally began to register something beyond flames and death.

She buried her head in his chest, sobbing quietly, her lips trembling as she whispered, “My child…is gone!”

“I know,” Rhaegar murmured, resting his chin on her tear-streaked neck. His voice, firm and steady, was filled with both sorrow and resolve. “He was my child too.”

Then, with a slow, deliberate turn of his head, Rhaegar’s gaze settled on the tall castle looming in the distance along the shore.

…

Night fell.

Dark clouds blanketed the sky, obscuring even the faintest trace of starlight.

Storm’s End, Great Hall.

“Your Grace, I am so terribly sorry about the accident. The fishermen have recovered… something.” Maris, dressed in a black gown, descended nervously from the throne.

Tick… tock…

A single drop of water fell from a crack in the great hall’s door, a lingering remnant of the heavy rains that had battered the Stormlands days before.

“Your Grace…” Maris’s voice wavered with sorrow, her eyes swollen and red, like two bruised walnuts.

But the hall remained eerily silent.

Rhaegar stood alone, unmoving. He quietly studied the ancient castle, its stone walls weathered by countless storms. His eyes drifted east, then west, taking in every corner, as though he were memorizing the place where so much had gone wrong.

He showed no emotion—no rage, no sorrow—only the quiet, unnerving calm of a man who had lost too much.

Maris, struggling for words, could feel her fear tightening around her. She cleared her throat, summoning her courage. “Your Grace, I… I never meant—”

Her words were cut short by a dismissive wave of his hand.

She fell silent, gazing at him with pleading eyes.

“Lady,” Rhaegar asked, his voice low and steady, “was it in this castle that my son was driven away?”

“No, no!” Maris stammered, startled by his sudden words. Panic gripped her. “It wasn’t me! I never drove him away, I swear!”

Rhaegar didn’t acknowledge her denial. His eyes remained fixed on the ancient stone walls. “My son is gone, and my family remains fractured,” he said, his voice hollow.

“Your Grace, please!” Maris dropped to her knees, her body trembling as tears streamed down her face. “It wasn’t me… I swear, I never meant to…”

“That’s not important,” Rhaegar murmured, casting a brief, detached glance at her. “I only hope your family is reunited.”

With those words, he turned and strode toward the castle gates, ignoring her desperate pleas.

Crack!

Lightning slashed across the sky as he stepped outside, illuminating the dark clouds that now churned ominously, promising yet another storm.

The guards flanked the entrance, their faces drawn and pale, their heads lowered in uneasy silence, trying to make themselves invisible.

Roar…

A deep, bone-rattling roar echoed across the sky, as though the heavens themselves had been torn open. The guards dared to look up.

Beyond the towering walls of Storm’s End, a massive black dragon stood menacingly, its thick neck looming over the castle’s tallest tower. Its glowing green eyes, filled with a sinister and untamed fury, burned through the darkness.

The creature radiated an unmistakable aura of destruction, a reflection of its rider’s suppressed rage and grief.

Without hesitation, Rhaegar mounted the dragon’s back. The great beast spread its wings, and with a powerful leap, it launched into the stormy sky.

…

The beach by day was cold, but at night, it was desolate.

Patter… patter…

The rain fell steadily, turning the golden sand into thick, churning mud. A black dragon stood on the shore, its menacing head angled toward Storm’s End, sharp fangs grinding together as though anticipating violence.

Rhaegar stood before the dragon, his purple eyes fixed on the ghostly green flames that illuminated the distant night sky. The air was thick with rain, but beneath the steady downpour, the faint sound of something collapsing reached his ears, mingling with the distant wails of despair.

Boom!

A gust of wind swept across the beach, carrying with it the acrid smell of goat and dragon.

Roar!

Sheepstealer landed heavily on the shore, its shriveled, battle-worn head looking even more grotesque beneath the rain, its scales slick with moisture.

“Brother,”

Aemond leaped from Sheepstealer’s back, running toward the shore while his eye remained fixed on Storm’s End, now consumed by a sea of green flames. The eerie fire clung to stone and iron, burning relentlessly, even as the rain fell in sheets. A ghostly mist rose from the wet flames, turning the scene into a surreal nightmare, the sound of rain becoming a tragic soundtrack to the destruction.

“You’re here,” Rhaegar said, his voice barely above a whisper. His head tilted slightly, unsurprised by his brother’s arrival.

“You burned Storm’s End!?” Aemond’s voice trembled with disbelief. He could hardly believe what he was witnessing—the seat of House Baratheon, reduced to flames. Maris, Elenda, and Floris—all inside.

“I thought you wouldn’t dare show your face,” Rhaegar replied, his eyes narrowing as he looked Aemond over with cold disdain. “Everyone involved in my son’s death will pay.”

His voice dripped with venom. If that foolish woman hadn’t driven Aemon away, none of this would have happened. What good was a marriage alliance to a lord’s family when it couldn’t even protect his blood?

Aemond’s eye narrowed, his chest tightening as he struggled to find his voice. “This has nothing to do with me,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know my nephew was passing through here.”

He had watched Aemon grow up, the boy always trailing after him with bright, admiring eyes. Even though Aemond had chosen to back his sister’s claim, he had never meant harm to his own family.

“I know,” Rhaegar said flatly, his tone as cold as it had been all night. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be standing here.”

Aemond exhaled, relieved. He took a cautious step forward, trying to bridge the gap between them. The argument with Maris—her threats, her obsession—had driven him away from Storm’s End that night. He’d gone to Stonehelm to escape. If only he’d stayed…

Bang!

Rhaegar’s hand shot out, seizing Aemond by the hair, and with brutal force, slammed their foreheads together. His expression darkened, anger twisting his features. “Where were you that night?” he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “Do you know my son searched everywhere for you?”

Aemond winced, his vision swimming from the impact. “Brother, we should be focusing on vengeance,” he said, his voice strained, his one eye burning with guilt. “The war isn’t over!”

Rhaegar’s fury didn’t abate. “My son sought you out before he was killed, and where were you? You failed me—you failed him.” His voice was sharp, edged with both rage and pain. If Aemond hadn’t stirred up trouble at Storm’s End, a child wouldn’t have been forced to travel through that storm.

“I’ll be the vanguard,” Aemond nearly shouted, desperate to make amends. “I’ll avenge our nephew! Storm’s End will burn, and so will the Iron Islands and the Basilisk Isles.”

“Remember your words,” Rhaegar spat, releasing his brother’s hair with disgust. “Now go to where you belong.”

Aemond stumbled back, his expression cold as he turned and walked toward Sheepstealer, who waited in the rain, its shriveled wings twitching.

Roar?

The dragon let out a low growl as Aemond mounted, and within moments, they soared into the stormy sky, disappearing into the dark clouds above.

Once again, Rhaegar stood alone on the rain-soaked beach, the dragon by his side his only companion. He remained silent, the weight of loss pressing heavily on him. Reaching into his cloak, he pulled out a dragon’s horn, black as the night around him. Its surface was etched with dragon runes, and as he stared, one of the green runes began to fade.

“Aemon… are you still alive?” Rhaegar whispered, his heart tightening painfully.

If his son lived, he would find him. If Aemon was dead, he would bring back his body. The Stormlands would soon be part of the Crownlands, and when they were, he would send every man he had to search.