Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day - Chapter 650: Red Dragon of the Great Grass Sea

Sothoryos Continent, Naath Island.

“Roar!”

From the jagged beach, the black dragon bellowed in rage, unleashing pillars of eerie green Dragonfire.

“Come out, all of you!” Rhaegar’s voice boomed, dark with fury, as he rode atop the dragon’s back.

The surrounding landscape transformed into a hellish scene. Strange rock formations melted into pools of lava as the entire beach was engulfed in smoke and fire.

The Cannibal’s green pupils gleamed with cruelty. Its snout sniffed the air, searching for the scent of prey hidden in caves. With deadly precision, it aimed its Dragonfire.

Whoosh!

A volley of arrows struck its bloodied muzzle, sparks flying on impact.

“Roar!”

The Cannibal grew more excited, its massive jaws slamming into the cave entrance, causing the mountain of rocks to shake violently. Rhaegar, seated in his saddle, enveloped by the dragon’s dark wings, swayed slightly as the beast’s ferocity intensified.

Having devoured the Pale Wild Dragon, the Cannibal’s bloodlust demanded an outlet. It would unleash its fury on the last remnants of resistance in the Basilisk Isles, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake.

“Roar!”

Suddenly, two more dragons—one golden, one light blue—descended from the sky, joining the carnage.

“Dracarys!”

Rhaenyra’s cold voice echoed through the chaos as she steered Syrax toward the pirate hideouts buried in the strange rock formations. The Triarchy pirates had no escape. Naath, though remote and rich in resources, had become their final refuge. Now, they cowered in the cold, damp tunnels beneath the mountain, trapped like rats.

Helaena landed gracefully at the summit atop Dreamfyre. The majestic dragon’s head held high, its light blue scales gleaming in the sunlight, while the Cannibal towered over the battlefield like a dark colossus.

Rhaegar glanced upward, watching as Dreamfyre’s light blue Dragonfire cascaded down the mountainside like a waterfall, reducing everything in its path to ash.

“Lord Corlys has already launched the main assault. There’s nothing left to worry about,” Helaena remarked casually, lying across Dreamfyre’s back, her chin resting in her hands. The dragon stood protectively still, ensuring its playful rider was safe.

Rhaegar waved in acknowledgment, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The death of the Pale Wild Dragon had lifted a heavy burden from his heart.

As he looked toward Rhaenyra and Helaena, who had come to join the battle, a sense of warmth welled up inside him. This is what it meant to be a conqueror, he thought.

…

Time passed swiftly, and a month later, the skies were clear and cloudless. The hot climate of the Summer Sea lingered, the gently rippling water distorted by the rising heat.

Basilisk Isles.

A lone pirate ship, flying a white flag of surrender, sailed slowly out of the harbor. Kneeling on the deck, the bearded leader of Myr addressed the Iron Throne with a somber face.

“Please accept our surrender, Your Grace of the Iron Throne,” he said in Valyrian, his voice filled with defeat.

This act marked the fall of the Triarchy. The dragons had encircled the Basilisk Isles, cutting off every escape route. Tens of thousands of people were trapped on the barren islands, resorting to cannibalism as their food supplies ran out. If they didn’t surrender, mutiny would surely follow.

Rhaegar stood tall, his family sword, Blackfyre, planted firmly in the ground before him. His voice was as cold as ice.

“Do you understand the consequences of defying me again and again?”

“We will offer you countless riches,” the mustachioed pirate leader replied, bowing his head deeply. His sallow face was pale with hunger—he hadn’t eaten in three days.

“Your wealth was stolen from my subjects,” Rhaegar retorted sharply, his eyes narrowing in disdain.

Nearby, Daemon watched silently, his expression calm. Holding Dark Sister, his own Valyrian steel blade, in one hand, he nonchalantly wiped the dirt from his cloak. The two men—uncle and nephew—exchanged a glance, the air between them filled with an unspoken chill.

“I accept your surrender,” Rhaegar finally declared, raising his chin imperiously. “But you will leave all your wealth behind on the Isle of Tears.”

“No problem,” the pirate leader responded eagerly, his gray eyes lighting up with hope. Yet after a brief pause, his cunning instincts surfaced. He dared to negotiate.

“Your Grace, the treasure is yours. But allow us to return to the continent of Essos.”

Perhaps their move to Sothoryos had been a grave mistake. Returning to the wealthier, more fertile Essos might allow them to rebuild and resume their pirating ways.

Rhaegar looked down at him, a small smile playing on his lips. “Granted. You have three days to withdraw your forces. Women, children, and slaves may leave slowly.”

“Thank you, Your Grace, for your mercy!” the pirate leader gushed, relief flooding his voice. With trembling hands, he accepted a wooden box from one of his subordinates and presented it to Rhaegar. When opened, it was full of gold nuggets and precious stones.

“Now get lost,” Rhaegar snapped, his expression darkening as he took the heavy box.

The mustachioed man wasted no time. He fled back to his pirate ship, terrified that at any moment, if he lingered, he might end up as dragon food.

…

Two and a half days passed.

An overstuffed fleet of more than a hundred ships sailed sluggishly across the Summer Sea. The haphazard collection of large and small vessels looked almost comical, crammed with thirty thousand souls, all clinging to the hope of returning to their homeland.

“Haha, it’s all thanks to me!” the mustachioed leader boasted, staggering drunkenly across the deck. He strutted about, spinning the surrender negotiations into a tale of heroic struggle, full of bravado, with no trace of the fear or humility he had shown just days before.

The sellswords and pirates laughed in unison, cheering his exaggerated account. Whether or not his story was true mattered little. The fact they had escaped was reason enough to celebrate.

The fleet was in disarray, lacking any discipline, and no one noticed the shadow creeping over them.

“Dracarys!”

The voice was clear but eerily soft, carrying across the water to every ear.

“Huh?” The mustachioed man glanced up, blinking in drunken confusion. His blurred vision couldn’t make out the threat, not until the heat seared his skin. Then he saw it—green flames raining down from the sky.

“Roar…”

A monstrous dragon, black as coal, descended from the heavens. Its eerie green eyes, like the ghostly fire of death, gleamed as it unleashed a torrent of Dragonfire that consumed hundreds of the overcrowded ships in an instant.

“Dragon!”

“It’s the Deathwing! Jump into the sea!”

“Ah! The fire!”

The ash-colored Dragonfire spread like a plague, whipped by the wind, clinging to every ship like melted wax on a candle. Chaos erupted as the fleet was engulfed in flames.

Rhaegar, watching from above, allowed a small smile to play on his lips. He reached into a pouch, grabbed a handful of golden coins, and tossed them into the sea.

“Money?” he said with a sneer. “It won’t buy your lives.”

“Roar…”

The Cannibal soared into the sky, its massive form cutting through the clouds as it turned toward Volantis, leaving behind a sea of flames.

Below, the fire raged, turning the once-proud fleet into a burning, green inferno.

“Roar!”

“Roar…”

Two scarlet dragons appeared from the sky, their fiery breath scorching the water below. They strafed the sea, incinerating the pirates who had leapt from their burning ships in a desperate bid to survive.

For a time, the air was filled with the wails of the doomed and the despair of the dying, their cries blending into a macabre symphony. Between the red and green flames, a tune of destruction, not of this world, played its final, haunting notes.

…

The Cannibal soared across the Summer Sea and descended within the Black Walls of Volantis.

“Roar~~”

Nearby, a yellow jade dragon lay curled on its side, its massive body coiled into a ball. Its vertical pupils were tightly shut, and it let out a lazy, low snore.

“Father!” Baelon’s eyes lit up as he spotted Rhaegar, surrounded by his younger siblings.

Rhaegar dismounted from the Cannibal, shrugging off his black robe that still smelled of dragon. The war was over. The remnants of the Triarchy lay either dead or defeated, no longer a threat.

“Did it work?” Rhaenyra appeared from behind Syrax, a smile on her lips as she approached. She took Rhaegar’s robe, now dirtied from the journey, and draped it over her arm with a gentle motion.

Rhaegar leaned in, planting a kiss on her cheek. “Think about what to do with the Basilisk Isles.”

Blushing, Rhaenyra glanced at the children and turned her head, embarrassed. “The children are still here!”

“Can we go back now?” Visenya skipped over, one arm slung casually around Aegor’s neck, the poor child looking half-hung and ragged as he dangled like a limp rag doll.

“Visenya!” Rhaenyra gasped, quickly rescuing her youngest son from her sister’s mischievous hold.

Rhaegar’s face darkened, and with a quick nod, he signaled Baelon to handle Visenya. Without hesitation, Baelon and Maekar flanked their sister, dragging her away with synchronized precision.

“Hee hee…” The other children giggled, delighted to see Visenya getting into trouble.

Rhaegar glanced around, then leaned close to Rhaenyra and whispered in her ear, “Are you sure you want to bring all the children back to King’s Landing? It’s not just our eight dragons—you’ve got Daemon’s and Aegon’s children too. Baela and Rhaena, Jaehaerys, Jaehaera…”

“Of course,” Rhaenyra replied, her earlobes turning a soft red, warmth flashing in her eyes. “I want my children by my side, where I can train them to be the best dragonriders in history.”

After enduring another brutal battle and the devastating loss of a beloved son, Rhaenyra had matured. Her once fiery temperament had cooled, and she now carried herself with the wisdom of someone who had seen life’s harshest lessons. Like the great queens Visenya and Alysanne, she knew her path. She would raise their children, nurture their legacy, and build a dynasty of exceptional dragonriders for House Targaryen.

Rhaegar blinked in surprise. He hadn’t expected such insight from her; she had always seemed so headstrong and reckless.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Rhaenyra said with a smirk, crossing her arms beneath her full, regal figure. Her posture was commanding, her tone confident. “I will take care of them, and history will remember me as the greatest queen there ever was.”

Rhaegar chuckled, shaking his head. “King’s Landing Kindergarten.”

…

Night falls.

The Dothraki Great Grass Sea, beside a quiet stream.

“Hurry, wash my horse!”

A harsh voice cracked the night, followed by the snap of a whip.

A silver-haired boy, pale and gaunt, stumbled to the stream, carrying a heavy bucket. His trembling hands brushed the horse of a young Bloodrider, his movements mechanical. He wore rough hemp clothing, his back crisscrossed with fresh and old scars. His once-vivid purple eyes were now dull and lifeless, as if he’d forgotten what pain felt like.

As the night deepened, the moon cast a cold, silvery glow over the camp. Men and women gathered around the fire, engaging in wild revelry—some feasting on half-cooked flesh, others lost in frenzied acts of intercourse. Now and then, the sound of swords clashing pierced the air as they fought over rank, their savage nature fully unleashed.

The Khal yawned, uninterested, and strolled back to his tent, pulling a newly captured slave girl with him. The Bloodriders slowly dispersed, some taking turns to keep watch, while others rested.

“Cuckoo, cuckoo…” A lone cuckoo fluttered down into the grass, pecking at seeds to fill its belly.

A small figure darted past, weaving through the shadows toward the young Bloodrider’s tent.

Hoo hoo hoo…

The silver-haired boy crouched near the tent, listening intently to the rhythmic snoring inside. His fingers brushed against the dragon-head pendant hanging from his neck, a relic of a life long lost.

Hum…

In a whisper of magic, the clan sword, Truefyre, appeared in his hand. The ruby embedded in the hilt was dull, its once-bright gleam long faded. He stared at the black blade, running his fingers along its cold edge.

This sword had saved him. After he had fallen into the sea, it had protected him, keeping him afloat until he was rescued by fishermen on the other side of the Narrow Sea.

“Father, mother, I’m sorry…”

His voice cracked, hoarse with disuse, and tears silently trickled down his cheeks. His dragon was dead, its throat ripped open and its body thrown into the sea, and he’d been left to rot among the Dothraki, treated as less than human. A broken boy, no longer worthy of life.

It would be better to die.

His left hand hovered over the tent curtain, the reflection of his dark sword resolute in the moonlight.

“What are you doing?”

The curtain had barely been lifted when a clear voice startled the silver-haired boy. He spun around, gripping the long sword tightly. In an instant, the tip of the blade hovered against the black-haired girl’s throat.

Leah glanced at the sword, unperturbed. She gently pushed the cold steel away, her eyes gleaming with envy. “Is this Valyrian steel? You actually have one.” Her Valyrian was clumsy, the words awkward on her tongue.

“I’ll kill you,” the boy muttered, repositioning the sword as if to make good on his threat, though his voice lacked the conviction.

“You’re crying,” Leah observed, tilting her head and poking a dirty finger toward the corner of his eye.

The boy flinched but said nothing. Despite the dirt and grime, there was no denying that his gaunt face held a certain beauty, and his violet eyes were strikingly intense.

“Your mother must have been a great beauty,” Leah said, her voice soft with wonder.

“Nonsense,” the boy snapped after a brief pause, his cheeks flushing. “I’m not crying.”

“But you’re shedding tears,” Leah replied matter-of-factly. She wiped away one of the tears with her finger, then, to his horror, brought it to her mouth, tasting it. “Salty.”

The boy’s face twisted in anger, his teeth clenched. “Get away from me, or I’ll kill you too,” he growled.

Had she not given him horse meat and helped with the herding, he might have killed her already. Dothraki women are like wild animals, he thought bitterly.

“Who are you going to kill?” Leah teased, her lips curling into an innocent smile. “You’re the one who gets beaten up every day. No wonder you want to die.”

Her words cut deep. He could feel his face burning with shame—she had seen through him. Many slaves found ways to end their suffering, but attempting to kill a Bloodrider? That was nearly unheard of.

“Just stay alive,” Leah said seriously. “My father said he won’t sell you. He’ll feed you until you’re plump and healthy.”

“What?” the boy asked, confused.

“You have to live,” Leah explained bluntly. “When the tribe’s poor, we’ll sell you for a good price.”

The boy hesitated, his hands tightening around the sword hilt. With a scowl, he turned and started walking back toward the small tent. I’d rather die than live in this humiliation.

“He won’t hit you again,” Leah called after him, standing still. She didn’t try to stop him, but her voice held an odd, gentle persuasion.

He didn’t respond, and the sword in his hand—Truefyre—began to warm, as if reacting to his turmoil. The night was eerily quiet, broken only by the distant sounds of Dothraki men and women engaged in their savage pleasures.

Boom.

A breeze ruffled the boy’s silver-blonde hair, and he froze, a sense of foreboding washing over him.

“Roar!”

A dark red shadow shot across the night sky, glowing like a ruby against the stars. A high-pitched screech echoed above, barely audible amidst the Dothraki’s noise, like the faint cooing of a cuckoo.

The boy’s pupils narrowed in shock. He stared upward, his heart pounding as the crimson blur streaked east, disappearing into the vastness of the Great Grass Sea.

“What are you looking at?” Leah asked, glancing from east to west with a curious smile. “Do you want to live?”

“Maybe…” the boy murmured absently, lost in thought as he continued to gaze at the sky.

Leah leaned in, sniffing at him with a playful wrinkle of her nose. “They say dragons are powerful… but they sure do stink.”

The boy hesitated at her words, but then, for the first time in what felt like forever, a faint smile touched his lips.

“My name is Aemon,” he said softly, meeting her eyes. “Aemon Targaryen.”