Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 646: The Unknown Wild Dragon

“Your Grace, what do you mean?” Irina's voice wavered slightly, but she stood firm, her stubbornness battling against the fear creeping down her spine.

“It’s simple,” Rhaegar replied, his tone casual as he spread his hands. “Surrender, or die.”

The choice was clear, though both paths seemed grim. Slaver’s Bay had stumbled right into the dragon’s maw, and there was no one to blame but themselves. Even if multiple fronts opened up, Rhaegar had the upper hand. With The Cannibal and his dragonriders at his command, he could eliminate most of the threats in the world.

Roar...

The Cannibal let out a deep growl, thin streams of green fire flickering from its mouth as its malevolent gaze bore into the room. The slave owners trembled uncontrollably; one or two even soiled themselves. Facing a dragon head-on was a fate worse than death—killing oneself seemed a mercy by comparison.

“Surrender, or die,” Rhaegar repeated, his eyes narrowing with a dangerous glint. He had no time to waste. He still needed to avenge his second son, and this delay tested his patience.

“I…” Irina’s proud posture faltered. She felt the weight of death pressing on her shoulders, and though every fiber of her being resisted, she lowered her head, teeth clenched. “I submit.”

Better to live and fight another day than to perish here. She hadn’t fled from the Lands of the Long Summer to die in a blaze of recklessness.

“Good,” Rhaegar said, a smile barely touching his lips as he waved dismissively.

The Cannibal shook its enormous head, slowly pulling away from the Great Pyramid, though a low, menacing growl rumbled in its throat, sending waves of terror through everyone present.

As the dragon retreated, the tension in the hall eased. Slave owners collapsed where they stood, their legs weak, drenched in cold sweat. Irina forced herself to remain composed, though her throat bobbed with the effort to keep calm.

“Bring Lord Jason,” she ordered, her voice strained.

“Yes, Your Grace,” an Unsullied guard bowed and hurried to carry out the command.

Moments later, a disheveled man was dragged into the hall—unkempt, clothes tattered, and hair a matted mess.

“Jason Lannister?” Rhaegar blinked, almost failing to recognize the man who once exuded such arrogance and elegance. Jason, who had always dressed finer than the noblest ladies of the realm, now stood before him looking like a beggar.

“Your Grace!” Jason gasped, brushing the filthy strands of hair from his face. His eyes welled with tears as he fell to his knees with a heavy thud. “Why have you come? I knew the Iron Throne would not abandon me!” he cried, his voice breaking as he covered his face and wept uncontrollably.

He kicked his legs in desperation, sobbing like a child. No one could have imagined the torment he had endured these past few months—locked in a squalid cell, treated worse than a common slave, dragged to the coliseum regularly for beatings.

“Your Grace!” Jason wailed again, his once-rotund body now gaunt, his face hollowed by hunger. “They starve me, they keep me from sleep, they mistreat a Lord of the Realm!”

Rhaegar stared in silence, momentarily at a loss for words.

Maekar, standing beside him, muttered, “What a disgrace.”

Rhaegar’s face flushed with embarrassment. “Get up,” he snapped, his voice cutting through the pitiful sobs. “I’ll arrange a ship to take you back to Lannisport.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Jason replied, scrambling to his feet with surprising agility, his movements betraying none of the suffering he had just lamented. The once-proud Lord, stripped of his dignity, seemed far quicker on his feet than he ever had been.

'The Game of Thrones truly tests a man’s mettle,' Maekar thought dryly, seizing the moment to add his own observation.

Perhaps leaving Lord Jason behind last time hadn’t been the worst decision after all.

"Your Grace, I had no desire to make things difficult for him," Irina said with contempt, striding forward. "He’s a miserly old fool who refuses to spend a single gold coin to buy his freedom, even though Casterly Rock is overflowing with riches." She sneered, shaking her head. "I’ve never seen anyone cling to wealth more than life."

"I agreed!" Jason protested, his face smeared with tears and snot.

"That was afterward," Irina replied with a mocking glance. "But still, no one has sent me any gold."

The letters she’d sent to Lord Tyland in Volantis had gone unanswered, sinking into silence like stones tossed into the sea. No one from the Westerlands had bothered to ransom him.

Rhaegar waved his hand dismissively, as if swatting at a fly. "Enough of this farce. Get someone to clean him up."

It wasn’t Jason Lannister himself that disgusted him—it was the pitiful state of it all. The sight of the once-proud Lord of Lannisport reduced to this was a disgrace. Without another word, Rhaegar pulled Blackfyre from the ground and sheathed it, his mind already shifting to the next task.

"Prepare the fleet to support the Basilisk Isles campaign. Slaver's Bay is to be incorporated under the rule of the Iron Throne," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for debate.

"Yes, Your Grace," Irina replied, though a flicker of dissatisfaction crossed her face. But she bowed her head, accepting her fate. ‘Under the rule,’ she thought bitterly. In name only. The aristocracy would still run things here, following orders when necessary.

Rhaegar gave her a final glance and then beckoned to Maekar, signaling him to follow. He didn’t expect full submission from her, just enough cooperation to use her when needed. As long as she didn’t stir up trouble, she could continue developing Slaver’s Bay as she saw fit.

...

Later, above Meereen.

Roar…

The black dragon soared high into the sky, its massive wings cutting through the air like curtains that dragged the wind behind them. Following closely was a young silver-grey dragon, its smaller form roaring defiantly at the soldiers manning the city walls.

The soldiers, already terrified, turned pale at the sight, some nearly fainting where they stood.

...

Inside the Great Pyramid.

Irina stood gazing out at the horizon, her expression unreadable. "It’s good to have a dragon," she murmured to herself, the bitter truth of it heavy on her heart. There was an undeniable chasm between the power of Dragonlord houses that possessed dragons and those that did not.

If her House, House Daeryon, had even a single dragon—an egg, a hatchling—she wouldn’t need to curry favor with House Targaryen, nor be trapped in their shadow.

"Sister!" A loud, simple-minded voice called from behind her, muffled slightly, as if something was still in the speaker's mouth.

Irina turned, and her face softened with helpless affection. A handsome young man stood there, a childish grin on his face, his mouth full of candies. "Why did you run out?" she asked, sighing.

"Eat, eat!" the young man drooled, pulling out more colorful candies from the pocket of his satin clothes, offering one to her with sticky fingers.

"Alright, alright," Irina said sadly, taking the candy and wiping the drool from his chin. He was her only family left—her simple, sweet younger brother. In the Lands of the Long Summer, food was scarce, and all they had were lamb and grass roots. But here, beyond that cursed land, they could eat anything they wanted.

"Take him away," she instructed her most trusted captain, Racallio. "And make sure the servants take good care of him."

Racallio, dressed flamboyantly in a purple gown, laughed boisterously as he draped his arm around the Queen’s brother, hoisting him onto his shoulder. With a grin, he carried him off toward the bedchambers, which were filled with the heady scent of incense.

Irina watched them disappear, a pang of guilt gnawing at her. Her brother, with his childlike mind, was the one who would have to continue their bloodline.

But before she could dwell on it, two bald wizards in red robes approached, their presence casting a shadow over her thoughts.

"Your Grace, Queen of Meereen," one of them said, bowing slightly.

Irina’s brief moment of reflection vanished, replaced by cold calculation. "Have you found the wild dragon?" she asked, her voice sharp.

"No," the bald wizard admitted, his tone low. "It was once tamed in Asshai, but it escaped."

"Then go find it," Irina commanded, her patience thinning.

"We need more people," the other wizard said.

"Slaver’s Bay is never short of people," she retorted, waving them away.

As the wizards retreated, Irina frowned, distaste twisting her features. The wild dragon had never been tamed by the sorcerers of Asshai, despite their claims. It had been a hatchling when they captured it, and they had tortured it—draining its blood and pulling off its scales for their twisted magical experiments.

But the young dragon had broken free, grown strong, and turned on its captors. It was no wonder it had escaped.

"Forget it," Irina muttered to herself, rubbing her face in an attempt to shake off her frustration. "Finding that dragon is the priority."

...

The Great Grass Sea.

The sun blazed high in a cloudless sky, casting harsh light over the endless expanse of grasslands. A Dothraki tribe, more than 100,000 strong, roamed the vast plains, seeking the season’s richest pastures.

Crack! The whip lashed through the air, striking a slave and leaving a deep, bloody welt across his back.

“Weak cowards! Don’t slow us down!” a Dothraki warrior spat, cursing in broken Valyrian as his whip snapped again at the dark-skinned slaves from the Summer Isles. Their ebony skin stood out against the sea of green—a rare sight in these lands. But they were strong and resilient, a gift from Slaver's Bay, making them excellent slaves.

“Hurry up! We need to reach the river by nightfall!” the gruff voice of a scarred Bloodrider barked as he passed on horseback, his orders punctuated by the crack of whips driving the slaves forward.

At the rear of the procession, carts mixed with cows and sheep trudged along. Among them, a pale-faced silver-haired boy struggled to push a stubborn sheep forward.

“Ba-ba...” The sheep bleated lazily, chewing on the grass, its plump body refusing to budge.

“Go!” The boy’s voice was hoarse, as if worn down from exhaustion. He shoved at the animal with all his might, but the sheep remained unmoved.

“You're doing it wrong—the sheep needs to be driven,” a voice interrupted. A girl with jet-black hair and a fur skirt approached, flicking a small leather whip. With a quick snap, she struck the sheep’s rear, causing it to bleat and finally move forward.

The silver-haired boy watched, defeated, and followed with his head bowed.

“Why aren't you saying anything?” the girl asked, her freckled face bright with curiosity. Her dark, intelligent eyes studied him closely.

He looked at her in silence, his expression unreadable.

“My name’s Leah. What’s yours?” She continued driving the sheep as she walked beside him, her gaze fixed on him as if he were some rare creature.

The boy remained mute.

Leah frowned and, with sudden boldness, grabbed his collar, leaning in and sniffing like a curious animal. Wrinkling her nose, she pulled back. “Even dragons stink?” she teased, smirking at the scent.

The boy stiffened, his pale eyes flickering with a brief flash of anger as he tried to push her hand away. Leah just grinned, unfazed, her interest in him only growing.

"What’s your name? Targaryen?" Leah’s eyes sparkled with curiosity as she tugged at the silver-haired boy’s dirty, matted hair, her gaze lingering on his unusual purple eyes.

“I’m not… a Targaryen,” he muttered, his face tense with discomfort, struggling to deny it.

“You are. My father said so,” Leah replied, tilting her head back with a knowing grin. “He’s the Khal of the tribe, and he said he’s going to sell you to Slaver’s Bay—enough gold to buy the whole tribe.”

The boy fell silent, his jaw tightening.

“I’ll teach you to herd sheep. Will you talk to me then?” Leah leaned in, her face nearly brushing his, her voice teasing.

“And what could I possibly learn from you?” he asked bitterly, his lips curling into a pained smile. “How to beat slaves? The same way you beat sheep?”

“You’re boring!” Leah snapped, her expression darkening before she spun around and stormed off.

Crack!

No sooner had she left than a whip sliced through the air, striking the boy’s back with a sickening snap. His linen shirt split open, exposing fresh, bloody welts beneath.

The boy gritted his teeth, refusing to make a sound, though the pain was searing.

“Take care of your sheep, just like your goat-fucking ancestors,” sneered the young Bloodrider, rolling up the bloodstained whip with disdain.

The silver-haired boy trembled, his purple eyes locking onto the Bloodrider with a chilling intensity. He glared, his gaze dark and full of quiet fury, as if committing the man’s face to memory.

“Want more?” the young Bloodrider jeered, raising the whip to strike again.

But before the blow could land, a large hand gripped the Bloodrider’s arm, stopping him mid-swing. The scarred Bloodrider had appeared without warning, his face thunderous. "Don’t be a fool. Obey the Khal’s orders."

The young Bloodrider scowled, pulling his arm free before riding off, but the silver-haired boy’s eyes never left him.

"You need to be smarter," the scarred Bloodrider said in broken Valyrian, his voice firm yet carrying a note of warning, before turning to relay orders to the rest of the camp.

The boy understood the words clearly. In the entire tribe, only the Khal’s daughter spoke pure Valyrian, while the others mixed their speech with broken dialects of Dothraki. Wincing from the pain, he continued to drive the sheep forward.

“Ba-ba…” One of the plump-bottomed sheep bleated, suddenly rearing up and knocking him to the ground. His wounded back struck a sharp stone, sending waves of agony through his body. Sweat beaded on his brow as he struggled to sit up.

Pop.

His hand slipped into something slick. He glanced down and grimaced in disgust—it was a pool of black, slimy excrement.

“Dung,” he muttered, his nostrils flaring as the pungent smell of sulfur hit him, the familiar stench of livestock waste.

Tick… tock…

Tears welled in his eyes as memories flooded back. His gaze blurred as he recalled the Trickster, the long-tailed green dragon with a special bloodline that had been his companion since birth. They had grown up together, closer than family, inseparable.

"No dragon… no Targaryen…" he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion.

The boy buried his face in the sheep’s thick fleece, muffling his sobs, the overwhelming sense of loss and loneliness washing over him in silence.