Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Slaver's Bay, Meereen

The Great Pyramid...

“Your Grace, this is the gift the Good Masters have prepared for your Name Day celebration,” a representative of the slave owners from Astapor and Yunkai announced, bowing low with exaggerated respect.

In the Great Hall, Irina sat on the throne, her posture commanding. She wore her favorite slinky blue dress with a high slit—elegant and regal, while giving her freedom of movement. It displayed her queenly grace without the stiffness of more formal attire.

“Valyrian steel?” Irina’s eyes gleamed as her fingers traced the necklace presented to her—a delicate chain with a dragon’s head pendant crafted from Valyrian steel. Upon closer inspection, the links were unremarkable, but the pendant was a masterpiece, clearly from ancient Valyria. She felt a strange sense of recognition, as though she’d seen it somewhere before.

The slave owner stepped forward eagerly, his tone full of flattery. “Only treasures from Valyria’s glorious past are worthy of the noble blood of a true dragon.”

“A fine gift, showing real sincerity,” Irina said with a smile, placing the necklace back into its box. Since her capture of the red dragon that had been missing, rumors had spread like wildfire. The Great Masters of Meereen were now completely submissive, and even the Good Masters and Wise Masters of Astapor and Yunkai had grown more obedient. What had once been a fragile rule was now unshakable.

However...

Irina’s eyes flicked to the bald red-robed wizard standing quietly in the corner of the hall. Her brow furrowed slightly. The plan to fully tame the dragon had been delayed. The last remaining red-robed wizard could not control the creature, and his attempts to seek help from Asshai had yielded no results.

This made the slave owners uneasy. Without the queen riding a dragon, doubt and suspicion were beginning to creep into their minds, and plots were being hatched in the shadows.

As if reading her thoughts, the representative of the slave owners bowed again, his voice dripping with false reverence. “Gracious Queen, when will you hold a grand event to show Slaver’s Bay might to House Targaryen? The people long to see the greatness of the Dragonlord’s lineage.”

The question was thinly veiled. Where is your dragon? The subtext was clear—if she had a dragon, she should show it.

Irina remained calm. “There’s no need to rush. The merchants from Qarth have been visiting Slaver’s Bay frequently of late. After their business is concluded, we’ll host a grand event.”

“But we’ve heard the merchants of Qarth are at war with House Hightower of Oldtown,” a Good Master from Astapor interrupted, stepping forward with a haughty sneer. His short beard curled sharply as he eyed her with skepticism. “They’ve been buying slaves to fuel their attacks, even sending slaves infected with grayscale to sow chaos in Oldtown. The entire Reach has united against them, and no one knows how long the war will last.”

Irina’s eyes narrowed, her voice sharp. “Are you doubting me?”

The Good Master paled but tried to recover. “No, Your Grace, we are merely... eager.”

“Insult the queen again, and you’ll lose your tongue,” she warned, her tone ice-cold. The man recoiled, quickly bowing in submission.

Irina stood, her patience at its end. “Then go home and wait for news in peace,” she said curtly. Grabbing the box from the maid’s tray, she turned and swept out of the hall, leaving the slave owners behind. They exchanged uneasy glances, frustration simmering beneath their forced smiles, but none dared speak.

The doors of the Great Hall closed with a heavy thud, sealing them in silence.

...

Great Pyramid, Dungeon

Irina, flanked by Unsullied guards, approached the heavy iron door to the dungeon once more.

Rumble!

The door creaked open slowly, releasing a pungent stench of rot and sulfur, mixed with the briny smell of fish. It struck her like a wall, clinging to her senses, refusing to fade.

"Torch," she commanded, her voice steady, though her eyes darkened with unease. One of the Unsullied quickly handed her a torch. With its dim light, she cautiously stepped into the pitch-black dungeon.

Hoo...

A gust of hot, fishy wind blew from the depths of the darkness, brushing against her face. Irina stiffened, her fingers gripping the torch tightly, her hand going numb. In her youth, she had dreamed of finding a dragon and restoring the glory of her house. But after so many failed attempts to control one, her initial courage had crumbled.

"Roar..."

A deep, guttural growl echoed through the dungeon, the sound thick, as though being dragged up from the throat of a monstrous creature. The shadows swallowed everything; even the faint torchlight couldn’t pierce the darkness ahead.

Irina stared into the void, recalling her mother-in-law’s warning: Never show weakness to a dragon.

"Roar!"

Suddenly, a torrent of red Dragonfire exploded from the depths, illuminating the dungeon in an inferno. The flames revealed the massive, chained silhouette of the dragon. Bright red scales gleamed, bristling with thorn-like barbs, and pale fangs, sharp enough to crush steel, gleamed in the flickering light.

The red dragon glared at her, its amber eyes filled with malice. It was chained in the corner, yet its presence dominated the space. Its appearance mirrored that of its mother, Dreamfyre, with the same brilliant red scales, off-white horns, and barbed jaw. Its three pairs of horns and dark red dorsal fin made it a fierce, majestic warrior by nature.

"Quiet, Daenarion!" Irina commanded in High Valyrian, raising a hand to assert control.

Though she had learned the ancient binding spells, she had yet to master the Fire Magic that pulsed in her blood. High Valyrian was a fragile substitute for true dragon mastery, but it was all she had.

"Roar!"

Daenarion, however, was not so easily tamed. The dragon growled menacingly, rejecting her words and the name she had given it. With an enraged snarl, it lunged forward, chains rattling as it strained against its bonds. Though the dragon’s muzzle couldn’t reach her, the searing heat of its breath washed over her like a furnace.

Irina’s heart raced, and her façade of calm began to falter. The dragon’s amber eyes tracked her every movement, watching for any sign of weakness. In an instant, its wings spread wide, the chains groaning under the strain as it lunged once more.

The heat enveloped her, scalding her skin a deep red, and the pressure was unbearable. Irina’s face paled as fear surged through her, her courage finally cracking under the dragon’s onslaught. She stumbled back, dropping the torch in a panic.

Rumble!

As she retreated, the heavy door slammed shut behind her, the noise reverberating through the stone halls. The dragon’s furious roar echoed from within the dungeon, but Irina was already out of reach, her heart pounding as she leaned against the wall outside.

...

At the same time, the Colosseum

Backstage rest area

In a dimly lit corner, a boy with a buzz cut crouched alone, clutching a rusty iron sword to his chest. His fair skin was smeared with yellow mud, his dusty hair streaked with silver, and his frame was thin and frail. He looked every bit like a lost child, though his hardened expression hinted at something darker.

Sa sa sa!

The quiet sound of footsteps approached, and a towering man with thick black hair strode over, settling down beside the boy. The giant of a man began to methodically rub a large broadsword with salt and lemon, paying no mind to the boy at first.

The boy glanced over cautiously, his body tensing. Life in the Colosseum had left him perpetually on edge. It wasn’t just a place of blood and spectacle—it was a world where survival meant preying on the weak. The slaves here weren’t simply victims; they were predators, ready to crush anyone below them. If not for the cold ruthlessness that had grown inside him, he knew he might have already been violated or worse.

“Don’t worry,” the Blackhair giant muttered, his voice lazy but rich with character, never looking up from his sword. “I’m not interested in boys.”

The boy relaxed ever so slightly, though his eyes remained wary. He had learned not to trust anyone here. The Colosseum had shattered his previous view of the world, reshaping everything he thought he knew about power. Before, he had believed in the importance of kindness and mercy. Now he understood the harsh truth: without power, such ideals were meaningless—worse, they were dangerous.

“You’re Aemon, right? The boy who came with the priestess?” the Blackhair strongman asked, casting a sidelong glance, sizing him up as though he were a curiosity.

Aemon’s head jerked up, his eyes sharp. “Who are you? Do you know Sally?” He spoke with sudden intensity. The priestess meant something to him; they had shared the road, and he had helped her as much as she had helped him.

The man shrugged, unconcerned. “No. She’s just a slave who peddles medicine.” He paused for a moment, then continued, “You’ll be in the arena soon enough. Might want to sharpen that sword of yours—at least give yourself a chance to stab someone in the belly.”

With that, the Blackhair strongman tossed the half-used lemon aside, sheathed his massive sword, and stood. As he walked away, he twirled the sword in one hand, the blade cutting a lazy arc through the air with surprising grace for someone of his size.

Aemon watched him leave, still unsure whether to believe anything the man had said. He picked up the discarded lemon and began to rub it along the edge of his dull blade, following the advice, if only half-heartedly.

The giant had a weathered face, rough with a beard, his muscles sculpted from years of fighting. He wasn’t particularly remarkable to look at, yet there had been no malice in his demeanor, no immediate hostility. Whatever his reasons for speaking, Aemon couldn’t sense any ill intent—for now.

...

Soon, the Colosseum's gates swung open, and the duel began.

Slaves, clad in mismatched armor and gripping crude weapons, streamed into the arena through the heavy gates. Among them was Aemon, armed with nothing but a rusty iron sword. Blending into the crowd, he spotted the Blackhair giant striding confidently ahead.

“He’s here too,” Aemon muttered, his gaze locking onto the hulking figure. Slowly, he began to edge his way closer.

In the stands, slave owners and merchants whispered eagerly, placing bets on their chosen fighters. The air buzzed with anticipation. Irina sat among them, looking disinterested, her chin resting in her hand as she lazily leaned against the table.

In the arena, Aemon felt a pang of anxiety as he glanced up at the unsightly slave owners gawking at them. Then, he saw her—Irina, sitting in the stands, her hand pressed to her forehead. His stomach tightened.

“It’s her... that old woman,” he mumbled under his breath. He debated whether to make himself known. They had crossed paths a few times, and none of those meetings had gone well. She wasn’t someone to trust, especially not after meddling in her brother’s affairs. If I reveal my identity now, I’ll probably end up locked in some dungeon... never seeing daylight again.

“Kid, stick close to me,” the Blackhair giant interrupted, his deep voice breaking through Aemon’s thoughts.

Aemon nodded quickly, realizing the wisdom in the advice. With his small frame and lack of real skill, there was no way he could survive the bloodbath without protection. “Okay,” he agreed, knowing he needed all the help he could get.

Clang!

The sound of the gong echoed through the arena, signaling the start of the fight. Chaos erupted instantly. Swords flashed, and the sound of metal clashing filled the air as slaves turned on one another, desperate to survive. The arena quickly transformed into a brutal, frenzied battlefield.

Aemon hesitated for a split second—just long enough for a spray of blood to splatter across his face.

“Watch yourself! I can’t protect you all the time!” the Blackhair giant bellowed, swinging his enormous sword as he charged into the throng of combatants.

The arena was a storm of violence, and the Blackhair strongman stood at the center, his massive sword cleaving through enemies with terrifying ease. The weapon, nearly as tall as a man and as wide as a palm, cut through flesh and bone with every swing. No one could stand against him—those who tried were either hacked down or crushed by the force of his blows. Blood splattered in wide arcs, painting the ground red.

Aemon, shaking off his shock, fell into step behind the giant, using him as both a shield and a weapon. He dodged and weaved, staying just out of harm’s way as the strongman carved a path through the battlefield.

Time crept forward, and as noon approached, the once-crowded arena was littered with bodies. Only a handful of slaves remained standing—less than a tenth of those who had entered. Aemon, still alive, had managed to avoid most of the fighting by hiding in the shadows, his heart pounding as he watched the carnage unfold.

Many in the stands had expected him to be among the first to fall. But here he was, quietly lingering at the edge, unnoticed by the bloodthirsty crowd. Against all odds, he had survived.

Clang!

The gong sounded again, signaling the end of the duel. The remaining slaves, battered and exhausted, dragged themselves toward the iron Sect, leaving the gruesome battlefield behind. Aemon lingered at the back, not eager to draw attention to himself among the hardened survivors.

As the survivors filed into the rest area, a rare reward awaited them—food. According to the rules of the arena, those who survived each round would be given a feast before returning to the dark, damp cells below.

Just as Aemon was about to enter the gate, he glanced back over his shoulder. His eyes caught a glimpse of Irina, her blue dress trailing as she rose from the table and made her way out of the stands. Something stirred in his mind, but he couldn’t quite grasp what it was.

He turned back, stepping through the iron doors, his thoughts a whirlwind of uncertainty.

...

As night fell, the Colosseum grew silent, the chaos of the day replaced by an eerie stillness.

In the damp, underground prison cell, Aemon huddled in a corner, gnawing on a half-eaten baked potato. He had survived the day's brutal fight and, as a result, had been temporarily moved to a less crowded cell. It was still cramped and reeked of damp stone, but at least there was more space to breathe.

His eyes drifted toward the Blackhair brawny man who lay near the small, barred window, his eyes closed, breathing steady. The man appeared to be asleep, but there was a tension in his muscles, as if even in sleep, he was ready for anything.

This is an opportunity, Aemon thought, a spark of an idea flickering to life. Perhaps he could win over the strongman, find a way to forge an alliance and secure a future—something he’d never considered before. His older brother Baelon and younger brother Maekar had always been the ones to gather support, building alliances and gaining favor. Aemon, on the other hand, had preferred to keep things simple, focusing on managing Lys and Tyrosh on the other side of the Narrow Sea. He had never lowered himself to treat subordinates with any real respect.

But now, in this unforgiving place, he needed to adapt. Dare to think, dare to act, he told himself, gritting his teeth as he stood up.

He walked toward the window, where the cool night breeze blew through the bars, pushing away the clouds that had been covering the sky. The Pure moonlight broke through, casting a beam over the prison. Aemon’s gaze drifted upward, following the light to the towering shape of the Great Pyramid of Meereen. It loomed high above the city, an oppressive symbol of power, bearing down on those beneath it.

He stared at the pyramid, its size and grandeur crushing to those who stood below it. For a moment, he swore he could hear something—a distant roar. The sound of a dragon, full of fury and rage. Or perhaps it was just his imagination, stirred by the oppressive weight of the night and the towering pyramid. Either way, it stoked a fire within him, setting his heart ablaze with something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“What are you looking at?” a voice interrupted his thoughts.