Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

A deep voice startled Aemon from behind. He glanced down to find the Blackhair strongman glaring at him, his dark eyes burning with annoyance.

“Disturb me while I’m sleeping again, and I’ll stab you in the ass,” the Blackhair growled, his voice thick with irritation.

Aemon glanced at the other sleeping slaves, unfazed. He crouched down beside the man and replied calmly, “No need. You prefer women.”

“There aren’t any women here,” the Blackhair retorted, licking the corner of his mouth with a smirk that was anything but kind.

“Let’s talk,” Aemon suggested, cutting straight to the point. He wasn’t interested in meaningless threats. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out one and a half leftover baked potatoes, offering them as a sign of goodwill.

The Blackhair raised an eyebrow, looking at the half-eaten potatoes with disdain. “What are you trying to do, feed a beggar?” he sneered, but took them anyway, chomping down between his words.

Aemon used the moment to press his advantage. He knew the mentality of men like this, men who’d been beaten down by the world but still had some fight left in them. He leaned closer and spoke in a low voice, “Do you want to be free?”

The Blackhair chuckled as if Aemon had just told a joke. “With you?” he scoffed, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Aemon didn’t waste time with a rebuttal. Instead, he raised an eyebrow and gestured to the shackles around his ankles. “I have a few... unorthodox skills,” he said, pulling a twisted fork from his pocket, a simple utensil he had swiped from the Colosseum’s dining area.

With practiced ease, he inserted the tip into the lock of his shackles. A click echoed in the quiet cell as the manacles snapped open. Aemon gave the Blackhair a calm, steady look and let the shackles drop, as if to say, See?

The Blackhair’s eyes widened slightly, but his expression quickly shifted into a smirk. “Quite the talent,” he said, impressed despite himself. The Colosseum was notorious for its tight security, and the locks on the slaves were specifically designed to prevent such escape attempts. This wasn’t a trick any common thief could pull off.

Aemon casually refastened the shackles, his demeanor growing serious. “If you help me, I can get us all out of here.”

The Blackhair’s amusement faded, and a skeptical look crossed his face. “And where exactly do you plan on going? Even if you pick the locks, without weapons, we won’t stand a chance against the guards. You’ll be dead before you make it ten steps.”

The Colosseum had a strict policy: all weapons were confiscated after each duel, leaving the slaves defenseless. But Aemon remained undeterred.

“I’ve already figured that out,” Aemon replied, his voice firm. “I saw where they store the weapons today—it’s behind the rest area.”

The Blackhair listened, still skeptical but intrigued. Aemon’s plan seemed simple but feasible: unlock their shackles, sneak out, reach the storage room, and arm themselves. From there, they’d stand a chance.

After a moment, the Blackhair leaned back, considering the idea. “The Colosseum is heavily guarded. Even if we make it to the weapons, getting out of here will be difficult.”

Aemon met his gaze steadily. “Difficult, yes. But not impossible. I can come back for the others once I’ve gotten out.”

The Blackhair was silent, his eyes searching Aemon’s face for any sign of doubt. Why should he trust this scrawny boy, or believe he’d return to free the rest of them?

Aemon’s next words were slow, deliberate. “I am of the blood of the Dragon.” He paused, letting the words sink in before continuing, “You can ask Sally. She’ll vouch for me.”

At the mention of his lineage, the Blackhair’s pupils contracted, his demeanor shifting from doubt to deep contemplation. The blood of the Dragon was no small claim.

...

Seven days later

The Colosseum, Meereen.

After yet another grueling duel, the victorious slaves trudged back to the rest area, sweat mixing with the blood on their bodies. Aemon moved with the crowd, slipping into an inconspicuous spot along the wall, trying to stay unnoticed.

“I’ve found fifty men willing to help,” came a low voice.

Aemon glanced up to see the Blackhair strongman approaching, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings for eavesdroppers.

“Only fifty?” Aemon whispered, frowning. He had hoped for more—fifty men seemed barely enough to take on even the guards at the weapons storeroom, let alone fight their way out of the Colosseum.

The Blackhair scoffed, tearing into a piece of black bread. “And if there were more, could you trust them? The bigger the group, the quicker someone talks.”

Aemon couldn’t argue with that. Rallying fifty men in the cutthroat, backstabbing world of the Colosseum was an impressive feat on its own. More would mean more risk—more chances for someone to betray the plan.

He nodded in silent agreement.

“When do we move?” the Blackhair asked, a glint of anticipation in his eyes. The thought of slitting the guards’ throats and escaping Slaver’s Bay clearly filled him with barely contained excitement.

Aemon considered it for a moment, then whispered, “Half a month...”

Ding-dong!

The sharp clang of a gong interrupted him. The sound rang out three times in rapid succession—loud and jarring. It was the signal for all slaves to gather.

“Let’s see what’s happening,” Aemon muttered, swallowing the rest of his sentence as he stood. The other slaves around him cursed under their breath, hastily shoving food into their mouths before filing out. No one dared disobey the summons; the guards of the slave owners were merciless executioners, and defiance meant death.

The arena was eerily quiet when they arrived. The spectators had already left, and the grandstands loomed above, empty of the usual roars and jeers.

Aemon stepped out through the iron Sect, squinting against the harsh sunlight. As his eyes adjusted, he caught sight of a familiar figure standing in the center of the arena, bathed in the midday glow.

His heart skipped a beat.

“Sally!!” Aemon’s voice echoed across the blood-stained arena.

In the center, a gallows stood wrapped in thorny briars. Tied to the wooden frame was Sally, the middle-aged woman who had cared for him all this time. Her bloated body showed the harsh marks of the ropes, her wrists raw from the restraints. Beneath her, dry firewood had been piled high, ready to burn.

Aemon stood frozen, disbelief coursing through him. He never imagined he would see her like this—condemned and bound for execution.

Clang!

The guard, his face grim and emotionless, slammed a gong and pointed to the gallows. “This vile slave girl is a blood witch,” he shouted to the gathered crowd. “She’s been trading forbidden magic potions to the slaves in the Colosseum.”

The crowd erupted in a mix of murmurs and shouts. Aemon couldn’t fully grasp what was happening, but beside him, the Blackhair strongman looked shaken. He knew. The Colosseum cared little for its slaves unless they were undefeated champions. Wounded slaves were left to fend for themselves, receiving little to no treatment. Sally had been one of the few to help, secretly trading medicines through slave owner channels, offering both healing and information in exchange for survival.

The guard’s voice cut through the noise again as he berated the slaves, calling them worthless, before picking up a torch. With a sneer, he hurled it onto the woodpile beneath Sally.

Boom!

The fire ignited instantly, flames licking up the sides of the gallows. The wood had been soaked in oil, and the fire spread rapidly. Sari closed her eyes, her lips trembling as she whispered a prayer—a final plea to her god, hoping for salvation. But there would be none.

“Nooo!” Aemon’s cry was drowned by the crackling flames.

This woman had saved him, time and time again, persuading him not to give up, scavenging food and water to keep them alive. She wasn’t beautiful, she wasn’t powerful, but she had given everything to ensure they survived together.

Now, the fire raged, black smoke billowing into the air. Sally’s prayers grew frantic, her voice speeding up as the heat reached her skin. In seconds, her prayers turned to shrieks of agony as the flames consumed her clothes, burning her flesh.

“Don’t look,” the Blackhair strongman muttered, stepping in front of Aemon, shielding him from the horrific sight.

But Aemon stood in shock, his body rigid, unable to move. The last thing he saw was Sally’s face—her green eyes wide with terror. In a fleeting moment, their gazes locked across the flames. Recognition flickered in her eyes, followed by a brief, painful smile, her wrinkled eyes tightening in what seemed like a final act of tenderness.

Then her screams turned to cursing—her voice rising above the crackle of the fire as she damned every slave owner and their lackeys. She cursed them all, vowing they would meet the same fate.

Aemon felt the Blackhair strongman press him against his chest, trying to shield him from the horror, but the sound of Sally’s wails lingered, haunting the air.

“Ashes…” Aemon whispered, closing his eyes as his lips moved faintly. He understood. This was Sally’s last wish—a wish for vengeance, for justice.

Soon, the execution ended, the grim spectacle meant to deter rebellion among the slaves. As the fire smoldered, the slaves were ordered back to the underground cells. The rest area, which had once promised a brief respite, now seemed hollow and lifeless.

On the way back, the Blackhair strongman walked beside Aemon, his mood heavy. “Is the plan still half a month from now?” he asked cautiously. He had overheard the guards mention a grand event in Meereen in half a month—an event that would surely leave security weakened.

“No,” Aemon muttered, his voice steely with resolve. He clenched his fists, his head bowed. “Tonight.”

...

It was dusk.

The guards had begun their shift change, heading off to eat, leaving the underground cells lightly patrolled.

Click!

A cell door quietly swung open, and several shadowy figures slipped into the corridor. Aemon moved swiftly, dropping his shackles and hurrying to open the other cell doors one by one.

The imprisoned slaves erupted with excitement, shouting and cheering as their chains fell away. Their eyes gleamed with a dangerous mixture of desperation and hope. For some, this was a chance to escape, while others saw an opportunity to betray the escapees in exchange for favor. Either way, it was a fight for survival.

“Get out of here, all of you! If you want freedom, follow me!” the Blackhair strongman bellowed, leading the charge. His powerful voice cut through the chaos, rallying the slaves.

With one mighty blow, he smashed through the iron door. Two guards, stunned by the sudden commotion, barely had time to react. The Blackhair man shook off his chains and lunged at them, seizing one guard by the neck. Crack! The guard collapsed, lifeless.

“Charge!”

Blood spilled across the dungeon floor, and the sight sent the slaves into a frenzy. They surged forward, a wild mob, some darting off in all directions while others rallied behind the Blackhair strongman, following his lead.

Aemon, however, had a clear target. He sprinted towards the weapons storage room behind the rest area, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Who goes there!?”

A squad of guards was stationed outside the storage room, their hands tightening around their spears as they tried to rally against the oncoming slaves. But the moment of hesitation was fatal. The slaves, fueled by adrenaline and the scent of blood, descended on them. A vicious melee erupted, and the guards were quickly overwhelmed, torn apart before they could even call for reinforcements.

Click!

Aemon worked quickly, picking the lock to the storage room with calm precision. The door swung open, revealing rows of weapons and armor stacked neatly within.

The slaves’ eyes widened, and they surged forward, ready to plunder the armory and arm themselves. The smell of freedom was almost palpable.

“Stop right there! If you want to be free, listen to me first!”

The Blackhair strongman had already retrieved his enormous sword and now stood at the entrance of the armory, his voice booming. His shout halted the chaotic rush, his presence demanding attention.

The slaves paused, their breath ragged. While many had scattered, hundreds still remained, eyes gleaming with desperation. Yet, only a few dozen of them had been part of the planned escape—most of the others were simply swept up in the moment, clinging to any chance of survival.

“What do you want to say?” a young slave snapped, his voice seething with anger. “If we don’t run now, when will we?”

With weapons within reach, hope was finally tangible. The other slaves murmured in agreement, their expressions turning hostile. They were ready to break free, and anyone standing in their way was a threat.

"Listen to me, you scum!"

Aemon stepped forward, his voice cold and cutting through the tense air. “You want freedom? So do I. But do you really think you can win it with this handful of people and a few stolen weapons from the armory?” He gestured at the ragtag group around him. “You can’t even break out of the Colosseum, let alone a heavily guarded city like Meereen.”

The young slave who had challenged him earlier scowled, clearly unimpressed with the half-grown boy. "So, what are you going to do?"

Aemon took a breath, straightening his back as he drew from the speeches his father once gave. “Help me,” he declared, his arms wide, “and I will give you your freedom! I am of the blood of the dragon. If you help me escape, I will repay you with more than just survival. I will repay you with freedom.”

The slaves exchanged doubtful glances. Most of them knew nothing about the "blood of the dragon," and to them, Aemon was just a boy making grand claims.

But Aemon didn’t stop to explain. He had to prove himself. Without a word, he knocked over a brazier near the entrance of the armory, scattering glowing embers across the floor. The fire flared up as the coals hissed.

Stepping toward the flames, Aemon didn’t hesitate. He picked up a dagger from a fallen guard and, with a sharp, metallic sound, sliced his wrist. Blood dripped down, falling into the coals.

Boom!

The flames roared higher, as if the blood had fueled the fire itself. The slaves gasped, eyes wide with shock.

This was exactly the reaction Aemon had hoped for. He gritted his teeth through the searing pain and spoke through the rising heat. “I am Aemon Targaryen! The lost Dragonlord! Who will fight for me and for freedom?”

Silence gripped the room, every pair of eyes locked on Aemon as he stood, arm bleeding, in the midst of the flames. His sweat mingled with the blood, his face pale but defiant. He wasn’t immune to the fire, and the pain was excruciating, but he endured it.

What is a little pain in exchange for loyalty?

“I am a true Dragonlord!” Aemon shouted again, his voice louder, more commanding. “Who will fight for the Dragonlords?”

Plop! Plop!

Several slaves dropped to their knees, their faces flushed with excitement. They had seen many things in the Colosseum, but never a display like this. The flames danced around Aemon, a young figure standing tall amidst the fire, his presence almost otherworldly.

“Fight for the true Dragonlord!” the Blackhair strongman bellowed, his voice echoing through the armory. Without hesitation, he swung his massive sword, cutting down the shelves around him.

“For the true Dragonlord!” others echoed, their voices swelling into a chorus.

The wave of morale surged. The slaves, hearts pounding with newfound purpose, stormed the armory, grabbing weapons and armor. The atmosphere shifted—where there had been doubt, now there was determination. They were no longer desperate survivors; they were soldiers in a rebellion, warriors for the true dragon.

Aemon, trembling and weak from the pain, took a shaky step back. His arm throbbed, and when he glanced down, he noticed something strange—a faint layer of scaly lines traced across his skin, shimmering in the light of the flames.

The blood of the dragon.