Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

The barren mountain range stretched endlessly, its jagged peaks silhouetted against the dim sky. The caves carved into the mountainsides exuded an ominous stillness.

“Are you certain the solution lies here?” Daeron's voice echoed faintly as he glanced around, his tone laced with doubt.

The red priestess surveyed their surroundings, her crimson robes flowing lightly in the heated breeze. “I can only sense danger,” she replied solemnly, her gaze hardening.

The natural cave ahead yawned open, its darkness impenetrable to the naked eye. A thick, scorching scent emanated from its depths, unmistakable evidence of volcanic activity beneath their feet.

Quaithe stepped forward, her voice as detached as ever. “Opportunity and danger are inseparable,” she stated, her golden veil glinting faintly in the dull light.

Rhaegar, leaning heavily on Daeron's shoulder, interrupted the exchange with a soft but firm command. “Save your strength for the journey. Focus on the task ahead.”

Quaithe turned her head slightly, her veiled eyes regarding him. She nodded in silence.

The young king's condition was grave. His body fought against the cold poison coursing through his veins, with his fiery blood serving as his only defense. Yet, he grew weaker with each passing moment.

The group pressed onward, a tense silence enveloping them as they navigated the treacherous path. Suddenly, a low chant echoed from the cave's depths, the haunting sound reverberating through the darkness.

Rhaegar's weakened frame stirred, his senses as sharp as ever despite his state. “Something’s wrong,” he murmured, his voice faint.

Quaithe raised a hand, her expression darkening. “It’s the Fallen Warlocks of Asshai,” she said gravely. “This volcano provides the minerals they covet. They often conduct sacrifices to the evil gods here.”

In Asshai, a place steeped in shadow and arcane knowledge, sorcerers of every kind abounded. But where light flourished, darkness thrived, and many succumbed to its allure.

“Can we avoid them?” the red priestess asked, her voice carrying a hint of hope.

Quaithe’s veiled head tilted slightly. “No. The treasure lies deep within the volcano. They won’t let us take it without a fight.”

“But...” The priestess hesitated, torn between reluctance and necessity.

Rhaegar's sharp gaze swept over the group. Despite his frailty, his voice carried a chilling authority. “Approach quietly. Kill them all.”

The others exchanged uneasy glances. The king's ruthlessness remained unchanged, even in his weakened state. Yet, his suggestion left little room for debate.

“Be careful, brother,” Daeron said softly, his arm steadying Rhaegar as they prepared for the inevitable clash.

Rhaegar’s lips curled into a faint smile, his breath shallow. “Take care of yourself. Or you’ll have to answer to Rhaena.”

With a sudden burst of heat, the red priestess conjured a flame, igniting a torch and hurling it into the cave. Its flickering light revealed a chilling sight: a dozen black-robed figures standing in a circle. At the center, a blood-drenched altar bore the mutilated remains of their latest victims. Fresh blood flowed freely, pooling at the warlocks’ feet.

“Who dares disrupt the Lord of Light’s sacrifice?” one of the warlocks shouted, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and fear.

Their reaction was swift. Daggers gleamed in the torchlight as they surged forward, their murderous intent palpable.

“Strike!” Quaithe commanded, her golden blade flashing as she lunged toward the enemy. Her movements were precise and deadly, each strike cutting down a warlock with unerring accuracy.

The red priestess, less adept in combat, wielded her torch defensively, the flames keeping her attackers at bay.

Daeron turned to check on his brother, but Rhaegar was already gone.

Amid the chaos, Rhaegar’s figure blazed like a dark flame. His family sword, Blackfyre, arced through the air, cutting down enemies with terrifying ease. Black fire danced along his blade, consuming the darkness around him.

Pop! Pop!

In mere moments, most of the warlocks lay dead, their blood seeping into the volcanic stone.

One of the surviving warlocks shrieked in desperation, “He is a heretic of the Lord of Light! Sacrifice him to the flames!”

Rhaegar’s dual-colored eyes—one wreathed in frost, the other burning with black fire—met the warlock’s gaze. His voice was as cold as death itself. “I don’t believe in gods.”

Dragging his nearly paralyzed body forward, he swung Blackfyre with deadly precision, severing the warlock’s head in a single stroke.

The battle left the group weary but victorious. An hour later, Rhaegar’s strength gave out. He collapsed into Daeron’s arms, his pallor stark against the dim cave light.

“We need to move quickly,” Quaithe urged, her blade gleaming with freshly shed blood. “Others will come.”

She led the way deeper into the cavern, where the air grew hotter with every step. The red priestess followed, her robes scorched and disheveled. Together, they navigated the narrow passage, the bodies of fallen warlocks marking their path.

Finally, they reached the base of the volcano.

A rumbling echoed through the chamber, and the red glow of molten lava cast eerie shadows on the walls. Thick steam rose from the bubbling magma, the suffocating heat enveloping the group as they stood at the threshold of their goal.

“Cough, cough...” Harsh, acrid smoke filled the air, forcing everyone but Quaithe and Rhaegar to stagger back, choking on the stifling fumes. Even Daeron struggled to catch his breath, his body heaving as he inhaled the oppressive haze.

“You all need to leave,” Rhaegar ordered, his voice weak but unyielding. He pushed Daeron’s supporting hands away, steadying himself as he took a faltering step toward the crater.

“Brother, you can’t—” Daeron began, but Rhaegar cut him off with a sharp glance, his determination silencing further protest.

Ahead, the cavern opened to reveal a circular altar surrounded by a seething ring of magma. The heat shimmered in waves, distorting the air and making it nearly impossible to focus. On the altar rested a set of black armor, gleaming ominously amidst the fiery glow.

“That’s it?” Rhaegar’s voice sharpened, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the armor from his dreams.

The armor was like no other—Valyrian steel, impossibly thin yet exuding an air of unbreakable strength. Its surface was as dark as the void, with intricate runes carved into the metal. Crimson borders traced its edges, and noble rubies sparkled like captured embers. It was a masterpiece of both craftsmanship and sorcery, a relic that seemed to transcend the mortal world.

Quaithe stood beside him, her expression somber beneath the golden veil. “Everything bears a sign,” she intoned, her voice carrying an almost prophetic weight. “You are destined to have it.”

Rhaegar scanned the crater, his gaze tracing the ten-meter expanse of molten rock separating the altar from solid ground. The magma churned restlessly, a searing barrier teeming with danger. And beneath the surface, he could sense them—Firewyrms. The ancient creatures slumbered within the molten depths, their presence a looming threat.

“How do we reach it?” he asked, his tone calm but laced with urgency.

“Sacrifice,” Quaithe replied without hesitation, her voice cutting through the sweltering air like a blade.

Rhaegar froze, startled. “Sacrifice? What does that mean?”

Quaithe’s tone grew graver as she elaborated. “The Fallen Warlocks worship the Lord of Light. They pacify the Firewyrms with sacrifices, feeding them blood to lull them into a dormant state. Only then can the altar be approached safely.”

Rhaegar was silent, his mind racing as he considered the implications. At last, he turned to leave. “I’ll tell Daeron and the others to bring the bodies of the warlocks.”

“No,” Quaithe said sharply, her fatigue evident even through her usual poise. “Those bodies are tainted by dark magic. They will only provoke the Firewyrms further.”

Rhaegar paused, his gaze shifting to Quaithe. He studied her closely, his eyes searching for answers beneath the inscrutable veil. Her words hung heavy in the air, their meaning sinking in.

Quaithe smiled faintly, a weary but resolute expression crossing her face. “The Lord of Light has chosen me,” she said softly. “This treasure is meant for you, Your Grace. I will retrieve it.”

Rhaegar opened his mouth, but no words came. He didn’t understand—couldn’t comprehend the depths of her devotion or the cost of her choice. Was this the price of her borrowed life? The mask that granted her ageless beauty and boundless wisdom now demanded its toll.

“The golden mask binds freedom,” he thought, his chest tightening. “And gives only what it must take away.”

Quaithe seemed to sense his turmoil. She reached up, unfastening her golden mask with steady hands. For the first time, Rhaegar saw her face—delicate, serene, and undeniably beautiful. But as the moments passed, her features began to wither, the years she had defied catching up in a cruel, unrelenting tide. Her voice, once rich and measured, grew hoarse and brittle.

“Your Grace,” she rasped, her lips trembling as she spoke. “Tell Rhaena that I found the other half of the Western Continent... and that I regret I couldn’t tell her myself.”

She turned to the altar, her pale lips moving in a whispered chant. The words of the sacrifice spell echoed faintly, barely audible over the roiling magma.

Before Rhaegar could stop her, Quaithe stepped forward. Her frail body leaned back, her movements deliberate and resolute.

Plop!

The sound was sickeningly soft, like a branch snapping and falling into a still pond. A small plume of grey smoke rose where she vanished, and the magma hissed and bubbled as though swallowing her whole.

Rhaegar stood motionless, his body as heavy as lead. He stared at the spot where Quaithe had disappeared, the silence pressing down on him like a weight. He couldn’t grasp the depths of her sacrifice, couldn’t fully understand why she had chosen this path.

But he respected it.

...

The next morning, the oppressive gloom of the mountains remained unchanged, as if eternal.

“Roar!”

The cry of a massive black dragon shattered the silence, its roar reverberating through the rocky peaks. The colossal creature, over 200 meters long, leapt from the mountain's summit and landed with a ground-shaking crash. Dust and debris billowed into the air, obscuring the scene momentarily.

As the dust settled, figures emerged from the cave. At the forefront stood a tall man clad in armor that seemed almost alive, shrouded in black mist with crimson-lined edges. The intricate Valyrian steel gleamed faintly in the dim light, exuding both beauty and menace. His long silvery-gold hair cascaded to his waist, glinting like molten light against the dark backdrop.

“It’s dawn,” Rhaegar said softly, gazing up at the faint glow piercing the perpetual haze. He exhaled slowly, his breath steady and composed.

In the next moment, a dark, otherworldly energy radiated from him. The Blackfyre surged, enveloping his form. Horns of black bone sprouted from his flawless forehead, and a thin layer of black scales covered his cheeks and neck. His once-violet eyes transformed into sharp, vertical pupils glowing with a deep, unsettling hue.

With this transformation, the icy damage inflicted by the Night King vanished completely, replaced by a surge of unparalleled power.

Rhaegar Targaryen

Talent: Dreamer (Gold)

Bloodline: Dragonborn (90%)

Runes: Bronze (Green), Serpent (Blue), Dream Eater (Purple)

Blood Sorcery: Bat Worm (Blue), Dance of Dragons (Purple)...

Relics: Fire and Blood, Dreamscape, Protection of the Sea Dragon...

Special Items: Space Necklace, Dragonhorn (Mastered), Valyrian Armor (Mastered)

Evaluation: “A true dragon, on par with the gods.”

Rhaegar’s gaze lingered on the evaluation. His purple pupils, flecked with gold, remained calm and unwavering.

The Valyrian steel armor had unlocked the ancient potential buried deep within his bloodline, elevating it to 90%. This development pushed the boundaries of the ancient Valyrian Dragonlord bloodline to their absolute peak. In the long history of this world, no Dragonborn had ever reached such a level.

His eyes paused at the evaluation column, and a faint smirk touched his lips. “If they are on par with gods, does that not make them gods?” he murmured to himself.

He clenched his fist experimentally, feeling the immense strength coursing through his veins. With the transformation, he had glimpsed secrets long hidden within his bloodline—truths encoded in the essence of the Dragonlords. Their power was not a creation of sorcery or manipulation but a primal force intrinsic to humanity, as natural as the giants or the Children of the Forest.

But the knowledge came with a cost. To push the bloodline beyond 90%, to the mythical 100%, meant losing one’s humanity. The “person” would cease to exist, replaced by something unrecognizable.

Rhaegar’s focus returned to the present as the red priestess spoke, her voice hesitant. “Your Grace, what are your orders now?”

She looked lost, her expression still tinged with sorrow over Quaithe’s sacrifice. Though she, too, believed in the Lord of Light, the loss felt heavy—a reminder of the fragile line between faith and personal cost.

Rhaegar frowned slightly, his golden-tinged pupils narrowing as he gazed into the distance. With a flicker of will, he activated Dreamscape. Instantly, his consciousness surged outward, tearing through the barriers of space.

His vision raced across the lands, reaching the farthest northern stretches of the world.

The Shivering Sea spread out below, a vast expanse of dark, frigid waters littered with jagged icebergs. The polar wind howled, carrying the wails of the undead, and the sea itself seemed alive with an eerie stillness.

Above the icy waters, a pale skeletal dragon soared, its decayed wings struggling against the bitter cold. On its back sat the Night King, his icy blue eyes fixed on the endless expanse of mist ahead.

Time seemed to stretch as the ghoul dragon glided onward, eventually entering the cold, shifting fog. Then, a sound broke the silence—an ancient, primal howl that shook the very air.

The Night King’s body tensed. His ice-blue eyes scanned the mist warily, his hand resting on the skeletal dragon's decayed neck. Even he could feel the immense power within the fog.

Clang!

The water beneath them surged violently as a towering wave rose, scattering icebergs like leaves in a storm. From the mist emerged a colossal form, its sheer size dwarfing the dead dragon. The creature's head alone was massive enough to obscure the undead beast entirely.

The Night King turned his gaze slowly, his frozen features betraying a rare flicker of tension.

A legendary Ice Dragon emerged fully from the mist, its white scales glistening like carved diamonds. Each scale resembled a razor-sharp ice cone, and its body radiated an intense cold that seemed to freeze the very air. The dragon’s ice-blue pupils, narrowed and piercing, locked onto the Night King.

The skeletal dragon faltered under the Ice Dragon’s gaze, and the Night King’s clawed hand twitched as he began to gesture. The vision blurred and ended abruptly.

...

Rhaegar’s eyes snapped open, his body jolting slightly as the weight of the vision settled over him.

The Night King has left the North, he thought grimly. He now rides a dead dragon and seeks an Ice Dragon—a creature of unimaginable power.

The red priestess stepped closer, concern etched across her face. “Your Grace?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“I’m fine,” Rhaegar assured her, his tone steady. He reached out, running a hand over the dark scales of the dragon beside him. The creature rumbled softly, its green eyes glinting with an otherworldly intelligence.

Rhaegar smiled faintly. “My friend, it seems we’ve found an opponent worthy of our strength.”

The dragon, known as the Cannibal, growled in response. Its thick neck swayed, and its maw, filled with jagged teeth, dripped foul saliva.

“Very good,” Rhaegar said with a low chuckle. “We’ll need all the spirit we can muster.”

With a decisive wave, he issued the order. “Let’s go. Back to Westeros!”

“Yes, Your Grace!” the red priestess replied, the group rallying behind him as they prepared for the journey ahead.

The Cannibal let out a deafening roar, the sound echoing across the desolate mountains as the dragon took flight.

...

The Riverlands, Trident River Basin.

The vast encampment of the Westerlands army, 50,000 strong, sprawled across the plains. The golden lion banner of House Lannister fluttered proudly in the wind, a symbol of their might. On either side of the main force, thousands of cavalrymen stood in formation, poised like coiled vipers, their armor glinting in the midday sun.

Opposite them, the Riverlands coalition, a ragtag force of 10,000 men, struggled to hold formation. Without cavalry to counter the Lannister flanks, they relied solely on spearmen and archers, their lines thin and vulnerable.

“Attack!”

The Lannister commander’s shout echoed across the field, and the golden-armored soldiers began their advance in disciplined square formations.

At the head of the army, Lord Jason Lannister, adorned in ostentatious golden armor atop a snow-white horse, surveyed the battlefield with a smug grin. “The Riverlands coalition will do nothing but wail and weep under my army,” he declared, laughing boisterously.

Behind him, a heavy carriage carried an enormous iron cage. Inside, a yellow lion—the Lannisters’ pride and symbol—lay trembling, its growls pitiful rather than fierce. Jason turned and frowned at the creature. “Why isn’t it roaring? Where’s its fighting spirit?” he muttered.

The Lannisters had their lion, and the Targaryens their dragons. Jason had scoffed at the comparison many times before. After all, who would fear something caged?

But his thoughts were interrupted.

“Roar...”

A thunderous, otherworldly sound tore through the battlefield. It was no lion’s roar but something far more primal, far more devastating. Jason froze, his laughter dying in his throat.

Looking up, his eyes widened in terror as dark green scales filled his vision. A vast shadow blotted out the sun, plunging him and his retinue into darkness.

Before Jason could react, a clear, commanding voice rang out from the sky.

“Dracarys, Uragax!”

A green torrent of Dragonfire rained down, engulfing the Lannister encampment. Boom! The explosion scattered Jason’s 2,000 personal guards like leaves in a storm.

The golden lion banner of House Lannister vanished in the blaze, along with the gilded tents and the iron cage. The lion within—once the symbol of Lannister pride—was reduced to ash. The air filled with the acrid stench of scorched flesh and metal.

High above, Prince Baelon Targaryen sat astride Uragax, his expression as cold and unyielding as the firestorm he unleashed. His dragon-taming whip snapped through the air as he issued his next command.

“Dracarys!”

“Roar!”

Uragax’s mighty roar was soon echoed by two more as Vhagar and Vermithor descended from the clouds. The two ancient dragons, their immense forms casting long shadows, dove toward the battlefield, their fury unleashed upon the Lannister forces.

Boom! Boom!

Under Baelon’s deliberate control, the three dragons obliterated every Lannister position marked by their banners.

Vhagar, in particular, was merciless. Her cold, calculating eyes betrayed no emotion as she decimated the scattering troops with a ruthlessness honed through centuries of war. Her first rider, Queen Visenya Targaryen, had once commanded her in the conquest of Westeros, burning fields and armies alike in what became known as “The Fire that Consumes the Fields.” Now, the same fate had come for the Lannisters.

Hours passed, and the battlefield became a charred wasteland. The once-proud banners of House Lannister lay in ashes, and their armies had been reduced to scattered remnants. Baelon soared above it all, Uragax gliding effortlessly through the smoky air.

The combined Riverlands coalition, too small to capture all the retreating Lannister forces, struggled to hold the battlefield. The tide of the battle was turning, but the end had not yet come.

Suddenly, the sound of galloping hooves filled the air.

“Knights of the Vale, charge!”

Across the river, a force of 10,000 cavalry, bearing the crescent moon and eagle banner of House Arryn, stormed onto the battlefield. The Vale knights rode fearlessly through the rushing waters, splitting into two groups to encircle the retreating Lannister forces.

With their arrival, the fate of the Westerlands army was sealed. The Riverlands coalition surged forward, their morale restored by the sudden reinforcements.

Above the battlefield, an elegant silver dragon descended gracefully, its polished scales gleaming like molten silver. Its rider, Daenerys Targaryen, surveyed the battlefield from her lofty vantage point. Her silver hair, braided back tightly, glinted in the sunlight, and her petite frame was clad in armor of black and red, bearing the sigils of House Targaryen.

Baelon looked up, his sharp eyes meeting hers across the smoky sky.

Daenerys nodded curtly, her expression a mixture of pride and defiance. She had brought the Knights of the Vale to ensure victory. With their combined might, the remnants of the Lannister forces would not survive.

As her dragon circled above, Daenerys’s unspoken message was clear:

As long as a Targaryen breathes, the Iron Throne remains unshaken.

...

The shores of Dragonstone were alive with the sound of crashing waves. The sea spray glistened in the pale morning light as a small boat nudged onto the beach. From within, three dark-robed figures stepped onto the shore—two adults and a child.

“Prince, you should call for aid like the heir prince did. Sunspear and Oldtown won’t hold out much longer,” one of the figures urged. He removed his hood, revealing the solemn face of Erryk Cargyll, a knight of the Kingsguard.

The second robed figure followed suit, revealing himself to be Arryk Cargyll, Erryk’s twin and fellow Kingsguard. “Summerhall’s location is critical,” Arryk added, his tone heavy with concern. “You don’t need to risk your life.”

Despite their pleas, the small figure in the black robe ignored them. Without a word, he sprinted up the path toward the towering Dragonmont, the volcanic mountain that loomed over Dragonstone like a sentinel.

A gust of sea wind whipped back his hood, revealing his face.

Viserion Targaryen, silver-haired and pale, pressed onward with a determined expression. Though his frame was thin and his years few, his steps were purposeful. His mind was set.

The rebellion in Dorne, the unrest in Oldtown—both were fractures threatening the stability of the realm. From Summerhall, Viserion had watched over the Three Southwest Territories, a duty left to him after his mother had journeyed to the Wall. With his sister Daenaera still young and his eldest brother Baelon consumed by the greater rebellion in the Westerlands, the burden fell squarely on his shoulders.

“We can’t lose an inch of House Targaryen’s lands,” Viserion muttered through gritted teeth, his pace quickening. His second brother, Aemon, was already dead, and his third brother, Maekar, was overseas. He would not sit idle while the realm fractured further.

“Faster!” he urged himself, his legs burning as the sulfur-tinged air of Dragonmont grew heavier around him.

The Dragonkeepers stationed near the mountain’s base noticed him immediately.

“Clear the way for His Highness!” Erryk barked, shoving aside the startled keepers.

“Wait!” one elderly Dragonkeeper cried out in alarm. “You can’t just barge into the dragons’ lairs! It’s too dangerous!”

But there was no stopping Viserion. The boy pressed forward, squeezing past the crowd and ascending the treacherous path up Dragonmont.

Viserion’s thoughts churned as he climbed. His mother had once told him of the unclaimed dragons on Dragonstone: the regal Silverwing, the fearsome Iragaxys the Bloodwing, and the elusive Grey Ghost.

“Balerion, protect me,” he whispered under his breath. Balerion, the ancient Valyrian god of death, was not someone he wanted to meet just yet. Today, he had one goal: to tame a dragon and prove his worth.

Suddenly, a dark shadow streaked across the mountainside, accompanied by the thunderous sound of wings. A dragon—its blood-red wings glowing in the sunlight—raced overhead, clearly startled by the commotion below.

Viserion’s eyes widened. “Iragaxys!” he called out, raising his hands high.

The enormous dragon swooped down, its scarlet wings slicing through the air before landing in a cloud of dust and smoke. Iragaxys, a dragon renowned for its ferocity and size, was a staggering thirty meters long. Among the keepers, it was whispered to be the reincarnation of Balerion, the Black Dread himself.

“Iragaxys, I’m here!” Viserion declared, coughing as the dust choked him. Reaching to his waist, he pulled free a short sword and a dragon crystal dagger, both gifts from a royal feast.

“Roar!”

Iragaxys’s eyes, slitted and glowing, locked onto the boy. A low growl rumbled from its throat as it spotted the weapons. The dragon’s chest expanded, its mouth opening to reveal a growing orb of black Dragonfire.

“No! No Dragonfire!” Viserion shouted, his voice trembling. Quickly, he dropped both the sword and the dagger, raising his empty hands high to show his intent.

Iragaxys paused, its murderous gaze shifting to curiosity. The flames in its throat subsided, and it cocked its massive head, waiting.

“Iragaxys, come with me!” Viserion pleaded, taking slow, deliberate steps toward the beast. His feet, raw and bleeding from the climb, faltered but did not stop.

The boy’s determination shone through his fear. He moved forward despite the dragon’s imposing stance, despite the sharp pain in his legs, and despite the instinctual terror screaming at him to run.

“Roar!”

Iragaxys spread its wings, adopting an offensive posture, its body taut with tension. It was a clear warning: come closer, and you die.

Viserion hesitated, swallowing hard. Then, summoning every ounce of courage, he shouted:

“Come on! My father’s son is no coward, and I am a Targaryen!”

His voice rang out like a battle cry, his resolve unwavering. He knew there was no turning back. Either he mounted the dragon today, or he died trying.

Iragaxys froze, momentarily stunned by the boy’s boldness. Slowly, the dragon tilted its head, its fiery gaze softening. With a deep rumble, it lowered its proud head and extended its broad, scaled back.

The gesture was clear.

“Hahaha!” Viserion laughed, relief flooding through him as strength returned to his weary limbs. He climbed onto Iragaxys’s back, gripping the dragon’s rough scales tightly.

At the base of Dragonmont, the Cargyll twins stood with tense expressions, barring the Dragonkeepers from ascending.

“Roar!”

A shadow passed over them, blotting out the sunlight. All heads turned upward as Iragaxys soared into the sky, its scarlet wings cutting through the clouds. On its back, the silver-haired boy sat tall and proud, his determination unshaken.

“Fly!” Viserion commanded, his voice clear and strong.

The black dragon roared in response, its powerful wings carrying them away from Dragonstone and into the vast sky beyond.