Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Half a month later.

King's Landing, Mud Gate.

“Roar!”

Several dragons soared through the sky, their thunderous roars reverberating through the city as they playfully chased each other.

And on the city wall stood a scarlet dragon. Its body emanated a murderous aura, and its sharp, towering horned crown looked as though it could pierce the very heavens.

Baelon stood frozen, his lips trembling as he whispered repeatedly, “Aemon...”

Opposite him, mounted atop a magnificent red dragon, was a figure all too familiar.

The face Baelon had longed to see—day and night, without end—was even more vivid than his own reflection in a mirror. The sight brought a flood of emotion, and tears welled up in his eyes.

“It’s me,” Aemon said with a warm smile, his short silver-and-gold hair shimmering like molten light under the sun.

Unable to restrain himself any longer, Baelon broke into tears and leaped forward.

Aemon, unable to suppress his own joy, slid off the dragon and opened his arms wide. They embraced tightly, the force of their hug speaking volumes.

How long had it been?

Finally, the brothers were reunited. No words could capture the magnitude of this moment; a single embrace was worth more than a thousand exchanges.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” Aemon said, his voice trembling. He wiped away a tear, his laugh breaking through the overwhelming emotion.

“Stupid big brother, crying like a child,” Baelon said, his voice shaky yet teasing. He slapped Aemon hard on the back.

“You little brat,” he chided, his voice thick with emotion. “If you were alive, why didn’t you come back sooner?”

“I’m back now, aren’t I?” Aemon replied, rubbing his chest dramatically, though his grin didn’t falter.

Aemon stepped aside, gesturing toward the magnificent red dragon beside him. “This is Red Dragon Ursarion.”

Baelon’s eyes lit up with recognition. “A descendant of Dreamfyre,” he exclaimed, astonished. “Hatched from the same clutch as Iragaxys and Thunderstrider.”

The news had traveled from The Reach only three days earlier.

Baelon’s younger brother, Viserion, had joined the battle in Oldtown astride Iragaxys, the Bloodwing. Together, they had reduced Qarth’s ships and those infected with grayscale to ash.

Reports indicated that Oldtown was rallying a vast army, preparing to march on Dorne through The Prince’s Pass to quell the rebellion.

The victories and the news of Aemon’s return filled Baelon with joy he could scarcely contain.

“We’ve been blessed with good tidings,” he said, his smile unwavering.

Aemon patted his chest confidently. “I’ve already conquered Slaver’s Bay,” he declared, his voice brimming with determination. “More than 100,000 Dothraki cavalry are crossing the sea as we speak.”

In the face of the Dothraki's fearsome cavalry, the uprisings across the realm seemed trivial—a mere nuisance to be swept away.

“Roar!”

The sound of a dragon echoed once more. A silver-gray dragon soared over Blackwater Bay, streaking toward them with a thunderous cry.

The brothers turned together, certain it was Maekar arriving.

“Roar...”

Suddenly, the sky darkened. The once serene white clouds were scattered violently, leaving only an oppressive, endless blackness.

Descending from the sky was The Cannibal.

Its immense, charcoal-black wings cast a vast shadow as it enveloped the silver-gray dragon and hurtled toward King’s Landing. The sight was apocalyptic—a harbinger of doom.

Aemon’s smile vanished. His body trembled as he uttered in a faltering voice, “Father...”

...

King's Landing, Dragon Gate.

A colossal, dark form loomed, absorbing every ray of sunlight and radiating an intense heat that melted the snow around it. What seemed at first like an immovable mountain of coal revealed itself to be a dragon, its presence undeniable the moment you caught sight of its eerie, green eyes.

Before it, over 100,000 Dothraki cavalry stood in perfect formation, their heads bowed in reverence. The silence among them was absolute, like an unspoken tribute to the beast.

Rhaegar stood amidst them, his gaze sweeping indifferently over the assembled warriors. These were the forces he had gathered—temporary soldiers conscripted for one purpose: to serve as cannon fodder in the decisive battle against the White Walkers at the Wall.

“Father, let me go with you,” Aemon pleaded, clinging to his father’s legs like a child, his eyes shining with longing.

In this moment, King Aemon of Slaver’s Bay, who commanded armies and dragons, seemed no older than the boy he had once been.

Rhaegar sighed softly, placing a hand on his son’s head. His tone was both tender and firm. “No, you must stay with Baelon.”

This was a son he had thought lost forever, now returned to him after enduring unimaginable trials. How could a father feel anything but love and relief at such a reunion? The mere thought of Aemon enduring further suffering filled him with pain.

“No! Take me with you,” Aemon insisted, his determination unyielding.

He gestured to the Dothraki cavalry. These elite warriors, who had followed him across the sea, were his accomplishment. If he was to be separated from the fight, there must be some compensation. Surely his place was by his father’s side.

“Please, Father,” Baelon added, his earnest eyes reflecting the same determination as his younger brother. “Let us go north together.”

It wasn’t just the two brothers. Nearby, Maekar and Daenerys stood silently, their gazes expectant and resolute.

“No!” Rhaegar said sharply, rubbing his temples as the pressure of their pleas mounted.

He refused to risk the future of their house. The previous generation had already gone to the Wall, and it was unthinkable for the next to follow and potentially meet their demise.

His sons were accomplished men, capable of leading. If the Wall fell and the White Walkers descended, they could still take their dragons and lead the family to safety in Essos.

“Father, I want to see my mother,” Aemon said suddenly, his voice tinged with a sadness that softened the resolve in his father’s eyes. Then, his tone grew firm. “The Dothraki trust me. They will only march forward if I am with you.”

As he spoke, Aemon shot a meaningful look at Baelon.

Baelon hesitated, clearly conflicted, before finally gritting his teeth and saying, “Father...”

“All right, that’s enough,” Rhaegar interrupted, cutting off Baelon’s plea with a tone of finality. He glanced at Aemon and relented. “You may come—and even ride the Wall—but you must first persuade your mother and sister Baela to stay behind.”

It was a necessary compromise. The dragons of the three women were insufficient to ensure their safety in battle. Aemon, however, had proven himself capable through trials that had hardened him.

One son to the fight in exchange for the safety of three was a bargain Rhaegar could accept.

“Good!” Aemon exclaimed, his joy unrestrained. He let go of his father’s leg, his composure returning as swiftly as it had left.

The transformation was instant. King Aemon of Slaver’s Bay was back in command, mounting the red dragon Ursarion with the authority of a leader. At his back were over 100,000 Dothraki cavalry, ready to follow him into the fray.

“You all, take care of yourselves,” Rhaegar said, his voice tinged with a quiet warmth as he placed a hand on each of his children. Then, without looking back, he turned and climbed onto the Cannibal’s massive back.

“Roar...”

The Cannibal’s earth-shaking cry echoed through the frosty air as it unfurled its great wings, scattering the falling snow.

The children watched as the enormous dragon took to the sky, its form disappearing into the distance.

Below, the thunderous roar of over 100,000 Dothraki cavalry erupted, filling the cold wind with their war cries. The ground trembled as they surged forward, heading north under the shadow of the dragon that led them.

...

The Wall, Castle Black.

“Your Grace, the Prince has sent a message,” said Cregan, his massive sword, Ice, strapped across his back as he approached the king.

Rhaegar stood on the watchtower, his gaze fixed on the desolate expanse beyond the Wall. He had returned five days ago, bringing with him not only much-needed supplies but also an army of over 100,000 Dothraki cavalry.

The Wall, once vulnerable, was now fortified and ready for war.

“Take me to him,” Rhaegar said, his violet eyes regaining their focus. He turned from the icy vista and began descending the watchtower steps.

“After you,” Cregan said, his tone respectful as he led the way.

Soon, they reached a bonfire burning on the battlements.

“Father!”

Aemon’s face lit up as he rubbed his hands together near the flames for warmth. He stepped forward eagerly, saying, “My mother sent me to check on you.”

Rhaegar glanced at him with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. “Your mother will only be scolding me now,” he replied dryly.

“Heh heh...” Aemon chuckled sheepishly, scratching the back of his head.

The family had barely spent two days together at the Wall before Rhaegar had ordered their mother, Rhaenyra, and sister, Baela, to withdraw from the North. Yet, as Aemon well knew, his father’s attempt to send them away had ultimately failed.

“I’ll head back to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea,” Aemon said casually, patting his hip as he prepared to leave. “Nothing much happening here at Castle Black.”

“Get lost,” Rhaegar said, waving him away dismissively.

Unbothered by his father’s curt words, Aemon mounted his fiery red dragon, Ursarion, and took to the skies.

The moment he disappeared into the horizon, Rhaegar’s smile faded, replaced by a grim expression.

The situation was dire. Rhaenyra, Baela, and their aunt Rhaenys had refused to leave the North and were now stationed at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.

Worse, the news was bleak. Laenor and Seasmoke had been attacked, and Eastwatch itself had come under assault by the White Walkers. To Rhaegar’s horror, Seasmoke had fallen—and had been turned into a corpse dragon.

Every fortress along the Wall, all 18 of them, was now sealed. Ice and water fortifications fused seamlessly with the Wall, leaving only two vulnerable points for the army of White Walkers to exploit: Castle Black and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.

Rhaegar had stationed himself at Castle Black, bolstered by the aid of Daemon and Aemond. Eastwatch, meanwhile, was reinforced with a larger contingent of soldiers and seven dragons: Meleys, Dreamfyre, Sunfyre, Ursarion, Syrax, Moondancer, and Morning.

While Moondancer and Morning were weaker in combat, the fortress was primarily defended by the might of Aunt Rhaenys, Aegon, and Helaena, supported by Rhaenyra and Aemon.

The balance of power between the two fortresses was near equal, ensuring that the Night King would find no easy path forward.

Rhaegar took a deep, steadying breath. “Night King,” he murmured to himself. “It’s about time you arrived.”

The air carried an ominous weight, and every fiber of his being told him the battle would begin at any moment.

The Haunted Forest.

The trees had been felled, leaving the snowy fields littered with stakes and barren stumps.

RUMBLE!

A vast, black tide surged forward—a relentless army of wights that seemed to stretch into eternity, their advance accompanied by a bone-chilling wind.

“Roar!”

A ghastly dragon of death emerged first, its tattered wings flapping with eerie grace. The dragon’s skeletal head was missing its lower jaw, yet its throat glowed with the icy blue fire of undeath.

A White Walker rode atop the dragon, brandishing an ice-crystal spear. Though silent, the menace of its presence was deafening.

The corpse dragon advanced swiftly, leading the undead horde toward the Wall.

“Roar!”

From within the Wall itself came a sharp, defiant hiss. A massive, scarlet dragon slithered down from its icy perch, its serpentine form coiling as it leaped into action.

Daemon, clad in black steel armor, sat astride Caraxes. His face was cold and resolute as he growled, “Scum. Let me meet you.”

BOOM!

Caraxes’s narrow eyes burned with fury. With a thunderous roar, it unleashed a torrent of scarlet Dragonfire, charging headlong at the undead dragon.

The wight dragon responded in kind, spewing an icy blue inferno from its throat.

BOOM!

Red fire collided with blue, sending sparks and shards of ice cascading through the air in a breathtaking display of destruction.

WHOOSH!

An ice spear shot out of the shadows, hurtling toward Daemon and Caraxes.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed, and he yanked hard on the reins, forcing Caraxes to veer sharply.

CRACK!

The spear grazed Caraxes, piercing its scarlet scales and leaving a gaping wound on its chest. The dragon let out a pained roar, its serpentine body twisting in agony.

“Got you,” Rhaegar muttered from the Wall, his keen eyes locking onto the source of the attack.

In the distance, the shadow of a massive creature emerged from the ruined forest.

The Night King’s mount—a gleaming white Ice Dragon—stepped into view, its immense body carved from shimmering ice.

“So big,” Rhaegar muttered, his expression tightening. He had underestimated his foe.

The Ice Dragon, towering like a mountain, crushed the surrounding pine trees with each step, their trunks reduced to splinters. Measuring 300 meters in length, the dragon radiated a bone-chilling cold with every breath.

The very sight of it sent a shiver through the hearts of even the bravest warriors.

“Roar...”

The Cannibal descended from the sky, landing atop the Wall with a thunderous crash. Its green eyes glowed with feral cruelty as it roared, asserting its dominance.

Rhaegar climbed onto the Cannibal’s back, his eyes fixed on the Night King in the distance.

“Be careful, my friend,” he murmured to his dragon.

Blackfyre, his ancestral sword, shimmered in his hand, and his armor seemed to radiate a faint, smoky aura.

The Night King, seated atop his Ice Dragon, raised his spear high, his ice-blue eyes devoid of emotion.

“Roar...”

The Ice Dragon howled, its wings of translucent blue bone slicing through the frigid air as it launched its attack.

“Roar...”

The Cannibal roared in defiance, its maw opening wide, ready to rip its foe apart.

As the two dragons clashed in the skies, the battle on the ground began in earnest.

The army of wights surged toward the Wall like a black wave, clawing and climbing with mindless fury.

The Night’s Watch and the Kingdom’s soldiers held firm, raining fire oil and rolling logs onto the undead masses. Explosions from the Children of the Forest’s firebombs lit up the battlefield, turning scores of wights to ash.

“I’ll handle this!”

Nunu, the giant, let out a deafening roar as he hefted a massive grinding wheel and hurled it down, flattening a swath of the undead.

From atop the Wall, and within its icy fortresses, every tribe and every ally fought fiercely, determined to hold the line. The Great Battle of the Wall had begun.

Ten thousand miles high in the sky, two titanic beasts were locked in a vicious struggle, hurling torrents of Dragonfire at each other. One was black as night, the other white as freshly fallen snow. They spiraled and twisted through the air, their movements painting a living yin and yang in the heavens.

“Cannibal, rip off its wings!” Rhaegar's voice echoed, his body trembling as he scrutinized the Night King's every move.

The Night King, perched atop his icy mount, was faring no better. The Ice Dragons, unlike mindless wights, were ancient beings with intelligence and wills of their own. They had little regard for the cold deity riding them, their thoughts solely on the enemy before them.

Repeatedly, the Night King raised his ice spear, only to have his aim spoiled by the violent jolts of the battle.

A cruel glint flashed in the Cannibal’s emerald eyes. With a guttural roar, it made a calculated sacrifice, exposing its abdomen to the Ice Dragon’s sharp claws. As the talons tore through its flesh, the Cannibal lunged forward, its massive jaws clamping down and ripping a portion of the Ice Dragon’s wing clean off.

The Ice Dragon’s roar of agony reverberated through the sky. Its immense body thrashed, smashing into the Cannibal and sending the black dragon hurtling back. At the same time, its claws raked across the Cannibal’s belly, leaving a gruesome wound.

Both dragons reeled from their injuries. The Cannibal’s belly was torn open, its searing entrails partially exposed. The Ice Dragon, crippled by its mangled wing, showed deep cracks forming along its icy frame. Unable to maintain flight, it began an uncontrollable descent.

“Cannibal, are you okay?” Rhaegar’s voice was tight with concern as he leaned forward, studying his dragon intently.

The Cannibal shook its massive head, beating its wings to steady its flight. Despite the grievous wound, it managed to descend gradually. Rider and dragon shared an unspoken understanding—it was not fatally injured.

The Cannibal, shrewd as ever, had deliberately risked its life, knowing that crippling the Ice Dragon’s ability to fly was the key to victory.

“Let’s go after it!” Rhaegar commanded, unsheathing Blackfyre, the ancestral Valyrian steel sword of his house. His eyes scanned the skies warily for any ambush, but none came.

Below, a thunderous crash announced the Ice Dragon’s landing. Its massive form collided with the frozen ground near the Great Wall, crushing swathes of dead in its wake. The beast twisted at the last moment, absorbing the impact with a somersault that reduced the force of its fall.

The Night King, undeterred, slid from the Ice Dragon’s back. His emotionless gaze shifted from the dark form of the Cannibal to the towering wall before him.

“Roar...” The Ice Dragon, unaffected by sentiment, unleashed a torrent of azure Dragonfire. The searing flame shattered the frozen iron gate of the Great Wall, carving a gaping hole through the centuries-old barrier. Wights swarmed into the breach in an unnervingly disciplined march.

From above, Rhaegar’s purple eyes narrowed in realization. “I underestimated you,” he murmured, understanding at last that the Night King’s objective had never been a mere skirmish. The true goal was to breach the Great Wall and unleash the horde upon the lands beyond.

“Roar!” The Sheepstealer, lean and sinewy, burst from the city walls, diving to block the gap. Its flames roared over the advancing ghouls, creating a scorched no-man’s-land that stemmed their tide.

Rhaegar straightened, his voice firm. “Land, Cannibal!”

The Cannibal hesitated briefly, its glowing eyes locking with Rhaegar’s. A reassuring pat on its scaled back accompanied a laugh. “We have our own opponents.”

Rhaegar dismounted as the Cannibal descended, landing heavily. The dragon pressed its shoulder to the ground to ease his rider’s descent.

“Don’t disgrace me,” Rhaegar whispered, resting his forehead against the beast’s scarred snout. Then, with deliberate steps, he strode into the writhing mass of dead.

“Ghostly thing, stop right there!” he bellowed, slicing through a nearby wight with a backhand swing of Blackfyre.

The Night King turned, his lifeless face betraying a hint of surprise. He seemed not to have anticipated Rhaegar’s bold charge. With an imperious gesture, he summoned a flood of dead to meet the swordsman.

The transformed White Walkers, once the commanders of this undead army, had been nearly wiped out. Only one remained, tasked with controlling the Wight Dragon. For now, the Night King had to rely on the mindless masses to buy time.

“Ooh~~”

A sudden cheer broke the tension as the Sheepstealer, who had been blocking the gap in the Wall, shifted aside. From behind, a flood of Dothraki cavalry poured forth, their war cries echoing across the battlefield. Each rider bore a curved blade coated in fire oil, the flames dancing like serpents in the cold air. Together, they formed an unbroken line of fiery destruction, cutting through the dead ranks with unstoppable force.

Rhaegar's lips curled into a grin. The reinforcements lightened the weight of battle, though the duel ahead loomed large. As the Dothraki carved a path through the enemy, a clear space opened amidst the snowy, blood-soaked battlefield—a stage set for two kings to clash.

The Night King stood stoic, his icy face unreadable, clutching his ice-crystal spear. With a burst of speed, he charged forward.

Clang!

The Blackfyre and the ice-crystal spear met in a clash of titanic strength, sending shards of ice scattering like glass. The force drove Rhaegar back several paces, but his movements were controlled, using the momentum to absorb the raw power behind the White Walker's strike.

Unrelenting, the Night King pressed forward, his spear movements precise and practiced, echoing the mastery of countless spear-wielding warriors.

“Heh,” Rhaegar chuckled darkly, his grin twisting into something almost menacing. “This time, you only have one life.”

With his left hand, he drew his second Valyrian steel sword, Nightfall, its edge gleaming ominously in the dim light. This was no dream, and he was no mortal to be felled by a single death. Adorned in Valyrian steel armor, armed with twin legendary blades, Rhaegar radiated an aura that rivaled the gods.

With a sudden surge of strength, he attacked.

Clang! Clang!

The twin swords became a blur of lethal arcs, hammering the ice-crystal spear relentlessly. Sparks of ice and steel danced in the air as Rhaegar's strikes forced the Night King to retreat. The undead lord's unblinking ice-blue eyes focused on the barrage, but even he could not keep pace with the dazzling speed of the assault.

In moments, the Night King's frost-armored chest was exposed, large sections of his torso sliced open. Though the White Walker’s body lacked the weaknesses of flesh and blood, the cumulative damage was undeniable.

Clang!

A final strike shattered the spear in the Night King's hand. The weapon flew from his grasp as the Night King staggered, his movements slower, his defenses unraveling.

His head tilted up, then down, in a near-comical gesture of disbelief as he processed the relentless onslaught. Then, in desperation, his mouth opened wide in a silent, chilling roar.

“Roar...”

The Ice Dragon responded immediately, its guttural cry shaking the earth as it trampled through hordes of wights, surging toward the battle.

Rumble!

The Cannibal intercepted the icy beast with a thunderous leap, its coal-black form slamming down on its foe. Its massive jaws clamped onto the Ice Dragon’s throat, crushing the ice-spiked surface.

The Ice Dragon thrashed wildly, azure Dragonfire spewing from its maw in violent bursts. Its wings beat against the Cannibal, each flap sending waves of frost through the battlefield.

Puff! Puff!

Ice spikes erupted from the Ice Dragon’s body, piercing the Cannibal’s obsidian scales, but the black dragon’s emerald eyes gleamed with feral excitement. With grim determination, it drove its fangs deeper, piercing the cold, brittle armor of the Ice Dragon and draining its freezing blue blood.

The two dragons writhed like serpents, their battle a symphony of destruction.

Meanwhile, Rhaegar pressed his advantage. “Ghostly thing, you shouldn’t have woken up,” he growled, his voice icy with conviction.

The Night King swung a pale fist in defiance, but as it met the edge of Blackfyre, the skin disintegrated into powder. Rhaegar’s strikes did not falter.

With Nightfall, he plunged into the Night King’s abdomen. With Blackfyre, he swung horizontally, severing the head from its shoulders in one fluid motion.

Plop!

The Night King's pale body collapsed, breaking apart into icy shards. Yet, his head remained intact, rolling across the battlefield to land in the snow. Its ice-blue eyes stared upward, unseeing but still unnervingly alive. The mouth moved weakly, attempting to form words.

“Not dead yet?” Rhaegar muttered, his brows furrowing in disbelief.

Stepping forward, his every movement charged with purpose, he raised Blackfyre. The ancestral blade gleamed as he plunged it into the center of the Night King’s skull.

The mouth froze mid-word. Then, like a balloon punctured, the head burst apart into a wisp of cold, blue wind.

Rhaegar sighed, his body finally relaxing. But the cold blue wind changed direction, swirling ominously before piercing through his back and into his heart.

The Valyrian steel armor pulsed with a dark aura, struggling to resist the attack. Yet the spectral wind was relentless, slipping through the cracks as if mocking the protection.

Plop!

Rhaegar’s body stiffened as the wind shattered his heart. He collapsed, his knees striking the ground.

At the same moment, it was as if a switch had been flipped. The army of wights inside and outside the Wall crumbled simultaneously, their bodies collapsing to the ground and shattering into lifeless fragments. The Night King was dead, and with his demise, the undead army followed suit.

But...

Rhaegar clutched his chest as a trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. He let out a bitter laugh.

“This is the gods for you... so damn tricky.”

Valyrian steel armor could repel infinite Magic, but it couldn’t block the natural wind. The cold wind was part of nature itself, and when it brushed against his body, it chilled him to the bone.

At least it didn’t kill a demigod.

Gritting his teeth, Rhaegar forced himself to his feet, though he staggered unsteadily. His body was extraordinary, envied even by the gods, but his heart—though mighty—was just a vessel. It could be damaged.

He couldn’t help but lament the cost. Five hundred years of life expectancy reduced to a mere hundred.

A deafening roar ripped through the air, shattering his thoughts.

Outside the battlefield, blue blood splattered onto the frozen ground. The pale Ice Dragon collapsed, its massive chest heaving as it lay covered in wounds of varying sizes.

Cannibal looked like a demon straight out of purgatory. Its monstrous maw emitted an eerie glow as it clamped down savagely on the Ice Dragon’s thick, serpentine neck. With a ferocious pull, a loud crack echoed as the ice split.

The Cannibal shook its head violently, ripping away the lower half of the Ice Dragon’s head along with its scales. The creature tore the frozen beast asunder, splitting it into two grotesque halves.

At that precise moment, a scarlet dragon plummeted from the sky, followed closely by the mangled corpse of a wight dragon.

Daemon stood atop the pale dragon’s back, his face twisted into a hideous snarl. In his hands, the Dark Sister sword gleamed, buried deep between the hard scales of the wight dragon. Judging by the distance from the scales to the hilt, the blade had pierced where a White Walker’s head should have been.

“Roar!”

Caraxes, the scarlet dragon, let out a piercing cry. Twisting like a serpent in midair, it turned a backward somersault into a forward dive. Its crimson wings snapped taut as it raced past the wight dragon’s falling remains.

Just as the corpse dragon’s wreckage neared the ground, Caraxes lunged. Its sharp jaws clamped down, rending the remnants apart.

Boom!

The wreckage struck the earth, sending snow flying. Caraxes skidded along the icy surface, its slender belly scraping the snow. The dragon tumbled, rolled, and finally came to a halt, collapsing in exhaustion.

“Daemon!”

Rhaegar’s eyes widened in alarm, and more blood spewed from his mouth as he saw the scene unfold.

Caraxes lay motionless on its side, its long neck limp. White smoke billowed from its battered form. Its jaws opened weakly, and a lone figure tumbled from its mouth to the ground.

Rhaegar let out a ragged sigh of relief.

“Rhaegar, are you all right!?”

Aemond, visibly anxious, brought Sheepstealer to an abrupt stop before leaping down. He sprinted toward Rhaegar’s broad, unsteady frame.

The sheer effort had drained Rhaegar, and he slumped backward at the sound of his brother’s voice.

“Rhaegar!”

Aemond lunged forward, catching him before he hit the ground. His single eye narrowed as he urged, “Wake up. Father and the others are still waiting for you!”

“Cough, cough... It’s not that bad.”

Rhaegar managed a heavy cough, wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, and gave a faint smile.

Aemond froze momentarily, utterly dumbfounded by his brother’s response.

Even now, this guy had the energy to smile.

...

The war was over, and the North had returned to peace. The various factions that had united for survival began to disperse, though some chose to stay behind. Among them were the Giants, the Children of the Forest, and the First Men Beyond the Wall, who were granted land near the Wall so they wouldn’t have to return to the unforgiving cold of the far north.

Cregan Stark worked tirelessly, day and night, to ensure there were no conflicts between these groups and the people of the North. Though it was a significant burden, it was a relief compared to the horrors of the war.

132 AC.

In King's Landing, summer was in full swing. The streets overflowed with people rushing toward the Red Keep, the Church of the New Gods, and the Dragonpit. The brutal winter of 131 AC was a thing of the past, and the city buzzed with renewed life.

Tales of the King’s family venturing to the North to vanquish the legendary army of the dead were on everyone’s lips. Stories of dragons breathing fire to drive away the winter’s cold inspired awe, even among those who hadn’t witnessed it firsthand. Knights from across the Seven Kingdoms who fought in the “Desperate Battle of the Wall” were living proof of the legends.

For many, the Targaryens were no longer just rulers; they had become a symbol of divine power. A living god was easier to revere than an unseen one.

...

Noon, Dragonpit.

A grand corpse rested on a pyre, surrounded by 10,000 mourners. Blue Dragonfire engulfed the body as the cremation ceremony unfolded beneath the clear sky.

Helaena sat despondently, her head leaning against Dreamfyre. Her expression was a portrait of sorrow. Her mother, Alicent, had passed away.

Alicent had refused to travel to Harrenhal during the winter, opting instead to stay in the Red Keep, where she eventually caught a fatal cold. She died clutching a copy of the Seven Sacred Texts to her chest.

Maester Munkun recounted her final days:

“She prayed to the Seven daily for her children’s safety and often reminisced about His Grace, the Old King Jaehaerys I. In the end, illness claimed her, bringing an end to her suffering.”

“Don’t grieve too deeply. She wouldn’t want to see you cry,” Viserys said gently, his frail body trembling as he tried to console his mourning children.

Aemond and Daeron had red-rimmed eyes, while Aegon seemed even more distraught than the daughter, Helaena. Slumped over, he wept uncontrollably.

Yet, despite the grief, the day’s focus was not solely on the Dragonpit.

...

The Red Keep, Throne Hall.

In a formal ceremony, the King announced the naming of six new royal titles:

• Princes:

  • Aemon Targaryen, Prince of Slaver’s Bay.
  • Maekar Targaryen, Prince of Volantis.
  • Viserion Targaryen, Prince of the Golden Fields.

• Princesses:

  • Lyanna Targaryen, Princess of Myr.
  • Baela Targaryen, Princess of Lys.
  • Daenaera Targaryen, Princess of Summerhall.

Additionally, new appointments were made:

A new acting Lord of Casterly Rock and a Regent for the Prince of Storm’s End.

Changes to the Small Council, including Corlys Velaryon retiring as Master of Ships due to ill health. Daeron Targaryen took his place, with the ceremony witnessed by Rhaena Targaryen, Lady of Driftmark.

Thus began a new chapter in the Targaryen dynasty.

...

205 AC.

Midsummer in King’s Landing.

On Rhaenys’s Hill, where the Dragonpit once stood, a grand Dragon’s Nest had been constructed in its place. Beneath a weirwood tree with its bright red leaves, a figure with long silver-and-gold hair reclined against the sturdy trunk, gazing out over golden wheat fields rippling in the wind. The scene resembled a shimmering lake.

The figure tilted its head slightly, as if listening to an unseen voice.

...

The Red Keep.

“It’s born! A healthy little prince!”

“Congratulations, Your Grace, you have an heir.”

The room was abuzz with excitement.

“Your Grace, what will the prince’s name be?”

Amid the commotion, a strong male voice rose above the rest.

“Let me think… He will be called Rhaegar. Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Viserys II laughed heartily, cradling his newborn son.

...

Under the Weirwood.

The silver-blonde figure twitched slightly, muttering to himself.

“Rhaegar? That grandson will be a lazy one—more trouble than his father, no doubt.” He sighed, shaking his head in mild disapproval. “Baelon should never have been allowed to retire. These young brats in their twenties are running wild.”

“Rhaegar!”

A clear, feminine voice called out from behind him. It was accompanied by soft footsteps and the gentle clinking of a dragon-head necklace.

The figure smiled faintly and turned. “Ah, you’re all here.”

Standing behind him were several striking figures, each one beautiful and familiar, their presence comforting.

Beside them lay a massive, dark charcoal dragon with piercing green eyes and a body stretching over 300 meters.

And beyond them, countless other figures stood, silent but ever-present.

The figure smiled warmly.

“I love you all.”