Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Amidst dark clouds looming overhead and rough waves crashing against the shore, Rhaegar's slender frame ascended a coconut tree. His gaze darted anxiously at the rising water below.

Cold tendrils wrapped around his ankles, gradually creeping up to engulf his calves. Though panic gripped him, his attempts to call for help were stifled, his voice silenced by an unseen force.

A deafening rumble shattered the uneasy silence as lightning rent the sky, illuminating the darkness with its blinding flash. Torrential rain began to cascade down, drenching Rhaegar to the bone.

"Where... where am I?" he muttered, disoriented by the sudden deluge.

A low, ominous hiss reverberated through the air, mingling with the roar of thunder. Rhaegar's eyes widened in astonishment as a colossal creature emerged from the dense clouds, its massive wings beating rhythmically as it soared into the distance.

Straining to catch a glimpse of the creature amidst the downpour, Rhaegar was met only by the relentless patter of rain against his skin, its rhythmic cadence filling the air with a sense of foreboding.

As rainwater trickled down his cheeks, Rhaegar instinctively raised a hand to wipe it away.

When he opened his eyes once more, the behemoth was circling back, its massive wingspan casting a shadow over the island below.

"Ah...! Stay away!" Rhaegar cried out in terror, his heart pounding in his chest as the creature drew closer, its ominous silhouette looming overhead.

In the blink of an eye, darkness consumed him, and he was jolted awake, violently thrown from his bed.

"What in the seven hells!" Rhaegar exclaimed, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he scanned his surroundings, his senses on high alert.

The familiar sight of his room greeted him, and he sank back onto the bed, wiping the cold sweat from his brow with a trembling hand.

"Damn it, another nightmare," he muttered, his voice trembling with fear. "And it's the same one as before, haunting me like a relentless specter."

It seemed that these recurring nightmares had taken root in his subconscious, tormenting him with their vivid imagery and unsettling themes.

Rhaegar sighed heavily, his mind still reeling from the ordeal. "Perhaps they're just figments of my imagination, but they feel all too real."

Yesterday, he delved deep into the pages of ancient tomes, poring over them until the early hours of the morning. The Dreamer talent had been consuming his thoughts ever since.

It was a peculiar phenomenon, but perhaps a blessing in disguise. Each successive nightmare seemed to unveil a new layer of understanding.

"Anything out of the ordinary tends to stir up trouble," Rhaegar mused, frustration evident in his voice as he ran a hand through his tousled hair. "These recurring dreams hold some sort of prophetic significance, that much is clear."

His brow furrowed in deep concentration as he pondered the implications of his nocturnal visions.

...

After finishing his meal, the servant brought the usual fare of bread, milk, and fried eggs.

"Shall we attend the tournament today, Prince?"

Rhaegar took a final sip of milk just as Erryk entered the room, timing his arrival perfectly.

"Not much to see there. Let's head to the Dragon's Pit instead. I've yet to visit," Rhaegar replied calmly, dabbing at the milk stains on his lips.

"Very well," Erryk responded in his deep voice.

As he headed towards the door, Rhaegar reached for a piece of parchment on the table and carefully rolled it up.

The Dragon's Pit lay quite a distance from the Red Keep, so the squire had arranged for a carriage in advance.

Erryk's gaze lingered on Rhaegar, his expression tinged with concern, as if he were wrestling with unspoken words.

Growing weary of the scrutiny, Rhaegar finally broke the silence. "Ser, is it because I'm dressed the wrong way? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Erryk hesitated briefly before responding, "It's nothing about your attire, Your Highness. You just seem a bit off today."

They had traveled quite a distance and it was hard not to worry about the normally jovial prince. He was silent the whole time.

Rhaegar sighed, a weariness settling over him. "I had another nightmare," he admitted, his voice heavy with fatigue.

The concern in Erryk's eyes deepened as he observed the exhaustion etched on Rhaegar's face. "Perhaps you should seek counsel from a Maester. Sleeplessness and nightmares are troubling signs."

Rhaegar's smile was wistful. "No need for that. My father taught me to embrace all dreams, whether pleasant or otherwise."

"With all due respect, Your Highness, you seem to prefer the pleasant ones," Erryk remarked, his brow furrowing in worry.

"Don't fret over me, Ser." Rhaegar interjected, brushing off the concern. "Experiencing life's ups and downs early on isn't necessarily a detriment."

He swiftly shifted the conversation. "Now, about that forge you mentioned, where can I find it?"

Erryk said, "There's a skilled blacksmith located on the Street of Silk. His craftsmanship is highly esteemed."

"Excellent," Rhaegar replied, a spark of enthusiasm igniting in his eyes. "Let's make a stop there on our way."

With their destination decided, Erryk directed the coachman to hasten their journey toward the forge.

...

The royal carriage not only boasted exquisite beauty but also remarkable swiftness as it gracefully traversed the bustling streets, eventually arriving at Silk Street. With a gentle halt, it positioned itself before a seemingly inconspicuous blacksmith's shop.

Parting the curtains, Rhaegar's gaze fell upon the scene outside, where a robust, youthful figure hammered away at the forge, sparks dancing in the air.

"This lad is the grandson and apprentice of the old blacksmith," Erryk remarked as he assisted Rhaegar from the carriage.

"Go and fetch your grandfather," Erryk casually instructed, flicking a glimmering gold coin towards the apprentice blacksmith. "Inform him that a distinguished guest awaits his presence."

"Of course, Ser Kingsguard," the apprentice acknowledged, recognizing the resplendent figure clad in silver-armored robes. With haste, he abandoned his work and dashed towards the shop.

Before long, a portly old man, scarcely reaching five feet in height yet boasting a full, bushy beard, emerged from the shop - the proprietor himself, Ornn.

With a hearty stride, the elderly blacksmith approached the pair, his voice resonating with warmth and hospitality. "Esteemed guests, I, blacksmith Ornn, bid you welcome," he proclaimed, executing a bow towards Rhaegar with some effort.

Observing the rotund figure before him, Rhaegar couldn't help but conceal a hint of amusement. Despite standing face to face, Ornn's stout and plump stature suggested a formidable presence that might easily flatten him.

Producing a rolled cylinder of parchment, Rhaegar presented it to Ornn, elucidating, "This contains the blueprint for a bracelet. I require an exact replica crafted with utmost haste."

"Consider it done. Should it be tailored to fit your wrist?" inquired Ornn, his confidence unwavering.

"Yes, precisely. It is intended to replace a gift that proved ill-fitting," confirmed Rhaegar, outlining his requirements.

Assuring the customer of his capability, Ornn thumped his chest confidently. "Fear not. Retrieve the bracelet before dusk, and I guarantee it shall meet your specifications."

"I trust in Erryk's commendation. See to it that he is duly compensated for his services, Ser," Rhaegar concluded, sealing the agreement with succinct efficiency.

Old Ornn, however, refused the bag of coins that Erryk proffered, declaring, "I seek no payment other than the honor of seeing a prince adorned with my craftsmanship. It is the most precious reward I could desire."

"Intriguing. And how did you discern my royal lineage? Dare you hazard a guess as to which prince I am?" Rhaegar inquired, a playful glint in his eyes as he regarded the stout blacksmith.

With solemnity, Old Ornn responded, "I have witnessed the king escorting his second son, Aegon, during a past event. Judging by your age, you must be the firstborn son of the late queen, the fabled Sleeping Young Dragon, Rhaegar."

"The Sleeping Young Dragon?" Rhaegar echoed, a bemused expression crossing his features. "What curious moniker is this? Does it pertain to me?"

Unnerved by his inadvertent slip, Old Ornn fell silent, murmuring a hasty apology for his misstep.

Observing Old Ornn's reticence, Rhaegar redirected his attention to Erryk, his countenance marked by dissatisfaction. "Ser, when was I bestowed with such a name?"

"Since the conclusion of the last Kingswood hunt, tales of your inherent vulnerability and the White Hart's benediction have circulated widely among the populace," Erryk murmured, casting a cautionary glance towards the aging blacksmith.

"The King issued a decree expressly forbidding any discussion regarding you, yet rumors persisted," he continued in a hushed tone.

"It was not until your gallant reception of Princess Rhaenyra on her return journey and your subsequent public appearance that the moniker gained traction."

Furrowing his brow, Rhaegar queried, "So my father's decree confining me to the confines of the Red Keep is somehow linked to this?"

"In part, yes. However, His Grace's motivations are multifaceted, and the full extent of the matter remains shrouded..." Erryk trailed off cautiously.

"One reason suffices," Rhaegar interjected tersely, indicating a desire to conclude the matter.