Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Half a month after the Battle of the Stepstones...

The Axe, Sothoryos Continent.

The barren island was covered in primeval forests and jagged rocks, with flocks of birds and beasts scurrying about from time to time.

Clang! Clang!

Beneath a stone mountain near the shore, a group of ragged young men and women swung picks and wheeled away rubble in creaking barrows.

"Hurry up, don't slack off!"

The overseer, a sellsword wielding a long whip, barked orders, urging each slave to work harder. Those who faltered for even a moment felt the lash almost instantly.

At the edge of the stone excavation site, two silver-haired men worked side by side. One planed the rock, while the other hauled it away.

"Brother, I'm hungry," the younger of the two gasped, his frail figure trembling as he hoisted a load of stones onto the cart. His once-pale face was now darkened, gaunt from hunger.

"Hang in there," the elder replied, swinging his pickaxe against the rock with force. "Lunch won't be served until noon." He pried loose a large stone, tossed it onto the cart, then fished out a small, sweat-stained piece of black bread from his collar. It was barely half the size of his palm, the rye flour mixed with husk and bran, hard as Valyrian steel.

Without a word, he handed it to his younger brother and went back to his labor.

"Brother... you've given me scraps again." The younger man's voice was filled with shame as he eyed the bread. He couldn’t even bite into it, his teeth too weak to break the tough crust.

"Eat it quickly, before someone else takes it," Keelan muttered, his eyes scanning the surrounding slaves who watched hungrily. Most were on the brink of starvation, barely clinging to life. He and his brother, Kiel, were luckier than most, their silver-blonde Valyrian blood earning them an extra piece of bread each day. It wasn't much, but it kept them alive—just barely.

"I thought we were going to have a good life," Kiel whispered, his head hanging as he kicked at the stones beneath his feet.

They had left the Smoking Sea behind, only to be captured by the newly risen slave city-states built on the ruins of the Old Empire of Ghis. Sold to the Citadel in the Western Continent, they were nearly used for human research. From there, they were sent to Volantis, but pirates from the Triarchy intercepted them, and they narrowly escaped an attack by a dragon.

At that moment, the brothers had embraced one last time, and prepared for death.

Who would have thought that, years after the Doom, dragons would be so common, attacking ships without warning? Fortunately, they had been rescued at the last moment... but not by saviors.

Unfortunately...

Keelan’s face darkened, his jaw clenched as he muttered, "Unfortunately, those who saved us were pirates too. Might’ve been better to die in Dragonfire."

"You're right," Kiel agreed, struggling to gnaw on the bread, his teeth threatening to break under the effort. "The Citadel’s food was better, but it was no place for men to live."

Keelan’s grip tightened on his pickaxe, almost losing control of it.

Their ancestral home was Oros, the ruins of a Free City near the Fourteen Flames, twin to the distant city of Tyria across the sea.

After the Doom, Oros was shrouded in toxic smoke and haze for years, rendering it completely uninhabitable. The few who remained struggled to reproduce, but most of the children born were stillborn, deformed, or monstrous. By the time it came to their generation, all of their people had perished, leaving only the two brothers—Keelan and Kiel—normal and alive.

Having spent their entire lives together, shaped by Valyrian customs and isolation, their bond deepened in ways that sometimes crossed the boundaries of mere brotherly affection.

A few years ago, the mists over the Smoking Sea began to thin, and the once-active volcano beneath it fell dormant. Seizing the chance, the brothers cobbled together planks from a wrecked ship, and by sheer luck, managed to escape the cursed waters.

But their good fortune ended the moment they set foot outside the Smoking Sea.

"Work, or you'll feel the whip again."

Keelan, drenched in sweat, did his best to hold on to a vision of a better life, but the dream of reclaiming their ancestral home was slipping further away. They didn't even possess a single dragon egg, and here they were—still slaves.

The overseer had promised that when the Free Cities were established, all slaves would become free citizens. But Keelan had no illusions.

"I’d rather be eaten by a dragon," Kiel muttered, collapsing to the ground, exhausted and hopeless.

Rumble—

Suddenly, the earth trembled beneath them.

"An earthquake!" someone shouted, and the slaves scattered in panic, rushing out of the mine.

Outside, the sky was clear and serene, but above them, a green-and-white wyvern plummeted from the summit of the rocky mountain. Its massive body was battered and bloody, its wings shredded from the fall.

"Roar!"

A pale shadow descended from the clouds. A monstrous, emaciated dragon latched onto the wyvern’s carcass, tearing at it with its blood-red maw.

"Dragon!" a slave gasped, frozen in disbelief.

The mercenary overseer screamed, dropped his whip, and fled. Everyone knew Sothoryos was a land of monstrous lizards and basilisks, but no one had ever heard of dragons in these lands.

Keelan swallowed hard, stiff as stone under the dragon's gaze. 'A living dragon... a real dragon,' he thought, paralyzed by awe and fear.

"Dragon! Look at me!" Kiel’s voice suddenly rang out, manic and wild.

To Keelan's horror, his brother tore off his tattered clothes and began to climb the rocky mountain. His bare skin revealed something Keelan had long feared—large, dark scales covered Kiel’s chest and back, and there was an unnatural hole in his chest where a faintly beating heart was visible.

Born in a cursed land, Kiel, too, was deformed.

On the opposite side of his chest was a tattoo—a green dragon, its head and tail coiled into a circle, the ancient sigil of House Belaerys.

“No! Get back!” Keelan shouted, terrified. He knew they couldn’t tame a wild dragon, especially one without a rider. They had no claim to such a beast, no power to control it. They weren’t Valyrian dragonlords—not anymore.

Keelan recalled sneaking into the ruins of their house, hidden beneath a broken bridge. There had been nothing left—no treasures, no dragon eggs, only the rotting corpses of Stone Men. The luck of House Belaerys had long since run dry.

And as for passing on their legacy... two brothers couldn’t bear children.

The pale dragon, still tearing into the wyvern’s flesh, paused. Its long, thin neck twisted, and its piercing red eyes locked onto Kiel’s silver-haired figure. Something cruel gleamed in its gaze.

“Kiel, stop!” Keelan screamed from below, but Kiel kept climbing, his hand gripping the blood-stained stones.

The dragon’s scarlet tongue flicked out, tasting the air, as if toying with its prey.

“Haha, look—” Kiel began, his arms raised as he came face-to-face with the beast.

In an instant, the dragon’s blood-red mouth opened wide, and a searing ball of pale fire formed in its throat.

"Roar!"

Dragonfire erupted in a deadly bloom, filling the air with the crackle of burning flesh.

"No! No!" Keelan's scream echoed through the valley, his voice cracking with despair as he watched the dragon's flames consume his brother.

With a sickening crunch, the dragon closed its jaws, tearing through Kiel’s charred body. Blood dripped from its maw as it tore away what little remained.

Satisfied, the pale dragon spread its massive wings and flew off into the sky, leaving only the echo of its roar in the wind.

Keelan fell to his knees, trembling, as the mountain fell silent once more.

...

On the other side, Naath Island...

Splash, splash...

Waves gently lapped the shore as a small, rickety boat drifted in from the distant horizon. Triarchy mercenaries patrolled the beach, as they did every day, when they noticed movement aboard the drifting vessel—there were survivors.

Before long, several Tyroshi dignitaries, dressed in vibrant finery, arrived at the scene.

"Ahem..."

A black-haired man struggled to climb onto the dock, coughing violently as he spat out a mouthful of seawater.

"Who are you?" one of the sellswords demanded.

The man, however, offered no response, only a cold, ruthless gleam in his eyes. Without warning, he lunged at the nearest sellsword, sinking his teeth into the man's neck. With savage brutality, he tore the flesh and drank the blood like a wild animal.

"Dalton Greyjoy... you're alive?" one of the Tyroshi exclaimed in shock as they recognized the infamous Red Kraken, standing blood-soaked over the body of the fallen mercenary.

It was widely believed that Dalton had perished during the fighting on the Stepstones.

Dalton, his long, gaunt face pale and gaunt, looked up, his voice raspy with anger. "Damn you! Were you all useless, that you couldn't come to my aid?!"

If it hadn't been for his quick dive into the sea, his near-superhuman swimming ability, and the ten minutes he spent fleeing from the battlefield, he'd have long been fish food.

"That's not important. How did you get back here?" one of the dignitaries asked dismissively, more interested in the spectacle than Dalton’s harrowing escape.

The distance between the Stepstones and Naath was vast—almost as far as crossing a continent.

"I have my ways," Dalton snarled, spitting blood onto the dock. He seized one of the dignitaries by the collar and dragged him closer. "Find me meat and a boat. The Targaryen dragons are coming."

For the first time, fear flickered in his eyes as he spoke.

There were four dragons in total, and two of them were larger than two warships combined. The moment he’d plunged into the sea to escape, the heat from their fire had nearly boiled him alive.

"What? A Targaryen Dragonlord is coming?"

Panic finally set in among the Tyroshi dignitaries, who began to pace and mutter anxiously. Their forces might be strong, but they were in no shape to face another war against the dragons.

...

Dorne, Sunspear...

“Roar…”

Baelon’s eyes gleamed as his voice thundered through the hall: “The Iron Islands have allied with the Triarchy to rebel. I’ve summoned the Riverlands lords and declared war on them!”

Prince Qyle looked uneasy. "Prince, your father's orders were different." The King had only instructed a total blockade of the Summer Sea—there had been no command to declare war.

“Well, there is now,” Baelon snapped, his tone brooking no refusal. Already, he exuded the iron-willed authority of a ruler. Some people would pay in blood for challenging his power, especially after taming Uragax.

Dalton Greyjoy—the Red Kraken—who had vanished, presumed dead or hiding, would be dragged from whatever sewer he’d crawled into and dealt with once and for all.

Seeing Baelon's resolve, Prince Qyle could only nod, his face clouded with concern. Sunspear’s military strength had been greatly diminished—the city itself left in ruins after the dragon melee, with many of its buildings reduced to rubble.

They were broke.

But Baelon didn’t care. He strode out of the palace with purpose, ready to seek out the "stupid old man" to discuss his plans for raising an army. Word of the Stepstones had already reached King’s Landing and spread across Westeros like wildfire. Soon, his name—and Uragax's—would be etched into the annals of history.

"The Red Kraken… you’ve destroyed the Iron Islands," Baelon murmured to himself, fingers curling around the hilt of his family sword, Dragon's Claw. The weapon filled him with courage, making him fearless of whatever challenges lay ahead.

Once he left, the grand hall of Sunspear fell silent. Prince Qyle slumped dejectedly on his throne, lost in thought.

From a corner of the room, a small, black-haired figure peeked out—a striking young woman with a tanned face.

“Coryanne, what are you doing here?” Qyle turned, startled to see his sister spying from the shadows.

She stepped out boldly. “Can I marry him?”

“Who? Who are you talking about?” Qyle’s heart sank, a bad feeling stirring in his gut.

“Baelon. Brave Baelon the Second!” Coryanne declared, full of confidence. “All of Westeros is talking about his great deeds, saying he’ll be the third great conqueror, after Rhaegar I.” Her eyes gleamed with excitement. Marrying the future king—it was the ultimate prize.

“You’re mad.” Qyle rubbed his forehead in exasperation. “He’s already engaged. To two different women, no less.”

“But the man you arranged for me doesn’t even notice me,” Coryanne pouted, unwilling to let go of her ambitions.

Qyle’s worry deepened. “He’s not even officially betrothed yet! He hasn’t agreed to it.” King Maekar’s third son, Maekar Targaryen, had returned to King’s Landing after months of negotiation, saying he would either travel to Sunspear or bring Qyle’s sister to King’s Landing so they could meet.

However, Prince Maekar had stayed in King’s Landing for less than a month before hurrying back to Volantis. Rumors swirled that the King favored his third son and was dissatisfied with his eldest, who had never managed to claim a dragon. Some whispered that he might even change the line of succession.

But Prince Maekar had no desire to fight his brother for the throne and had exiled himself to the far-off city of Volantis.

Of course, no one knew the truth of these rumors. Especially now, when the heir had not one, but three dragons under his control.

“Will it ever work out…” Qyle muttered, glancing at his sister, who stood before him as beautiful as a flower in bloom. He buried his face in his hands, troubled by it all.

In any case, Maekar Targaryen would be a good match for his sister. He came from noble blood, was a dragon rider, and had the King's favor. Even if he never sat on the Iron Throne, the royal seat in Volantis was still an enticing prospect.

If Coryanne married him, it would be House Martell’s chance at revival.