Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

King’s Landing.

It was July, and the heat was oppressive. The waves of Blackwater Bay lapped lazily against the shore, powerless to ease the stifling summer air.

Red Keep, Godswood.

The towering Weirwood stood majestically, its crimson leaves spreading like a vast canopy, casting deep shadows over the exposed roots on the raised ground below. Rhaegar stood beneath it, his palms pressed against the pale, rough bark. His expression was calm, betraying no hint of discomfort.

“Your Grace, you wanted to see me?”

Daeron entered through the back door, his eyes clear and expectant.

"I don’t expect you to call me ‘Your Grace’ in private," Rhaegar said with a light laugh, turning to face his brother.

Daeron paused briefly, then smiled. "Brother."

Among the siblings, Daeron was known for his gentle and humble nature. He had few ambitions of his own and often followed in his brothers' footsteps.

Rhaegar found a thick tree root to sit on and gestured to the ground beside him. “I want to talk to you about who should govern the Basilisk Isles.”

Daeron sat down, his brow furrowed in thought. “That’s no easy place to rule,” he said thoughtfully.

“Precisely,” Rhaegar agreed, his expression turning serious. “Which is why it needs careful management. I want to appoint you as governor of the Summer Sea and adviser to the Basilisk Isles.”

The pirates of the Triarchy had been all but annihilated, and the remnants of their forces no longer posed a threat. However, tens of thousands of women, children, and slaves remained on the Basilisk Isles. Three fledgling Free Cities had already been established. Leaving them unchecked could sow the seeds of future chaos.

Someone wise and patient needed to oversee the region—a task that demanded trust and skill.

Daeron hesitated. “Brother, Sothoryos is desolate.”

“I’m not asking you to live there,” Rhaegar replied firmly. “Just keep an eye on things. Choose one of the islands where the Free Cities are taking root. The slaves there will become the new settlers, reclaiming the land.”

It was impractical to move the slaves elsewhere, as they were a valuable, though low-status, population. Having them continue to build on the foundations laid by the Triarchy was the best course of action.

Seeing his brother’s determination, Daeron gave a reluctant nod. “I’ll try.”

All his brothers had fiefdoms, and although the Basilisk Isles were a far cry from the fertile lands of Westeros, Daeron knew he couldn’t avoid his duty. If things became difficult, he could always rely on Aegon. His reputation as Aegon the Generous extended beyond the Seven Kingdoms.

Rhaegar grinned and ruffled his brother’s hair. “Show a little spirit. The Basilisk Isles aren’t so bad. They have maritime trade routes and plenty of resources. Give it time, and it’ll thrive.”

With the Triarchy’s downfall, the hard work of establishing order in the isles had already been done. Rhaegar had saved years of effort. If not for Rhaena losing her claim to Driftmark, Daeron wouldn’t even need to move. Rhaegar had initially thought of entrusting the isles to Tyland and bringing them under Volantis’s jurisdiction, but now Daeron was the right fit.

Daeron, still tousled from Rhaegar’s playful gesture, chuckled. “Then you’ll need to give me some funds from the treasury.”

Rhaegar waved dismissively. “No problem. Just dip into Lyman’s coffers.”

“You’re the king!”

“...”

The brothers burst into laughter, the sound of their playful banter filling the Godswood as they pulled pranks and teased each other beneath the great Weirwood tree.

...

It was midday, just after lunch, when the Small Council was summoned. Rhaegar entered the council hall, feeling somewhat listless. The room was already filled with ministers, their faces unusually grave.

"Your Grace!" they greeted in unison, standing to show respect.

Rhaegar glanced around, noticing his father, Viserys, and his uncle, Daemon. Viserys was deeply involved in politics, while Daemon held the prestigious title of Prince of the Targaryens.

“What’s happened?” Rhaegar asked, his gaze moving between them.

Grand Maester Orwyle stepped forward, his expression troubled. “Your Grace, there’s been an issue with the reconstruction of Storm’s End. Rumors are circulating about ghosts crying out from the ruins. It’s not only stalled progress but has scared off many of the craftsmen.”

Rhaegar, halfway to his seat, paused and let out a soft laugh. “Ghosts causing trouble? Really?”

He found the idea absurd, but the solemn faces of the council indicated otherwise. Restless spirits, he thought, what a reputation.

“That’s what I’ve been told, Your Grace,” Orr said cautiously.

Rhaegar waved dismissively. “Sit down. If the craftsmen have left, recruit a new batch. I’ll send Aemond to take a dragon and circle the ruins. That should quiet any ghosts.”

He didn’t believe in such superstitions. People’s hearts could be treacherous, but ghosts? That was a step too far. The dead had already faced fire—what more could they want?

“Your Grace, there may be more to it than superstition,” Jasper, the Master of Laws, interjected quietly.

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow. “What exactly is wrong, Lord Jasper?”

Jasper hesitated, then spoke cautiously. “The House of Baratheon has ruled the Stormlands for over a century. Many branches of the family remain with Baratheon blood. Rebuilding a Prince’s Palace at Storm’s End... may provoke them. Some nobles in the Stormlands don’t wish to be absorbed into the Crownlands.”

Rhaegar leaned back in his chair, feigning sudden realization. “Ah, so it’s a difficult situation?”

Jasper smiled, taking Rhaegar’s response as a sign of agreement. “Your Grace is wise.”

But Rhaegar’s expression shifted, turning hard. “If it’s difficult, then send someone capable to oversee it until the Prince’s Palace is finished.”

The Stormlands, as a neighboring region to the Crownlands, had to be brought under royal control. Strengthening centralized power was the Crown’s policy, and nothing—not even old noble bloodlines—would stand in the way.

“If anyone resists,” Rhaegar added coldly, “they will be dealt with.”

Jasper’s face tightened, and he fell silent, offering only a forced smile in response.

“Your Grace,” Lyman chimed in, his dim old eyes narrowing with thought, “you spoke of capable people, and it brings to mind another matter. Since Lord Lyonel’s retirement, the position of Hand of the King has remained vacant. A wise man is needed to fill the role.”

The Hand of the King was a critical position, often acting as the buffer between the king and the realm’s nobility. Whoever held that office could shift the balance of power, depending on their loyalties. Historically, the Hand was always a trusted confidant of the king, such as Orys Baratheon for the Conqueror or Septon Barth for King Jaehaerys.

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he glanced at his father, Viserys, who sat calmly, observing the conversation.

"You should choose a wise man from the Small Council, or someone you trust." Viserys spoke slowly, his voice tinged with drowsiness as he tried to offer subtle guidance.

When wielded effectively, the Hand of the King was a powerful weapon—a blade that could shape kingdoms. Viserys had personally appointed two Hands during his reign: Otto Hightower and Lyonel Strong. The former was highly capable but idealistic and self-serving, while the latter was pragmatic, steady, and respected for his impartiality. Both had served their purposes at crucial moments, and Viserys had chosen them carefully.

Otto Hightower had been one of the two remaining senior statesmen at the end of King Jaehaerys’s reign, representing Oldtown and the conservative aristocracy. At the time, the Targaryens were vulnerable. Corlys Velaryon harbored resentment toward the crown, while Daemon coveted the position of heir. Viserys had kept Otto in power to counterbalance those external and internal threats.

In the early days, their partnership had flourished. Together, they had steadily outmaneuvered Corlys and Daemon, forcing them both to withdraw from King's Landing. But over time, Otto became too bold, meddling in royal affairs to further his own ambitions.

When Otto's overreach became intolerable, Viserys had replaced him with Lyonel Strong, a loyal and pragmatic Hand who restored the crown’s influence in the Small Council. But Lyonel’s cautious approach, though stabilizing, was not suited to guiding a more aggressive or ambitious king.

Now, as Viserys reflected, he realized stepping down had been the right choice—for both himself and the realm.

Rhaegar listened closely, sensing the deeper meaning behind his father's words.

"Your Grace, do you have someone in mind?" Lyman asked, his tone uncertain.

The king was still young, and no one knew who he truly trusted yet. The members of the Small Council exchanged looks, each secretly wondering if they might be chosen. Even Corlys Velaryon, Master of Ships, and Tyland Lannister, recently returned from Volantis, straightened in their seats, watching Rhaegar’s expression closely. The position of Hand of the King was an irresistible prize—second only to the crown itself.

For someone like Corlys, it wasn’t just about power. The status that came with the title was tempting, even for a man already revered for his legendary voyages and wealth. And with his extensive experience, he was certainly qualified for the role.

Rhaegar glanced around the room, sensing the rising tension. He decided to turn the question back to the council. "Who do you all have in mind?"

The king understood the importance of selecting a strong Hand, but he wasn’t sure who would be the best fit. Rather than making a hasty decision, it was wise to hear the thoughts of those around him.

Jasper, the Master of Laws, was the first to step forward, unable to contain his eagerness. “Your Grace, Storm’s End presents challenges at the moment. Why not send me to oversee the reconstruction? It could serve as proof of my ability to handle difficult tasks.”

The lingering issue of Storm’s End had, after all, prompted the need for this discussion. For Jasper, handling it successfully would be a way to prove his worth—not just as a capable lord, but as a potential Hand of the King.

“Lord Jasper has volunteered. Anyone else?”

Rhaegar smiled, not objecting outright but allowing the conversation to flow.

“Your Grace...”

Tyland cleared his throat, standing up with a self-satisfied air. Before he could continue, Rhaegar cut him off.

“Please sit down, Lord Tyland,” Rhaegar said, his voice polite but firm. Volantis was already handling enough affairs, and there was no need for Tyland to return to court so soon.

Tyland, visibly embarrassed, sank back into his seat, realizing he had overstepped. A foreign adviser didn’t carry the weight needed for the role of Hand of the King, and he knew it.

Lyman observed the exchange with a calm, calculating gaze, waiting for the right moment. Finally, he spoke. “I recommend Lord Corlys. He is the Lord of Driftmark, and his qualifications, reputation, and the strength of his house make him worthy of the honor.”

“Thank you, Lord Lyman,” Corlys said, nodding solemnly. He was pleased with the nomination. With his son Laenor back in the family fold, the influence of House Velaryon was stronger than ever. Winning the position of Hand would solidify his legacy as one of the realm’s greatest leaders.

Lyman chuckled, the wrinkles around his eyes smoothing out. “If this were ten years ago, I might’ve run for the office myself.”

Rhaegar, half-listening, absently spun a parliamentary pound between his fingers. Corlys... he mused. The man certainly had the ability and the experience, but his ambition was vast—perhaps too vast. When you reached too high, the fall could be devastating.

“I recommend Prince Daemon,” Tormund, the usually reserved Master of Whisperers, suddenly said, raising his hand and smiling sheepishly.

Daemon, who had been lost in thought, blinked in surprise at hearing his own name. He hadn’t expected to be thrown into the mix.

“Uncle,” Rhaegar’s eyes lit up with a glint of excitement. He and Daemon worked well together, and the idea of having him as Hand wasn’t unappealing.

But Viserys, trying to remain diplomatic, forced a smile. “Daemon is a free spirit, Your Grace. He even struggles to attend Small Council meetings.”

“I’m not volunteering either,” Daemon drawled, rolling his eyes, his voice dry and dismissive. He was never one for formal titles or positions.

The conversation continued, with the council members offering their thoughts one by one. Only Grand Maester Orwyle remained silent, his face thoughtful.

Rhaegar, noticing his silence, dropped the pound and turned to him. “What do you think, Grand Maester?”

Let’s get this over with quickly, Rhaegar thought, eager to wrap up the meeting.

Orwyle hesitated, his eyes drifting toward the old king. “If it’s experience you seek, no one here can match that of Your Grace, Viserys.”

The suggestion took Rhaegar by surprise, as it did the rest of the council.

“No, no, no,” Viserys quickly waved his hand, rejecting the idea outright. “I’ve already retired. I can’t act as my son’s Hand—it would undermine my own honor.”

He couldn’t imagine how history would record him if he stepped back into such a position.

Orwyle offered a quiet, awkward chuckle and quickly withdrew from the conversation. He had simply floated an impossible option to deflect attention from himself.

Rhaegar saw through the ploy, smiled, and stood. “Everyone has made their recommendations, and I’ll need time to think carefully before making a decision.”

With that, he rose and began to leave. As he passed by Jasper, seated diagonally across from him, Rhaegar placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Lord Jasper,” Rhaegar said, his voice low but firm, “as you’re from the Stormlands, you can rest assured that the reconstruction of Storm’s End will be in capable hands—yours.”

What a convenient volunteer, Rhaegar thought with a wry smile. Willing to take the work off my shoulders himself.

Jasper’s face lit up with pride. “Don’t worry, Your Grace! I’ll give it my all.”