Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Driftmark, Spice Town Harbor

Corlys surveyed the anchored fleet with a gloomy expression, his gaze drifting over the damaged ships again and again. The aftermath of battle was evident—sails torn, hulls battered. As always, the shipwrights would have their work cut out for them.

"Corlys, there you are."

Rhaenys approached briskly, a helpless smile tugging at her lips.

"I was supposed to be at your nephew's Small Council meeting," Corlys said flatly, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

Defeat at Daemon's hands still stung, especially since he'd never liked the man. 'How could this have happened?' he thought, feeling the weight of humiliation.

"You're still a child, sulking like this. It's unbecoming," Rhaenys said, her eyes soft as she regarded her husband.

"I'm not sulking," Corlys muttered, turning his head away, brow furrowing. Anger was hard to hide.

Rhaenys shook her head and laughed. "Losing to Daemon has shamed you, hasn’t it?"

"I didn’t lose to just Daemon," Corlys snapped. "I lost to the Targaryen men—a bunch of backstabbers. None of them can be trusted."

He thought of Daemon, of Rhaegar, and even the retired Viserys. 'They all watch me with suspicion, waiting for my misstep.'

"That's because you're being too aggressive," Rhaenys said, crossing her arms and leaning against a nearby cargo hoist. "You need to rein in your temper. No one enjoys having an arrogant, prideful man around."

"You think I have a bad temper?" Corlys turned sharply, eyes filled with surprise. His wife’s words struck deeper than he had anticipated.

"What I mean," Rhaenys replied, her voice light as she tactfully shifted the subject, "is that you should focus your energy elsewhere. You're not young anymore. It's time to think about the children."

"So you do think I'm old," Corlys said, a flicker of despondency crossing his face before he put his arm around his wife, drawing her close. His broad chest pressed against her face, and he marveled at her beauty, her nobility.

'Beautiful, generous, strong…' Even though faint crow’s feet had started to line her eyes, she was still the Queen Who Never Was who tamed a dragon.

Rhaenys smiled, a soft laugh escaping her as she patted his chest. She had always loved proud, confident men, which was why she had chosen Corlys, the most arrogant of them all. But arrogance, she thought, was only admirable when backed by the power to wield it.

"What did you mean just now, that I don't value the House above all else?" Corlys asked, his voice calm, though a hint of tension lingered beneath the surface.

Without waiting for her response, he added, almost matter-of-factly, "Laenor has brought back his wretched wife from a commoner family to High Tide. And their mute daughter."

Rhaenys raised an eyebrow. "I wasn’t talking about them."

'The gods’ blessing, perhaps,' she mused. After losing his memory, Laenor had returned to what his father called his "normal" orientation. He had married the daughter of a fisherman from Tarth, and they had a mute daughter with hair streaked with silver and gold. Once back on Driftmark, Laenor wasted no time in bringing his wife and child home, much to Corlys’s displeasure.

As the wealthiest and most powerful noble in the Seven Kingdoms, Corlys naturally looked down on the common-born girl. She was heavyset, exuding the air of a country bumpkin—qualities that made it impossible for him to see her as anything but an opportunist. In his mind, she was to be treated as a paramour at best. Their daughter was born out of wedlock, and Corlys had planned for Laenor to eventually marry a noblewoman of proper birth, producing legitimate heirs with the appropriate lineage.

But Laenor had fallen deeply in love with his wife and pleaded with Corlys to treat them with respect. As a father who had lost both his son and daughter, Corlys could not refuse when fate returned one of them to him. Reluctantly, he accepted his commoner daughter-in-law into the family.

"Who else are you referring to?" Corlys asked, his tone half-joking, though there was a sharp edge to it. "You don’t expect me to arrange an engagement for my mute granddaughter with a Prince, do you?"

He looked away, the weight of the absurdity settling over him. Corlys, even with his influence, knew he didn’t have the power or prestige to make such a demand. The young king would certainly not humor an old man half-entrenched in the politics of the sea.

"It’s Rhaena," Rhaenys said, her face growing serious. She sighed, meeting his gaze. "You know what I mean. That child has been raised as the heir to Driftmark for years, but now she’s hiding in King’s Landing, refusing to come back."

"There is only one Driftmark," Corlys replied quietly, his voice steady. His son’s inheritance rights would always take precedence over his granddaughter’s. Bloodline was law.

"Then compensate her," Rhaenys insisted, her aim clear and direct. "Rhaena is already Laenor’s foster daughter, and she deserves her due. She’s the next rightful heir to Driftmark."

Corlys frowned, considering her words. "Now Laenor knows how to appreciate women," he muttered darkly. "His wife is so plump, always giving birth to sons."

Though the bloodline had been diluted, Corlys saw the need for a male heir to carry the legacy of Driftmark. The tarnishing of the family’s prestige was a price he had come to accept—for the sake of Driftmark’s future.

“Forgive me for disagreeing,” Rhaenys said coldly, her expression hardening as she pushed her husband away and took a step back.

Corlys was caught off guard. He cursed himself silently, rubbing his temple in frustration. He had stood by her side when her claim to the Iron Throne was rejected because of her gender, her "female status" disqualifying her. Back then, he had been her fiercest advocate, even raising the banner of gender equality championed by his mother-in-law, Queen Alysanne.

But now, things felt different.

“Give me a moment, Rhaenys,” he said, hesitating. His voice faltered as if he were struggling to find the right words. "I need time to adjust."

When they had no son, his focus had been unwavering—securing the future of Driftmark. But now, with Laenor returned and a living male heir, everything seemed more complicated. The world, once certain, was full of unpredictable turns.

Rhaenys’s eyes sharpened as she spoke. “Now, bring Rhaena back from King’s Landing. Don’t break the child’s heart.”

Corlys remained silent, staring at the ground.

“And then,” she added, her voice steady with purpose, “you must prepare a large ship.”

Corlys glanced up, puzzled.

“The House Velaryon owes its prosperity to your ancestors’ boldness—following Aenar when he exiled himself from Old Valyria. That choice made us who we are.”

At that moment, Rhaenys seemed to glow with wisdom, a force of conviction around her. “Now that Essos has been reshaped by Rhaegar’s conquests, you should be ready to follow the winds of change as well.”

Corlys said nothing, but her words weighed heavily on him. As Rhaenys turned and began to walk away, her figure gradually fading into the distance, Corlys gathered his thoughts. He turned back toward the docks, where the shipbuilders worked tirelessly.

Addam was busy polishing his tools, his focus absolute. Beside him, Alyn, stripped of his usual fine clothes, was helping carry a basket of fish and shrimp.

Corlys’s irritation stirred. It was the unease of a proud man wrestling with guilt, his sense of duty clashing with personal regrets.

“My lord,” Alyn called out, noticing him. He set down the basket, wiping his hands on his shirt.

“Come here for a moment, Alyn,” Corlys beckoned, his voice steady, hiding the storm within.

“What can I do for you, my lord?” Alyn approached, eager yet respectful.

Corlys studied him for a moment before speaking with the weight of authority. “You will take a large ship to bring Rhaena back from King’s Landing. In the meantime, I need you to arrange something for your brother.”

Alyn’s eyes brightened with renewed hope, eager to prove himself. “What is it?”

Corlys looked away, unwilling to meet those eager, violet eyes filled with such youthful energy. “The Golden Fields across the Narrow Sea need development. Tell Addam to go there and reclaim a fertile piece of land.”

Alyn nodded, understanding the task, though he remained disciplined. “Yes, my lord. I’ll tell Addam to do his best.”

He couldn’t help but steal a glance in the direction where Rhaenys had disappeared. Unlike Addam, who remained entirely absorbed in his work, Alyn was keenly aware of the world around him. His eyes tracked movements, reading the mood of the scene, always observant.

Corlys watched him, a mix of admiration and regret stirring within. Alyn was handsome, upright, and full of vitality—qualities that reminded him of his younger self. In contrast, Laenor, raised among nobles, had developed a gentler, more feminine disposition. With a delicate face as striking as his sister Laena’s, Laenor had always seemed more like a noble girl than a lord.

But Alyn and Addam, bastards though they were, possessed a competitive fire that Corlys could not deny.

“Yes, my lord,” Alyn repeated, a small smile curling his lips. Then, with a glance back at the vendor's path, he quietly resumed his work, though his mind remained sharp and alert, always watching.

...

The North, Winterfell

Snow fell softly over the castle’s towers, blanketing Winterfell in white. In the vast Wolfswood, a single tree stood tall—a red-leaved weirwood towering above a crystal-clear spring.

“Responsibility is sacrifice.”

“Responsibility is everything, even more than blood…”

“The North bears a great responsibility to the Seven Kingdoms, a duty older than any oath.”

Underneath the ancient weirwood, Lord Cregan Stark, clad in a dark leather coat, recited the solemn words of the traditional declaration. His expression was grim, matching the weight of his words. From a sack, he drew out one pound after another—black and white tokens that would seal the fates of those gathered.

A circle of strong young men stood around him, each waiting to take their turn. Some drew white pounds, and their tense faces eased with relief. But others drew black, and their expressions grew even more solemn.

Cregan’s sharp gaze swept over the group. His large, calloused hand landed firmly on the shoulder of a young man who had drawn a black pound. The youth’s black hair, black eyes, and long face marked him unmistakably as a Stark—features passed down through generations.

“Are you all going?” came a quiet voice from the side, tinged with confusion.

Baelon, his brow furrowed, looked around at the men of the North. He struggled to understand the ritual before him.

Cregan, his dark eyes serious, lowered his head slightly. “Since the time of the First Men, we have been the kingdom’s shield against the cold and the darkness,” he explained. “According to ancient tradition, when winter approaches, one in every ten male children of our family must be chosen to join the Night’s Watch.”

He paused, his voice gentle but firm. “This is not a punishment, Baelon. It is an honor.”

The words carried the weight of generations. Baelon, listening intently, grew more impressed with the Lord of the North he had spent the past few days with. 'Perhaps only someone with such a blend of gentleness and strength—reason and personal magnetism—could lead the people of the North, whose blood does not freeze even in the harshest winters,' he thought. 'Such a man is worthy of standing among my father’s peers.'

Cregan straightened, his gaze returning to the circle of young men. “Do no stop the drawing,” he said gravely, and the ritual continued.

Baelon exhaled slowly, watching in silence.

Suddenly, the shrill cry of a raven pierced the stillness, accompanied by the soft crunch of footsteps on snow. Cregan turned, raising his arm for the black bird to land. It settled, and he removed the letter-carrier from its leg, reading the message quickly.

Baelon tightened his black cloak, eyes widening in surprise as he spotted a familiar figure approaching. “Baela, why aren’t you at the castle?”

The silver-haired maiden, dressed in a red gown and a black fur coat, stepped into the Wolfswood. Snowflakes clung to her fur-lined shoulders, and her cheeks were flushed an unnatural red.

“I couldn’t stay,” Baela replied, her breath misting in the cold air. “So I followed the raven.”

She sniffed, her voice strained as she added, “The Maester said being active would help me recover from the chill.”

The two of them had been in the North for several days now, long enough to gain a true understanding of its cold.

“Roar…”

A deep, melodic dragon roar echoed suddenly through the Wolfswood, and a gust of cold wind whipped up the snow in a swirling frenzy. From the dense trees emerged an old, rough-scaled dragon, its moss-colored hide speckled with frost. The beast shook its massive body, dislodging the snow that had settled on its back, while its tired, vertical pupils blinked with weariness.

“He’s complaining too,” Baelon muttered, exhaling a cloud of warm breath as he rubbed his hands together. “Even the dragons don’t like the cold.”

“Uragax has already done you a favor by showing up,” Baela replied, her voice raspy with frustration. “I don’t even know where Moondancer’s gone to hide.” Her young dragon, unable to stand the biting chill, had likely found a warm place to nest.

“Prince,” Cregan spoke up suddenly, drawing their attention.

“But which noble castle collapsed from the snowstorm?” Baelon asked carefully, not surprised by the news. It had been a brutal winter, burying the North in ice and snow even in July. Many households were struggling just to survive.

“It’s not a castle—it’s the wildlings,” Cregan said, handing a letter to Baelon, his face grim. “They’re gathering beyond the Wall again, planning another assault.”

Baelon’s eyes narrowed as he read. This would be the third time the Wall had been attacked during this harsh winter. The Night’s Watch had already suffered devastating losses.

“For this reason, half of our new recruits are traditionally sent to the Night’s Watch,” Cregan continued. “The selection of those recruits was just completed in the Wolfswood.”

Baelon nodded, understanding the weight of the situation. “But we haven’t even finished traveling the entirety of the North.”

“The Wall is more important,” Cregan said, his tone firm and leaving no room for argument. “The selection is done. We march for the Wall tomorrow.”