Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

The continent of Essos, the Golden Fields.

The sky stretched in a deep, cloudless blue, while the lakes shimmered in shades of emerald green. Thousands of people had set up makeshift homes, cultivating farmland around the fertile shores of Dagger Lake. The water was calm, disturbed only by the occasional ripple.

On the horizon, the foundations of a massive structure were beginning to take shape, sprawling over a large area. Workers moved steadily, carrying wood and stones to hasten the construction. Everything was carried out in an orderly fashion, and no one voiced a single complaint.

The grass rustled underfoot as it was trampled by the bustling crowd. Across the lake, a massive black dragon lay motionless, its sad green eyes half-open and half-closed. Its sheer presence cast an invisible weight over the camp, a sense of oppression that gripped the hearts of all who dared glance at it.

Whenever someone gazed too long in its direction, the hot breath from the dragon’s thick nostrils turned the grass in front of it to scorched earth. The people, sensing the heat even from a distance, worked harder under the silent pressure.

"Old friend, let's go for a walk,"

Rhaegar’s voice broke through the hum of labor as he strode out from the fields, a grave expression on his face. The shortage of manpower was glaring. Even though the war with Braavos and Pentos had officially ended, the Dragonlord's House remained marred by its aftermath. The people of the Golden Fields would rather see their homes trampled by Dothraki hooves than submit to the rule of the Dragonlords and build anew.

"I’ll come with you,"

Daeron said, trailing behind, his pace slower. His hands were blistered from chopping firewood. There were so few hands to help that even the Prince had to work.

Rhaegar replied, his voice cold as he swiftly climbed onto the dragon's back. "I’ll go to Slaver’s Bay to handle matters. You stay and try to gather more displaced people."

The Dothraki had ravaged half of western Essos, with the Golden Fields suffering the brunt of their devastation. Yet Daeron had gained a good reputation by rescuing those plundered by the Dothraki, which made him invaluable in rallying the refugees.

After giving his instructions, Rhaegar patted the dragon’s back.

"Roar..."

The Cannibal stirred, rising from the grass, its hind legs stamping the earth with a thunderous boom. It flapped its colossal wings, lifting off into the sky. Over the past two months, the nutrients from the pale dragon it had devoured were fully digested, giving the Cannibal’s dark scales a renewed metallic sheen. The once-visible holes in its wings had healed, and its size had grown, nearing 200 meters in length.

Boom!

From the perspective of the common folk, the black dragon appeared like a coal-black mountain, taking flight. Its wings beat heavily, creating gusts of wind that rippled through the fields. Slowly, the massive creature disappeared into the clouds, leaving only the distant echo of its roar.

...

Slaver's Bay.

Meereen, the Great Pyramid.

"Your Grace, Astapor has trained 2,000 Unsullied this year, all fully armored warriors," Racallio announced. Dressed in a garish outfit of red and green, he exuded an odd blend of womanly charm and rugged masculinity, his full beard contrasting with his exaggerated gestures. His frustration was palpable. "But instead of offering them to you, the Good Masters have raised the price."

Irina, seated high on the throne, sighed and pressed a hand to her forehead. "Send your fleet to Astapor and trade them gold for the Unsullied," she replied. Her voice carried the weariness of one who had navigated these negotiations before.

The Unsullied were the finest remnants of the Old Empire of Ghis, and Meereen's defenses relied on the 1,500 already in its ranks, bought in previous years. Astapor, newly revived, funneled most of its looted slaves into training more Unsullied, and this year's crop had finally come of age.

"Don't worry, Your Grace," Racallio said, puffing out his chest in a grand show of confidence. "If the Good Masters refuse to sell, I’ll just stuff their heads up my arse and squeeze them!" He twisted his hips theatrically as he strode out of the hall, leaving Irina shaking her head at his eccentricity.

As he departed, two bald sorcerers in red robes entered, their pale faces marked with strange tattoos that radiated an ominous aura. The air seemed to grow colder as they approached.

"Your Grace," one of them said, bowing deeply.

Irina straightened on her throne. "Have you found the red dragon?"

Slaver's Bay was growing more unstable by the day. Dissent echoed through the Free Cities—some against her, others against the Dragonlord with silver hair and purple eyes. Irina’s sellswords and pirates were no longer enough to quell the unrest. She needed more soldiers. She needed a dragon.

"We have some news," the sorcerer said.

"Speak."

"In the distant Great Grass Sea, the Lamb Men have found traces of a dragon."

The sorcerer’s voice was steady, each word slow and deliberate, meant to soothe. "We’ve already sent men to search in that direction."

It was little more than whispers of dragon dung and charred sheep bones, but Irina knew it was enough to stir hope—or fear. Her face grew colder as the conversation dragged on.

"Just find some more concubines for my brother," she snapped, waving them off impatiently. She had no desire to linger on the sorcerers’ cryptic tales.

"Yes, Your Grace," the sorcerer replied, bowing once more. Before retreating, he added, "A merchant ship from Qarth has docked, and a witch has come with it."

Irina frowned, about to demand an explanation, but the man was already gone, his words trailing behind him.

Boom.

The wind howled, slamming into the windows and toppling the ornate decorations inside the hall.

"Dragon!" A soldier’s frantic cry echoed from the city below. The commotion outside surged, the sound of hurried footsteps and shouted commands filling the air.

Irina's hand tightened on the armrest of her throne. Her gaze lifted to the open sky beyond the Great Pyramid.

"Roar..."

A massive black dragon circled above, its enormous wings stirring gusts of wind as it flew over the city. Its shadow darkened the streets of Meereen, casting a sense of awe—and terror—across the land.

...

It was midday.

The Colosseum, Meereen.

Thousands of spectators sat in eerie silence, watching a multi-person duel unfold in the arena below. Unlike the usual rowdy crowd, an unsettling mix of anxiety and wildness hung in the air, casting a heavy stillness over the Colosseum. Even the slave warriors battling below seemed drained, their swords clutched limply in trembling hands.

Amid this tension, a grotesque sound filled the air—chewing, loud and awful.

The Cannibal, its massive body towering over the high walls of the Colosseum, feasted on a pile of cows and sheep. The livestock seemed like mere snacks in its enormous maw, their grunts and splashing blood lost in the beast's relentless chewing. Its green, vertical pupils gazed down with a cold, predatory malice, as if it could devour the entire audience just as easily.

"It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace, ruler of the Iron Throne," spoke a man from the high platform overlooking the arena. Seated in a row were a dozen finely dressed figures.

The speaker was a bald, round-faced man, short and stocky, with a constant smile on his face. "Seeing is believing. You truly remind me of the great conqueror, Aegon. Truly imposing."

"Indeed," the twelve men and women seated around him nodded in agreement.

Their clothing was vibrant, adorned with jewelry that glittered in the midday sun. They exuded wealth, luxury, and the heavy scent of perfume.

Rhaegar lifted his eyes and spoke with a measured tone, fingers resting near his nose. "Master Bargins, let’s get straight to the point."

The group in front of him was none other than The Thirteen of Qarth. The Golden Fields, Rhaegar’s realm, desperately lacked manpower, resources, and—most of all—money. Qarth, a rich and independent coastal city on the eastern edge of Essos, rivaled even the Nine Free Cities in wealth. Rhaegar sought to secure a loan from them.

Bargins, momentarily taken aback by the request, allowed surprise to flicker across his fat face. Then he chuckled. "No problem, Your Grace," he said with a practiced smile, ever the adaptable businessman.

The Thirteen, diverse in hair color and skin tone, were bound by their shared business acumen, a trait that had led them to wealth and influence in Qarth.

"Your Grace of Meereen," Bargins continued, "we are honored to ask for your help as our intermediary."

He produced an elegant wooden box and handed it to Irina, seated across from him. Irina, with her silver hair and purple eyes, wore a split blue skirt that accentuated her noble and aloof demeanor. She opened the box to reveal a chain link with a dragon head pendant, intricately carved.

"Valyrian steel?"

Irina's eyes lit up as she carefully picked up the silver-gray chain. The dragon-head pendant glimmered in the light as it rested against her arm, draping over her chest and complementing her attire. The piece’s elegance only enhanced the natural beauty of her Valyrian features—long silver-gold hair, fair skin, and a regal bearing.

"It’s exquisite," Rhaegar remarked, casting a brief glance at the pendant, though his interest in it was more than casual. The merchants of Qarth are indeed generous, he thought, marveling at how casually they bestowed such treasures.

"Thank you," Irina beamed as she admired the Valyrian steel chain, its dragon-head pendant gleaming in the light. The material itself spoke of its priceless nature, while the dragon symbol perfectly embodied the heritage of a Dragonlord's house. It was a thoughtful and significant gift.

"Your Grace, we’ve prepared a gift for you as well," Bargins said with a polite smile, turning to Rhaegar.

He adopted an apologetic tone, adding, "A cargo ship loaded with spices is waiting in the harbor for you. Originally, there were three ships, but they ran into a storm on the way."

Rhaegar nodded, his expression neutral. There was no surprise or excitement—five of the six Free Cities under his control were rich in spices. Compared to Valyrian steel, spices were hardly enticing.

Bargins, momentarily taken aback, hadn’t expected Rhaegar to be so unimpressed.

After a brief pause, he regained his composure and smiled again. "In your letter, you mentioned wanting to borrow from the Qarth Bank. How much do you wish to borrow?" He rubbed his hands together, the gesture unmistakably mercenary.

"Three million golden dragons," Rhaegar replied, leaning back in his chair. "Though if it were possible, five million would be even better."

Bargins’ smile faltered. "That’s no small sum," he said, his tone becoming more serious.

Rhaegar chuckled. "Is that a problem for Qarth? Or do you not have the funds?"

"The Thirteen possess vast wealth," Bargins responded gravely. "However, as I understand it, you still owe the Iron Bank nearly a million. The Seven Kingdoms and several Free Cities have been drained by years of war."

He left the rest unsaid, but the implication was clear. With so much wealth tied up in conflict, how could Rhaegar possibly repay a loan of that size?

"Are you suggesting I can't pay it back?" Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed. "Or is it that Qarth doesn’t have the funds?"

Roar...

A low, thunderous dragon roar echoed from behind, vibrating through the room like distant, muffled thunder. The Thirteen flinched, their expressions changing instantly. Cold sweat formed on their brows beneath their fine clothing.

"You misunderstand, Your Grace," Bargins quickly corrected, his smirk returning. "To be candid, we also owe the Iron Bank, and our ability to repay is limited."

"So you don’t have the money?" Rhaegar cut straight to the point.

"No, no!" Bargins waved his hands frantically, his voice eager to placate. "We do have the funds to lend you for the development of the Golden Fields, but repayment... let’s just say it’s not as straightforward as you might hope."

It was a bold admission—essentially confessing they might default on the loan without a hint of shame.

Rhaegar’s expression darkened. He began to wonder if doing business with these people was more trouble than it was worth. Perhaps I should take a more direct approach.

"Your Grace, don’t underestimate The Thirteen," Bargins said confidently, tilting his head. "The Iron Bank has controlled the world’s wealth for centuries. Now that you rule six of the Nine Free Cities, why not replace the Iron Bank with us?"

Rhaegar rested his chin on one hand, considering the proposal. His gaze shifted to Irina.

Irina, still admiring her new chain, glanced up. "Qarth has already established its own bank," she said, a hint of excitement in her voice. "Even Slaver’s Bay has borrowed from it."

Rhaegar suddenly understood the larger game at play. The Thirteen had ambitions far beyond simple trade—they sought to topple the Iron Bank itself. They weren’t here merely to offer loans or pay tribute to his throne. They wanted to draw the Iron Throne into their plans, to use the power of dragons to safeguard their ambitions.

They had no interest in charity or admiration. They came to align themselves with dragons and ensure their dominance in the world’s financial future.