Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

It was afternoon. The crowd had dispersed from the Great Arena, leaving behind an air of desolation.

Rhaegar sat upright in his chair, a smile curling the corner of his lips.

"Your Grace, you will never regret your decision," Bargins beamed, carefully folding the signed and sealed parchment and slipping it back into his bosom.

"That's right, the Thirteen never lie." A large, dark-skinned man with a round belly patted his ample chest with pride.

The remaining eleven men all smiled, raised their goblets, and toasted each other. Just moments ago, the Iron Throne had signed an agreement with Qarth. The Iron Throne would borrow 3.5 million golden dragons to reclaim the Golden Plains, while Qarth would provide the funds, goods, and fifty large ships for year-round transport.

The agreement allowed Qartheen merchants to establish shops at Iron Throne-controlled ports and reduce taxes.

Additionally, Qarth would borrow from the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms to help overthrow the Iron Bank’s monopoly and support the impoverished nobility. The two sides had formed an alliance—if war broke out, they would advance and retreat together.

On the surface, it appeared to be aimed at the Iron Bank, but in truth, it was a scheme that involved the Iron Throne. Rhaegar smiled as he put away another parchment. It was merely an agreement concerning debts and the opening of ports.

'With the Golden Plains successfully cultivated, the House and the Seven Kingdoms will be safe from the White Walkers in the North,' he thought. 'If we don’t pay the Iron Bank, we certainly won’t pay Qarth. And if the Thirteen dare to conspire with the ports and Free Cities, they’ll face a rude awakening by dragons!'

Everyone knew dragons were evil, magical creatures that neither honored their word nor showed mercy.

The Thirteen, satisfied after achieving their goals, began to leave. Irina rose, weary from sitting, and started walking away. Rhaegar remained, the only one still seated in the Colosseum.

He heard soft footsteps approaching. A figure emerged from the shadows, adorned in gold ornaments that jingled as she swayed her hips. Rhaegar’s ears twitched, and his gaze shifted. The woman’s skin was pale as parchment, her head shaved and marked with strange tattoos. A golden headdress concealed her true face. She was thin, with gold covering only her chest and lower body, her attire revealing more than it concealed.

Rhaegar’s eyebrows furrowed slightly as he found himself captivated by her dark, gleaming eyes.

Boom.

An invisible air current swept through the Colosseum, casting a layer of gloom over everything. Her dark eyes were lifeless, like a stagnant pool, brimming with rigidity and numbness as if they sought to devour a person’s soul.

“Ssssshhhh…”

“Croak…”

Rhaegar stared calmly back at her. Three spiritual creatures materialized on his shoulders, beings that existed between the physical and Spirit Realms: a dark serpent, a drab Dream-Eating Toad, and a Bat Worm with scarlet wings.

The serpent, with its round head and flat body, rolled over on its stomach. The Bat Worm flitted around its master, while the Toad sat atop a silver-blonde strand of hair, its dull, green eyes wide open, exuding a steady spiritual resistance.

Rhaegar's purple eyes grew colder as a flicker of black flame danced within them.

Pop!

The spiritual clash came and went in an instant, vanishing as swiftly as it had appeared.

"Your Grace, good technique." The skinny woman’s voice was dry as she swayed her hips, stepping forward.

Rhaegar's expression hardened, his voice cold. "Who are you?"

The woman had attacked without warning. If he hadn’t been as skilled, he might have succumbed to her strike.

"Quaithe." She stopped three meters away, her hands resting on her small belly as she bowed her head in greeting. "I come from Asshai and now serve the Thirteen."

"I don't believe they'd be foolish enough to send a witch who doesn't know her place to offend me." Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint revealing the murderous intent simmering beneath his calm exterior.

Rumble—

A dark, clawed hook landed heavily on the seats above, and a hot air current, smelling of ash, descended over them, casting a large shadow across their heads. Quaithe glanced up, her black eyes flashing with surprise.

"Roar..."

The Cannibal's green, vertical pupils glared down menacingly, baring fangs that smoldered with flame as it locked its gaze on the woman like she was prey. Sensing its rider’s emotions, the dragon came to protect its master.

"A majestic dragon," Quaithe murmured in admiration. "Even Balerion the Black Dread was no match for this one."

"You've seen it?" Rhaegar silently drew Blackfyre from his waist, his voice sharp.

"It was the largest dragon in history," Quaithe said with a soft laugh. "No dragon has surpassed it to this day." She gestured toward the Cannibal. "This one is still young, but in a few decades, it will surely rewrite that history."

Rhaegar's face darkened, and the murderous intent around him grew palpable. The strange witches of Asshai, with their eccentric Spirit Magic and cryptic knowledge of history, were dangerous. The safest course was to kill her on the spot.

"You've offended me," he said, stepping forward, his gaze carefully scanning their surroundings for any sign of a trap.

"I apologize for my actions." Quaithe bowed again, tilting her gold breastplate in a way that revealed a large expanse of soft skin. "But I have come for you."

Just as Rhaegar’s eyes caught the exposed vulnerability, Quaithe shifted the conversation. "I sense winter and darkness rising from the far north. You should listen to me."

"Oh?" Rhaegar’s mind raced, but he kept his voice measured. "And you know this how?"

Quaithe’s gaze grew solemn. "It's an army of the dead," she said in a deep voice. "The conqueror's prophecy is about to come true. Heavy snow will cover the land, crops will wither beneath it, and both nobles and commoners will huddle by their fires—only to freeze to death."

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of interest flashing across his face. "Go on," he said coldly.

This woman knew much more than she let on. From her words, Rhaegar gleaned two vital pieces of information. The Others were indeed approaching, which was plausible—rumors had spread from across the Narrow Sea. But more troubling was that she knew of the conqueror's prophecy. That made her dangerous.

Quaithe continued to speak eloquently, "If you want to survive this difficult time, I have three tips for you."

"Do I need to say thank you?" Rhaegar wondered as he held the Blackfyre mace.

"No need. I no longer need the worldly goods of grain and money." Quaithe's words carried a hint of otherworldly arrogance, and its dark eyes seemed to encompass all things in the world.

"A dead dragon never rots in the soil."

"A man who cannot be killed cannot be on his knees."

Rhaegar listened quietly, pondering the deeper meaning.

Finally, Quaithe spoke a familiar phrase: "To go north, you must journey south. To reach the west, you must go east. To go forward, you must go back, and to touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow."

'This is not the content of the last words of the dragonless Vaegon,' Rhaegar thought to himself. Paying attention to the words "north" and "east," "shadow," and others, an unfamiliar place name came to mind.

Rhaegar said cautiously, "You want me to go to Asshai, where there is a way to fight the Others?"

East combined with Shadow, and only Asshai in the Shadow Lands fit the description.

"You will get your answer." Quaithe gave a mysterious smile and turned to leave.

Swish—

A flash of black light passed by, beheading the figure.

Rhaegar maintained his sword-swinging posture and snorted, "Playing God."

Plop—

The headless corpse fell to the ground, eerily not spilling a single drop of blood. Rhaegar's pupils narrowed as he noticed this. White smoke billowed. The corpse melted like a candle, turning into a puddle of viscous water that seeped into the ground.

"Your Grace, I wish you well in your trials." Quaithe reappeared in the dark corner, smiling and bowing.

"Roar..."

A jet of dark green dragonfire shot out, enveloping a wide area of the audience. Rhaegar held up a hand in front of him, staring through the flames at the graceful figure. A wisp of white smoke drifted by, and then the figure turned up at the entrance to the Colosseum.

"What a strange technique," Rhaegar murmured, watching as the figure disappeared into the crowd.

Yes, the crowd!

"Roar..."

The Cannibal lowered its dragon head, its green vertical pupils locked on the Colosseum, and there wasn't a single person in the vicinity. Why would anyone stay where the Deathwing appeared if they weren't afraid of death?

Rhaegar calmed his breathing and ran his palm along the blade of his sword, cutting himself. A bloody wound appeared with a zhila sound. Under the intense pain, the haze in his purple eyes dispersed, and his narrow field of vision gradually expanded.

Rhaegar used the Serpent to heal his wound and couldn't help but laugh. "It's still spirit power... a bit one-sided." He had been careless, thinking the spirit impact only had one round. Before he knew it, he had been distracted by the other person. But he had also gained a lot of information from the conversation.

Rhaegar sat down with a frown, thinking, 'Quaithe... the conqueror's prophecy... who on earth...?' Her appearance gave no indication of his ethnicity. But from his exquisite High Valyrian, one could faintly hear an accent from the continent of Westeros.

'The common language of the Westerlands, with its condescending view of the country folk,' Rhaegar grinned, his thoughts gradually becoming clearer. Having spent so much time with the brothers Jason and Tyland, the Westerlands accent was very familiar to him. Quaithe was trying desperately to hide it, imitating High Valyrian as if it were its native tongue. But in the face of Rhaegar's proficiency in High Valyrian, it was like a grain of sand in wheat flour—he could tell at once.

'I hope it's not who I think it is,' Rhaegar gripped the hilt of his sword, a little doubtful. 'Really... living to this age, you can become such a genius. I will kill her next time I see her!'

...

The North, The Wall.

Rustling...

Outside the Wall, tens of thousands of wildlings gathered, axes in hand, cutting down trees.

"Are they building a fire to cook their food or preparing a siege ladder?" Baelon asked, rubbing his cold hands together as he stood on the watchtower.

The wildling army had been there for nearly half a month. The pressure they exerted hung like an indelible gloom, driving the Night's Watch at Castle Black into a state of constant anxiety.

"There's smoke from cooking fires. The free folk need to fill their stomachs too," said Cregan, his eyes sharp and alert. "Tell the Night's Watch to step up night patrols. We can't rule out a night attack."

"Yes, my lord," replied a Night's Watch member, who, at the sound of the order, quickly left the two noble figures behind.

Baelon's small face was covered in frostbite, and he whispered, "With Uragax here, the wildlings won't dare to do anything." He stamped his foot hard in frustration.

"Roar..."

A moss-colored old dragon curled up at the base of the ice wall, its massive body draped over the Wall like a green cloak. Thanks to this old dragon, whenever the wildling army attempted an attack, Uragax would take to the sky, circling overhead. At the sight of the enormous beast, the wildlings would retreat in fear.

The situation had been at a stalemate for half a month.

Cregan's face was grim, but there was dissatisfaction in his tone. "Prince, you should return to King's Landing for reinforcements. We can't continue like this."

"And what would happen to you if I left?" Baelon asked, concern in his voice.

With the new batch of Night's Watch recruits, only 3,000 men were defending the Wall. The entire North was buried in snow, and even Cregan, as a Lord, struggled to rally his advisors and gather fighters in these harsh conditions. If Uragax left, the wildlings would undoubtedly launch a full-scale assault.

"Prince, the North is home only to the people of the North," said Cregan with steely resolve, though there was a touch of helplessness in his tone. "I don't mind telling you, even if your dragon has been losing its appetite for the past fortnight, the pigs and goats at Castle Black are nearly gone. We won't last much longer."

If they waited any longer, they would run out of food.

"Roar! Roar!"

Suddenly, a shrill cry echoed in the distance.

Baelon turned, his breath catching as he looked towards the sound. A young light-green dragon was flying through the snow and wind, letting out a mournful, unwilling cry as it struggled against the storm.