Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Upon hearing the words "red dragon," Aemon’s pupils contracted sharply. He had never imagined anyone else was after it.

"Don’t be surprised. I know everything," Quaithe said calmly, her eyes deep and unreadable, like dark pools that hid ancient secrets.

Aemon instinctively gripped the dragon pendant around his neck, trying to steady his nerves. "Are you the second group, or the third?" he asked, his voice tense. How many were hunting the red dragon in the Great Grass Sea? He didn’t know, but his sense of duty wouldn’t allow anyone to defile the dragon.

Quaithe tilted her head slightly, her expression almost playful. "How do you know you’re not the third?" she replied, her tone laced with mystery.

Aemon’s heart sank. Her words confirmed his worst fear—there were already two groups who had discovered the red dragon before him. Worse still, it was possible that they had succeeded.

"Do you intend to tame the vicious red dragon?" Quaithe asked, raising a pale hand and giving a gentle wave, as if summoning something unseen.

Aemon stopped retreating, his body tense with suspicion. "Do you have a way for me to tame it?" he asked cautiously.

Quaithe’s eyes gleamed with a hint of regret. "Suffering has not erased your innocent heart," she said softly, her voice almost maternal. "But to gain the dragon, you will pay a price. And right now, your freedom is all you have left."

Aemon swallowed, a chill creeping up his spine. "Do you want my body or my soul?" His voice trembled, the words scraping out of his throat like nails on glass. Everything about Quaithe felt dangerous, like she was a demon, ready to take whatever she wanted. In just a few words, she had peeled back the layers of his heart, weighing its worth.

"You misunderstand," Quaithe replied, the corners of her mouth curling into a smile beneath her golden veil. Her voice dropped, deep and resonant. "It is not what I want. It’s what you are willing to give that determines what you’ll receive."

Aemon frowned, his skepticism deepening. "But there’s still a price, isn’t there?"

"The world is fair," Quaithe said, her tone shifting to one of quiet admiration. "Everything comes at an equal cost." Her gaze sharpened, her words dripping with prophecy. "Lose one dragon, gain another."

Aemon’s heart clenched as the weight of her words settled over him. He whispered, almost to himself, "I’ve already lost a dragon."

The Trickster had died, shielding him.

Quaithe’s eyes sparkled, and she stared at him intently, as if reading the depths of his soul. Their gazes locked—his violet eyes meeting hers, like two amethysts reflecting each other from the bottom of an abyss.

Suddenly, Aemon was pulled into a vision.

Roar!

A young, dark green dragon soared through the air, its long, thin, scorpion-like tail flicking as it sliced through the hazy clouds. But beneath it, a blood-red mouth, sharp and pale as marble, snapped up from the sea. The monstrous jaws clamped down with terrifying force, tearing into the young dragon’s flesh. Blood sprayed into the sky, and the young dragon screamed in agony, its body writhing in the creature’s maw.

Aemon felt the pain as if it were his own. He saw the dragon’s vertical pupils—so sad, so full of regret—turn back to him one last time before they closed forever. The dragon fell, its lifeless body plunging into the cold sea.

Plop!

The dragon’s head sank below the waves, along with the silver-haired rider, as an eerie red glow enveloped one of them. One perished, the other survived.

"You were meant to die. But the Lord of Light spared you."

Quaithe’s magnetic voice snapped Aemon out of the vision, bringing him back to reality. She had stepped closer—too close. Only two feet separated them now.

Startled, Aemon tried to retreat, but—

Snap!

The chain around his neck broke. The Valyrian steel dragon pendant fell to the ground with a soft clink.

“Look, a rare and precious treasure,” Quaithe murmured, studying the runic symbols etched into the pendant with keen interest. She rubbed her hands together slowly.

With a soft hum, the pendant began to glow faintly. In the next instant, a Valyrian steel sword materialized out of thin air, as black as the deepest night. The slender blade shimmered, its dark surface speckled with silver, like stars against a midnight sky. At the end of the hilt was a large, octagonal ruby that gleamed blood-red.

“That’s mine,” Aemon said, his voice trembling with panic as he stepped forward, instinctively reaching to reclaim the sword.

But before he could even blink, Quaithe vanished.

Aemon’s eyes widened in disbelief, his heart pounding in his chest.

“It is a powerful weapon, but it does not belong entirely to you,” Quaithe’s magnetic voice floated through the air, her figure now reappearing near the stable’s water trough. A basilisk briefly shimmered beside her before vanishing just as quickly.

“Let go of the sword. It was given to me by my mother,” Aemon said desperately, his hand outstretched toward the sword. He barely finished speaking before she disappeared again.

His heart raced, thoughts swirling with confusion. Was this sorcery? Ghosts? He clenched his fists, knowing he had to steel himself against the golden witch.

“It doesn’t fully belong to you,” Quaithe’s voice cut through the night, her figure now back by the haystack. “Half of it belongs to the Lord of Light.”

Aemon’s eyes narrowed, his breath unsteady. Had she ever moved at all? Or was everything he had seen an illusion—a trick to manipulate him? The pendant’s theft, her sudden reappearances—it was all part of her game.

“You have two choices, young man,” Quaithe said, her voice low but filled with amusement. She lazily twirled the pendant between her fingers as the family sword, Truefyre, remained stuck in the ground, gleaming in the dim light. “Either I take the Flaming Heart,” she continued, her black-nailed finger hovering over the ruby embedded in the hilt, “or you complete a task for the Lord of Light.”

Her finger was poised to pluck the ruby free.

“Wait!” Aemon blurted, his heart sinking. “How do I trust you?”

His shock was palpable. Truefyre wasn’t just any sword; it was the most unique of all his family’s weapons. His father had many: Dark Sister, Dragon’s Claw, even Blackfyre itself as a symbol of his authority. But Truefyre held a special place. The ruby—known as the Flaming Heart—was no ordinary gem. Aemon’s mother had once told him it was taken from a red priestess in the Riverlands, one of the three treasures of the Red Temple, a relic of the Lord of Light.

More importantly, it had saved his father’s life—and his own—twice.

“What do you want in return?” Aemon asked gravely, already familiar with the weight of such exchanges.

“Smart,” Quaithe replied with a knowing smile. "Let me answer your first question: I can tell you the whereabouts of the red dragon. The real question is—can you earn your own trust?"

“Where is the red dragon?” Aemon’s eyes flashed with interest. He didn’t bother with the usual questions like why should I believe you? There was something ominous about her presence, something compelling. Quaithe was no ordinary sorceress, and it seemed that, for now, killing her was not an option. A deal had to be struck.

Quaithe’s smile faded, replaced by her usual cold, witch-like demeanor. Her voice turned low and serious. “The red dragon has been captured by a group of Asshai witches and is being transported to Slaver’s Bay by a band of Dothraki.”

“You want me to stop the Dragonlord of Slaver’s Bay from taming it?” Aemon asked, quickly piecing together the clues. His thoughts went immediately to Irina Daeryon, a disgraced noblewoman who had fled King’s Landing. He had once seen her off himself.

“No,” Quaithe replied, her eyes unreadable. “The Lord of Light merely wants you to find the red dragon. No one else will reach it before you.”

Aemon, sensing a hidden meaning, furrowed his brow. “I can’t go to Slaver’s Bay,” he countered. “And I don’t have the coin to hire Dothraki.”

The faith of the Lord of Light had little sway over Valyrians, and the gods seldom performed miracles for them. Yet, Aemon knew the flaming heart pendant had saved him and his father twice. Perhaps the Lord of Light did exist after all.

“Don’t worry,” Quaithe said, a faint flicker of mockery in her tone as she peered from behind her golden veil. “You’ll have your own reasons to enter Slaver’s Bay.” Her words held a sinister edge. “You lost one dragon... now you’ve gained another.”

Aemon felt a chill run down his spine. The green dragon’s death had led to the birth of something else—a new beginning. He could only guess what price would need to be paid next.

“What does the Lord of Light want me to do?” Aemon pressed, still unsure of the cost. He had little left to offer. What could the Lord of Light demand from him?

Quaithe’s expression remained impassive. “You misunderstand. The Lord of Light asks nothing of you. What you seek is a sign in the flames,” she said, her voice softening as she took a few slow steps back. “When you find the red dragon, you will know the Light’s will.”

“Wait,” Aemon called out, desperate for clarity.

Poof!

The scene before him vanished, and Quaithe’s golden figure began to dissolve into the air, her outline blurring until it disappeared entirely.

“Gone again?” Aemon whispered, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. He looked around—he was alone.

The family sword, Truefyre, stood planted in the ground, its dark blade faintly glowing under the night sky. The dragon pendant hung from the hilt, swinging gently in the cool breeze.

Had it all been an illusion? The sword, the pendant, the golden witch who spoke of the Lord of Light—it all seemed too surreal.

"Father really should’ve killed her," Aemon muttered, clutching his chest as fear gnawed at him. The witch's voice, her accent—it had the tone of someone from the Westerlands, but her demeanor... that was unmistakably Asshai.

His photographic memory replayed the details—small clues, hints of High Valyrian—but even with all his knowledge, the truth remained elusive.

...

Half a month later...

Slaver’s Bay, Meereen

“Hyah, hyah!”

A group of Dothraki cavalry thundered into the city, their horses kicking up clouds of dust as they galloped through the narrow streets, still littered with rubble. The common folk and slaves scattered in panic, retreating to their homes and locking their doors, too frightened to venture outside. The only sounds were the relentless pounding of hooves and the crack of whips, shattering the uneasy peace of Meereen.

Creak...

While the riders commanded the city’s attention, two massive carriages rolled in through a side gate, unnoticed by most. The carriages moved slowly, side by side, each carrying an enormous semicircular object draped in thick red curtains. The weight of the load was immense, requiring ten strong mules to haul each carriage. Their iron-rimmed wheels left deep grooves in the red brick streets as they passed.

“Careful... don’t startle the beast,” muttered a bald wizard in a red robe, riding a stout dwarf horse. His eyes flicked nervously to the carriages every few moments, watching them with growing anxiety.

“We’ll be safe once we reach the Great Pyramid,” replied another bald wizard beside him, his face grim. He reached into his robes, pulling out a special incense stick, which he promptly chewed on.

Puff!

The incense ignited instantly, releasing a thick, pungent smoke. The wizard jammed the burning incense into holders on the side of the carriage, replacing the ones that were nearly spent.

Roar, roar...

Suddenly, a heavy, guttural breathing rumbled from beneath the red curtain, like the ominous awakening of a sleeping giant.

Bang!

The carriages jolted violently. The red curtain fluttered, lifting just enough to reveal the iron cage concealed beneath. The cage itself was monstrous—jagged, resembling interlocking fangs, its interior cramped and suffocating.

From within, a long, thick dragon’s tail, dark red and covered in thorn-like dorsal fins, thrashed out from the cage, hanging limply over the back of the carriage. Its scales gleamed with a deep, fiery hue, and the weight of the tail alone made the ground tremble.

The face of the bald wizard paled. He mumbled an incantation under his breath, his fingers twitching in nervous ritual.

The Dothraki accompanying the procession leaped from their horses, their bodies padded with thick animal skins. Working together, they struggled to shove the dragon’s tail back into the cage, their muscles straining with effort.

The incense smoke billowed thicker, seeping under the red curtain and filling the confined space. Its effect was immediate. The heavy breathing slowed, then ceased, replaced by an eerie silence.

A tense moment passed before the carriages resumed their slow journey. Eventually, they disappeared into the cellar beneath the Great Pyramid, the final resting place of their volatile cargo.

...

Dusk. The sun set slowly.

At the cellar door of the Great Pyramid, a furious roar echoed through the stone halls.

“Roar!”

A blast of bright red fire shot into the air, illuminating the entrance in a fiery glow. With a loud rumble, the door swung open, and a silver-haired figure stumbled out, her black suit scorched and smoldering.

"Close the door! Don’t provoke it further," Irina commanded, her voice tight with fear as she frantically patted out the flames still clinging to her clothes. Her eyes were wide, heart racing, as the heat from the dragon’s fury lingered in the air.

“Yes, my queen,” a bald sorcerer replied, his tone calm despite the chaos. With a quick glance, he signaled the nearby guards. They moved swiftly, slamming the heavy door shut, sealing the dragon’s enraged roars behind thick stone walls.

Clank... clank...

The sound of heavy chains rattled faintly from the other side, barely audible through the thick stone. The sorcerer’s cold eyes narrowed slightly as he listened, picking up a sound that ordinary ears could not—flesh being torn, bones crushed under powerful jaws. The beast was feeding.

Sharp fangs ripped through the meat, crushing hard bones, devouring its meal bit by bit.

“I’ll try again later,” Irina muttered, still visibly shaken. She hurried away from the cellar, her steps quick and uneven, eager to distance herself from the dragon’s wrath.

The bald wizard nodded in silence, trailing behind her with measured steps. His gaze remained cold and calculating as he followed the queen’s retreat.

The guards stood in uneasy silence, heads bowed, eyes averted, afraid to meet anyone’s gaze. None dared to speak of the red-robed priest who had accompanied the queen into the cellar—he had not come out.