Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Golden Tooth, the Westerlands.

As a fortress guarding the gateway to the Riverlands from the Westerlands, the walls of Golden Tooth have been repaired countless times. The blue sun banner of House Lefford flies proudly from its towers.

Knock, knock!

The gates of Golden Tooth swung open as a 10,000-strong army rode out, accompanied by 100 wagons filled with supplies and provisions. At the head of the force, 3,000 cavalrymen bore the roaring lion banner of House Lannister.

"My lord, are you sure about this?" Lord Lefford of Golden Tooth asked from the battlements, his expression betraying embarrassment.

"Of course," Jason Lannister snorted, looking down his nose at the man. "I'm doing it."

"By doing this, you are making enemies of the crown," Lord Lefford reasoned, his voice edged with concern.

Jason, however, waved off the warning. A month earlier, an army had begun to gather in the Westerlands. Now, it had swelled to 10,000, prepared to march. Yet, a mere 2,000 had dragged their feet to The Twins, taking far longer than expected. Just days ago, Jason had unexpectedly changed his orders, commanding 5,000 troops that were to march north to instead remain at the Green Fork of the Trident.

This was a clear defiance of royal commands. By halting the troops at the Green Fork, Jason had effectively blocked the only passage for reinforcements to aid the royal family.

Today, Westeros was gripped by an unprecedented winter, the snow piled over three feet deep. The Vale was completely isolated, and the only way north for the southern armies was through House Frey’s stronghold at The Twins. Blocking the Green Fork would sever the North from the rest of the realm.

Jason’s advisers were troubled, but he looked down on them with contempt. "I have no intention of disobeying the King's orders," he claimed defiantly. "The heavy snowfall has simply blocked the roads, making it impossible for our army to advance."

‘Daemon humiliated me, trespassing on my castle like a common thief,’ he thought, clenching his fists. 'I won’t let this go.'

Lord Lefford, sensing the futility of further argument, sighed. "You make your own decisions," he muttered before turning away. His eyes darted nervously as he left.

Jason crossed his arms, the rubies in his gauntlets clinking against the golden lion emblazoned on his breastplate. "Damn Daemon, damn Tyland," he cursed under his breath. "They should all freeze to death along with the men of the North."

It wasn't just personal revenge driving Jason. A merchant from Qarth had recently landed in Lannisport, and two of The Thirteen had struck a secret deal with him. Delaying the royal war against the North would earn Jason fifty ships loaded with Qarthese spices and jewels.

If he could further stall the Reach’s nobles from joining the war by creating chaos in Oldtown, he stood to profit even more through increased taxes to Lannisport. The alliance between Oldtown and House Lannister had already crumbled, with Oldtown now a firm supporter of the crown. Allying with Qarth, therefore, was a perfect opportunity for revenge—one that would also weaken the Hightowers of Oldtown.

It was a brilliant scheme. Two birds with one stone, he thought with satisfaction.

...

The actions of the army in the Westerlands soon had far-reaching repercussions. A few hundred soldiers from several noble families of the Riverlands were blocked at the Green Fork of the Trident by 2,000 Lannister troops. After fruitless negotiations, they were forced to turn back towards the Red Fork.

Riverrun, the Great Hall...

"My lord, the bastards of House Lannister are blocking our way and preventing us from reinforcing the King!" one of the lords exclaimed.

"Yes, Lord Jason's actions are tantamount to treason," another replied bitterly.

...

Dozens of Riverlands nobles had gathered, shouting angry insults. These were all lords who had been intent on marching north to support the King, but had been stopped in their tracks by the Lannister blockade. The Riverlands, traditionally weak in military strength, had no large standing armies; even its wealthiest houses maintained only a few hundred men each. Together, two or three families would form a small force. Against the 2,000 Lannister soldiers, they were powerless and had come to Riverrun in disgrace to air their grievances.

On the second floor of the hall...

Young Lord Kermit Tully sat on the lord’s chair, his head throbbing as the angry voices of his bannermen echoed below. The nobles of the Riverlands were notoriously stubborn and old-fashioned, and they dared to stand against injustice—but they argued endlessly.

‘This can't go on,’ Kermit thought, rubbing his temples.

"Brother, this is no way to handle things," Oscar Tully said quietly beside him, frowning. "The supply troops from the Crownlands march north every month, and the Westerlands are looking for trouble. Anyone who dares to block the royal forces, especially the northern allies, is asking for war."

Oscar's eyes flashed with impatience. "House Lannister is clearly trying to sabotage the royal effort to defend the Wall. Once the crown learns of this, the flames of war will reignite."

"I know," Kermit replied, his expression darkening as he gritted his teeth. "Jason Lannister has already been reprimanded by Prince Daemon for delaying the troop deployment. This is his petty retaliation."

"Instead of sitting here and waiting to die, why don’t we attack?" Benjicot Blackwood, with his youthful, innocent face, spoke up from the second floor. His eyes gleamed with excitement. "The Riverlands are our territory. We could strike the Westerlands forces with a pincer movement, from inside and outside."

The suggestion caused a stir. Benjicot, along with Kermit and Oscar, was one of "The Lads"—a term for the group of young leaders known for their loyalty to the heir to the Iron Throne. Their boldness and strategic insight had earned them a reputation throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

"I think it’s feasible," Oscar said, already plotting routes in his mind. His voice was low, laced with murderous intent. "Lady Sabitha of Twins is still there. If we send a raven to her, we can surround their forces on both sides."

Though they were young, "The Lads" had already demonstrated a shrewdness far surpassing the older generation of lords below, most of whom had been born in times of peace and knew little about true warfare.

Kermit stroked the short beard growing on his chin, clearly intrigued by his brother's and friend’s plan. The Lannisters were asking for trouble, and someone needed to seize the opportunity for glory. Since the conflict was unfolding in the Riverlands, the Riverlands ought to claim the credit.

Bang!

Kermit rose from his seat and addressed his brothers and the assembled lords in a commanding voice. "I will send a raven to the heir to the throne in King's Landing. He will personally decide the fate of the Westerlands forces. Everyone must gather their troops and prepare for war!"

Though eager, Kermit knew that acting without royal approval could lead to disaster. They needed the crown’s blessing to ensure legitimacy. Once that order arrived, they would march to the Green Fork of the Trident.

"Yes, my lord!" came the resounding reply from the Riverlands lords, ready to rally their men.

...

King's Landing...

Snow blanketed the streets, and the bitter cold caused water to drip from the trees like frozen icicles. Scavengers worked from dawn, dragging snow and frozen corpses out of the city.

Knock, knock, knock!

Gold-cloaked men moved in groups, knocking on doors as they went from house to house.

"The king is giving out firewood and rations, open up quickly!" one of them called out.

A wooden door, crudely covered with rough linen, creaked open. A frail, dirty old woman appeared in the doorway, her face pale, her dry hair matted from days without washing. Like everyone else in King's Landing, she had no access to hot water, let alone extra warmth during the unforgiving winter.

"Take this and wait three days for the next distribution," the gold-cloaked man grunted, tossing a bundle of firewood and a sack of rice into the door without care.

The woman didn't complain. Instead, she murmured her gratitude, her voice filled with relief. "Thank you... thank our king."

"Don't go out unless you have to, and seal your doors and windows at night," the man advised in a tired, routine tone. He pushed his cart and moved on to the next street, his breath fogging in the cold air.

The heavy snow had fallen unexpectedly, and the entire continent had been caught off guard. In response, the king—currently leading forces in the North—had commanded the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea to send daily shipments of food to King's Landing. This steady influx of supplies kept the capital from starving.

The young heir prince, moved by the plight of the people, had ordered the Kingswood outside the city to be felled for firewood, ensuring those suffering in the cold had fuel to burn. Without this aid, far more would have perished in the freezing streets.

"Thank the gods," one of the gold-robed men muttered with relief as they finished their rounds.

Smack!

The leader of the squad slapped him across the head, his face cold and disdainful. "Thank the royal family, you fool. The gods are enjoying themselves in their temples."

Since the rise of Protestantism, the Faith of the Seven had been losing its authority, its power diminished. If the old and new gods were truly watching over them, the common folk wouldn’t have to suffer like this, running through snow-filled streets just to survive.

...

Red Keep, Council Hall...

Prince Baelon sat behind his desk, a pile of thick letters and memorials stacked before him. He casually dropped one petition, which detailed the bodies of the people who had been found frozen outside the city gates that morning. Despite the firewood being distributed, it was nowhere near enough to keep everyone warm throughout the day. For those whose homes were drafty, freezing to death was almost inevitable.

"Alas, hundreds more people have died," Baelon sighed, his voice heavy with sorrow. 'So many children, so many women... frozen to death, and there’s nothing we can do to save them,' he thought bitterly.

In times of crisis, Baelon couldn’t help but feel inferior to his father. His father had foreseen the severity of this winter, moving his own family members—Baelon’s grandfather and younger siblings—into more secure quarters in advance. He had also ensured a steady flow of food from the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea, keeping the people of King’s Landing fed and preventing riots. But no amount of foresight could conjure more heating supplies, and that left Baelon deeply troubled.

Knock, knock, knock!

The door opened, and two advisers entered the room. Otto Hightower, with Lyman Beesbury close behind, approached cautiously.

"Prince," Otto began, his tone measured, "the fighting in Oldtown has worsened. And there are reports of stone men infected with greyscale in Whispering Sound."

Baelon’s eyes darkened at the news. He had suspected the merchants of Qarth might be responsible, spreading the stone men and the plague to sow chaos.

"Has support from the Westerlands not arrived?" Baelon asked, surprised.

The armies of The Reach had already set out for the North, and the royal family had secretly ordered House Lannister to reinforce Oldtown’s Hightower to counterbalance Qarth’s influence.

"This brings me to the second matter," Otto said, drawing a deep breath. His voice grew solemn. "Lord Kermit of Riverrun has written. The Western army is stationed at the Green Fork, blocking the coalition army’s route north."

Baelon froze, stunned by the news. How dare Jason? His uncle Daemon had only recently warned him about Jason’s defiance.

"Prince, this is nothing short of treason," Lyman added, his tone slow and deliberate. "Lord Kermit begs for your guidance. If necessary, the Riverlands lords are prepared to declare war in your name."

"I... I know," Baelon replied, struggling to process the gravity of the situation. Jason’s actions could ignite a civil war, he thought grimly.

"You must act swiftly," Otto urged, his face stern. "The Westerlands no longer respect the authority of the royal family."

With a slight bow, Otto turned and left the hall, his expression hard. The troubles in Oldtown weighed heavily on him, as it was his family's fiefdom.

Baelon remained seated, resting one hand on his forehead as the enormity of the situation sank in. After a moment, he pulled out a scroll and handed it to Lyman.

"Lord Lyman," he sighed, "organize the impoverished people of King's Landing. Have them gather in churches and other shelters where they can receive food and warmth."

Distributing rations and firewood randomly won’t help. If they bring them together, they may still be able to save some lives.

"Yes, Prince." Lyman took the scroll, but hesitated for a moment, as if on the verge of urging Baelon to take military action.

Honeyholt, being so close to Oldtown, was already feeling the pressure, and the Bysperry family, vassals to House Hightower, shared in that distress. His own house was affected, and he harbored a deep resentment toward the Westerlands for breaking their word.

"You may go," Baelon interrupted, waving his hand dismissively.

Lyman fell silent, bowing slightly before walking out of the room. The door closed with a firm thud.

“Sigh...” Baelon exhaled deeply, his young face marked with a bitterness that seemed too heavy for someone his age. Troubles were brewing everywhere—fighting in Oldtown, the treachery of the Westerlands. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a letter, its seal already broken. It bore the signature of Prince Qyle of Sunspear.

The letter reported a new rebellion from the orphans along the Greenblood River, with rumors of support from Sellswords and Pentoshi mercenaries. The news had arrived half a month ago, right around the time his Aunt Helaena left Summerhall.

"Seven hells!" Baelon muttered, rubbing his face with both hands, looking up at the ceiling as if seeking answers. 'Everything’s falling apart, and I can’t keep up with it all.'

His sister Daenerys and brother Maekar were both far away, and there was no one he could rely on in the capital. A wave of loneliness washed over him as his thoughts drifted to his absent brother, Aemon. Aemon had always been the sharpest, the one with the brilliant, if reckless, ideas.

'If only Aemon were here,' Baelon thought wistfully, lowering his head. 'He always knew what to do.' They shared the same mother, and their bond was stronger than most—certainly stronger than the distant relationships seen among other noble houses like the Tullys.

Closing his eyes in a moment of quiet reflection, Baelon’s hand moved instinctively to the dragon-taming whip at his waist. He gripped it tightly, a small but tangible comfort.

'I kind of miss you, little brother,' he thought, sadness flickering in his eyes.