Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 609: The Green Dragon and the Scarlet Dragon

The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the rising tide. Waterbirds darted across the beach, snatching fish from the waves and landing on the rocks to peck at their catch.

Splash!

Daemon walked aimlessly along the shore, each step heavy and uncertain. He didn’t know why he was walking—only that he needed to keep moving, as if chasing someone’s fading footsteps.

Plop.

Suddenly, his foot slipped, and he stumbled, collapsing into the soft gravel. His mind in a fog, Daemon unfastened the Dark Sister from his waist and used it to support himself as he tried to stand. But after a few steps, his legs gave out, and he sank down onto a reef.

“Hoo…”

Daemon sat there, resting his hands on the hilt of his sword, his forehead pressed against the cold metal. The chill of the Dark Sister sent a sobering pain through him, but no sound escaped his lips. His heart was a storm of emotion, yet his face remained impassive. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the sword, his eyes closed, waiting for the unshed tears to dry.

The waterbirds, having eaten their fill, chirped merrily as they flew back to their nests. The setting sun dipped halfway below the horizon, splitting the sky and sea with a line of fire. Daemon sat in the deepening shadows, a dark figure against the dying light.

Clatter...

“Daemon!”

The Sea Snake’s voice cut through the sound of the surf. He leaped from a small boat and hurried onto the beach, ignoring the rolling waves. Daemon slowly lifted his head, seeing the Sea Snake’s wind-beaten and dust-covered face.

“Why are you here alone?” the Sea Snake demanded, his voice filled with concern. “Hasn’t Laena given birth yet?”

“She has,” Daemon replied hoarsely, lowering his head again.

“What do you mean?” The Sea Snake’s heart skipped a beat as a sense of dread washed over him.

Daemon said nothing, only shook his head sadly.

The Sea Snake staggered back, his expression shifting from concern to horror. His sharp mind quickly grasped the situation, and he realized the truth.

“How could this happen…” he muttered, his voice filled with disbelief.

When he looked down again and saw Daemon’s lost expression, a surge of anger overtook him.

Bang!

He grabbed Daemon by the collar, lifting his sturdy frame off the ground. The Sea Snake glared at him, his voice breaking as he shouted, “What happened? Laena wrote to me just yesterday, saying she was returning to Driftmark!”

His eyes reddened with grief. “Say it! My daughter only said yesterday that she was coming home!”

After a moment of violent shaking and shouting, Daemon finally regained a semblance of clarity.

“She’s back,” Daemon said quietly, his voice tinged with sadness. “And she’s brought your grandson.”

Bang!

“You damned bastard!” the Sea Snake roared, punching Daemon and throwing him into the cold sea. Without a second glance, he turned and stormed back to the castle.

“Cough, cough…”

Daemon collapsed, choking on seawater. As he lay there, he watched the Sea Snake’s figure in the distance, first striding, then breaking into a run. He could still hear the man’s curses, loud and unrelenting, echoing across the beach. It was as if he had unleashed every curse he had ever known.

...

In the blink of an eye, night had fallen. The cold wind swept across the beach, but it couldn’t dispel the heavy sadness that lingered there.

Boom—

A massive ball of orange and yellow dragonfire erupted into the sky, mingled with thick black smoke. It turned into a towering bonfire that lit up the night, casting long shadows over the sands.

Daemon stood at a distance, his eyes hazy as he watched the old dragon, Vhagar, unleash its flames. “Roar!” Vhagar’s mournful cry echoed as it crouched down, its massive body forming a protective wall as it escorted its master on this final journey.

Daemon extended a hand, letting the sea breeze slip through his fingers. But a sudden squirming movement in his arms drew his attention away from the wind.

He looked down at the infant cradled in his arms, curled up in a swaddling cloth. The baby’s face was a little pouty, its tiny mouth moving as if searching for something. Despite being born prematurely, the child looked healthy, with skin as soft and pale as an eggshell and sparse silver hair. Its large, lilac eyes stared up at Daemon, full of life.

Daemon was captivated, and without thinking, he offered his finger to the baby’s mouth. “Ba-chii ba-chii~~” The baby accepted without hesitation, sucking on the salty fingertip while gazing up at its father with wide, curious eyes.

“Laena is gone,” came a cold voice from behind. Rhaenys had approached silently. “You need to take up the responsibilities of a father.”

Daemon glanced at her but said nothing. He could sense the blame in her words—blame for not fulfilling his duties as a husband.

Rhaenys kept her gaze fixed on the distant flames, watching the dragonfire wane from its initial blaze. She only turned to leave after a brief pause, offering a final reminder: “It’s windy tonight. Don’t let the baby catch a cold.”

Then she returned to the castle, leaving Daemon alone with the child. He remained rooted in place, feeling the wet warmth of his fingers, as if he were the last person in the world.

Rustle...

Footsteps approached from behind, but the person did not speak. Daemon assumed it was Rhaenys, returning to take the children back to bed.

“Father,” a small voice broke the silence.

Daemon turned, surprised to see Baela standing there. “Baela, why are you here?” he asked, puzzled. She should have been put to bed by now.

Baela didn’t answer, her eyes locked on his face. Daemon sighed, weariness evident in his voice. “Go back to bed.”

Still, Baela said nothing, her gaze intense. It was only then that Daemon realized something was wrong.

“I hate him!” Baela suddenly cried, pointing at the baby in his arms.

Daemon was taken aback, disbelief coloring his tone. “What?”

Baela’s voice was cold, her words sharp. “You and that boy in your arms. You’re the ones who killed our mother.”

Her accusation cut through the night like a blade. In her young mind, the death of her beloved mother was the result of her father’s desire for the son he now held.

Tears welled in Baela’s eyes, but she held them back, her voice trembling with emotion. “Now you’ve got what you wanted. I hope you’re satisfied.”

With that, she turned and ran, not looking back.

Daemon felt as though he had been struck by lightning, a heavy hammer dropped onto his chest. He watched, helpless, as his daughter ran further and further away—away from High Tide, into the night.

“Where are you going?” Daemon called out, worry gnawing at him, but his pride kept him rooted to the spot.

There was no response, only the echo of her footsteps fading into the darkness. The last thing he heard, faint yet clear, was a defiant shout: “None of your business!”

“Roar…” The old dragon let out a mournful cry, lifting its head toward the sky.

Daemon froze, his hair whipping in the night wind, strands covering half of his face.

Boom…

A sudden gust of wind howled past, nearly knocking him over. Daemon stumbled, tightening his grip on the baby in his arms.

“Ho ho…” A familiar figure approached from behind, heavy breaths accompanying each step.

Daemon’s body stiffened, his eyes widening in surprise.

“I’m sorry to hear the bad news.” Viserys’s voice was hoarse as he caught his breath, his concern etched into every word. “My brother, are you okay?”

Daemon’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came. They lodged in his throat, choking him with their weight.

“Owwww!” The baby squirmed and wriggled in its swaddling clothes, its high-pitched cries of discomfort piercing the air.

Daemon barely registered the sound, his focus shifting from Vhagar, who continued to howl mournfully, to the massive bronze dragon that had landed on the beach.

“Roar…” Vermithor’s eyes narrowed, pupils slitted with unease, as it stared at the old dragon. Flames flickered deep in its throat, ready to unleash. Yet Vhagar paid no attention, lost in its sorrow.

Normally, an unprovoked dragon like Vermithor would have roared and bared its sharp teeth. But tonight was different. Viserys glanced back at Vermithor as they walked. “Dragons have their own temperaments,” he remarked. “It’s been a long time since it flew.”

Thanks to the special herbs retrieved by his eldest son, Viserys’s body and spirit had slowly begun to recover. But when he received the message from his youngest son, Daeron, he knew an irreversible tragedy had struck their house. A tragedy not unlike the one he had endured now befell his younger brother, Daemon.

Daemon’s pupils trembled as he took a tentative step forward, cradling the baby in his arms. He moved toward his brother, one step at a time, the firelight casting their shadows together.

One second, two seconds...

The brothers drew closer, their figures merging as they neared each other.

“Brother…” Daemon’s voice quivered, and he collapsed into Viserys’s arms, like a reed shaken by the wind.

Viserys, though not strong, withstood the impact and wrapped his arms around his frail younger brother. They held each other tightly, just as they had when they were children.

Daemon buried his face in his brother’s shoulder, his voice trembling, barely holding back the flood of emotions. “She’s gone, just like your Aemma.”

“I know,” Viserys replied softly, his voice heavy with sorrow. “I know it all.” He sighed deeply, as if comforting a child. “Everything will pass.”

Daemon’s breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling, barely able to stand. A hoarse growl escaped his throat. “The gods are always so cruel… But at least they left us hope.”

Viserys tightened his embrace, feeling the warmth of his brother’s tears seep through to his chest. As he had said before: Time would wash away the sorrow, leaving those who remained to remember. At least, for the sake of their children, they could find hope again.

...

A few days later.

Lys, Topless Tower

“Ahhh!” A piercing scream echoed from one of the rooms.

Maids hurried in and out, carrying basins of water and towels. Outside the door, Rhaenyra paced anxiously, her nerves fraying with every passing moment. The woman giving birth inside was Mysaria, the White Worm.

Though only seven months pregnant, Mysaria was delivering early—before Rhaenyra herself.

“Ah! Push!” Mysaria’s desperate cries rang out from behind the curtain, her voice filled with pain and determination. Rhaenyra couldn’t see through the thick fabric, but she could hear every agonizing sound.

People from humble beginnings often possess a fierce resilience, and Mysaria was no exception. She had chosen to give birth in the bathtub, using the same method as her former prostitute companions.

“Why is this taking so long?” Rhaenyra muttered, sweat beading on her forehead as she turned restlessly outside the door. In the past, others had always waited for her during such moments, but now she found herself on the other side, waiting and worrying. The experience brought a new understanding of the anxiety that often accompanied such situations.

“Wa wa wa~~”

Just as she voiced her impatience, the cry of a newborn rang out. Rhaenyra paused, a smile spreading across her face. “It’s born,” she murmured with relief.

After all, this was the child of her uncle Daemon, potentially to be incorporated into the Targaryen family tree. Mysaria, the White Worm, was also her trusted confidante, and the birth of this child meant an additional ally in her circle.

Tap, tap…

As she reached to lift the curtain and enter the room, hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway. Ser Lorent of the Kingsguard rushed forward, clutching an opened letter in his hand. “Your Grace, a letter from Driftmark!”

Rhaenyra’s heart skipped a beat as she quickly took the letter, her joy giving way to sudden apprehension. She unfolded the paper, her eyes scanning the black words on the white page.

The letter detailed the events at Driftmark, and with each line, Rhaenyra’s joy evaporated. Her face turned ashen, and she felt the weight of despair settle over her. The words seemed to bleed with the sorrow of her dearest friend.

“Laena!” she whispered, the letter slipping from her trembling hands. Her legs gave way, and she collapsed backward.

“Your Grace!” Ser Lorent cried out, rushing to catch her as she fell. He supported her, but Rhaenyra’s eyes were vacant, and her strength had deserted her. She could no longer stand.

...

At the same time.

The Vale, The Eyrie.

Rhaegar stood by the tower window, draped in a loose robe, gazing out at the misty expanse below. The rebellion in Qohor had been quelled, and he had already sent word to the Vale that he would be arriving soon with his eldest son.

Creak…

The door opened behind him, and Jeyne entered, her expression grave. She clutched a piece of paper tightly in her hand.

Rhaegar turned, his eyes widening in surprise as he saw her face. Without a word, she handed him the paper. Rhaegar took it, his heart pounding as he began to read.

...

Behind the Bloody Gate, on the narrow path leading to The Eyrie...

“Roar!” A young dragon with a silvery body soared overhead, disappearing into the misty heights of the Giant’s Lance.

“Prince!”

“Prince Baelon...”

Dozens of nobles from the Vale cheered, pounding their chests in excitement as they watched the dragon’s flight.

A carriage pulled up near the cliff, stopping at the path overlooking the Narrow Sea. The door opened, and Baelon, with his short silver hair glinting in the sunlight, stepped down onto the ground, carefully balancing on a stool.

“Come,” he said, reaching back to help his sisters, Dany and Anna, down from the carriage.

“Brother, look!” Anna, full of energy, pointed excitedly at the nobles who had come to greet them, her pale fingers trembling with enthusiasm.

“Shh, behave yourself,” Baelon whispered, gently nudging Anna’s head. Taking a deep breath, he led his younger sisters toward the overly enthusiastic nobles. This was part of the plan they had discussed with their father: by returning to the Vale with his sisters, Baelon would work to win over the nobles.

“Hooray, hooray, long live the Prince!” The nobles of the Vale were ecstatic, thrilled to see the heir to the throne, who bore such a striking resemblance to the King in his youth.

Some among the crowd, aware of the siblings’ unique bond, shouted excitedly, “Hooray! Conqueror III!”

Baelon’s expression darkened. Without a word, he hastened his pace, pulling his sisters along with him. The reference was to Conqueror I, known to all. Conqueror II was Rhaegar, who had emulated the achievements and marriages of the original Conqueror, albeit with a hint of jest in the title.

“Roar…”

A light gray dragon shadow passed over their heads, its massive form stirring up thick clouds of fog. A young maiden with a crooked nose suddenly burst from the back of the group, waving a bamboo stick in her hand as she chased after the dragon. “Stop, you little dragon!”

The appearance of the maiden and her dragon silenced the nobles, their cheer turning into a momentary hush. But only for an instant.

...

The Eyrie.

Rhaegar stared at the letter in disbelief, his eyes wide with shock. He could scarcely comprehend the words before him.

“You never know what will happen in life,” Jeyne murmured, gently leaning into her husband for comfort.

To think that someone so full of life and strength, a true dragonborn woman, could die on the birthing bed...

Rhaegar’s throat tightened, and with great difficulty, he whispered, “I saved her once.”

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