Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 617: The New Ruler of Slaver’s Bay

Boom!

Suddenly, a violent wind howled through the air as the sky was torn by the dark shadow of a dragon. It crashed to the ground like a meteor.

"Roar!"

The Cannibal's cold, lifeless eyes glared as it stretched its neck, surveying the surroundings before letting out a wild, earth-shaking roar. The Green River churned in response, and the air temperature surged.

"Gulp..."

Dozens of ragged orphans swallowed hard, their dry throats tightening as they stared at the dark dragon's massive throat.

"Dragon!!"

After a tense silence, someone finally screamed, and the crowd on both sides of the river scattered in a panicked frenzy. The scene resembled a mass exodus.

The Cannibal looked on with contempt, slowly crawling towards the rider, its form towering like a mountain.

'Attack the rider? No way!' Rhaegar thought, freezing for a moment before slowly sheathing Blackfyre. He shrugged at the great dragon. "The crisis is over."

Even the top dragon riders may be helpless in situations like this. But him and his dragon were connected in mind, making a sudden attack impossible.

"Your Grace, Your Grace," Qyle stammered, trembling uncontrollably in the presence of the dragon. He clung to Rhaegar like a small, frightened bird.

"You've got company, boy," Rhaegar said, releasing him and glancing at the fleeing orphans. "Are they the Greenblood Orphans?"

"They are. I never would have guessed," Qyle admitted, gradually regaining his composure.

"If you can't fight them, assassinate or murder them. It's the old Dorne trick," Rhaegar remarked with a mocking tone, unimpressed. The despicable methods of the Dornish were well documented in history.

With that, he strode toward the distant Lemonwood forest.

"Your Grace, what about the Asshai ship?" Qyle asked, still seething from the near-death experience.

"You can go after it," Rhaegar replied dismissively without turning back. "Ordinary people cannot defend against the methods of a wizard."

The sight of the sailing ship and the slender figure on board gave him the distinct feeling of a Shadowbinder. Even if he pursued it on a dragon, eradicating the root of the problem would be difficult.

"Your Grace, where are you going?" Qyle called out, gritting his teeth as he chose to follow in Rhaegar's footsteps.

'How safe it feels with a dragon that could drop from the sky at any moment,' he thought.

...

Lemonwood.

“Roar...”

The old, dark green dragon lay on the ground, its scarred head resting on its shoulders, a thunderous snore rumbling from its rough throat.

“Get up, Uragax!”

Rhaegar approached and gently patted the old dragon’s rough muzzle. He had originally intended to stay the night in Sunspear, but that plan was long abandoned. Someone had hired Asshai sorcerers to assassinate the Prince of Dorne, an act that crossed a dangerous line.

Rhaegar knew he must hurry back to King’s Landing, uncover the masterminds and those who stood to benefit, and dispatch troops to strengthen the naval blockade along the sea route connecting the Narrow Sea to the coast of Dorne.

The murderer won't get away. The Four Cities Alliance, led by Rafe's Braavos, or perhaps the remnants of the Triarchy in Sothoryos... If they wanted a fight, they would soon see the full might of the crown. Let's see if they still have the arrogance to face a dragon flying in front of them.

“Your Grace, are you leaving?”

Qyle’s eyes brimmed with tears, his reluctance to part evident. Since the death of their father, Prince Qoren, House Martell’s grip on Dorne had weakened considerably. Now, threats to their lives and wealth had become all too real.

Rhaegar glanced back, noticing the boy hiding behind a lem tree ten meters away, his tears feigned. 'Smart kid, good at pretending to be obedient and cute. But it's just a disguise when he's weak.'

Rhaegar patted the old dragon's head with one hand and beckoned Qyle with the other. “Come here, I'll give you a parting gift.”

Qyle's eyes lit up at the words, and he overcame his fear of the dragon, running over.

“Roar...”

The old dragon let out a deep, untimely growl, its hot breath washing over the boy. Qyle's face turned white, and he nearly collapsed.

Rhaegar helped him up, moving him a safe distance from the slumbering dragon.

“Your Grace, what is the gift?” Qyle’s lips trembled as his small eyes remained fixed on the unmoving dark green beast. 'Could it be that the king plans to leave a dragon in Dorne?'

“Dream on!”

Rhaegar was momentarily at a loss for words, but then he pulled out a blue crystal plaque engraved with intricate inscriptions. “This is a charm carved from a rare gemstone. It can block evil spirits and enchantments. Keep it with you for protection.”

Unlike the Targaryens, House Martell lacked the magic of dragon blood and was more susceptible to sorcery. Even a small enchantment could easily manipulate them.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Qyle said, accepting the crystal charm as if it were the most precious thing in the world. He immediately hung it around his neck.

With his instructions given, Rhaegar turned and walked over to the old dragon, attempting to rouse it.

Boom.

The Cannibal flew overhead, its massive wings casting a broad shadow and filling the air with the acrid smell of ash.

“Roar!”

Uragax opened its vertical pupils, rose, and swept its tail to clear some space before lazily reclining again. This charred forest suited it well. Not far from Sothoryos, it could occasionally hunt wyverns. There were also plenty of lively humans and livestock nearby, much more than it had encountered in its previous, lonelier days.

But the most important thing was that the old dragon disliked the Dragoneater and refused to share territory with it.

“You're staying here, Uragax?”

Rhaegar frowned at this unexpected turn of events.

“Roar...”

The old dragon rubbed its snout against Rhaegar's, resting its jaw on a tree trunk buried in ash, finding comfort in the green hell it now called home. It preferred this natural setting over the jagged island of its past.

“Stay here, then. You might even encounter a wild dragon,” Rhaegar said, pressing his forehead against the dragon's muzzle and gazing into its amber pupils. Unlike most dragons, which were restless and indifferent, this one radiated a calm wisdom. The longer they were together, the more evident this wisdom became.

“Roar...”

The old dragon let out a low growl, clearly unconcerned. Rhaegar, caught in a mix of emotions, decided not to press the matter. He had initially hoped to find the “white wild dragon” that fishermen had spoken of on the continent of Sothoryos, but the dragon horn had not produced the desired results. If that wild dragon wasn’t Seasmoke—the fishing dragon—but a true adult dragon, it meant that the range of wild dragons extended as far as the Summer Sea, putting Uragax at risk if it stayed in Dorne.

More troubling was the possibility that someone might attempt to tame the dragon. If that happened, it would be a total disaster.

“Roar!”

Uragax seemed to sense his thoughts. The dragon nudged Rhaegar’s chest with its snout, gesturing toward the dragon horn tucked away in his space necklace. The two had formed a tenuous connection through this dragon-finding artifact, and Uragax would not allow a mere human to get too close.

Despite this, Rhaegar was still hesitant. House Targaryen already had more than twenty dragons, and both King’s Landing and Dragonstone were becoming crowded. Ever since they lost their riders, Vhagar and Seasmoke had been wandering. If Uragax continued to roam the wilds, how was that any different from staying on the continent of Sothoryos?

“Your Grace!”

Just as these thoughts crossed his mind, a guard hurried over, clutching an envelope. Ignoring Prince Qyle’s curious gaze, the guard handed the envelope to Beric, the Kingsguard. Beric examined it with a serious expression, then handed it to Rhaegar.

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed as he took the letter and began to read. As he carefully absorbed its contents, his expression grew grave.

“The ruler of Slaver’s Bay!”

The letter had come from King’s Landing, containing separate reports on Qohor and Slaver’s Bay. While the former had won a battle, which was of little concern, the latter had seen the sudden rise of a new ruler who had consolidated power over Slaver’s Bay and detained Tyland, who had been visiting.

“The lands of the Old Empire of Ghis have always been a thorn in the side of Old Valyria,” Rhaegar muttered, gritting his teeth. He whistled sharply into the sky.

“Roar...”

The Cannibal, who had been circling overhead, finally descended. Rhaegar climbed onto its back, giving Uragax one last glance as the old dragon settled back into its resting place.

“I’ll find you a rider,” he said softly. “You can stay in Lemonwood for now. If wild dragons do invade, it will serve as a warning.”

With that, Rhaegar knew he had to return to King’s Landing. The victory at Qohor had shifted the balance of power across the three continents, and he needed to act swiftly.

...

Slaver's Bay.

Meereen, the Great Coliseum.

“Oh, yeah, fight well!”

“Harder, hammer that peasant!”

Thousands of spectators packed the stands, their cheers echoing across the coliseum as they watched the brutal “duel” unfold below. The wide arena had been deliberately transformed into a muddy quagmire, where two figures rolled about, exchanging blows in the filthy mess. To be precise, only one of them was doing the punching.

“Haha, poor curly lion!”

A towering figure, standing 6'6" with a shock of purple hair, twisted his hips in a grotesque parody of a dance. The burly man, despite his size, wore layers of women’s clothing, adding a bizarre flair to his already unsettling appearance.

“Ho ho~~”

The other figure, a blonde, lay gasping in the mud, his head and face covered in filth. He was clearly struggling.

“Again, stupid!”

The purple-haired man was Racallio Renndon, a notorious pirate. During the first Battle of the Stepstones, he had formed an alliance with Prince Qoren of Dorne, driving back Daemon, who had found the barren islands intolerable. Racallio briefly occupied the Stepstones, declaring himself king.

Now, he grabbed the blonde man and punched him twice in the stomach, forcing him to spit out bile.

He raised his hand triumphantly, then slapped his plump chest under his tattered clothes.

Despite his burly frame, Racallio possessed a strangely delicate heart, evident in his twisted enjoyment of the spectacle.

In the audience, a beautiful maiden with silver and gold braids, dressed in a fur skirt, sat calmly, savoring rare red grapes she had never tasted before.

“Lady, what you did to my brother was too much!”

Next to her, Tyland watched with incomprehension, unable to sit idly by.

Below, Racallio dragged the blonde figure up once more, shoving him back into the mud for another degrading "bath."

The silver-haired maiden turned her head sharply, tapping the ground with her staff-like scepter in clear displeasure. “Mind your title, Lord Tyland,” she commanded.

Tyland’s expression froze, and he struggled to find his voice. “Your Grace, the Queen of Meereen,” he finally managed to say, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. Saying such a thing went against his conscience, but his brother had brought this upon himself.

Though the brothers were born only five minutes apart, their treatment had always been worlds apart. At times, Tyland wondered if he might have been the firstborn, with the midwife simply making a mistake.

The silver-haired maiden lifted her chin, adopting an air of authority. “Release him, Racallio,” she ordered.

It was clear that the shift in her status had been sudden, and she had yet to fully adapt to the power and responsibility that came with her position.

“Yes, Your Grace!” Racallio responded with an almost playful obedience, twisting his barrel-thick waist as he pulled the dazed Jason out of the quagmire.

Seeing this, Tyland spoke up in protest. “Your Grace, we came here to exchange ideas peacefully.” How could you justify beating someone like this? It was excessive!

The silver-haired maiden frowned slightly, her voice firm as she responded, “It's not you who was struck, Lord Tyland.” She continued, her tone laced with cold logic, “You are a courteous gentleman, but your brother is foolish and arrogant and deserves to be punished.”

The moment they met, he had called her a bastard and sought to divide the hard-won lands she had fought to reunify. Three hundred years ago, a man like that wouldn’t have been fit to feed a dragon.

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