Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 624: Bloodbath in the Iron Islands

It was night.

King's Landing, the Red Keep.

"Uncle, if we want to take Norvos, we need to act swiftly."

"We don't have enough troops."

"But we have dragons!"

In the dimly lit room, Rhaegar stood by the fireplace, bathed in the flickering light. His expression was serious. Daemon sat at the table, methodically preserving his sword, Dark Sister, by rubbing it with salt. The two, uncle and nephew, shared a rare moment of peace, talking in hushed tones. They were forced to seek counsel in private, as the Small Council was filled with incompetent, wine-sipping advisors who had grown too comfortable in peacetime, unable to navigate the thorny path of conquest.

Rhaegar's gaze lingered over the map on the table, ambition gleaming in his eyes. “The Forest of Qohor is vast, and Volantis controls the southern gulf. But if we conquer Norvos in the northern mountains, the Golden Fields—the most fertile land on the entire eastern continent of Essos—will be within our reach.”

The firelight flickered, casting shadows on the map as Rhaegar pointed to the key areas. Daemon regarded it calmly. The northern mountains and dense forests enclosed a broad, fertile plain. Essos, far larger than Westeros, was home to three great plains: the barren expanse near Pentos, the war-torn Disputed Lands, and the Golden Fields beyond the Andalos Mountains.

The Golden Fields were the richest of them all, brimming with prosperity and fertile lands, rivaling even the Riverlands and The Reach. In terms of grain production and population, they far surpassed the other two plains.

Rhaegar continued, “The Disputed Lands are expansive, but the usable territory is limited to the river basin. That’s not enough to generate the wealth we need.”

The dozen small noble families in the region struggled with low taxes, barely supporting themselves. Waiting a dozen years to collect sufficient revenue was not an option. The realm’s coffers needed quicker, more substantial income.

Daemon, still polishing Dark Sister, replied evenly, “The Golden Fields are rich, yes, but the towns and markets there are no less powerful than the great Free Cities. And don’t forget, the Iron Islands and the Triarchy lurk in the shadows—uncontrollable factors in a prolonged war.”

Wars, especially those fought across seas and mountains, were never easy. That was why the Small Council avoided discussions about Qohor and instead focused on electing a new Hand of the King. It wasn’t that the war itself was unpopular, but that it threatened the interests of various noble houses.

Take Honeyholt, for example, where the Master of Coin, Lyman, was based. If the Summer Sea or the Narrow Sea were blocked, Honeyholt’s trade through Oldtown’s port would grind to a halt. The food and troops provided by the house would be requisitioned by the Iron Throne, and if they were unlucky enough to face a raid by the Ironborn, even their castle could be set ablaze. Under such risks, who would act recklessly?

“Every major decision the royal family makes impacts the interests of countless nobles and knights,” Rhaegar murmured, fully aware of the burden of leadership. His expression grew cold. “But I only care about House Targaryen.”

He was done with the empty rhetoric of kingdom, honor, and sacrifice. The dark forces stirring in the North would soon threaten all of Westeros. When that time came, returning to Essos—beyond the Narrow Sea—would be House Targaryen’s only option.

Controlling the Stepstones, the Disputed Lands, and adding the Free Cities of Volantis, Qohor, and Norvos would funnel half of Essos’s wealth into the Targaryen coffers. By then, the Free Cities of Braavos, Pentos, and Lorath would be nothing more than insignificant ports.

Even if Rhaegar couldn’t achieve this in his lifetime, his descendants could. They would ride their dragons and sweep across the lands. After all, House Targaryen had been the remnants of Valyria, surviving and migrating to Westeros. Three hundred years was a short span—certainly not enough to root them irrevocably in one place. Returning to their ancestral lands and securing their future through dragons and wealth was a consideration every leader of their bloodline should make.

“You’re right. Securing the Golden Fields is key,” Daemon said, his voice steady as he finally set aside his sword. A faint smile appeared on his lips. “Compared to the goats of Westeros, Caraxes prefers the fat pigs of Qohor.”

“It’s settled, then,” Rhaegar replied, tapping Daemon’s chest lightly. “If we are to carry out this plan, we must be united, fearless of losses or death.”

Daemon’s eyes hardened with resolve. “Let’s move quickly. We’ll strike Norvos and burn it to the ground if we must.”

The Free Cities themselves weren’t the real prize—it was their strategic location that mattered.

Rhaegar smiled slightly, his determination clear. “Let’s do it then.”

...

That same night,

Pyke, the Iron Islands.

“Ahhh!”

“Dragons! Jump into the sea!”

Cries of mortal terror echoed across the cold, damp island, reverberating through the towering, ancient fortress of Pyke. The island, dark and strange, was now lit by a flickering, ominous light.

"Roar!"

Sheepstealer’s brown flames tore through the night sky, casting an eerie glow over the vast sea. Aemond, his single eye shadowed with menace, gazed coldly down at the chaos below. “Burn it all. Leave nothing behind,” he commanded, his voice as icy as the northern winds.

"Roar!"

Sheepstealer circled Pyke, unleashing waves of Dragonfire at every window, every shadowed crevice. The flames licked across the stones, consuming anything that dared move, including the ironborn who scurried like insects across the doomed island.

“Have mercy! Don’t kill me!”

“Run! The dragon is coming!”

Naked rock and salt wives, fleeing their homes in panic, were caught in the torrent of fire. The Dragonfire rained down like molten mud, incinerating everything in its path. The island was consumed in flames, the air filled with pitiful screams and desperate pleas for mercy. Pyke had become an inferno.

“Hahahaha! These lowly ironborn,” Aemond laughed, his voice full of cruel delight. He sounded like the villain in a tavern song, but in the Iron Islands, where strength ruled all, there was no sense of irony. Only power.

As the night wore on, the screams began to fade. In their place, the crackling of roasting flesh filled the air, mingling with the sound of waves crashing against the scorched rocks.

“Find them! Where are they hiding?” Aemond snarled, his satisfaction fleeting. His face, already cold as ice, grew even harder as he scoured the island from atop his dragon. The Greyjoys were nowhere to be found. Neither was the infamous Red Kraken. Even the Ironborn fleet, usually patrolling the seas, had vanished.

“Damn it! Have they all gone to raid that worthless piece of land?” Aemond’s single eye burned with frustration. In one night, he had laid waste to Pyke, Lordsport, and Old Wyk, killing more people than he had in the first half of his life. And yet, it wasn’t enough.

"Roar!"

Sheepstealer let out a dissatisfied growl, its belly shrinking with hunger, as if the flames it had spewed had drained its strength.

“Stop whining, you idiot,” Aemond snapped, though his mind was already racing with new plans. Then an idea struck him. “Come on, we’re heading to the Basilisk Isles. We’ll find a real feast there.”

The group that had attacked his nephew had included Ironborn and sellswords. If the Red Kraken couldn’t be caught, the Triarchy’s mercenaries would make a suitable offering.

"Roar!"

Sheepstealer’s eyes glimmered with excitement at the prospect of a full meal. With a powerful flap of its wings, the dragon soared into the night sky, heading toward the Summer Sea.

Man and dragon disappeared into the distance, leaving behind nothing but scorched earth and the smoldering ruins of Pyke, still glowing from the devastation wrought by Dragonfire.

...

The next day at dawn,

Over Blackwater Bay.

"Roar..."

Two dragons appeared from the mist, emerging out of nowhere as they soared across the calm waters of the bay. They climbed higher into the clouds, drawn by the distant roars. The larger of the two, a black dragon the size of a mountain, spread its massive wings like a curtain draped from the heavens. The wind from its flight was so fierce that the early morning fishermen in their small boats were nearly capsized. Once they regained their balance, cold sweat ran down their faces.

"Roar..."

A second dragon followed close behind. Blood-red and sleek like a serpent, it glided just above the water, its wide wings lightly tapping the surface and creating ripples in its wake.

...

Meanwhile, in King’s Landing...

A large flock of ravens flew out of the Red Keep, bearing urgent messages to noble castles across the continent.

"Roar!"

"Roar..."

A pale blue dragon and a golden one launched from their lairs at the same time, each heading to separate destinations—Summerhall and the Stepstones. This morning’s royal decree had been issued: blockade the sea routes of the Narrow Sea and the Summer Sea. The armies near Dorne were to be placed under full martial law, with constant vigilance against the pirates of the Basilisk Isles. As long as the war raged on, Sothoryos would be trapped.

In the open-air corridor of the Red Keep...

Tap, tap, tap...

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed, black boots striking the stone floor. Rhaenyra stood alone on the balcony, her gaze following the ravens as they disappeared into the horizon. The footsteps stopped, and she turned to see who had arrived.

To her surprise, it was Baela Targaryen, her foster daughter, who stood there with a fierce look of determination.

“Daemon has gone,” Baela said, her voice brimming with frustration.

Rhaenyra's heart softened at the sight of her. She could see the anger and hurt in Baela’s eyes. “He is my father, but he has not fulfilled his responsibilities in the slightest!” Baela's complaints were laced with bitterness. She had waited three long years, hoping for a chance to see her father at the Targaryen Meeting, but he had left without a word.

Rhaenyra gently stroked her daughter’s cheek. “He’s already gone,” she said, her voice tinged with helplessness. Daemon had never been a man of words; he expressed himself through action. Rhaenyra knew well that father and daughter were alike in spirit—both stubborn, both driven—making them nearly incompatible.

“I’m going to find him,” Baela declared with fierce resolve. She was determined to prove her worth to Daemon, to show him she was just as strong and capable as any of the Targaryens before her. Just because Gaemon and Aenar were boys didn’t mean they could always outshine her.

“Baela, they’re heading to war,” Rhaenyra said urgently, trying to dissuade her from the dangerous path she was considering. She could not bear the thought of her adopted daughter risking her life on the battlefield.

Baela’s frustration only deepened. “I can’t let him look down on me, the way he looked down on Rhaena,” she replied sharply. She had a healthy dragon, yet Daemon had always been distant. Her younger sister Rhaena, with her small, stunted dragon, received even less attention from their father. The cold distance between them stung deeply.

“You do need to prove yourself,” Rhaenyra admitted, softening her tone. “But you don’t need to go to war to do that.” She paused, then offered a new plan. “Go to Lys and Tyrosh. Defend the family’s territory, just like your grandmother did when she patrolled the Gullet.”

Baela hesitated, clearly caught off guard by the suggestion. She bit her lower lip, torn between her desire to fight and her foster mother’s counsel.

Seeing her daughter's internal struggle, Rhaenyra knew she had gotten through to her. She lovingly wrapped an arm around Baela's shoulders, pulling her close. There were still other pressing matters to attend to, and Rhaenyra could not afford to spend more energy on this.

It seemed Maekar had returned from Slaver’s Bay with an intriguing guest—someone who claimed to be of the true bloodline of the former Dragonlords.

The claim was ridiculous, of course, but Rhaenyra had learned never to dismiss such things too lightly. Before meeting them herself, she had arranged for Aemon and the Dragonkeeper to take them to the Dragonpit. Let them see what a “true dragon” really was.

...

In the morning, the sun shone brightly.

A magnificent fleet, flying banners emblazoned with three red dragons, cut through the waters of Blackwater Bay, en route to Dragonstone.

"Roar!"

A silver-grey dragon streaked across the sky, heading straight for The Gullet with fierce determination, its wings cutting through the morning mist. On the deck of one of the ships, Tyland stood in silent prayer, hoping this mission would save his brother.

Otherwise... I’ll take over Casterly Rock, he thought grimly. With this resolve, the fleet swiftly sailed out of Blackwater Bay.

...

Meanwhile, on Dragonstone...

"Roar!"

A young black dragon with scarlet dorsal fins and crimson wing membranes hovered near the towering peak of Dragonmont, its sharp, vertical pupils scanning the terrain below.

Boom!

A torrent of Dragonfire as dark as night erupted from its maw, striking the steep mountainside and sending billows of black smoke into the sky.

At the base of Dragonmont, hidden within a cold, shadowy cave...

“Hoo... hoo... hoo...”

Baelon gasped for breath, wiping cold sweat from his brow. His black robe was tattered, singed with holes, and his body was covered in dirt and soot. He looked like a beggar from Flea Bottom.

“By the Old Gods... you were right, a dragon really did attack,” Black Aly muttered, slumped against the cave wall. Her chest rose and fell shakily, the near-death encounter still fresh in her mind.

Baelon grinned foolishly, despite the danger. “Told you.”

Boom!

Before they could continue, the black dragon vanished into the sky, and the air around them grew unnervingly still. Baelon’s instincts flared—something was wrong. He crept cautiously toward the cave’s entrance.

"Roar..."

A deep, resonant rumble echoed through the sky, like distant thunder—ancient and mournful, filled with the weight of centuries.

Baelon held his breath, gazing upward. The white clouds drifted lazily across the blue sky, the peak of Dragonmont loomed large and unmoving, and smoke curled from its crater.

Boom!

A massive, dark green dragon, its body covered in thick folds of leathery skin, emerged from the clouds. It soared through the sky with a powerful grace, its breath sending clouds swirling in its wake.

"Vhagar," Baelon whispered, his voice filled with awe.

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