Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 643: The Fallen Prince Who Tends Sheep

Rhaegar froze for a moment as two objects materialized in his hands. One was a watery-blue eye with an amber vertical pupil, about the size of an adult’s fist. The other was a dark, irregularly shaped stone, smooth to the touch with a faintly undulating surface, as if it were alive.

He first inspected the Nagga’s Eye. It felt cold and slimy in his palm, leaving a thin layer of frost where he touched it. The second object, the stone, seemed to pulse slightly, its surface warm and smooth, almost like something breathing beneath the stone’s dark exterior.

“Nightfall... Descent...” Rhaegar murmured, holding both relics up to study them. These were epic-level artifacts, each with its own strange properties.

He summoned the system panel, his eyes scanning the cryptic prompts tied to the relics:

"The last tear of the sea dragon Nagga, the Drowned God deprived it of its blood, thirsting for fullness."

"Bloodthirsty creature, hatching eggs."

The clues aligned with the relics in his hands, and a flash of understanding crossed Rhaegar’s mind. He stood up, carefully lowering Helaena and Baelon from his side before picking up Nightfall, which lay abandoned on the ground. Without a word, he walked toward the beach.

"Roar..."

Dreamfyre’s vertical pupils flicked open, watching the silver-haired figure disappear into the distance. Uragax, slumped nearby, barely stirred, its thick tail swaying lazily as it snored like an old man.

Plop!

Ripples spread across the water’s surface, quickly followed by the formation of a whirlpool, as if a powerful force beneath was draining the sea itself.

"Haha, just as I thought," Rhaegar muttered, a faint smile curling his lips. His theory was confirmed: the sea dragon Nagga was long dead, its blood lost, but the seawater could awaken its lingering spirit.

Next, he took the dark stone in one hand, and with the other, raised Nightfall. After a moment of hesitation, Rhaegar gritted his teeth. "Let’s give this a try."

He slashed the blade across his wrist, letting bright red blood drip onto the stone.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The stone trembled violently as soon as it absorbed the blood, its dark surface flushing with a rosy hue. Layers of the black stone began to peel away, revealing something hidden within. The system prompt chimed:

"Congratulations, Nightfall Descent has been activated. You have obtained..."

[Blood Witchcraft: Bat Worm]

Level: Excellent (Blue)

Function: Incubates bloodsucking creatures that sense blood connections.

Comment: "A long-lost blood witchcraft, ideal for large families to distinguish bloodlines."

The stone pulsed and cracked open, shedding its outer shell to reveal a dark, oval insect egg. It was no larger than a finger, and inside the transparent casing, a small creature squirmed—neither fully insect nor bat.

Under Rhaegar’s watchful gaze, the creature quickly broke free from its shell.

Flutter!

Tiny wings unfolded as the small creature stumbled to life, resembling a fluttering moth.

“What’s the use of this little thing?” Rhaegar muttered, tilting his head curiously as he reached out to poke it.

Suddenly, with a gulp, the bat worm’s tiny mouth opened wide—far wider than its size would suggest, large enough to swallow a bowl. Its sharp teeth sank deep into Rhaegar’s finger, drawing blood.

“Hiss!” Rhaegar sucked in a sharp breath as pain shot through his hand. It hurt, as if his blood was being drained. At the same moment, he felt a faint connection form between him and the small creature in his grasp.

“Chirp, chirp...” The bat bug chirped happily after drinking a few drops of his blood, fluttering around its master in circles. Its tiny body was covered in dark fluff, and its pale red wings were no bigger than those of an ordinary butterfly.

Rhaegar blinked as a flood of knowledge settled into his mind. The bat bug wasn’t a fighter; it was an auxiliary magical creature, tied to blood magic. Its primary function was to form a blood bond with its host and reproduce, laying eggs to hatch more male bat bugs. While the males couldn’t reproduce, they retained the ability to maintain a connection with the dominant female bat bugs, enabling communication across bloodlines.

“In other words, once these little things start laying eggs, we can give one to each of the children,” Rhaegar muttered, his eyes brightening. The bat bugs would allow him to sense the location and condition of any child carrying a male bat bug at any time.

“If only Aemon...” Rhaegar’s voice trailed off, his expression clouding as he cradled the tiny creature in his hands. But before sadness could take hold, the whirlpool in the sea began to calm, and a soft bluish glow floated to the surface.

Rhaegar’s attention snapped back to the water. He gently gathered the bat bug in his palm.

“Zhi zhi...” The bat bug chirped again, then dissolved into a misty black vapor that hovered in his hand. Magical creatures were fascinating like that—they weren’t bound by physical form but carried a trace of wisdom, like the Serpent and the Toad.

With a swift motion, Rhaegar scooped up the aquamarine glow from the sea.

“Congratulations, Nagga’s Tears has been activated. You have obtained...”

[Blessing of the Sea Dragon]

Level: Epic (Purple)

Effect: Grants a layer of sea dragon skin, +50% resistance to seawater and frost.

Comment: "This false skin could save your life when the cold winter grips the land."

A faint transparent shimmer passed over Rhaegar’s body. He blinked, then muttered, “An extra layer of dragon skin?”

Curious, he ran his hand over his body, feeling his skin, which remained firm and porcelain white. There was no slimy liquid, no snake-like scales—nothing had visibly changed.

“It’s still the same...”

Rhaegar stood in silence for a moment, then called up his personal panel:

[Rhaegar Targaryen]

Talent: Dreamer (Gold)

Bloodline: Dragonborn (+63%)

Runes: Bronze (Green), Serpent (Blue), Dream-Eating Toad (Purple)

Blood Sorcery: Bat Worm (Blue), Dance of Dragons (Purple)...

Relics: Fire and Blood, Dreamscape, Protection of the Sea Dragon

Special Items: Space Necklace, Dragon Horn (Unclaimed)

Evaluation: “The Prince of Ice and Fire, favored by Dragons and Sea Dragons.”

“So it’s a status-type relic,” Rhaegar murmured. To test it, he raised Nightfall and slashed his arm.

Hum...

Green dragon scales immediately surfaced, forming the first layer of protection. Then, a second layer appeared—grayish-white keratin, like fine scales still wet with seawater.

For a moment, Rhaegar stared at his arm in silence before asking quietly, “Am I even still human?”

The state of being a Dragonborn, the power of the Bronze Runes, and now the skin of a Sea Dragon... With each relic added, his body and appearance had grown further and further from those of an ordinary person.

“Maybe,” he sighed, dark lines appearing on his forehead. “The ancient Dragonlords of Valyria must have looked like this—dragonborn, but not entirely human.”

It made sense, he thought. For the mighty Freehold Empire to exist, those in power may have transcended humanity in more ways than one.

Rhaegar consoled himself silently with that thought.

...

The next day, the sky was shrouded in darkness, with thick clouds hanging overhead like stalactites, ready to break.

"Roar..."

A jet-black dragon soared against the wind, its massive jaws clamped around the bloodied corpse of a ten-meter-long wyvern, tearing into it with savage ferocity.

"Roar... Roar..."

More wyverns appeared, their white and green markings stark against the stormy sky as they circled in flocks over the Iron Islands. Whenever a wyvern tried to stray, a dragon would swoop down, driving it back into formation with merciless precision.

Atop the high hill of the Nagga, Helaena stood tall, her slender neck craned as she watched dozens of wyverns scatter across the islands. Some vanished into caves, others slipped into the ruins of old buildings, settling into the desolate landscape.

“Father, are we really doing the right thing?” Baelon asked, cradling a dark, gleaming egg in his hands, his voice heavy with doubt. “Is it right that the Ironborn are all dead?”

Rhaegar’s face was pale, a ghostly shade of white. He held another egg in his hands and handed it to Helaena, his expression unreadable. “The bat-worms laid two eggs overnight,” he said, his voice flat. “They’re thirsty for blood and magic now.” The strain of providing what they needed had taken its toll on him.

Baelon looked out over the now-empty Iron Islands, a barren wasteland repurposed as a breeding ground for the royal family’s wyverns. "The Lannisters fear you,” he muttered.

“Fear is better than contempt,” Rhaegar replied, his eyes gleaming with cold resolve as he stroked his eldest son’s head. “A king doesn’t need to be loved.”

If he had acted with more force from the beginning, House Baratheon would never have dared insult Aemon. But it wasn’t too late. As the strength of their house grew, Rhaegar would impose centralized rule, tightening his grip over the entire realm. Without it, their legacy would wither.

Baelon said nothing, leaning into his father for warmth. A heavy sadness settled over him. He missed Aemon—their constant bickering, the laughter, the bond only twins could share.

Tic-tac...

A tear slipped from Baelon’s boot, unnoticed until it hit the ground. Rhaegar glanced down and saw it, knowing the flood would follow.

“Go ahead, cry,” Rhaegar said, pulling Baelon closer. “After today, you’ll be a Lord.”

“Uuu...”

Baelon’s shoulders trembled as he tried to suppress his sobs. He hadn’t cried when he first heard about Aemon’s accident. He hadn’t shed a tear when Storm’s End burned or when the Iron Islands were ravaged. But now, in the stillness, grief overwhelmed him, clawing at his heart.

“Uuu, I don’t have a brother anymore...” Baelon whispered, gasping between sobs. He clung to his father’s waist, his breath hitching. “Father... Aemon...”

But the words caught in his throat, choking him.

“It’s okay,” Rhaegar murmured, though his voice lacked conviction. His eyes hardened as he stared into the distance. “A lot of people will pay for this. The Ironborn call it iron price.”

Baelon shook his head furiously, refusing to accept the reality of his brother’s sudden death.

“Let’s go,” Helaena said softly, breaking the silence. She took both his  and Baelon’s hands in her own. Her expression was distant, though the pain was clear in her eyes. “Later, we’ll build a Prince’s Palace on Pyke. The Iron Islands will be ours.”

Rhaegar glanced at her, recognizing her attempt at comfort. The Iron Islands, barren as they were, would serve as a perfect outpost. A small palace on Pyke would not only keep a watchful eye on Lannisport, but also provide a home for the wyverns. It was time to fortify their rule.

Prince’s Palaces in the Stormlands and Dorne were already necessary. In the Westerlands, it would be too risky to interfere directly, and The Reach would only complicate things. But the Iron Islands? They were the perfect place to strengthen their hold and rebuild the family’s future.

...

Meanwhile, in Pentos:

"Ooh la la!"

A Dothraki cavalry unit galloped along the Valyrian roads, their war cries echoing through the plains. There were many of them, all strong, battle-hardened warriors. Behind them trailed a large group of ragged slaves, bound together with ropes, alongside carts of stolen wealth pulled by horses.

The Khal had been hired by Prince Reggio of Pentos to serve as a guerrilla force, meant to disrupt the Golden Fields. But the winds had shifted.

The King of the Iron Throne had lost a son, and word had spread across both the eastern and western continents—everyone knew the Dragonlord would seek revenge. Braavos and Pentos, sensing trouble, quickly declared a ceasefire. They sent envoys to King’s Landing to express their sorrow over the death of one of the Dragonlord’s sons.

With the war over, the Dothraki tribe found themselves without an employer. However, Prince Reggio, skilled in diplomacy, spared them from retaliation by gifting the Khal a substantial number of slaves and gold.

“Hurry up! Sack the next village and let’s return to the Great Grass Sea!” A young Bloodrider shouted, brandishing his curved blade as he charged toward a nearby village.

The war may have ended, and the gifts had been received, but for the Dothraki, anything looted was considered an extra reward for their efforts. The simple logic of a raider’s mind was direct and merciless.

...

A small fishing village.

“Run!”

“Please, spare us!”

The Dothraki cavalry stormed in, slaughtering the men and elderly, burning homes and fields. The women were taken, and the children captured as slaves.

“Khal, I’ve found a silver-haired boy!” A young Bloodrider emerged from a thatched hut, holding his trousers in one hand and dragging a silver-haired boy by the other.

“Put him in the cage,” Obon Khal commanded, his rugged face set in stone. As he turned his head, his bushy beard and long braid—adorned with jingling bells—swayed with the motion.

“Yes, blood of my blood,” the Bloodrider snarled, tossing the boy into an iron cage, the same one used for pigs and dogs. It was a clear message: captured children were treated no better than livestock.

Bang!

The iron door clanged shut, and the cage was packed with terrified children, crying and clinging to each other.

“Haha, you’ll fetch a fine price in Slaver’s Bay,” the Bloodrider laughed, slapping his blade against the bars. The sound startled the children even further, but he had long grown used to such sights.

As the Khal rode past the cage, something caught his eye. Among the weeping and trembling children sat the silver-haired boy, silent and unflinching. His purple eyes stared ahead, devoid of fear or emotion, as if the horrors around him didn’t matter.

“Valyrian?” Obon Khal muttered in surprise. He lifted his riding crop, pointing at the boy. “Pull him out. He’ll tend the goats.”

The Bloodriders obeyed, dragging the boy from the cage. Obon Khal watched intently, scrutinizing the boy’s appearance. There was something unmistakable about him—the nobility in his bearing, the way he carried himself despite his ragged clothes. No amount of dirt could hide it.

“Your necklace is unusual,” Obon Khal noted, prodding the dragon-shaped pendant hanging beneath the boy’s coarse linen shirt with his riding crop. The boy didn’t flinch, his vacant purple eyes locking onto the Khal’s.

“Ho ho...” The boy finally spoke, but his voice was cracked and hoarse, like fingernails scraping glass.

For a long moment, the Khal said nothing, studying him carefully. Then, with a solemn expression, he withdrew his crop and turned his horse.

A person who does not fear death cannot be easily controlled by fear.

“Let him stay,” Obon Khal commanded. “He’ll work as a stable boy or a shepherd. Perhaps he’ll prove useful.”

The Khal rode off, leaving the silver-haired boy behind. He had seen something rare in the child—something that could not be broken easily. Perhaps, in time, this boy could make his fortune.

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