Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 644: Laenor’s Return

Basilisk Isles, the gathering place.

In a calm bay, beneath a towering cliff crowned by a grand palace, hundreds of Triarchy dignitaries, sellswords, and slave owners had gathered. The scent of wealth and danger hung in the air.

On a plush wool rug, a burly man with a thick black beard sat cross-legged, engaged in a heated debate with two other men.

“The King on the Iron Throne has lost his son. He’ll burn us all to ash for it,” one man muttered darkly.

“You want to surrender? Go ahead, try,” another shot back with a sneer.

“Cut the talk. We’ve made a fortune selling tapestries and perfumes to Qarth...” Blackbeard grinned, flashing his white teeth. The conversation quickly shifted to trade. As long as there was gold to be made, they were willing to risk anything.

“I heard the Red Kraken died,” Blackbeard said with a laugh. “Serves him right, letting his town be plundered.”

“He was too arrogant for his own good, refusing to die on his precious Iron Islands,” remarked a man with a short, purple-dyed beard, shaking his head. “He was a good pawn, but too greedy.”

“He hoarded the profits and now lies dead with all that gold,” a white-haired slave owner from Myr chimed in with a sneer. “But the dragons of the Iron Throne will return. What then?”

“Idiot. We do business.”

“Then we’ll fight!”

“Against Dragonfire? Are you mad?”

The three decision-makers argued bitterly, each with a dark, tense expression. Around them, the others watched with amusement, enjoying the spectacle. The Basilisk Isles were desolate, tucked away in the far south of the Sothoryos continent. But how much Dragonfire could even a hidden cave withstand?

“We’ve already retreated from the Disputed Lands,” Blackbeard growled, slapping his thigh. “We can’t keep running!”

“Exactly! We fight,” the mustachioed man declared, his sharp eyes drawing applause from the crowd.

The women and children could wait in the brothels, but without their riches, these men had nothing left. If they wanted to continue living in luxury, the Triarchy had to be rebuilt.

“Good! Then it’s decided!” The white-haired slave owner pulled out a dagger and stood, anticipating the cheers of his comrades, expecting it to inspire them.

Boom!

Before he could bask in the applause, a tremor shook the palace. A hot gust of wind followed, carrying the acrid smell of ash.

“What’s going on?” Faces paled as the men scrambled to their feet.

“A dragon!” came a terrified scream from outside.

Over the bay, a jet-black dragon, as dark as coal, soared through the sky, spewing green-tinged Dragonfire. It swept across the waters, burning every ship in sight. Thick smoke billowed as Triarchy pirates threw themselves into the sea, desperate to escape the inferno.

“in the palace... It’s the Cannibal,” one man gasped.

Rhaegar sat astride the beast, his black robe fluttering in the wind, purple eyes locked on the foreign palace perched on the cliff.

"Roar..." The Cannibal roared, its massive body skimming the sea’s surface before diving toward the cliff.

Dark green Dragonfire erupted from its jaws, scorching everything in its path. With a thunderous crash, the dome of the palace crumbled, the stone walls melting under the intense heat.

Rhaegar’s eyes were cold as he patted the dragon’s neck, urging it on. The Cannibal’s green pupils gleamed with hatred as it spun through the air, its shadow darkening every inch of the Basilisk Isles.

Man and dragon were connected in spirit, each feeding off the other’s emotions. Rhaegar’s simmering hatred fanned the flames in the Cannibal’s heart, pushing it to vent its fury without mercy. The Dragoneater, once feared for its savagery, now unleashed its wrath on all who stood in its way, a monstrous force bound to the will of its rider.

...

Volantis.

Eastern City District, atop the Black Wall.

Whoosh.

A crossbow bolt whistled through the air, striking the scarecrow's bull's-eye from several dozen meters away.

“Feeling lucky today?” Baelon asked as he approached, wearing a red cloak and carrying another crossbow.

“Not really. Just practicing,” Baela replied, her expression emotionless as she quickly loaded her crossbow with practiced ease.

Shoot.

Baelon released his bolt, which clanged off the parapet and ricocheted away. He sighed. “Seems I don’t have any talent for shooting.” He paused, recalling that their father rarely used longbows or crossbows either.

Baela, nearby, gave him a sidelong glance before returning to her own target practice, pulling the trigger with quiet determination.

Two months had passed since Aemon’s death. In that time, momentous events had unfolded across Westeros and beyond. House Baratheon of Storm’s End had been extinguished, the Ironborn annihilated across the Westerlands, The Reach, and the Riverlands. The war in Essos had ended, and the Iron Throne had launched a devastating campaign against the Triarchy pirates in the Basilisk Isles.

“Roar!”

A thunderous dragon roar echoed across the sky. A majestic scarlet dragon soared from the harbor, leading the royal fleet out into the Summer Sea.

Baela glanced up, awe flickering in her eyes. “Grandmother and Grandfather have set off.”

The elderly couple had stationed themselves in the Basilisk Isles, determined to bring the drawn-out naval conflict to an end.

“Father left early this morning,” Baelon added, lowering his crossbow. Regret flickered across his face. “He was the first to take on the pirates who were still putting up a fight.”

Since the Battle of the Iron Islands, their great-uncle Daemon and third great-uncle One-Eyed Aemon had returned to King’s Landing, only to quickly depart for the battlefields of Sothoryos. Baelon, his sister Baela, and their younger brother Maekar had been left behind in Volantis, forbidden to leave the city.

“Your father is incredible,” Baela said with a sigh, continuing her practice. “One man and one dragon, sweeping through entire lands. Burning so many people to death was his way of releasing all that pent-up frustration.”

The near-massacre by Dragonfire had sent shockwaves across the world, sparking outrage from the Free Cities and various faiths. Even in Volantis, Baela could hear the condemnation from every corner. But she knew her father well—when he was in a dark mood, he would lash out and push away anyone who tried to care for him.

“He’s a king,” Baelon replied quietly, sitting on the wall beside her. “He can’t afford to show weakness.”

Baelon had been sent by Rhaena to watch over her. Aemon’s death had shaken Baela to the core. One month she spent crying in secret, the next trying to escape Volantis in every way possible, seeking revenge. Now, she was locked away, consumed by training. If she continued like this, she would burn herself out.

“One day, I’ll avenge him,” Baela said suddenly, as if reading Baelon’s thoughts. She turned to him. “It was a wild dragon that killed him, wasn’t it?”

Baelon hesitated, unsure of how to respond. The wreckage of Trickster, salvaged from Shipbreaker Bay, had shown signs of an attack by a wild dragon. His father had scoured the coastlines and the Narrow Sea, but the size and whereabouts of the dragon that killed Aemon remained a mystery. And Moondancer was still too young to face such a threat.

“I’m going to eat. Leave me alone,” Baela muttered, setting down her crossbow and walking down the steps, her mood dark.

Moondancer had grown into a fierce dragon, strong enough for battle. Yet between the disguised house arrest imposed by her father and the king, and Baelon’s reluctance to share details, Baela felt trapped. It all felt like a dagger twisting in her heart.

“That...” Baelon sighed, watching her go. His father was right. They were still young, and the world beyond Volantis was vast. But Baela’s pain was undeniable.

Everyone wanted to avenge Aemon, but the family couldn’t afford to lose another dragon rider. Not now.

...

Night falls.

Basilisk Isles, Isle of Flies.

A campfire flickered in the mosquito-infested wasteland as soldiers hacked away at trees, building fortifications to shield the island. The air was thick with the hum of insects and the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore.

“Our king is gone,” Rhaenys muttered to her husband as they walked along the beach, her voice tinged with frustration.

Corlys, ever watchful, inspected the coastline as the fleet formed a defensive line around the island. There were three rebuilt Triarchy strongholds: The Axe, Isle of Tears, and Naath. Rhaegar had rushed to The Axe, Daemon and Aemond headed for Naath, leaving the most critical location—Isle of Tears—in the hands of the old couple.

Strategically placed near the Basilisk Isles, any attack on the settlements would have to break through their defenses first. House Velaryon’s fleet, undefeated and formidable, was meant for battles where raw power decided the outcome.

“He burned thousands today—more than in many of our past wars,” Rhaenys said, her tone carrying clear disapproval. The stench of charred flesh clung to her, an unpleasant reminder of the day’s carnage.

“You’re still brooding over Storm’s End?” Corlys frowned, glancing at her. “Rhaenys, we’re at war. The Iron Islands suffered far more.”

“Yes, and the lords of the Westerlands and The Reach applauded,” Rhaenys snapped, turning her head away. Her husband’s words offered no comfort. She knew he was right, but it didn’t lessen her unease.

No matter the politics, no matter the war, the destruction of House Baratheon weighed heavily on her. They had been loyal to the Iron Throne for over a century, yet her own nephew had wiped them from existence. That was her second family—those children who perished had been her blood.

“Keep your head, Rhaenys,” Corlys said sternly. “Don’t let your emotions cloud your judgment. No one wants to lose their children.”

He spoke from a place of deep sorrow. When their eldest son, Laenor, had been assassinated, Corlys had been so consumed by rage he nearly killed Prince Qoren of Dorne. His grief, like hers, had led him down a dark path.

Rhaenys sighed, closing her eyes for a moment. “You’re right,” she whispered, her voice soft. She didn’t blame Rhaegar for his ruthlessness, but the loss of both her son and daughter had left her fearful—afraid of more loss, more heartache. Rhaegar, too, was reacting to the pain of losing his son, and in his fury, House Baratheon had paid the ultimate price.

Corlys reached out, gently pulling her closer, his arm wrapping around her shoulders. “Try to stay hopeful,” he said, his voice tender yet helpless.

Together, they walked through the night.

Whoosh.

Suddenly, a deep horn echoed through the night.

Corlys’s face darkened, his expression turning sharp. “No, that’s not the sound of a patrol ship,” he warned.

“Get ready!” Rhaenys broke free from his embrace and sprinted toward the camp.

Meleys, her scarlet dragon, lay atop the island, lazily digesting the livestock the soldiers had fed it. But now, the rumble of approaching ships filled the air, and pirate vessels appeared one after another on the horizon, their catapults launching burning fireballs into the night sky.

“Hurry! Get to the warship!” Corlys ordered, his face grim as he strapped on his armor and was the first to board the ship. He knew these waters well—the pirates must have attacked the patrols and slipped past them, sneaking up on Slush Island.

Out at sea, the enemy fleet approached.

“Attack! Capture the Sea Snake alive!” Blackbeard bellowed, laughing as his ship was the first to land. Brandishing a scimitar, he led the charge, his black curls still matted with soot from a previous battle. He had survived countless close calls, and tonight, he believed he was destined for glory—he would capture the head of House Velaryon himself.

Crash! Boom!

Catapult fire rained down on the camp, breaking through its defenses and lighting up the dark sky with flames. Pirates swarmed the shore like ants, rushing to claim the island.

Meleys, resting at the top of the hill, stirred at the noise. The dragon opened its vertical pupils, scanning the chaotic scene below for its rider. But with so many people running, screaming, and fighting, it couldn’t immediately find Rhaenys.

Crash! Boom!

“Follow me and capture Corlys Velaryon alive!” Blackbeard urged, leading the pirate horde onto the island.

On the deck of the Sea Snake, Corlys stood, watching as the pirates closed in. They threw hooks and ladders onto the ship, swarming it before he could set sail.

“Damn it, hold the line!” Corlys shouted, engaging in a brutal melee, blood staining the deck as he waited for Rhaenys to come to his aid with her dragon.

“Die, old man!” a group of sellswords taunted as they broke through the defenses, grinning viciously as they closed in. Corlys’s pupils narrowed as he raised his long-handled curved sword to fend them off, but his age was catching up to him. His movements were slower, his strength waning.

He fought valiantly, but the tide turned against him. As he was forced back, he caught a glimpse of the frontline on the Isle of Flies collapsing entirely. The campfires had become infernos, spreading across the island unchecked.

Clang!

A blade slashed through his armor, forcing Corlys to stagger back several paces. Gritting his teeth, he turned, only to see more sellswords charging toward him. He knew he couldn’t hold out much longer.

Roar!

Suddenly, a piercing dragon’s roar shattered the night, cutting through the chaos.

“Dracarys!” came a shout in High Valyrian, followed by the pale silver form of a dragon rising into the sky.

It unleashed a torrent of dragonfire, scorching the enemies swarming around the Sea Snake. The flames roared to life, consuming pirate ships and men alike, turning the beach into a blazing battlefield.

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