Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 667: Waking the Bronze Fury

Hum—

The blade of Blackfyre shimmered, sending out subtle ripples across its surface, as if water flowed along its path. The once silver-gray sword, now darkened by the flames of Balerion’s dragonfire, seemed even more profound—its depth accentuated by the black fire that coursed through it.

Rhaegar let out a soft exclamation, noticing the subtle transformation in the sword’s appearance.

"I’m fine," the ugly giant muttered, gingerly touching the burns on his face. "It doesn’t hurt anymore."

"Giant, call your people," the Child of the Forest urged cautiously, stepping closer. Her large green eyes were fixed on the giants still digging at the rubble. Seven of them remained, making eight in total, including the one before them. Far fewer than the ancient tribes of giants, but still a formidable force.

"Call them?" The ugly giant hesitated, his gaze shifting to the silver-haired human in front of him. Fear mingled with the anger in his heart. The humans had killed two of his companions.

"Hm?" Rhaegar's eyes narrowed, and Blackfyre’s flames flared to life again.

Before the giant could react, a thunderous roar echoed through the air.

Roar!

A shadow fell over the entrance to the underground passage as the giant crumpled to the ground, startled. The overpowering stench of dragon, mixed with the earthy smell of sheep, filled the air. The rough, brown scales of another beast—Sheepstealer—blocked the entrance.

"Be quiet, Sheepstealer."

A cold voice broke through the tension, and the air seemed to heat up instantly. The mud-colored dragon, with its twisted, misshapen form, slithered forward. Its dry, putrid head tilted to the side, and its sunken eye sockets glared with malevolence. The dragon let out a low, menacing grunt, nostrils flaring with each breath.

Rhaegar glanced back at the creature, a slight smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, then turned his attention back to the giant. He tilted Blackfyre toward him. The meaning was unmistakable: Life or dragonfire?

The ugly giant stiffened, his eyes darting between the fearsome Sheepstealer and the human warrior. His thick lips trembled. No matter how tall or powerful a giant might be, he knew he was no match for even a young dragon. His mouth, capable of chewing through wood, was nothing compared to the fire-breathing jaws of the beast before him.

"A giant is no adviser," the ugly giant said, summoning the last bit of courage he had left. He tried to defend his dignity, but his voice wavered.

Rhaegar’s eyes darkened, and he raised his left hand high. Sheepstealer’s pupils constricted, and the dragon’s snorting stopped as its jaws parted wide, revealing rows of sharp, saliva-drenched teeth.

The ugly giant shuddered, giving in. He crawled from the ground and began searching for his people. When he called, the other giants emerged, slapping the ground in frustration but quickly retreating behind the Child of the Forest for safety. Giants did not submit easily, but they listened to their allies. Brave, yes—but not foolish.

Seeing their behavior, Rhaegar silently laughed and sheathed Blackfyre. He valued these massive creatures. They were wild, dangerous, but knew when to bend in the face of overwhelming power—a useful trait, especially for a group of savage giants.

Not long after...

Castle Black was thrown into an uproar as eight giants, dragging one of their own with a broken leg, emerged from the underground passageway. The Night’s Watch scrambled, drawing their weapons, ready to fight to the death against these towering beasts.

But the tense, desperate atmosphere vanished the moment the young king, Rhaegar, and Lord Cregan stepped out after them.

"Roar..."

The black dragon circled outside the Wall, spewing dark green dragonfire that incinerated wildling after wildling. Rhaegar glanced back, his expression one of shock. Dragons had never crossed the Wall—that was an obscure, but well-known, piece of history.

His great-grandfather, King Jaehaerys I, had visited the Wall with Queen Alysanne.

Alysanne’s dragon, Silverwing, had famously refused to fly beyond it, no matter how hard its rider tried. Yet, there was no record of Vermithor, Jaehaerys's other dragon, ever hesitating. According to stories told by his father, Viserys, Old King Renly had aided the Night’s Watch in defending against a wildling invasion. Vermithor likely crossed the Wall then, though the records were unclear.

When Rhaegar had arrived at the Wall with the Cannibal, he had felt it—the great dragon beneath him, resistant, almost fearful of what lay on the other side. The Cannibal had refused to cross, something deep within it sensing an ancient danger.

Rhaegar hadn’t pressed the issue, not with the current crisis at hand. Instead, the Cannibal had ravaged the wildlings outside the Wall, leaving Rhaegar to hold the underground passage and prevent an invasion.

“The Cannibal crossed the Wall on its own,” Rhaegar murmured, his heart swelling with something like pride.

Suddenly, a shout rang out from behind Castle Black. “Giddyup!” The sound of hooves followed, crashing like drumbeats against the frozen ground.

Roderick Dustin led the charge, the Winter Wolves—two thousand strong—charging toward the Wall in the dead of night. Behind them flew the banners of Riverrun’s trout, the Twins’ Long Bridge, and the golden apple tree of House Rowan. A dozen banners fluttered high, each representing a cavalry unit ready to fight.

“The time for counterattack has come!” Roderick’s voice boomed, and he waved his banner as he galloped at the front of the charge.

Rhaegar’s mind raced. He needed to act quickly. He shouted up to Aemond, who rode a dragon overhead, “Stop the army! I’ll open the gate!”

Without wasting a second, Rhaegar dashed up the winding staircase toward the Wall’s winch. The Night’s Watchmen, seasoned and swift, worked the winch to hoist the king to the top of the Wall.

“Out of the way—Nuno will handle this!”

The ugly giant pushed aside the Night’s Watchmen as if they were children, grabbing the winch with one hand and spinning it like a toy. Soon, the gates began to creak open.

From atop the Wall, Rhaegar surveyed the battlefield beyond. Eerie green dragonfire scorched the wilderness, and the anguished wails of the dead echoed through the air. The black dragon—Cannibal—was a force of pure destruction, turning the battlefield into an inferno of death and despair.

Sensing Rhaegar’s gaze, the black dragon paused in its frenzy, its glowing green eyes scanning the city below with a flicker of recognition. The slaughter slowed as the beast regained some control over its bloodlust.

Ignoring Old Benjicot’s attempts to stop him, Rhaegar leapt from the watchtower without hesitation, plunging into the chaos below.

"Roar..."

The Great Wall stood 800 feet high, and as Rhaegar plummeted toward the ground, he landed squarely on the black dragon's outstretched wing.

"Open the gates, Cannibal!" Rhaegar commanded, pulling on the reins as he climbed back into the saddle. The cold of winter and the presence of the Wall were straining the dragon’s sanity, making it restless. As cunning as the Cannibal was, it still required the steady hand of its rider to remain focused.

With a powerful beat of its wings, Cannibal folded them inward, its massive hind legs slamming into the ground below.

Roar...

The dragon’s roar reverberated like thunder across the frozen battlefield. Its thick, powerful tail swung through piles of rubble, churning the snow and breaking through the melted frost. A ray of light pierced the underground tunnel as the debris was cleared.

"Charge!"

Roderick’s battle cry rang out, and he surged forward at the head of the cavalry, riding his yellow-maned warhorse into the fray. In perfect formation, thousands of mounted troops poured through the now-open gates.

The wildling army had numbered 100,000 strong, but the madness of the dragon had already decimated 30% of their forces. The survivors scattered in terror, fleeing for their lives. The combined forces of the kingdoms gave chase, launching into yet another wave of merciless slaughter.

Boom!

The Cannibal landed heavily atop the Great Wall, its immense chest rising and falling as it let out a guttural growl. Thick trails of saliva dripped from its menacing maw as it surveyed the carnage below.

Rhaegar, seated upon the dragon’s back, watched the battlefield in grim silence. His violet eyes scanned the chaos, assessing the devastation. Suddenly, both man and dragon looked up, their gazes drawn northward.

Far beyond, deep in the Haunted Forest and the snow-covered Land of Always Winter, a strange stillness gripped the frozen landscape. A cold wind began to rise, creeping across the horizon with silent intent. It felt like a harbinger—a chilling breath from the farthest reaches of the North.

...

Oldtown, High Tower

The towering white spire of the Hightower rose like a sharpened sword, though its tip was incomplete—blackened by the soot of countless fires. Inside, high up in the tower, a heated argument raged on, the voices of a man and a woman clashing with the intensity of a storm.

“The merchants of Qarth are despicable scum! The King’s Tower is giving us the green light to kill them!” Samantha Tarly’s voice rang out, her face flushed with emotion.

“No!” Lyonel Hightower, her young husband, shot back, his tone wavering. “The Thirteen are rich beyond measure—we cannot afford to offend them.”

“The enemy is at our doorstep, Lyonel!” Samantha shouted, her frustration boiling over. Her eyes blazed as she confronted the boy who, at only sixteen, was not yet a true Lord.

Knock, knock!

A hurried knock came at the door, followed by the urgent voice of an attendant. “My lord, Lord Alan has clashed with one of The Thirteen—they’re fighting!”

Samantha’s face paled. “Which Lord Alan?” she demanded, her voice trembling.

Lyman Beesbury had recently abdicated, leaving his grandson, Alan Beesbury, as the Lord of Honeyholt. But the squire’s reply hit closer to home.

“It’s your brother, Lord Tarly.”

That was the final straw.

“Lyonel, send out the troops,” Samantha urged, her impatience barely contained. Her voice shook with fury as she clenched her teeth. “The merchants of Qarth are bullying us, and yet you still haven’t summoned your advisers?”

Lyonel stood frozen, the weight of his young lordship pressing down on him. The thought of his brother-in-law embroiled in a fight with the powerful Thirteen of Qarth left him paralyzed. His boyish face, unmarked by years of experience, was filled with uncertainty.

But then, something shifted. The honor of House Hightower—Oldtown’s beacon of power and legacy—flashed in his mind. A dark plan began to form, one driven by desperation and the need to protect his house.

Lyonel’s fists clenched, and his face reddened with a mixture of fear and fury. Moments later, a green flame ignited at the top of the Hightower, a signal of Oldtown’s resolve.

...

Harrenhal, Isle of Faces

Roar...

A moss-green dragon, ancient and massive, crouched by the shore, its wings flapping softly in the breeze. Its enormous body was half-hidden in the dense undergrowth, and with a low, contented sigh, it closed its eyes, the rhythmic sound of its breathing blending with the rustle of the trees.

Deep within the dragon's lair, black Dragonstones were piled like mountains, casting shadows across the cold, cavernous space. The wind howled through caves of varying sizes, each echoing with the eerie whistle of air passing through ancient, jagged stones.

Trot, trot, trot...

Light footsteps echoed on the uneven ground, the flicker of a torch casting fleeting shadows along the walls. The flame’s warm glow revealed the depths of the cave, illuminating an ancient place of power.

“Breathe fire and master your wings...” A soft, haunting chant filled the cavern, its melody both ancient and powerful. “Stand with two heads and sing to the three.”

The voice belonged to Baelon, his face emerging in the flickering torchlight as he continued the High Valyrian incantation.

“By my voice, the words of fire... blood magic, the sacrifice has been paid.”

The chant, meant to awaken the dragon, grew more intense as Baelon’s expression tightened with concentration.

Suddenly, the ground beneath him rumbled. As the song faded into silence, a colossal silhouette stirred in the depths of the cave. Baelon stepped forward cautiously, his eyes locked on the shifting shadow, knowing full well the fury that lurked within.

And then it came.

Roar!

A mighty bronze head erupted from the ground, its massive jaws spewing forth a column of golden fire that lit up the entire cave. Its scales gleamed with a metallic sheen, reflecting the firelight in a dazzling display of power. This was Vermithor, the Bronze Fury—his grandfather Viserys’s dragon.

Roar...

Vermithor’s cold, solemn pupils fixated on Baelon, its maw opening wider as it advanced, a clear threat. To awaken such a beast was to invite danger, for dragons did not take kindly to being disturbed from their slumber.

“Quiet, Vermithor!” Baelon commanded, his voice sharp as he drew a dragon-taming whip from behind his waist.

The dragon’s piercing eyes narrowed, focusing on the silver-haired boy and the dark whip in his hands. For a tense moment, the air hung heavy with the threat of violence, golden dragonfire rumbling in the depths of Vermithor’s throat.

But then, slowly, the tension ebbed. Vermithor lowered its sharp-horned head slightly, its gaze flicking between Baelon and the whip. The fierce fire building in its chest receded, and the bronze dragon’s broad, brown wings settled across the stone platform.

Without its rider, it had no desire to stir.

The temperature in the cave dropped even further, the bitter cold creeping in from outside. Yet here, deep within the Dragonpit, surrounded by ancient stone and the faint heat of Vermithor’s dormant fire, the dragon found its rest once more.

"Vermithor, I need your help."

Baelon stood before the mighty bronze dragon, his chest rising and falling with each breath. His great-uncle Daemon had left King’s Landing with Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, and now the Dragonpit was empty. The capital had never been so vulnerable, teetering on the edge of chaos. His grandfather's health was failing, and with no dragon to defend the city, its enemies would soon descend upon it like vultures. Why not leave Baelon in charge with Vermithor by his side?

Roar!

Vermithor’s pupils flashed darkly, the great beast understanding the boy’s request but unwilling to comply so easily. Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, served only the truly strong—not those who merely craved power.

“Follow me, now!” Baelon’s face darkened with frustration, and the crack of the dragon-taming whip echoed against the stone walls of the cave.

Roar!

Vermithor’s rage was instantaneous. The enormous dragon lunged forward, its massive head knocking Baelon to the ground with brutal force. If it weren’t for the bond between them, the dragon might have devoured him in a single bite.

“You think I’m a coward, Vermithor!?” Baelon shouted as he struggled to his feet, his eyes blazing with defiance.

A flicker of green fire glimmered in his purple eyes as he revealed his true form—a dragonborn. Three shimmering green scales appeared on his forehead, and his fangs grew longer and sharper.

Roar?

Vermithor hesitated for the first time, his wide nostrils flaring in uncertainty.

Crack!

The whip snapped again, this time coiling around Vermithor’s thick neck like a black serpent. The powerful Bronze Fury was brought under control, forced to yield to the tamer’s will.

“To serve the House, I need your power,” Baelon said solemnly, his palm igniting with green flame. The magic bound them in ways Vermithor could not resist.

Plop.

The great dragon stumbled, unable to withstand the restraint of the Dragon Taming Whip. Its massive head slammed onto the stone platform, shattering a chunk of Dragonstone with its jaw. Taking advantage of the moment, Baelon leapt onto Vermithor’s back, climbing up along its massive brown wing.

Roar!

In a furious response, golden dragonfire erupted from Vermithor’s mouth, lighting the cavern like a blazing furnace. The heat was so intense, it felt as if the cave itself was melting, rumbling with the force of the dragon’s unleashed fury.

Outside, Uragax—another dragon resting by the shore—looked up, confused by the sudden tremors and the roar echoing from within the towering cave.

Boom!

A colossal figure, covered in bronze scales and crowned with sharp horns like a thorny bush, exploded out of the cave. Vermithor soared into the sky, his brown wings beating with thunderous power as he climbed higher above Gods Eye Lake.

“Dracarys, Vermithor!” Baelon’s voice rang out from the dragon’s back, clear and commanding.

Roar!

Vermithor answered the call, unleashing a torrent of dragonfire skyward. The fire blasted through the heavens, scattering the dark clouds with its aftershock.

"Haha, let's go back to King’s Landing!" Baelon shouted, his laughter filled with exhilaration as he rode the mighty Bronze Fury. He gripped the saddle and waved the dragon whip, ready to reclaim the capital.

Vermithor’s fierce, vertical pupils glanced back at Harrenhal one last time before the massive beast soared across the vast expanse of Gods Eye.

Roar...

Uragax, still by the shore, let out a long, echoing howl before taking flight. The dragon followed in pursuit, trailing after Baelon and Vermithor as they headed toward King’s Landing.

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