Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 626: Baelon’s Dragon

Chapter 626: Baelon’s Dragon

A few days after the fall of Norvos.

Golden Fields, Dagger Lake.

"Roar..."

The black dragon dove low over Dagger Lake, its massive body skimming the surface. With a swift dip, it gulped down a mouthful of silver fish that leaped from the water, then rose back into the air.

"Haha, full of energy today," Rhaegar laughed, shielding himself as cold water splashed into waves below. The campsite beside the lake was modest, with only two or three tents clustered together.

“Dragon loves the heat and despises the cold,” Daemon remarked, striking flint to light a campfire. “The warm climate of the Golden Fields suits it just fine.”

A few days had passed since the end of the war, but it felt as though uncle and nephew had made a hasty retreat. The dragons had been sluggish in the cold of Norvos, appearing ready to hibernate at any moment.

Roar...

Caraxes flew overhead, its serpentine body twisting as it exhaled a stream of crimson Dragonfire. Moments later, several large, one-meter-long fish rained down from the sky, splattering onto the ground with a sickening thud.

Daemon snorted, rinsing one of the fish in the flowing river, and replied half-jokingly, “Not as good as those frozen Norvos pies?” He glanced around the landscape, then added thoughtfully, “Dagger Lake is bigger than the Gods Eye. Why not consider building a castle here?”

Rhaegar grinned broadly. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

Daemon’s expression grew more serious. “Are you sure?”

Norvos had already been captured and was being fortified under Otto Hightower and Kingsguard Cole. Before leaving, Rhaegar had used Dragonstone magic to reinforce the high mountain fortress and the nearby defenses, making them nearly impregnable, rivaling the Bloody Gate at The Eyrie. But the Golden Fields had yet to be fully secured, and Dagger Lake, running north to south, was a vital transportation route.

“I’ve already sent word to Volantis,” Rhaegar replied confidently, “to transport supplies up the Rhoyne and begin construction of a Dragonstone fortress on the shores of Dagger Lake.”

Daemon, more cautious, frowned. “Why not choose one of the ruins of the Rhoynar Free Cities?” He thought of the abandoned cities nestled between the Andalos Mountains and the Forest of Qohor—places like Ghoyan Drohe, Ny Sar, and Ar Noy.

Once key strategic locations, these cities were destroyed by Dragonfire during the Valyrian conquest of the Rhoynar. Despite the devastation, their lands had been fertile enough to attract the ancient Valyrians.

Rhaegar pondered for a moment. “Dagger Lake’s position between the Disputed Lands and cities like Volantis makes it ideal as a trading hub. We can establish a foothold here for the House. Once we’ve stabilized trade, we can look at rebuilding and resettling the old Rhoynar ruins.”

Daemon’s brow furrowed slightly, but he nodded. “That’s a solid plan.”

“We’ll only turn to the ruins if there’s no other choice,” Rhaegar added, shaking his head. His attachment to Westeros still lingered. The decision weighed on him—should they focus on ruling an entire continent or invest in a rich but slowly developing land with vast, untapped potential? The darkness stirring in the North still loomed, and Rhaegar wasn’t ready to abandon the fight just yet. But if the danger of annihilation became too great, his eldest son and others could relocate to Essos.

With the ports of the Disputed Lands and Volantis, and control of the Golden Fields surrounded by Norvos and Qohor, they could recreate a Freehold Empire—a balance of imperial dragons, native nobles, and maritime lords.

“By the way,” Daemon interjected, “the mercenaries from Pentos have mobilized.”

“Then let them come,” Rhaegar said calmly. “A flat battlefield is a gift for a dragon.” His only concern was the Iron Bank, brimming with gold.

...

As the sun set and dusk deepened, the sky over Dagger Lake slowly grew dark. The fading sunlight cast a soft glow across the water, blending hues of red and green into a mesmerizing scene.

Rhaegar returned to his tent, picking up a quill and parchment to write a letter. He paused for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. Nearly a month had passed since his eldest son had left to tame a dragon, and there had been no word from him. He’s probably run into trouble, Rhaegar mused.

“I should give him some guidance,” he muttered to himself, then began writing a letter about the old dragon in Lemonwood.

Uragax, a dragon steeped in ancient history, was known only to a few. If his son was struggling to tame a dragon, Rhaegar thought it might be wise to direct him toward Uragax. It was a long shot, but worth trying.

After relaying instructions, Rhaegar closed the letter by informing his son of their victory at the Battle of Norvos. He also reminded him to stay vigilant, warning his father and Rhaenyra to be on guard for any potential counterattacks from across the Narrow Sea.

Once finished, he sealed the letter and tied it to the leg of a raven, watching as the bird flew off into the dimming sky.

...

Time flew by. Half a month later.

King's Landing, Dragonpit.

"Roar!"

An enraged roar echoed through the vast hall as iron shackles sparked with blazing Dragonfire. At the massive bronze gates, Aemon leaned casually, sucking on an ice lolly, his carefree posture a stark contrast to the chaos inside.

Boom!

The moss-green dragon known as Trickster clambered up the wall, its amber eyes gleaming with mischief. Its long, scorpion-like tail swayed lazily behind it.

"Insolent old woman," Aemon muttered, spitting out the stick of his popsicle and grinning as he watched a silver-haired woman hurriedly retreat.

His mother had tasked him with showing Irina from Slaver’s Bay around the Dragonpit, an assignment Aemon found tedious. During the tour, they encountered Trickster, Moondancer, and Syrax. Yet, despite seeing these creatures, Irina wasn’t satisfied—she insisted on seeing a "real" adult dragon.

Vermithor and Silverwing, the two ancient dragons of the Dragonpit, were brought out under the guidance of the Dragonkeepers. Vermithor barely acknowledged Irina’s presence, treating her like a mere insect. Silverwing, however, wasn’t so indifferent. After a brief flare of her nostrils, she unleashed a blast of Dragonfire at the woman, who barely escaped the flames. There was something about Irina’s scent that seemed to repulse the dragon.

“It almost roasted you,” Aemon laughed, clapping his hands before ordering, "Take Silverwing back to Dragonstone and make sure someone keeps an eye on that old woman at all times."

Silverwing couldn’t escape the Dragonpit, so there was little risk of Irina taming it. Still, Aemon’s real concern was the dragon eggs—he couldn’t allow them to be stolen. And as long as he was here, no one would succeed.

Hiss...

Trickster slunk back into the shadows, casting a dark silhouette across the hall. From those shadows, Silverwing’s fierce, crowned head emerged, its vertical pupils gleaming as it snorted heavily, like a predator eyeing its prey.

"Get her down there, now!" Aemon urged the Dragonkeepers, who rushed to obey.

“Obey your commands, Silverwing!” the Dragonkeepers shouted, coaxing the dragon back into her lair with practiced precision.

With a heavy rumble, the bronze gates of the Dragonpit slammed shut. Outside, eight hundred armored soldiers patrolled the perimeter, ensuring the area was securely sealed.

Aemon stepped out from the gates and pulled a letter from inside his tunic. The seal bore the unmistakable mark of Rhaegar Targaryen I—his father.

"A letter from Father, let’s see what this is about." Aemon broke the seal and unfolded the letter. He had recently returned to King’s Landing from Tyrosh, assuming his duties as Grand Maester and Master of Whisperers. The letter had come from the Raven’s Lair.

As he read, Aemon’s eyes widened in shock. “Three hundred years old... such an ancient dragon.” His mind raced with the implications.

“No, no, I have to get this to my brother right away.” He hurried to a nearby carriage—an elegant white-painted palace on wheels—and called to Arryk, one of the Kingsguard. “Ser, take me to the Red Keep immediately.”

“Yes, Prince,” Arryk replied, guiding the carriage forward in silence.

Halfway to the Red Keep, a thought struck Aemon, lighting up his face with excitement. “Hey, my brother’s trying to tame a dragon. I should help him out!”

He remembered his father’s chambers, filled with rare treasures. I’ll find something there for my brother—a gift to aid him. The thought of his brother’s tearful gratitude filled Aemon with renewed energy.

“Faster, Ser!” he called out, a grin spreading across his face as he imagined the perfect gift for his brother.

...

The next day at dawn,

Dragonstone, east coast.

"Roar!"

A young dragon with dark scales and scarlet dorsal fins thrashed on the grassy cliffside, kicking up clouds of dust and scattered leaves.

Crack! Crack!

A long black whip, its barbed tips gleaming, lashed out repeatedly, coiling around the dragon’s neck like a snake.

Baelon, breathless and drenched in sweat, climbed onto the dragon’s back, gripping the whip tightly. “Attack me again, Iragaxys!” he shouted. His face was streaked with dirt, and his clothes were little more than rags after the struggle.

"Roar!"

Iragaxys, eyes glowing a deep scarlet, let out a hoarse cry, glaring at the rider with frustration.

Baelon, sprawled across the dragon’s back, raised the whip again, striking it with force. “That’s for attacking me! And this is for being impossible!” Each lash came with a grumbled complaint, releasing the tension of the past two weeks. He had narrowly avoided the dragon’s sharp tail on several occasions, and more than once, he’d come close to becoming a fiery snack.

"Roar! Roar!"

Iragaxys let out a pained whinny, rolling in frustration as it tried to shake Baelon off, its massive body twisting on the ground.

“Dream on,” Baelon muttered, clinging to the dragon’s back like a leech. He was too worn to punch the tough dragon scales, though he wished he could. Hidden inside his tattered pants, he clutched a crumpled piece of paper—a letter from his younger brother, Aemon.

Aemon had written about a 300-year-old dragon in Lemonwood and had sent him a piece of their father’s dragon-taming whip, the very one Baelon now wielded. Gritting his teeth, Baelon wrapped the whip around Iragaxys’s neck, pulling it tight. “Not so tough now, are you?” he taunted, a grin breaking through his exhaustion.

Iragaxys, furious, flared its nostrils. Every time it saw Vhagar, it tormented Baelon, as if taking pleasure in his failed attempts to tame it. But Baelon had had enough.

"Roar!"

With an angry bellow, the young dragon leapt into the sky, its powerful wings stirring the wind and shrouding the waves below.

"Ah! What are you doing?!"

Baelon, caught off guard, tightened his grip on the whip. As the dragon flew higher, Baelon pulled harder. The tighter he pulled, the more agitated Iragaxys became.

"Roar!"

The dragon let out a long, angry howl, shooting up into the clouds before plunging toward the sea. Iragaxys flailed its wings wildly, desperate to shake Baelon off its back and send him crashing into the waves below.

Baelon’s heart pounded in his chest, but his stubborn streak only deepened. “Fine! Let’s see who gives in first!” he growled. Man and dragon were locked in a fierce struggle, each doing their best to wear the other down.

Meanwhile, on the towering Dragonmont...

"Hmm?"

Vhagar, resting on the rugged mountainside, stirred at the distant sound of Iragaxys’s roar. Annoyed that his peaceful sleep had been disturbed, the massive dragon lifted his ancient head. With a low rumble, Vhagar stood, crushing the strange rocks beneath his weight. He stretched his wings, full of ragged holes from centuries of battle, and launched into the sky.

The ancient dragon had no patience for the noisy antics of a youngling and intended to teach Iragaxys a lesson in silence and respect on Dragonstone.

...

On the other side of the island, the man and dragon were still locked in their stubborn struggle, oblivious to what was coming.

"Roar!"

A deep, thunderous roar echoed from afar, like a storm crashing through the sky. A mix of orange light and thick smoke from powerful Dragonfire billowed into view.

Baelon turned, his face paling. “Run, Iragaxys!” he shouted.

Boom!

But it was too late. A wave of Dragonfire surged toward them, and Vhagar’s massive form loomed in the distance, eyes filled with cold indifference. The ancient dragon wasn’t aiming to kill—just to teach the young one a lesson in proper behavior.

Without thinking, Baelon dropped to the ground, quickly unwrapping the dragon-taming whip from Iragaxys’s neck.

In the next moment...

"Roar!"

Amid the thick smoke and scorching flames, the young black dragon thrashed, lifting its head defiantly. It opened its maw and unleashed a stream of pitch-black Dragonfire, striking from a distance. The dark flames, black as night, splattered against Vhagar’s thick, wrinkled skin.

"Roar..."

Vhagar bellowed in fury as the Dragonfire singed his neck. His massive wings flapped angrily as he launched into pursuit.

Iragaxys darted through the air, agile and quick, dodging each of Vhagar’s attacks and occasionally retaliating with bursts of his own Dragonfire. His flames were potent, carrying a destructive force reminiscent of Balerion’s legendary black Dragonfire.

"Roar!"

Iragaxys barely dodged Vhagar’s snapping jaws, diving sharply and disappearing into the sea below the cliff.

Baelon’s heart pounded as he watched Vhagar's wrath grow. He knew the young dragon had crossed a line. Gritting his teeth, he shouted, “Leave Dragonstone, Iragaxys!”

Vhagar was relentless and wouldn’t forgive such defiance easily.

Boom!

Orange Dragonfire rained down, striking the waves below and boiling the water that surged against the rocky cliffs.

"Roar!"

Iragaxys panicked, instinctively ignoring Baelon's orders and seeking any possible escape route.

“Listen to me, Iragaxys!” Baelon commanded, his voice rising with authority. He snapped the dragon-taming whip, forcibly regaining control of the dragon.

In the chaos, the crumpled piece of paper from his pants fluttered to the ground, catching Baelon’s eye. A sudden idea flashed through his mind, and a plan began to form.