Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 678: A Dragonlord’s Death

Chapter 678: A Dragonlord’s Death

The Great Grass Sea of the Dothraki stretched endlessly under a clear sky, with white clouds lazily drifting by. The tall grasses swayed gently in the breeze, rippling like waves across the land. Despite the calm, the acrid smell of burning wood began to creep into the air.

A village of the Lamb Men stood in flames.

"Kill them all! Take the women as slaves!"

"Hahaha!"

The shouts of the Dothraki cavalry mixed with the crackling of fire as houses burned. The air was thick with cries of pain and anguish, punctuated by the laughter of marauders. The slaughter had begun.

Near an open-air sheep pen, the animals had been driven off, and dozens of pale-skinned Lamb Men women were locked inside the filthy, stinking enclosure. They were at the mercy of the Dothraki.

"No, let me go!"

The women struggled desperately, their screams and tears only inviting more brutal violence.

"Baa..."

The sheep bleated fearfully from a distance, their panic echoing the chaos of the village.

Aemon stood watching, unable to bear the sight any longer. "Does it have to be this way?"

"These are the rules. The tribe needs supplies for the migration," the scarred Bloodrider beside him replied coldly as they rode together. His eyes casually swept over the scene of destruction.

Aemon stood amidst the flock, his silver-gold hair tousled and dusty from the milling sheep. In the eyes of the Dothraki, both he and the women were nothing more than lambs awaiting slaughter.

"They're innocent," Aemon said, his voice tight. "Isn't it enough that you've killed all the men? The tribe has taken the sheep, the gold... there's no need for this."

He had witnessed the horrors of the Dothraki raids before, but still, the senseless cruelty turned his stomach. The wanton slaughter was unlike anything he'd seen in Westeros, or even the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea. There, at least, the brutality was tempered by some semblance of restraint.

Crack!

A whip snapped through the air, grazing a sheep's back and narrowly missing Aemon’s face. Startled, he stumbled, almost trampled by the panicked flock.

The Bloodrider scowled, his voice low and harsh. "If we don't take them, someone else will. Killing the men and sparing the women won't save them." His gaze was cold, unyielding.

There's no mercy on the Great Grass Sea. Only the law of the strong.

Aemon clenched his fists but said nothing more. Here, mercy was as fleeting as the wind over the endless grasslands.

"Every village you destroy is one less supply point in the future," Aemon said, shifting the conversation to focus on the long-term cost of their brutality.

"Hahaha!" The scarred Bloodrider burst into laughter as if he'd just heard an absurd joke. "There are too many people in this world. We all know that."

"Yes, we all know that,"

"Hahaha..." The Bloodrider’s laughter mingled with the sound of a group of Dothraki riders passing by, sacks of loot slung over their shoulders. They whistled and jeered as they rode, a display of casual dominance. The Lamb Men were the easiest prey, multiplying like sheep—soft and defenseless.

Aemon gritted his teeth, the mockery cutting deep. He felt the sharp divide between their understanding of good and evil.

"Now, drive the sheep away." The Bloodrider's voice turned hard as he pointed his riding crop at Aemon, sneering. "A Dragonlord without a dragon is as soft as a lamb. You'll have to learn to live like us, boy."

He didn't want to raise a coward.

Aemon lowered his head, standing silently. Just meters away, the cries from the sheep pen grew more desperate. Dothraki men had put down their sacks and entered the pen, dragging the Lamb Men women out like livestock. Resistance was met with fists, kicks, and worse.

The sound of tearing cloth filled the air. Linen dresses were ripped to shreds, exposing pale, milky skin—the mark of the Lamb Men. The Dothraki showed no mercy, lashing their new slaves with whips if they faltered.

Aemon's hand instinctively moved to his back, tracing the rough scars hidden beneath his animal skin coat. The old wounds, from his own initial flogging, prickled painfully as the screams and the crack of whips echoed through the camp.

"This shouldn't be like this," he thought, his heart tightening.

"What did you say?" The Bloodrider squinted, having barely caught Aemon's muttered words.

Aemon lifted his head, eyes burning with defiance. His father had always taught him to revere life, to protect it. The Dothraki were breaking every rule of humanity he held sacred.

"I will not do this," Aemon said, his voice clear as he met the Bloodrider's gaze.

The Bloodrider's expression darkened, realizing the boy was rebelling. "If you disobey an order, you’ll walk in the mud with the slaves."

Among the Dothraki, those who rode horses were revered. To walk, to be without a mount, was to be lower than dirt.

Aemon shrugged, his tone calm. "As you wish. I have never longed for a horse."

He removed his animal skin coat, revealing the network of scars crisscrossing his back, and without another word, he walked through the flock of sheep toward another pen. His decision was final. He was done with the Dothraki, with their savage ways.

He couldn't return home. He had no place there anymore. Nor could he make his way to Slaver's Bay, as the Witch had once prophesied.

The endless killing, the mindless plundering—he was tired of it all.

"Stop, or you're a traitor!" the scarred Bloodrider yelled as he dismounted his horse, drawing his curved blade with a menacing hiss.

"I said, do as you like," Aemon replied coolly, not bothering to look back. His focus was elsewhere. He stepped behind a Dothraki man who was assaulting a woman and, without hesitation, kicked the man hard in the shin.

With a thud, the Dothraki toppled from his horse, crashing to the ground in a twisted heap.

"Get up and go over there," Aemon said gently as he helped the half-dressed woman to her feet. He positioned himself protectively between her and the fallen Dothraki. The woman, older and frightened, stared at him with wide eyes.

"I'm not one of them," Aemon shook his head, trying to reassure her. He bent down and picked up a burning stick from the ground.

In an instant, the commotion caught the attention of the surrounding Dothraki. Some paused their vile acts, while others, still laughing, swayed their hips mockingly.

"The shepherd boy thinks he's a warrior now, daring to challenge us for a woman!" one of them jeered, pointing at the youth who had been kicked off his horse. The sight of a Dothraki being bested by a boy not even tall enough to reach a horse's saddle was a source of ridicule.

"Ah! You dare take my spoils!" the furious Dothraki youth snarled. Without bothering to fix his trousers, he grabbed his arakh, eyes blazing with rage. He charged at Aemon, eager to reclaim his twisted sense of honor.

The onlookers grinned in anticipation, hoping to witness bloodshed sparked by a woman.

Aemon remained unnervingly calm. Torch in one hand, he drew his sword, Truefyre, with the other. The Valyrian steel blade, dark as night and gleaming with a dangerous edge, appeared like a shadow from his hand. The moment it was revealed, greedy eyes among the Dothraki lingered on the sword, its legend well known.

"You know Blood Sorcery, you damned bastard!" the Dothraki youth spat, his face twisting with both fear and anger. He hurriedly hoisted up his trousers and lunged forward, his curved blade slicing through the air, aiming to cut Aemon down and claim the sword as his trophy.

Clang!

Aemon parried the attack with ease, Truefyre deflecting the blow. The two swords clashed violently, but Aemon stood firm, his movements deliberate, precise. The Dothraki youth pressed on, relentless in his attacks, determined to bring down the silver-haired boy and seize the prize.

Aemon’s face tightened with focus, his sword slicing back and forth as he blocked each strike. But as he took a step back, his foot slipped into a puddle left by the sheep’s trampling, causing him to falter.

"Die, bastard!" the Dothraki youth roared, seeing his opportunity. His scimitar came crashing down in a final, deadly slash.

Pop!

The crowd gasped as the sound of a blade piercing flesh echoed through the air. The Dothraki youth froze, his arakh halted mid-swing. His face paled, confusion flashing across his features.

Aemon had stepped wide at the last second, leaning forward and driving Truefyre deep into the youth’s stomach. The black Valyrian steel vanished into his flesh, and the Dothraki staggered back, clutching his side in disbelief before collapsing to the ground.

Sizzling!

Aemon’s face went pale as he yanked Truefyre free from the Dothraki youth’s body. The dying man coughed up blood, stumbling forward before collapsing face-first into the mud. His stomach, disemboweled by the Valyrian steel blade, spilled its contents in a grotesque mess. Death claimed him swiftly.

The surrounding Dothraki, who had been watching with amusement, were stunned into silence. None had expected this outcome. The scene shifted from mockery to a tense quiet, as they quickly ceased their taunts and leers.

The woman who had been pinned beneath the dead youth seized the moment, sobbing as she crawled desperately toward the sheepfold. Aemon stood firm, his eyes scanning the approaching Dothraki. There were a dozen or so, slowly closing in, their trousers now pulled up, menace gleaming in their eyes.

"Let them go," Aemon said, his voice steady despite the tension. "You don't need this loot. I can offer you something far more valuable—jewels, worth more than all of this."

His mind raced, knowing that if he could just get back to Westeros or one of the Free Cities, he could keep that promise. But the Dothraki offered no reply, their silence colder than their expressions, which now bore a dangerous, calculating glint.

Aemon sighed, understanding that words were useless. "Then there's nothing left to discuss."

Without warning, he hurled the torch he was holding. It landed squarely on a nearby haystack, which immediately ignited, the scattered hay catching fire in the wind.

He took a few steps back as the ruby at the end of Truefyre’s hilt began to glow, reflecting the flames that surged to life around him, spitting and hissing like angry fire serpents.

Whoosh!

A sudden gust toppled the haystack, scattering burning hay across the ground and toward the sheepfold. The flames leaped higher, surrounding the area in a fiery ring.

"What’s going on?" one of the Dothraki cried out, backing away from the blazing inferno.

Others stared at Aemon in shock, their eyes wide with fear. "He's a blood mage!" someone shouted. The earlier conjuring of a Valyrian steel sword from nowhere, now followed by this blaze—superstition took hold.

Blood mage? Aemon heard the accusation through the roar of the fire, and despite the danger, a wry smile tugged at his lips. If only that were true.

The fire, which he had lit out of desperation, had grown far beyond his control. The wind fanned the flames into an unstoppable force, and now both the Dothraki and the fire surrounded him. Behind him, the Lamb Men women huddled together, their tear-filled eyes fixed on him with a mix of hope and fear.

In this moment, Aemon felt small, but he knew he stood taller than he ever had before.

Aemon sighed deeply and said quietly, "It's over."

It was finally over. He could now meet the Trickster, and if his soul remained intact, perhaps he could cross the sea and see his parents and Baela once more.

Crackling!

The fire consumed the hay, growing fiercer as it reached the wooden fence of the sheep pen, flames climbing higher with every passing moment. Aemon stood still amidst the inferno, his eyes closing slowly. He had made his choice—he would never serve the enemy, nor live as a mere shepherd. A dragon had its own way of dying, and this moment felt right.

"Put out the fire! Don’t let the boy die like this!"

Suddenly, voices rose from outside the flames, accompanied by the sound of frantic footsteps. The urgency in their cries broke through the roaring blaze.

So many slave girls and bastard boys were trapped in the fire. The Khal would punish them severely if they perished in the flames.

Aemon’s eyes snapped open in shock. The fire had only just licked at his feet—it wasn’t over after all.

Whoosh!

Cold arrows rained down from the sky, followed by the unmistakable sound of hooves pounding the earth.

"Kill them all!"

The sudden battle cries shattered the night, sweeping over the village like a storm. Aemon’s heart raced, the chaos outside hidden from his view by the wall of flames. He couldn’t understand—there were 50,000 Dothraki in the horde, and thousands had been sent to loot this village. Why an attack now?

His instincts were right. A larger, more powerful Dothraki group had stormed the village, ambushing the looters and cutting them down in cold blood. The village, already a living hell, descended even further into madness.

Aemon’s eyes widened in disbelief.

"Boy, come with me!" A large, rough hand clamped over his mouth from behind, the callused fingers painfully pressing against his skin.

Aemon struggled, shaking his head violently in an attempt to break free. Through the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the Lamb Men woman he had saved earlier. She was no longer the figure of defiance he had seen before. Her chestnut curls were disheveled, her body thickened with age and wear. Her tear-streaked face, lined with deep crow’s feet, was bruised and battered.

Without a word, the middle-aged woman wrapped Aemon in her torn linen skirt and dragged him back toward the sheep pen. Inside, a group of women stood in tense silence, instinctively pushing her and Aemon into the corner.

"What are you doing?!" Aemon hissed, breaking free from the hand that covered his mouth. He couldn’t stand the thought of sitting idly by.

"Shh," the woman hushed him urgently, placing a finger to her lips. "They won't kill a slave girl who’s useful."

She moved swiftly, plucking a dress from the body of a woman whose head had been crushed and pulling it over Aemon’s frame. His silver-blonde hair, pale skin, and slender form could pass as a young woman’s. The middle-aged woman smeared dung across his face and arms, disguising him further, before pulling him close to her chest, cradling him like a child.

Aemon was too stunned to resist, letting her work without protest. By the time he came to his senses, he found himself lying in the woman’s ample bosom, hidden among the group of terrified women.

The fire had started to die down, and the chaotic sounds of battle began to fade.

Bang!

The pen’s fence was kicked open, and a group of blood-splattered Dothraki stormed inside.

"Take all the slaves," a hoarse voice commanded in Dothraki. "The slave traders in Slaver’s Bay are waiting."

The Dothraki moved swiftly, binding the women and taking them away. The dead were left behind, their lifeless bodies scattered across the village.

...

In the blink of an eye, half a month had passed.

Slaver’s Bay, Meereen.

Creak, creak!

The wagon wheels groaned as they rolled over the potholed road, each turn a jarring reminder of the journey’s harshness. At the front of the procession, the slave owner rode on horseback, occasionally glancing back at the long line of captives trailing behind.

Strong men, old men, and even children were bound in lines with rough hemp ropes, forced to carry loads alongside the wagons. The female slaves were confined in iron prison carts, their hands tied, huddled together in groups. Dothraki riders flanked the procession on both sides, their presence imposing as they waited to exchange "greetings" in the Free Cities. Trading, though despised by the Dothraki, was customarily referred to as "gifts" when dealing with Slaver’s Bay, a twisted reflection of their disdain for the act.

Inside one of the prison carts, the middle-aged woman discreetly pulled out a water bag and whispered, "Drink, boy."

Aemon, curled up in her arms, stared vacantly ahead, his eyes dull and lifeless. His necklace had been lost, and Truefyre, the proud Valyrian steel sword of his house, was now a trophy in the hands of a Dothraki Khal. His former tribe had scattered to the winds. Khal Orka had been slain in single combat, and the once-thriving tribe of tens of thousands was absorbed into the horde of a new Khal, Khal Osk.

'I don’t even know if Leah is dead or alive,' he thought bleakly, his spirit hollowed out. He didn’t drink from the offered water. He had longed to die with the pride of a dragonlord, not to be tossed from one cage to another.

“We’re nearly at Slaver’s Bay,” the woman said softly. Aemon slowly lifted his stiff neck, catching a glimpse of the distant bronze Harpy statue that marked the city of Meereen.

"Drink a little," she urged, her voice gentler this time. "Once we reach the city, we’ll have to part ways." She took a sip herself and, seeing his refusal, forced a mouthful of water into his dry throat.

The half-month journey had been grueling, but her once-tattered linen skirt had been patched up, and she now seemed to find some measure of comfort crouching in the corner of the cart. Aemon coughed as the water went down the wrong way, his body weak from starvation and exhaustion.

As he glanced at the woman, a flicker of life reignited in his desolate heart. Despite her ragged appearance, she carried herself with a quiet dignity. Her movements were graceful, deliberate, betraying none of the roughness of someone used to hard labor. She had once been someone respected, someone with status. The other Lamb Men women in the cart referred to her as the village priestess.

"Don’t look at me like that," she sighed, catching his gaze. "You saved me, so I’ll save you." Her tone was resigned, but from his position, Aemon could see the flicker of something darker in her eyes—a hatred that ran deep and unyielding.

The Dothraki had ravaged her village and herself, desecrated her altar, and smashed the sacred statues. She had endured unspeakable violence at their hands. Her calm façade couldn’t hide the fury burning inside. How could she not hate them?

As time passed, the slave caravan finally entered Meereen.

Boom!

The procession came to a halt in front of the Great Coliseum. The Dothraki herders swiftly drove the slaves out of the wagons, forcing them into a crowded mass. The slaver, surveying the scene with indifference, barked orders: "The men will be locked up in the coliseum. The women will be taken to the square for trading."

At his command, the slave handlers moved quickly, sorting the captives like livestock. Men and boys were separated from the women, the scene a chaotic tangle of shouts and jostling bodies.

In the middle of the crowd, Aemon could barely breathe, pressed in on all sides. The middle-aged woman who had been his protector pulled him close, hiding him in her arms. Her voice dropped to a whisper, "Stay quiet. Don’t let them notice you."

With swift, practiced movements, she produced a dull knife and began cutting his long silver hair, strands falling to the ground. Not stopping there, she shaved his head completely, erasing any sign of his noble lineage. She then ripped her ill-fitting linen skirt, fashioning it into a makeshift, ragged jacket for him.

Aemon’s eyes widened in confusion, but before he could protest, the woman looked at him seriously. "Female slaves have no good fate here," she said firmly. "You’ll be sent to the arena. That’s the only place a boy might survive. It’s dangerous, but there, at least, you might have a chance to grow."

Without another word, she shoved him into the line of male slaves. Aemon stumbled, his heart pounding as the realization set in. She was right—his silver hair, the Dothraki’s reaction to him, the Valyrian steel sword, and the whispered accusations of blood sorcery marked him as someone dangerous and valuable. Here in Slaver’s Bay, even someone with noble blood could be devoured by the evil that ruled this place.

Aemon tried to catch one last glimpse of the woman, but the crowd surged, pushing him further away. He opened his mouth to call out, but it was too late—she had disappeared into the sea of captives, lost to the chaos.

The slavers worked quickly, sorting the slaves with brutal efficiency. By the time the sun began to set, the captives had been divided, assigned to different fates.

...

Night had fallen, and thick clouds smothered the moon, leaving the world below in darkness.

Beneath the Colosseum, in a damp, cold underground cell, Aemon sat huddled against the rough stone wall, hugging his knees. The cramped prison was packed with newly purchased male slaves, all crammed together like cattle, their bodies pressed against one another in the suffocating space.

Tick, tock!

Water dripped from the ceiling, seeping through the walls and falling into Aemon’s calloused hands. He lowered his head, licking his dry, cracked lips, his throat parched from days of neglect.

His gaze drifted upward toward the only opening in the cell—a small window, no bigger than a palm, offering a glimpse of the night sky beyond. Barely any light penetrated the gloom, but he couldn’t help staring, his thoughts wandering far from the stench of sweat, urine, and despair that filled the cell.

The air was thick with the smell of suffering. He felt the restless bodies around him, the shifting of limbs, the quiet groans of the broken, the scent of filth invading his senses. It was suffocating. In this moment, the prophecy of the Witch came back to him with cruel clarity.

He was truly in Slaver's Bay.

The words of the witch echoed in his mind: "Losing one dragon to gain another." He understood now. His silver-blonde hair, once a symbol of his Targaryen blood, had been shaved to stubble, leaving his head cold and vulnerable. During the day, he was beaten, sold like an object with no value.

The Trickster had died, saving him from the fall into the sea. Now, Aemon Targaryen had also died in this filthy slave prison. All that remained was Aemon, the slave.

'I have to survive,' he told himself, his eyes hardening with a fierce determination. He tilted his head, trying to catch a glimpse of the moon through the dark clouds that covered the sky. He couldn’t let himself die here—not in the squalor, without dignity, not as one of the countless lost to misery.