Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 647: The Great Targaryen Council

Volantis.

The weather was clear and pleasant as the council convened atop the towering Black Wall. Rhaegar stood by the council table early, flanked by his two sons. The "table" was more a vast sandbox, where battle plans and strategies were visualized with ease.

The Baela and Rhaena sisters, serving as cupbearers, moved gracefully among the gathered family and advisors, offering refreshments. The first to arrive were Rhaenys, her husband and Laenor.

“Your Grace,” Laenor greeted, his voice tinged with bashfulness as he nodded, dressed in a finely tailored brocade suit. The new clothes helped smooth his rough edges, but he still lacked a certain confidence.

“Sit,” Rhaegar said with a faint, unreadable smile, his tone neither warm nor cold.

“Come now, your cousin may be king, but he’s still family,” Rhaenys interjected, wrapping her arms around her newly returned son, her joy palpable.

Laenor nodded, taking a seat, though his movements were awkward, still adjusting to the sudden shift in his status. “I suppose I’ll get used to it... in time,” he said, offering a wry smile as his hands fidgeted nervously in his lap.

Rhaegar silently pushed a goblet of golden wine toward him, casting a brief glance at the sisters. Baela’s expression was a complex mix of emotions as she maintained a poised demeanor, carefully minding the manners of her upbringing. Meanwhile, Rhaena stood nearby, smiling too brightly, the discomfort of her shifting position evident.

With Laenor’s return, Corlys' inheritance had changed automatically—his eldest son had been restored to his rightful place. Rhaena, who had been groomed as heir, now found herself pushed aside, a status gap she could not help but feel keenly.

As the day went on, more members of House Targaryen arrived. Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, and Daeron—the four adult dragonriders born of the same mother—gathered at the council.

From King’s Landing came Daemon, accompanied by Mysaria, the enigmatic White Worm.

Finally, the last to arrive was Rhaenyra, who descended from the skies atop her great dragon, Syrax.

Roar!

Syrax circled overhead, its enormous 40-meter frame casting a broad shadow over the assembly. The dragon wasn’t alone. Perched on its back alongside Rhaenyra were two young dragons. Visenya, her daughter, sat nestled in her mother’s arms, while at her feet lay a menacing, earth-colored dragon, its sharp gaze surveying the scene.

Aegor, her youngest son, clung to his sister, gnawing contentedly on a bright orange dragon egg, drool dribbling down his chin.

Roar!

A young silver dragon pierced through the clouds, its gleaming scales shimmering like a creature born of grace and elegance. Rhaegar's face brightened at the sight. Stormcloud had arrived from The Eyrie, carrying his eldest daughter, Daenerys, and his second daughter, Lyanna. Close behind them, a young bronze dragon, no more than three or four meters in length, unfurled its blood-red, spiderweb-like wings, slowly catching up to the larger beast.

The timing was fitting. With the good news of Laenor’s return and the successful assault on the Basilisk Isles, Rhaegar had issued a special order—a Great Council to reunite the Targaryens, bringing together all three generations. While it carried no formal agenda, it was a rare chance for the family to reconnect.

“Was the journey safe?” Rhaenyra approached as Rhaegar stood to greet her.

“Thankfully, yes. No wild dragons tried to attack Syrax this time,” she replied, her voice tinged with relief. Sitting beside him, she gently placed her youngest son, Aegor, in his arms.

Rhaenyra’s face was drawn and weary, her smile a faint shadow of its usual warmth. The loss of their second son had struck them both deeply, leaving a lingering sorrow neither could fully shake.

“Everything will pass. That wild dragon won’t survive much longer,” Rhaegar said, his voice heavy with resolve. His hand found hers, and though her fingers were cold, he held them tightly. He was confident in his words—driven by the need for vengeance, and by his pain.

Glancing up, Rhaegar saw the Black Wall teeming with the presence of their kin. Overhead, a dozen dragons soared, casting shadows over the gathered Targaryens. This was their golden age—a House at the peak of its power. They had far surpassed the reigns of the Young and Old Kings, and no force in the known world could threaten their might.

Rhaenyra gave him a sideways glance and nudged him lightly. “It’s a good day. You should smile more,” she said, her eyes soft but tired, as though the weight of their grief pressed her down.

Who wouldn't feel the sadness? They had to lean on each other, to push through the darkness together.

“Give me the egg!” Visenya suddenly appeared at Rhaegar's feet, reaching for her brother's small, chubby leg.

“Don’t call him by that nickname,” Rhaegar said sternly, pressing a finger gently to his daughter’s forehead.

“But he is Egg!” Visenya pouted, her hands on her hips, defiant in her stance.

Rhaenyra raised her eyebrows, then playfully slapped the back of Visenya’s head, making a soft thud.

Visenya stepped back, biting her lip, trying to hold back tears. Despite her frustration, she managed to snatch Aegor into her arms, holding her brother as if he were her prize.

As they settled in, the family began to relax, conversations flowing more easily, the mood lightening bit by bit.

Aegon joined Rhaegar, wrapping an arm around his two children. Leaning in, he whispered, “You’re heartbroken over your son’s loss. How about I send these two to you for fosterage? It’ll give you something to focus on.”

Rhaegar frowned, his brow furrowing. “Isn’t that your responsibility?” he replied, a sharp edge in his voice. “Keep them yourself.” His tone left little room for argument. Black lines of irritation creased his forehead—raising other people's children held no appeal for him.

“Your Grace...”

The sisters approached Rhaenyra, gracefully serving tea and water. Rhaegar stroked his chin, his mind already drifting into deep thought. This gathering was far from over.

Moments later, two royal ships, their sails emblazoned with the three-headed red dragon, docked at the port of Volantis. Tyland, who doubled as a tutor, led a group of children ashore, guiding them carefully by the hand. Arriving were Rhaegar’s seventh and eighth children, Viserion and Daenaera, along with Daemon’s firstborn, Gaemon, and his illegitimate son, Aenar.

In Westeros, the distinction was clear: legitimacy mattered more than birth order. Daemon had never remarried after Laena’s death, and though Aenar, born to Mysaria, was acknowledged by both his father and the royal family, he remained a bastard by law.

As the children gathered, an unexpected figure arrived, awkwardly standing at the edge of the group.

“Celine, come here,” Aemond called with a slight smile, stepping forward to take his wife’s hand.

Celine blushed deeply, her gaze lowered, barely able to meet the eyes of anyone around her. The subtle tension between the couple drew the attention of the entire gathering, and Rhaegar and Rhaenyra exchanged knowing glances, settling back into their chairs. It was nice to sit back and watch the scene unfold, a brief moment of lightness amidst heavier matters.

Unaware of the attention, Aemond remained focused on Celine, gently inquiring after her well-being. He pulled out a chair for her, seating her beside him. By chance—or perhaps not—he ended up seated not beside Aegon or Helaena, but directly next to Laenor.

Celine’s discomfort grew, her eyes catching a glimpse of her ex-husband from the corner of her eye. She stiffened, feeling as though she were sitting on pins and needles. Laenor, equally uneasy, wiped the sweat from his brow, trying to avoid her gaze.

It wasn’t just the former spouses who were uncomfortable. Nearby, Daeron and Rhaena fidgeted in their seats, unsettled by the unusual gathering. After all, just weeks ago, Rhaena had been the rightful heir to Driftmark. Now, cousins, uncles, and former spouses were seated awkwardly together, the air thick with tension.

Rhaegar took a sip of his sweet wine, watching with mild amusement as the scene played out. The children were gathered around his feet, but for the moment, he paid them little mind, too entertained by the unusual company.

Baelon and Maekar, being slightly older, sat wide-eyed, observing the scene with interest. They had clearly inherited their parents' spirit of enjoying a bit of drama.

“It’s a miracle that Laenor is still alive and back,” Rhaenyra murmured under her breath, taking a slow sip of sake. Her head rested gently on Rhaegar’s broad shoulder, her delicately braided hair tickling his ear.

“Are we going to have a fight?”

Lyanna, holding her younger sister Daenaera’s hand, tugged at the wings of the young purple dragon, Sunny. The two little girls, close in age, complemented each other perfectly, their bond stronger than the more independent Visenya.

“Shh, Uncle Three is very powerful,” Daenerys whispered, putting a finger to her lips as she peered cautiously over her father’s knee. She wasn’t keen on the idea of a fight breaking out and wanted to be ready to hide if things got too intense.

Rhaegar glanced around, a soft laugh escaping him as he overheard the children’s playful chatter. Surrounded by his family, even with the awkward undercurrents of past relationships and complicated bloodlines, he felt a sense of lightness.

"Hey, hey, I'll bet five golden dragons that Aemond is going to make a scene," Aegon said, pushing his nephew Baelon aside as he leaned in to whisper in Rhaegar's ear. He raised an eyebrow mischievously and pulled a handful of golden dragons from his pocket.

Rhaegar didn’t flinch. "What are we betting on this time? Teaching the children bad habits?" Without missing a beat, he reached out, snatched the coins, and scattered them among the dragon hatchlings on the ground.

Visenya was the first to react, quickly scooping up the coins and stuffing them into Aegor’s diaper with a triumphant grin.

"Haha!" A low laugh rumbled from the corner, drawing everyone's attention. It was Daemon, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. He feigned innocence, covering his mouth as if to stifle more laughter, though it was clear he was enjoying the unfolding drama.

The gathering had taken on an air of tension, with several family members watching closely, clearly expecting a confrontation. Laenor, visibly uncomfortable, gritted his teeth. Despite everything, he tried to remain composed. "I’m glad to see you’re doing well," he said stiffly, his words directed at his former wife, Celine, though his gaze kept slipping past her, avoiding direct eye contact.

Celine’s face flushed, and she murmured into her chest, "I’m just as surprised to see you alive." Her voice was soft, barely audible, as if the simple act of speaking to him took all the courage she had.

Technically, they had never divorced, and the tension between them lingered like unfinished business. Even exchanging pleasantries felt like a monumental effort.

“Why don’t you two chat a little longer?” Aemond cut in smoothly, stepping between the two chairs. His hand landed on Laenor’s shoulder, but the gesture was far from friendly. His sharp, one-eyed gaze flicked back and forth, a glimmer of amusement in his expression. “You’ve been apart for years. Surely, there’s plenty to catch up on?”

Laenor’s discomfort deepened, but he stood his ground. “I sincerely wish you all the best with your marriage to her,” he said, his voice taking on a more formal tone. “Celine is a good woman—innocent and flawless like milk, as you surely know.” The word "innocent" carried a subtle, pointed emphasis, and for a moment, Laenor’s old frustrations surfaced.

Aemond’s lips curled into a slow, mocking smile. “Oh? So, you know her that well?” His voice was deliberately drawn out, his posture growing more aggressive as his grip on Laenor’s shoulder tightened. The pressure was subtle but unmistakable, and the bones in Laenor’s shoulder creaked under Aemond’s strength.

Laenor’s face paled. “That’s all in the past, cousin,” he said quietly, clearly unnerved by Aemond’s intensity. He couldn’t understand why Aemond was targeting him so openly, but his sense of decorum and upbringing kept him from reacting more forcefully.

Roar!

Suddenly, the light silver dragon Seasmoke, sensing its rider's rising tension, let out a mighty roar as it circled above the Black Wall. The air vibrated with the sound, unsettling the already precarious atmosphere.

But as Seasmoke appeared, a shadow stirred in the corner—a skeletal mud-brown dragon emerged, its rotting skin stretched over a powerful frame. Its blood-red mouth was still chewing on half a goat, and its sunken eyes gleamed with a menacing hunger. The dragon, Sheepstealer, kept its gaze locked on Seasmoke, its brown pupils narrowing as it watched the younger dragon in the sky.

Though half the size of Seasmoke, Sheepstealer exuded a primal intensity that dwarfed its smaller counterpart. The two dragons snarled at each other, teeth bared, the air thick with the threat of a clash.

Rhaegar, noticing the brewing conflict, sat up straighter. His violet eyes flicked toward the dark silhouette hidden within the thin clouds. Both Seasmoke and Sheepstealer sensed the same looming presence, quickly retreating, their challenge subdued for the moment.

High above, a pair of miserable green vertical pupils gleamed from the clouds, exerting an undeniable dominance over the dragons below.

Aemond, however, seemed oblivious to the tension between the dragons, his focus entirely on Laenor. His lips twisted into a derisive smirk. “Cousin, do tell—how did you escape death?” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “And where have you been all these years? Selling fish?” He exaggeratedly sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose in mock disgust before flapping his hands as if to waft away an imagined stench.

The insult hit its mark. Laenor stood up abruptly, his face flushed with anger.