Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

A few days later...

An army of 5,000 Unsullied marched out of King’s Landing, leading carts and horses laden with supplies for the transfer to Harrenhal. Above them, two scarlet dragons circled, their piercing roars echoing over Blackwater Bay.

...

Harrenhal, countryside farmland.

"Hurry! Before summer’s end!"

"Cut down all the trees! No manure pits for compost—everything goes!"

Farmers bent low over the fields, their scythes slicing through the summer wheat. Not just wheat—the fields were being stripped of soybeans, beets—anything edible and storable was harvested early. Everything was being sent to Harrenhal, the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms, now becoming the center of winter preparations.

Creak!

A towering pine crashed to the ground, as several raftsmen jumped aside, shouting to one another. Pine and poplar trees fell one by one along the shores of the Gods Eye, timber to feed Harrenhal’s growing need for firewood.

Rhaegar stood by the lake, his boots sinking into the muddy ground, axe in hand. He worked steadily, cutting through the thick trunks with slow, deliberate strokes. Though the sun shone brightly in the early summer sky, his mind was far from the warmth of the day. Winter was coming, and food and firewood were vital.

Harrenhal had an abundance of fertile land, and the dense forest around the Gods Eye provided enough timber to fill the cellars beneath the Widow’s Tower. The preparation was relentless.

Rhaegar was absorbed in his task until the sound of light footsteps reached his ears.

Rhaenyra appeared, wearing a simple black dress, a basket hanging from her arm. She smiled as she approached. "Take a break, it’s time for lunch."

Moving from King’s Landing to Harrenhal had felt like stepping into another life—a quieter, simpler existence, where the rustic farmland and muddy paths had a charm of their own.

"Have the farmers eaten?" Rhaegar asked, setting down his axe and wiping the sweat from his brow with a towel.

"They have. Everyone’s been fed," Rhaenyra replied, shaking her head with a soft laugh as she opened the basket. "Tens of thousands of farmers are working because of your command. Of course, they can't go hungry."

Harrenhal was vast, its lands sprawling across the Riverlands, and its population had swelled under the king’s reign. The Mushroom Market, a bustling trading hub, was under its jurisdiction, known for its trade in mulberry silk, sweet wine, and sugar. Over the years, Rhaegar had discreetly encouraged the movement of vagrants and orphans to Harrenhal, bolstering its workforce. The castle’s prosperity now rivaled that of any in the Seven Kingdoms. If not for the lack of a major port, it might have outstripped even the five great port cities, including Oldtown.

Rhaegar chuckled as he picked up a piece of bread, spreading it with salted meat sauce. "You wouldn’t believe how much the population of the Seven Kingdoms has grown over the years."

"How much?" Rhaenyra asked, pouring him a cup of honey water.

"Otto once tried to conduct a census, but the Lord of the Riverlands chased him out," she added with a smirk. Population was wealth, and few lords liked outsiders meddling in their affairs. When Otto Hightower had served as Master of Civil Affairs, Rhaegar had pushed him to carry out a thorough census—an effort that earned Otto the unfortunate nickname "Master of Shit and Piss."

"About 120 million," Rhaegar said, taking a hearty bite of his meal.

Rhaenyra paused, startled. "One hundred and twenty million? I thought 20 to 30 million was already a high estimate."

She hesitated, brushing more meat sauce on her bread. The figure seemed impossibly high, especially given the limited productivity of Westeros. Could the kingdom really support so many people?

"And yet, it is so." Rhaegar himself found it hard to believe, but the shadow that had loomed over the Seven Kingdoms for so many years made it clear. "The Riverlands and The Reach alone have a combined population of over 50 million."

This wasn’t just speculation; the numbers had been carefully verified. During the reign of his great-grandfather Jaehaerys, the population of Westeros had exceeded 100 million. It was a figure well-documented, as Jaehaerys and his queen had traveled the continent by dragon, conducting a personal census.

However, under his father Viserys’s reign, population growth had stagnated for a time. When Rhaegar ascended the throne, the toll of war caused the population to plummet by millions—many of them adult men, along with women and orphans lost to the conflict. But under Rhaegar’s rule, with his protection of war widows and orphans, combined with the prosperity of the decade-long summer, the population had rebounded swiftly.

This growth was especially noticeable in the Crownlands and the Vale, where land had been reclaimed to house the homeless. With the Riverlands at the core and extending outward to The Reach, the Crownlands, The Vale, and Storm’s End, the total population of the Seven Kingdoms now exceeded 100 million once again.

By comparison, The North and Dorne remained sparsely populated, their numbers a fraction of the more prosperous southern regions. The Iron Islands, ravaged and broken, could no longer be counted. Only the Westerlands and the Stepstones still held relative economic strength, buoyed by trade and resources beyond farming.

"With so many people, they all trust you," Rhaenyra said softly, leaning against Rhaegar’s shoulder. Her voice carried warmth, her gaze reflecting her admiration. She understood the weight of leadership—being Queen of Lys was no easy task, let alone ruling all of Westeros with its seven kingdoms and nine great houses.

"It’s all about survival. A King must fulfill his duties," Rhaegar replied. He finished his meal in a few swift bites, then stood up, clapping the crumbs from his hands.

He hefted his axe once more and swung it with precision. The crooked tree toppled to the ground with a satisfying thud.

"Let’s head back," Rhaegar said, brushing off the dust. He took Rhaenyra’s hand, and they began walking back towards Harrenhal.

The trees they felled needed to be properly dried; otherwise, they would rot and mildew. Harrenhal’s efforts to stockpile for winter were thorough. Norvos had a special mineral that could turn firewood into long-burning coals, making them easier to store. The forest around the Gods Eye had already been cleared and converted into coal for the coming cold months.

...

The next day, King's Landing.

Two green dragons soared over Blackwater Bay, flying from the Mud Gate and circling above King's Landing before descending slowly into the Dragonpit.

The crowds in Silk Street and Flea Bottom erupted into cheers, chanting, "Long live the heir prince!" as they spotted the dragons. Unbeknownst to them, the king and the royal family had already quietly transferred to Harrenhal. The presence of the dragons in the Dragonpit and the heir prince's return were symbols of life, stability, and peace.

The Red Keep, the Small Council Chamber.

Baelon and Baela, having safely stored the three eggs Moondancer had laid, convened a meeting of the Small Council in the name of the heir prince. The faces around the council table had shifted slightly.

Daemon, calm and composed, sat in the seat reserved for the king. Aemond occupied the former Hand of the King's chair to the left. Across from him, Alicent sat quietly in the Master of Laws' seat. The remaining advisers took their places, eager to hear the purpose behind the heir prince's unexpected return.

"Prince, what is the situation in the North?" Grand Maester Orwyle asked softly, breaking the silence.

"It’s not good," Baelon replied, his voice heavy with concern. He glanced around at the council members before asking, puzzled, "Where are my father and grandfather?" He found it strange that neither of them had come to greet him, nor had his younger siblings.

"They’re at Harrenhal," Aemond said, his single eye fixed on Baelon. He deliberately lowered his voice, a slight edge of menace creeping into his tone. "You can go find them if you like."

Baelon frowned. This is so tedious, he thought, inwardly groaning at his uncle’s theatrics.

Grand Maester Orwyle stepped in, offering an explanation of the events of the past fortnight, including why Queen Mother Alicent had remained in King’s Landing.

"Harrenhal is cold and damp," Alicent said, her face showing clear distaste. "I’ve had my fill of that place." She shook her head, recalling the years of isolation she'd endured there. "I’d rather stay here in King’s Landing and face the cold than return to that miserable fortress."

Daemon leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You say the wildlings are attacking in force, and the North is running out of food?" His eyes darkened with concern. This was troubling news. The North was the realm’s first line of defense against the oncoming winter, and if things were dire there, it spelled even greater danger for the rest of the kingdom.

"Why don’t we send supplies?" Lord Lyman, the Master of Coin, suggested, glancing around the room. "We have enough grain. The Crownlands, the Riverlands, and The Reach produce more than enough to feed the North."

The long summer had been generous, especially in the south, where the harvests were bountiful and the people lived comfortably.

"It’s not enough, Lord Lyman," Baelon said, shaking his head gravely. "The North needs more than just food. They need all the support we can offer."

With the approval of the other council members, Baelon took a bold step. "I propose we gather an army—10,000 strong—and send them north immediately to reinforce the Night’s Watch."

Daemon sat back, crossing his arms as he considered the proposal. His silence indicated agreement. "We’ll need to inform your father about this," he said after a moment.

"I’ll go find him," Baelon replied, his voice firm. He patted his chest, his young face filled with determination. 'I can’t let Lord Cregan down, and I won’t let the Wall fall while I do nothing.'

...

Three days later...

Harrenhal, Water Gardens.

"Roar..."

The Cannibal twisted on the cobblestone floor, stretching its long neck as it unleashed a mighty roar. Overhead, a dozen dragons circled, their powerful wings stirring the thin clouds as they vied for space in the sky. Below them, in front of Kingspyre Tower, an army of 5,000 Unsullied stood at attention, their ranks perfectly still.

"Ga-ga-ga..."

Hundreds of ravens burst from the spire of Widow’s Tower, their black wings beating furiously as they screeched, flying out to all corners of the Seven Kingdoms. Beneath the calm surface of Harrenhal, the seeds of war were quietly taking root.

Kingspyre Tower, Hall of a Hundred Hearths.

Viserys sat on the highest throne, frail and distant. His once sharp eyes now showed weariness. A blanket covered his legs, offering little comfort as he silently observed the discussions unfolding below him. Most of the family had gathered, their voices mixing with the crackling fires that warmed the great hall.

"We're heading to the North. I want to lead the way," Aemond declared, a confident smile tugging at his lips. His single eye gleamed with determination.

"Yes, yes, you go first," Aegon mumbled, nodding quickly. He shrank back, clearly relieved that his brother was volunteering for the frigid journey. The idea of braving the freezing cold of the North didn’t appeal to him at all.

"You’re going too," Rhaegar said firmly, his gaze locking on Aegon. He wasn’t about to tolerate his brother’s laziness. The threat of White Walkers loomed beyond the Wall, and the dragons were the realm’s best hope. As many Targaryens as possible would be needed in the fight.

Aegon’s face fell, his earlier enthusiasm deflating like a punctured balloon.

Rhaegar turned his attention back to the room, his tone growing more serious. "We need to think carefully about how many dragons and troops to send."

Ravens had already been dispatched across the realm, summoning lords and soldiers to prepare for the coming battle. The number of dragons was critical, and not all could be spared.

'Father is too weak,' Rhaegar thought, glancing at Viserys. 'Vermithor must stay here.' The elderly king had grown frail, and his dragon, Vermithor, would remain behind to guard him.

'Aunt Rhaenys and Laenor will join us,' Rhaegar added, his mind racing through the family’s assets. 'Laenor will command the Velaryon fleet, and they must reach the North before White Harbor freezes over.'

'Daemon can’t leave,' Rhaegar noted. 'He and Caraxes are our main defense in King’s Landing.' Daemon, with his fiery temperament, was a vital force that kept the capital secure.

'Helaena and Daeron will tend to their own responsibilities. The older children will stay behind, including Baelon and Maekar.'

"I’ll go with you," Rhaenyra interjected, stepping forward and taking Rhaegar’s hand. She pressed her shoulder against his, her determination clear. She wasn’t about to let her brother face the long winter without her by his side.

Rhaegar hesitated for a moment, his heart heavy with the burden of leadership. But then he leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers in silent agreement. The King and Queen were stronger together.

"Take us with you!"

Baela and Rhaena approached, clutching the hem of their foster mother’s skirt. They were no longer children but young women, eager to prove themselves. The thought of being left behind with their younger siblings didn’t sit well with them.

"Your dragons are still too young," Rhaenyra began, her hand gently brushing the cheeks of her foster daughters.

"It’s fine," Baela insisted, her bravery shining through. "We can accompany you. Winterfell is cold and bleak, but three dragons are better than one."

"But..." Rhaenyra hesitated, her heart softening. She turned to Rhaegar, seeking his guidance.

Rhaegar’s eyes met hers, and after a brief pause, he nodded. The strength of their family was in their unity, and Baela's resolve was undeniable.

With that, the final preparations were set. Rhaegar would lead the expedition north with Rhaenys, Rhaenyra, Aemond, Laenor, and Baela. They would command eight dragons in total.

The army accompanying them consisted of 5,000 Unsullied, 3,000 Fearless, and 2,000 Gold Cloaks. The royal fleet would remain stationed between Harrenhal and King's Landing, while the remaining forces would be summoned from the local lords.

...

Time passed swiftly, and half a month had gone by.

The Green Fork of the Trident, near Riverrun.

An army of tens of thousands marched steadily toward the castle across the river. At the heart of the formation, the Unsullied in their black armor moved with precision, their discipline unmatched.

At the vanguard, 2,000 cavalry and archers from Riverrun, Raventree, Stone Hedge, and other Riverlands strongholds led the way. Behind them, 3,000 logistical troops, gathered from both the Riverlands and the Crownlands, followed closely, ensuring the army's supplies were well-managed.

"Roar!"

Overhead, a magnificent golden dragon soared above the army, its scales gleaming in the sunlight as it chased another dragon—a mud-colored, ungainly beast.

The contrast between them was striking. The golden dragon radiated beauty and power, while the brown, mud-hued creature flew awkwardly, a stark opposition of grace and ugliness in the skies above the marching soldiers.

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