Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 688: Brothers Reunite

Three days later...

The Great Pyramid, Meereen.

Thousands of slaves gathered in the square, their eyes fixed nervously on the towering pyramid. After days of turmoil, the city had returned to an uneasy peace, signifying another shift in power.

Knock, knock, knock!

A rhythmic knocking echoed across the square as an army of Unsullied emerged from either side of the Great Pyramid. Clad in black armor and spiked helmets, they moved in disciplined silence. Though not many—perhaps a thousand—they formed an imposing line. Behind them trailed a procession of slaves, leading horse-drawn carts shrouded in white cloth. The clank of chains filled the air as the carts rolled over the cracked stone floor. The slaves cast uneasy glances around, sensing that something momentous was about to happen.

"Roar!"

A thunderous dragon’s roar shattered the tense silence. The slaves flinched, looking skyward in terror toward the source of the sound. Moments later, the clouds twisted and the wind howled as a young dragon, its body a brilliant, blood-red, burst through the clouds. It spread its wings wide and swooped down over the square, circling twice before descending to the forecourt of the Great Pyramid, low enough to remain visible to all.

Boom!

The dragon landed with a resounding thud, sending up clouds of searing dust. Screams erupted among the slaves, and they scrambled back in panic. The Unsullied swiftly moved to contain the commotion, encircling the square and restoring order.

The dragon issued another ear-splitting roar, its cold, unblinking eyes fixed on the crowd. It slowly lowered its long neck, its back fin twitching.

"Quiet, Ursarion," Aemon commanded softly, gripping the dragon’s fin spikes firmly. Barefoot and still dressed in the coarse, rough fabric of a slave, he looked down at the crowd from the dragon’s back. Only the faintest hint of silver-blonde hair now crowned his head, a small change, yet his demeanor radiated a strength that felt worlds apart from the slave he once had been.

The entire square fell silent. The slaves trembled, peering cautiously at the young man atop the dragon, recognizing him as one of their own yet struck by the strange power he exuded. None dared speak.

Aemon gazed out over them, then reached inside his tunic and drew forth a whip with a handle carved into the shape of a Harpy. Holding it high, he let it hang in the air for all to see.

Thwack!

In response, the Unsullied struck their round shields with their spears, the resounding clangs echoing through the square. That whip had once belonged to the "Queen with Silver Hair," Irina Daeryon, but had fallen into Aemon’s hands amid the chaos of the recent uprising.

Since the Iron Throne’s invasion, Slaver’s Bay had been left weakened. Meereen’s defenses had relied heavily on the 5,000 pirates led by Racallio and 2,500 Unsullied purchased from Astapor. After Irina’s death, Racallio had fled with his pirates, leaving the city defenseless. The Unsullied had suffered heavy losses, reduced to just 1,300 men. With Irina gone, Aemon had taken command of the Unsullied, seizing control over the leaderless city.

Crack!

The whip cracked through the air, its sharp report pulling every gaze back to him.

“Where is your master, you wretched slaves!?” Aemon’s voice rang out, loud and clear as he surveyed the crowd.

The slaves glanced nervously at one another, too weak to respond. Their masters had vanished in the chaos long ago, leaving them to survive in the dilapidated slave huts.

“You don’t know, so I’ll tell you!” Aemon brandished his whip, pointing emphatically toward the square. “The ones who once enslaved you stand before you now!”

Crack! Crack!

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The sharp sound of whips cut through the air, followed by frightened cries as a large group of slaves emerged from behind the Great Pyramid. They wielded long whips and spiked sticks, driving forward a line of slave owners. Once clad in luxury, the masters’ finery was now tattered and bloodstained, their hands bound with coarse ropes. They stumbled forward like cattle, pushed along in strings by their former slaves.

The sight stunned the crowd. Some of the women screamed, recoiling at the brutal display. It had been years since they’d witnessed such a scene—the last time being during the bloody invasion by the Iron Throne, which had left many dead and had swiftly restored the slave-owning class to power.

Aemon raised himself on the back of the dragon to appear taller, his voice resounding through the square. “These are the Great Masters who once enslaved you!” He gestured toward the bound captives. “The false Dragonlord is dead, and Slaver’s Bay will finally be liberated!”

The slaves stared at him, suspicion and hope flickering in their eyes. Aemon’s whip pointed to the first cart in the line, signaling the Unsullied to pull away the white cloth. Beneath it lay a towering pile of chains and shackles, stacked high and pressing the wheels into the ground, as though the entire city’s iron restraints had been gathered there.

Before the crowd of thousands, Aemon spoke with calm authority. “Dracarys!” He tossed the whip into the cart.

“Roar!”

The red dragon responded, unleashing a stream of searing fire onto the pile. The shackles glowed and deformed in the heat, slowly melting under the relentless blaze. For half an hour, the dragonfire roared over the iron, reducing it to seven or eight red-hot mounds of molten metal, each several meters high. A slave with a hammer climbed onto the cart, striking the molten iron, melding the piles together in a unified mass. It took shape under his blows, gradually resembling the foundations of an Iron Chair—but with shackle loops replacing sharp blades.

Aemon watched intently, taking in every detail, including the twisted remnants of the shackles. He imagined the final throne: not a seat of sharp swords, but a powerful symbol made from the very chains that had once bound his people.

The gathered slaves watched with growing awe, beginning to understand the spectacle. The Unsullied, stoic as ever, betrayed a rare glimmer of emotion when they saw the whip’s destruction.

“Today, Meereen is liberated—forever!” Aemon’s voice rose as he lifted an arm in a solemn declaration. “No more slaves, no more masters—only equal citizens under the Iron Throne!”

His words struck deep, and a quiet fell over the crowd, the magnitude of his vow holding them captive. The metal mounds cooled slowly, the beginnings of the Iron Chair visible amidst the iron shackle loops.

Aemon rode out of the courtyard on his red dragon, moving closer to the oppressed slaves. “My father failed to truly free Meereen. From this day forward, I will rule here, and I will crush the evil of slavery once and for all!” His voice echoed through the square. “No one deserves to be a slave. My father said that Slaver’s Bay was difficult to govern because of its remoteness. But I will achieve what he could not.”

He raised his arm in a sweeping gesture. “I declare that there are no more slaves!”

Aemon’s eyes burned as he urged his dragon forward, drawing near to the crowd of downtrodden slaves, his voice carrying fervently, “Who wants to be free?”

“Me!” a voice cried out, quickly followed by a chorus of others.

The slaves pressed closer, surrounding the majestic red dragon as Aemon lifted his arm and brought it down in a decisive gesture.

A dreadful silence fell as, one by one, the slave overseers raised their spears and drove them into the kneeling slave owners, their captives who had once ruled over them with iron fists. Blood spilled across the stone as slave owners of all ages fell: men, women, and cunning old villains alike. Only the youngest children were spared, but every other family member tied to slavery paid the price, including the remnants of Daeryon’s house, their final stand extinguished with merciless efficiency.

“Hero!”

“You are our hero…”

The slaves gathered around the silver-haired boy on the dragon’s back, their eyes filled with awe. They had no understanding of the Dragonlord’s House or its power. What they saw was the boy’s slave attire, the declaration of liberation, and the grand act of slaying the Great Masters. Their cheers filled the air as they tore off the remnants of their shackles, throwing them high above their heads. Though the iron had long ceased to bind their bodies, the invisible chains of oppression had bound their spirits. For now, they placed their trust in the young figure on the dragon’s back.

Aemon, breathing heavily, regarded the crowd without fear. He understood the psychology of the enslaved, shaped by his own life of hardship and servitude.

“King of Meereen!”

“Your Grace of Slaver’s Bay!”

The cheers grew louder as the slaves pressed closer around the towering red dragon, longing for a ruler who could shatter their bonds. The King of the Iron Throne had tried but failed to bring them lasting freedom. Now, in Aemon, they found a new liberator. He took a deep breath and accepted the titles they bestowed, knowing that to truly free Slaver’s Bay, he would need to remain there—perhaps for life. He had his own Iron Throne to rule from now.

Knock, knock, knock!

The Unsullied soldiers joined the crowd, striking their spears against their round shields in a solemn show of loyalty. Many among them had once been slaves, liberated and given purpose by the Iron Throne. If their predecessors could fight for freedom, they, too, could fulfill that role under Aemon’s command.

Aemon surveyed the scene and considered the future of Meereen. His mind formulated a strategy: he would establish an identity-tagging system similar to that of the Free Cities, ensuring a structured hierarchy to stabilize the Bay and help suppress unrest. He envisioned robust maritime trade between Meereen and the Free Cities of both East and West, Qarth, Asshai, and beyond. The very name of Slaver’s Bay needed to change, he thought, to erase the shame and pain of its past.

“Roar!”

A sudden dragon’s cry echoed from the distance. Startled, Aemon whipped around, his heart hammering as his eyes searched the sky.

Boom!

A flash of silver-gray sliced through the mist, soaring through the clouds. Aemon’s gaze locked on the glimmering figure, his breath catching in his throat as emotion swelled within him, bringing tears to his eyes.

“Roar!”

The silver-gray dragon descended, its shimmering form circling the enormous Harpy statue atop the Great Pyramid. A younger boy with short silver hair rode upon the dragon’s back, his sapphire-like eyes sweeping over the scene below. He noticed the red dragon, the Unsullied, and the countless slaves gazing up in rapture. His stare fixed on the red dragon, and then on Aemon. His expression froze in shock as his eyes widened.

“Land, Tyraxes!” Maekar leaned forward, patting the dragon’s back urgently.

“Roar!”

Tyraxes let out a sharp cry and descended gracefully, its silver-gray scales catching the sunlight and throwing brilliant hues across the square as it landed beside the red dragon.

“Ahhh!”

The crowd gasped, startled by the sudden arrival of the second dragon. They backed away, murmuring in awe and confusion.

Boom!

Tyraxes landed with a heavy thud, and the red dragon’s cold, vertical pupils fixed upon the newcomer with a wary hostility. But Aemon had already leaped down, his feet hitting the ground before Maekar could even dismount.

“Roar!”

The red dragon’s gaze was sharp and unyielding as it observed Tyraxes. Aemon, ignoring the dragons’ silent standoff, ran forward, crossing the space between them. The sight of the familiar silver-gray dragon, and the boy with platinum hair standing before him, stirred an overwhelming surge of joy within him, as if he had been swept into the sky himself.

He stopped, his pupils trembling with emotion, his mouth opening to speak, though no words came.

“Aemon.”

Maekar took a hesitant step forward, eyes wide with disbelief. The name slipped from his lips just as a gust of wind whipped around them. Aemon’s vision blurred, and, without another thought, he opened his arms and dashed forward.

“Aemon!” Maekar called again, stepping into the embrace with no hesitation.

In the span of seconds, the brothers closed the distance between them, meeting in a fierce hug. Neither had expected to find each other here in Slaver’s Bay, yet now, face-to-face, their emotions erupted like a volcano, impossible to contain.

“Maekar…” Aemon’s voice was thick with emotion as he clutched his younger brother tightly, resting his chin on Maekar’s shoulder, fearful that he might vanish if he let go. His tears fell freely, dampening his face as he held on. Half a year—six endless months—had passed since he’d last seen family, a brother bound to him by blood.

Maekar silently closed his eyes, tightening his arms around Aemon, returning the hug with quiet, heartfelt strength. In their embrace, words became unnecessary; everything they felt was conveyed in the warmth and intensity of their hold. At last, after what felt like an eternity, they reluctantly parted.

Aemon sniffed, managing a small, embarrassed smile. “Maekar, why did you come to Meereen?”

Their relationship had once been strained, with Aemon pushing his brother away. Now, reunited, the distance between them felt like a lifetime ago.

“I heard rumors of dragons in Meereen, so I came to see for myself.” Maekar wiped his eyes and smiled, glancing over at the red dragon that stood patiently behind Aemon. “I should have known it would be you. Always relentless, aren’t you?”

He studied the dragon’s formidable form, noting its calm obedience. “Even the dragons have been tamed once more. It seems you’ve moved on from the death of the Trickster.” Maekar’s expression softened. He was grateful that the dragon had found its way back to Aemon rather than falling into another’s hands.

Aemon’s face flushed, and he lowered his gaze. “It’s all in the past now. If I’d known how things would turn out… I never would have acted the way I did.”

“I told you, it’s all in the past.” Maekar pulled him in for another quick embrace and whispered, "When news of your disappearance reached us, it was as if the sky itself had fallen for Mother and Father. You don’t know how we worried, you rascal."

Aemon returned the hug, voice thick with unspoken sentiment. "I wanted to come back sooner…’"But he caught himself, sensing that reason had overridden emotion in the end. “But it wasn’t until now that I was finally able to break free.”

“Are you really all right?” Maekar’s eyes flickered with concern, his small hands lightly tracing Aemon’s back. Beneath the rough fabric, he could feel the uneven ridges of scars, a map of the pain he’d endured. He said nothing, only held him tightly, his sapphire-blue eyes briefly flashing with a deep, quiet pity he kept hidden.

...

The Great Pyramid.

With a tremendous crash, the bronze statue of the Harpy at the pyramid’s peak toppled to the ground, shattering a vast section of the square below. Freed from their chains, young men who had once been slaves tugged on thick ropes, cutting the statue into pieces. Using logs as makeshift rollers, they hauled the fragments away, leaving only empty ground where the Harpy had once loomed. Soon, a fire was lit, consuming the last vestiges of the old symbol.

Inside the palace within the tower…

“So, what are you planning next? Heading back to Westeros?” Maekar asked, breaking the silence as he and Aemon sat across from each other at the dining table.

His father had sent him to Volantis to assist their younger uncle, Daeron, with developing the Golden Fields, and to keep a watchful eye on Slaver’s Bay. Now, with the Golden Fields mostly established and Meereen in new hands, he thought it might be time to return to Westeros and help shoulder the burdens of the Iron Throne alongside his father and older brother, Baelon.

Aemon tore into his food, his brow furrowing as he thought. “I’ll wait a while. There’s still something I need to recover.”

“Where is it?” Maekar’s eyes narrowed with interest, ready to assist.

“It’s… well…” Aemon’s voice trailed off as he paused, lost in thought.

Ding-dong-ding-dong!

The bells of Meereen tolled urgently, ringing three times in rapid succession—a signal that a powerful enemy approached the city gates. The brothers’ expressions changed, and they rose in unison, moving quickly toward the window.

Stepping onto the balcony, they took in the scene unfolding below.

Outside the gates of Meereen, a dark sea of Dothraki cavalry stretched to the horizon. Tens of thousands of mounted warriors clustered in a massive force, the sunlight glinting off their weapons and the unruly waves of dark hair. Aemon’s eyes narrowed, his gaze sharpening as he fixed on the tall figure at the head of the horde, astride a red-maned horse. The figure seemed familiar, stirring a shadowy memory. Though he couldn’t place the man’s face, he vividly recalled the sensation of being bound and captured.

The Dothraki leader held a sword with a ruby embedded in its hilt—a Valyrian steel blade Aemon recognized instantly as a symbol of the Iron Throne. His grip tightened at the sight.

Outside the city gates, Khal Osk raised the sword with both hands, his expression grave as he signaled his 100,000 troops into a tense silence. Once a trusted ally to the king of the Iron Throne, Osk had assisted in the capture of Myr, even earning the king’s gratitude. But after pledging allegiance to the one-eyed Aemond and enduring the battles at Qohor, his respect for the Targaryen name had been tainted with fear and resentment.

“Roar!”

From the horizon came the sound of dragons. Two great figures—one red and one silver-gray—circled each other in the sky, their eyes locked in fierce rivalry. They prowled the air, their scales glinting under the sun as they prepared for the fiery clash, each dragon’s breath simmering with barely-contained Dragonfire.