Game Of Thrones: I Became a Crown Prince For a Day

Shadow Lands, Asshai.

Dark clouds hung low over the city, casting an oppressive gloom on the low stone houses scattered throughout. A faintly foul odor clung to the air. The streets were filthy and disorderly, lined with homeless beggars kneeling on either side, their hollow eyes fixed on the ground.

The passersby moved through the streets, cold and indifferent. Each one wore a scarlet mask covering their face, their figures draped in black robes that hid their identities. To the world, Asshai was as it appeared—forsaken and sinister.

In a corner of the city, closer to the coastline, there was a bustling pocket of life. Street shops still thrived here, and a few taverns and inns had taken root. Among them stood the Red Grape Inn.

Its door stood bleak and unwelcoming until a figure cloaked in a red robe entered, her steps quiet, her face concealed beneath the shadow of a black-haired hood.

Creak!

The red priestess moved purposefully up the stairs, heading to the second floor, where she pushed open a door.

"What's happening outside?"

Varys, his bald head glinting faintly, stood by the door, tattooed hands braced to close it as his watchful eyes scanned the corridor beyond. Here, in the Shadow Lands, caution was second nature.

"No one's ever seen injuries like these," she replied, a note of resignation coloring her otherwise charming face. "They refuse to enter and help."

Varys shrugged, unsurprised. "Figured as much," he said, nodding for her to enter.

The room reeked of must and was crowded with their party. Daeron, his silver hair tied back with a rough hemp rope, prepared a bowl of herbal medicine and placed it on the table, gesturing for his brother to drink.

"No need to trouble yourself," said Rhaegar, his face pale as he leaned against the side of the bed, utterly undeterred.

Reaching Asshai had only reaffirmed the prophecy's accuracy. Whatever tricks the Night King had up his sleeve, they hadn't succeeded in killing him.

The red priestess watched the king, her expression hesitant before she spoke. "Your Grace, Asshai has an Alchemist's Guild—a place where wizards from across the world come together."

"Is it dangerous?" Rhaegar asked, understanding her unspoken concern.

The red priestess nodded. "Many who delve deeply into the occult are haunted. Their spirits suffer from years spent lurking in the shadows, cut off from daylight."

To put it plainly, they might encounter madmen.

Rhaegar's gaze shifted as he contemplated the risks, his thoughts drifting to the idea of a dragon's fire razing Asshai. Three days of confinement in this inn had left him detesting the place.

If Westeros was the winter that had exiled the Targaryens, and Valyria the volcano that had forged them, then the Shadow Lands were sewers infested with rot. Every breath he took felt like a heavy paste coating his throat, clogging his senses.

The red priestess and Varys waited in silence, respecting the king's deliberation. Daeron stood nearby, helpless, a stranger to magic and unable to offer guidance.

A heavy silence filled the room as the sky outside the window darkened, sinking further into night.

Knock, knock!

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

"Who is it?"

Varys removed his hands from his sleeves, cast a glance at the unperturbed king, and slowly moved toward the door.

Rhaegar, expressionless, pushed himself up from the balcony railing. Asshai was filled with danger; no one would knock on the door without a reason. The interruption served as a reminder of his need for vigilance.

There was no answer from the other side, so Varys pulled a short dagger from his robes, advancing cautiously before swiftly opening the door.

A woman, scantily dressed and wearing a golden mask, stood on the threshold.

Rhaegar's eyes flickered with recognition. "Quaithe!"

The Golden Mask Witch of the Great Meereen Arena.

"I'm glad you remember me, Your Grace." Quaithe's gaze was intense, and she inclined her head, her demeanor far more respectful than during their last meeting.

"You're here… but don't tell me it's to help?" Rhaegar ventured, recalling their last encounter. He gestured for Daeron to stay back and, dragging his half-stiffened body, slowly approached her.

"I have come to aid the Prince That Was Promised."

A slight smile played across the golden mask of Quaithe, giving her the air of a noble lady. "With winter and darkness coming, we need a flame."

Rhaegar stared at her for a long moment, then fastened his sword to his waist. He believed her; he felt she was telling the truth.

"Your Grace!" The red priestess raised her hand, stepping forward, suspicion plain in her eyes as she scrutinized the golden witch who had appeared so unexpectedly.

"It's fine," Rhaegar assured her. "She, too, hails from Westeros."

He tugged at the corner of his mouth, attempting a smile, though his expression barely shifted. Instead, he chose to be direct. "Isn't that right, Lady Elissa Farman of Fair Isle?"

"What?" Daeron interjected, his eyes narrowing.

Elissa Farman—a name known well within House Targaryen's history. She had been the companion and close friend of Rhaena Targaryen, the "Queen Mother," only to betray her at a critical time.

She had stolen three dragon eggs birthed by Dreamfyre and sold them to finance a ship large enough to explore beyond the known world. Because of her actions, Daeron's great-great-grandfather, Jaehaerys, had nearly waged war against the Sealord of Braavos in pursuit of those eggs.

Bearing this family grudge, Daeron's gaze hardened as he regarded the Golden Witch. By now, the traitor should have been long dead. Yet, the mysterious woman before him had skin as fair and smooth as a Maiden's.

"Calm yourself, Daeron," Rhaegar commanded, his voice steady as he halted his companion. He studied the witch, as if attempting to read her mind.

He spoke with confidence for a reason. Her prophecy had hinted at a purpose behind her arrival, a purpose aligned with aiding him now. Her familiarity with House Targaryen's legacy could only have been cultivated through years of close proximity.

And combined with her faintly concealed Westerlands accent, there were only a few plausible answers.

Quaithe bowed her head in silence for a moment, then whispered, "Your Grace, it seems my disguise has been uncovered."

She had confessed her identity.

Rhaegar's thoughts raced, though he forced himself to remain calm. "So, you truly have traveled the world and found a way to prolong life?"

No one could remain ageless without magic.

"You need not guess—I am not granted the lifespan of an immortal," Quaithe murmured as she slowly removed the golden mask from her face. Beneath it, her once fair skin visibly aged, transforming her into a hunched, crone-like figure with a hoarse, rasping voice. "But I am a prisoner, lingering on in vain."

As she spoke, her body shriveled quickly, as though deflating with each breath. Rhaegar couldn't hide his surprise.

Replacing the golden mask, Quaithe gradually returned to her youthful appearance and bowed again. "Your Grace, I know of a treasure left behind by the Dragonlords that can aid you in your trials."

"Lead the way," Rhaegar replied crisply.

His perception of Quaithe was shifting. Whatever resentments remained over the stolen dragon eggs had softened, especially after he'd recovered Iragaxys and Thunderstrider.

As they stepped outside, Quaithe rested her hands on her stomach and spoke, "Rhaena was my dearest friend after the fall, and I never wanted things to end as they did."

Rhaegar kept walking, uninterested in his elders' old grievances.

Quaithe looked up, her gaze softening. "The dragons that perished did not rot in the earth but were reborn in fire. I have recovered the last dragon egg for you."

"Aemon?" Rhaegar's face flushed with a trace of color as he thought instantly of his second son, who had been lost at Shipbreaker Bay. That child had fulfilled the prophecy.

"The young dragon has emerged from its shell and has already grown," Quaithe said, bowing as she passed the king. She didn't spell it out, but her words left little to doubt.

...

Under the shadow.

The barren mountains surrounding Asshai loomed darkly.

"Roar…"

A deep, muffled roar parted the rolling dark clouds as a great black wing sliced through the sky. The dragon landed with a powerful thud, exerting its massive weight on the summit.

With a rumble and a roar, rocks tumbled down the mountainside, and red-hot lava oozed through newly formed cracks, creating a smoking cavern.

The Cannibal's green eyes glowed faintly as it lowered its snout to catch a familiar scent, twitching slightly as it did. It sensed its rider's approach; they were bound by a primal understanding.

The dormant volcano beneath its claws reeked of Firewyrm.

(Word count: 1,455)