Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 654: He Can Shut Up Forever

“Why not?” Daemon asked, stepping forward slowly, his tone calm but assertive. He was the King’s uncle, the younger brother of the Old King, and the son of the fearless Baelon. Becoming Hand of the King should be more than fitting for him.

“Is that really what you think?” Corlys grinned, a mocking edge to his voice. “It suits your impractical nature.”

Daemon grunted in response, unfazed. Mockery was nothing new to him. His stubbornness had always shielded him from such barbs.

“Uncle, you belong behind the scenes,” Aemond interjected, his one cold, unyielding eye locked on Daemon. This man failed to become Hand to his own father and stormed out of King’s Landing in a fit. Now he wants to be Hand to his brother? Aemond thought. What place does an old relic like him have in this?

Daemon chuckled, a teasing glint in his eyes as he brushed off the subtle insult. Aemond’s challenge was like a child begging for attention, not a threat to him.

“Brother!” Aemond turned to Rhaegar, his voice firm and intent. “Let me be Hand of the King. You’ll have peace of mind.”

His confidence was unmistakable, radiating from him like the spreading tail of a proud peacock. But Rhaegar sighed deeply, clearly not convinced. “What will you do to give me peace of mind?” he asked, a hint of exasperation in his voice. This boy talks big but has yet to prove himself.

Aemond had come prepared. “Stonehelm is well-defended against Dorne, Qohor offers the cheapest lace and spices, and I can fight for you on the battlefield.”

Rhaegar nodded slightly, considering the words. There was truth to them—Aemond did have his strengths.

“As far as I know, Qohor isn’t yours to claim,” Corlys interrupted, his voice cutting through Aemond’s confidence. “Your only fief is Stonehelm. The lands beyond the Greenblood are guarded by the fleet of House Velaryon, and we are the ones building the second Prince’s Palace.”

Corlys spoke with undeniable authority. He had dared to pursue the position of Hand because he had the backing—and the confidence—to do so. The royal family could not afford to overlook Velaryon support.

Aemond’s face turned cold, his temper rising. “Qohor belongs to me. Whoever conquers it, owns it.” His words were sharp, laden with menace. The Free Cities he had worked so hard to cultivate were not to be tampered with.

“Then you should be awarded the title of Prince,” Corlys replied smoothly, though his smile was sharp, like a dagger twisting in Aemond’s heart.

“Woo-hoo~” Aegon’s eyes danced mischievously, the corners of his mouth twitching with barely contained laughter. He was a titled Prince—the only one of the three brothers officially titled as such.

Aemond’s face darkened with fury, his teeth grinding in frustration. It’s just a title! he seethed. What’s so special about it?

Rhaegar glanced at his uncle, who had remained calm and observant throughout the debate, and asked with a smile, “Uncle, you didn’t say a word while the others were showing off their abilities.”

Originally, Rhaegar had leaned toward Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake. After all, he had considered a few worthy candidates: Lord Cregan of the North, Kermit Tully of Riverrun, and even his own brothers, Aegon and Aemond. Corlys had seniority, but age had made him proud, perhaps even complacent, and Rhaegar suspected he didn’t take the king as seriously as he should.

Cregan Stark, though a strong option, presented another challenge. House Stark, though loyal and steadfast, was rooted in the North, which was growing increasingly unstable.

And the Northmen rarely traveled south, making Cregan’s potential influence limited. He was young and skilled in politics, but the North was far too distant to be effective.

Then, of course, there were Rhaegar’s brothers. Both Aegon and Aemond had been considered, with Aegon—unkempt as he often was—still proving more trustworthy than many others at court.

“Your Grace, I have nothing to add,” Daemon replied with a dismissive wave and a smile. “I offer only the loyalty of a dutiful servant.”

“Loyalty?” Corlys muttered, barely containing his disdain. “Do you really deserve to use that word?”

Just thinking of the reckless stunts Daemon had pulled over the years could fill a basket.

“You want to test me?” Daemon’s eyes narrowed, his smile barely concealing the challenge in his words. A father-in-law and son-in-law, exchanging veiled threats. To an outsider, they might have looked like sworn enemies.

Corlys wisely chose silence, deciding that biting his tongue was better than feeding the flames.

Rhaegar straightened in his seat, no longer slouching as he gained a clearer sense of the power plays unfolding before him.

“There’s still—” he began, but a sudden interruption cut him off, a noisy voice echoing through the hall.

Rhaegar turned toward the source of the commotion and saw the eager Master of Laws, Jasper, rushing to make his case. Desperate to climb the ranks, Jasper began with flattery, “I hail from the Stormlands, Your Grace. I was one of your father’s trusted advisers, and I helped build the Prince’s Palace.”

Jasper’s ambition was transparent. House Baratheon, once rulers of the Stormlands, had fallen out of favor. Anyone could see that the Stormlands would soon fall under the direct control of the Crownlands, with the Prince’s Palace being established as the administrative center. If Jasper could become Hand of the King, he’d have the power to place his loyal men in key positions at the palace, giving him control over the Stormlands. His ambition was clear—he wanted to rule through influence.

“Lord Jasper, you interrupted me,” Rhaegar said coldly, his voice carrying a sharp edge. It was a warning, and the first one he had given.

He had tolerated this man for too long. Rhaegar hadn’t replaced his father’s old advisers out of respect for their service, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be replaced if they overstepped.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Jasper said, feigning humility as he pressed on with his self-promotion. “The construction of the Prince’s Palace is urgent. If I were appointed Hand of the King, I would negotiate reduced material costs and rally the nobles to unite behind the crown.”

“I have no intention of paying extra for materials,” Rhaegar replied coldly. His eyes narrowed. “The nobles of the Stormlands are loyal to the royal family. When have they ever needed to be rallied?”

The question hit like a dagger, cutting straight to the point. Jasper's face flushed with sweat as he scrambled to explain. “With House Baratheon retiring, some might feel... uneasy about the transition.”

“Who?” Rhaegar asked bluntly.

Jasper faltered, unable to provide an answer. It was something he dared not discuss in detail.

“Enough,” Rhaegar said, his interest waning. He waved Jasper away like a bothersome insect. “Leave.”

If this conversation continued, Rhaegar knew his temper would get the better of him. His hand instinctively moved to his waist, where Blackfyre hung. The absence of Truefyre, which Aemon carried, gnawed at him, deepening his irritation.

“Your Grace...” Jasper tried again, desperation creeping into his voice.

“Leave!” Rhaegar’s face darkened. He cast a glance at Daemon, a silent command passing between them. The meaning was clear—he wanted Jasper gone.

Humiliated, Jasper backed away, but couldn’t resist one last attempt. “Your Grace, rumors of wailing spirits from Storm’s End have begun to spread—”

“I told you to shut up.” Rhaegar’s veins pulsed visibly on his forehead. The thinly veiled threat in Jasper’s words was beginning to test his patience.

“Rumors can be dangerous, Your Grace, so if you—” Jasper pressed on, oblivious to the rising tension.

Swish!

A flash of cold steel interrupted him. His words died mid-sentence as the sharp edge of a sword cut cleanly through his neck. Half of his head slid off like a block of soft cheese, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

“Ahhh!” Aegon jumped, his eyes wide with shock.

“What a nuisance,” Daemon remarked calmly, wiping the blood from Dark Sister’s blade with a casual shrug. “At least he’s quiet now.”

Plop.

Jasper’s body, now missing half its head, collapsed to the ground in a lifeless heap. The remains of his brain splattered across the floor, with his half-severed tongue grotesquely exposed in the open mouth of his severed jaw.

“How dare you!” Erryk, Commander of the Kingsguard, shouted, his face pale as he drew his sword. “Disarm him!”

Kingsguard Arryk and Ser Steffon advanced from either side, their expressions fierce as they surrounded Daemon. The infamous Rogue Prince  had long been a source of disdain among the more loyal knights of the realm, and now their anger boiled over.

“No, no,” Daemon said smoothly as he sheathed his sword, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I was only doing my duty,” he added with a smile, his eyes locking onto his nephew on the Iron Throne.

Rhaegar’s face remained impassive, revealing nothing of the storm brewing beneath his calm exterior. He had expected Daemon to use this moment to eliminate Jasper as a competitor for the position of Hand. But to actually see him strike Jasper down in cold blood? That was another matter entirely.

“Your Grace, Daemon has just attacked and killed a Adviser of the Crown in your presence. This is recklessness beyond measure!” Corlys Velaryon’s voice rang out, his face contorted in fury. Whether the anger was genuine or calculated was difficult to tell, but with one rival dead, the path to power was opening for him.

Around the throne room, the other advisers stood frozen in shock, eyes darting between Jasper’s lifeless body and Rhaegar. Lyman, pale and trembling, covered his mouth to keep from retching as the full weight of the scene sank in.

Rhaegar didn’t respond to Corlys’s outrage immediately. Instead, his gaze lingered on Daemon, who stood below the throne with a faint smirk, seemingly unfazed by the chaos he had caused.

“This matter... ends here!” Rhaegar’s voice cut through the tension, his tone resolute and full of kingly authority. “Daemon Targaryen will serve as Hand of the King, and as Hand of the Queen. There will be no further objections.”

The words hung in the air like a proclamation of fate.

Jasper had crossed the line, Rhaegar thought, committing treason against the crown. He deserved his fate. As for Daemon—dangerous, reckless, but undeniably capable—he was suited for the position. Appointing him would allow Rhaegar to place the burden of blame on his uncle when needed. If Daemon couldn’t handle the responsibility, he could always be removed later. For now, the Hand of the King needed to be someone who could manage both the court and the nobility, and Daemon’s ability to attract hatred would work in Rhaegar’s favor.

“Thank you, Your Grace!” Daemon grinned as he knelt, accepting his new title with the same air of indifference that had carried him through the entire scene.

The throne room fell into an uneasy silence. Then, breaking it, Corlys, his voice full of disbelief and rage, shouted, “Your Grace, you would rather protect your uncle than accept me as Hand of the King?!”

His frustration was palpable. This wasn’t the first time Corlys had been overlooked. First, King Viserys had refused to marry his daughter Laena to the heir. Then, Rhaegar himself had rejected the match between Baela and his eldest son. And now, instead of appointing Corlys—a man with seniority and wealth—Rhaegar had chosen Daemon, a man notorious for causing chaos. It was the final insult.

Facing Corlys’ objections, Rhaegar attempted to reason with him. “Lord Corlys, you already have significant responsibilities as Master of Ships and Admiral of the Fleet,” he said evenly.

“No! That’s no excuse,” Corlys retorted, his voice sharp with frustration. “My son Laenor can take over as Master of Ships. You are deliberately snubbing me.”

“Laenor has been away for years and isn’t well-versed in the current politics,” Rhaegar replied with a slight frown, his patience thinning. He had no intention of prolonging the argument. This matter is settled, he thought. He was the king, and the decision was his to make. Corlys was old—nearly 80. Even the Old King, Corlys’ great-grandfather, hadn’t lived past 69. Choosing Daemon, sharp and still dangerous, was far better than relying on a man who could die in his sleep at any moment.

“What a joke,” Corlys sneered, his gaze flicking to Daemon with disdain. “I just want to see what kind of kingdom you two will run.”

With that, Corlys turned on his heel and stormed out of the throne room, his cloak billowing behind him. He could tolerate Daemon being the Hand, but he would not allow House Velaryon to be dishonored by this farce. A prince who spent his days in the brothels of Flea Bottom? Daemon would turn King’s Landing into a den of vice.

“Take care,” Daemon called after him, arms crossed and a smirk tugging at his lips. If he couldn’t be his brother’s Hand, he would gladly serve as his nephew’s. He had no desire to wait quietly on the sidelines. He’d encouraged Baela to follow her own path; now he would prove himself too, just as he had tried years ago when both his brother and Otto Hightower had sought to sideline him. Now, he had the chance to hold power, to do something that would make the world take notice.

“Kingsguard, take the body away,” Rhaegar commanded calmly, his tone unchanged by Corlys’ exit. The defection of the Sea Snake wasn’t enough to shake him. Where could Corlys go? The Seven Kingdoms were vast, but House Targaryen wasn’t about to cower before anyone.

Erryk nodded and signaled for the Kingsguard to remove Jasper’s body from the hall.

“Aemond, don’t give me that look,” Rhaegar added, turning to his one-eyed brother. “You’ll take over Lord Jasper position as Master of Laws and help maintain order in King’s Landing.”

It wasn’t the Hand of the King, but it was a prestigious post. Rhaegar would test Aemond here first, giving him a proper role in the governance of the realm.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Aemond replied through gritted teeth, his expression sour. He had aimed higher, for the Hand, but the Master of Laws was at least a position of influence, seated at the Small Council.

Rhaegar’s gaze then shifted to Daeron, standing quietly at the edge of the room. “As for you,” he said, “you will serve as Lord Treasurer. Help ease Lord Lyman’s burdens.”

“Huh?” Lyman, startled, looked at Rhaegar doubtfully. “Your Grace...”

“You’re already advanced in years,” Rhaegar said with a dismissive wave. “It’s time you took things a little easier.”

Lyman hesitated for a moment, but finally relented. “Yes,” he muttered, bowing slightly. It was true—age had begun to weigh on him, and he couldn’t deny that it was time to pass on some of his responsibilities.

Daeron scratched his head, surprised by the sudden responsibility now placed on him. It felt like he had just been pulled into the very center of royal duties without warning, and the weight of it sank in like a stone.

Lastly, Rhaegar’s eyes landed on Aegon. The prince was practically beaming with excitement, his eyes wide with anticipation, filled with almost comical foolishness.

Him? Rhaegar thought, his lips curling slightly. Not today.

“That’s it. The meeting is adjourned,” Rhaegar declared, his gaze sweeping over the room. Without another word, he dismissed them all, leaving Aegon’s excitement hanging awkwardly in the air. If Aegon wanted to continue pretending to be oblivious, then so be it.

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