Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 652: The North’s Empty Harvest

It was a beautiful afternoon as Rhaegar stepped out of the meeting hall, the weight of the day’s discussions still lingering in his mind. The warm sunlight felt like a gentle reprieve, and all he wanted now was a good night’s sleep.

The decision about the Hand of the King could wait.

...

Throne Hall.

Viserys bade farewell to his advisers and settled onto the Iron Throne with great anticipation. The cold, unforgiving metal still bit into his skin, but today, he hardly noticed.

“Grandfather, Your Grace!”

A group of silver-haired children rushed toward him, their faces lit with joy, like young birds flocking back to the nest. The eldest, Rhaena, led the way, while the youngest, Aegor, was being dragged along the floor by his sister, Visenya.

“Yes, yes, let’s hear the story of the day,” Viserys chuckled, his heart swelling with affection. The pain of the Iron Throne seemed to vanish beneath the warmth of his grandchildren. There were a dozen healthy children surrounding him, either his own grandchildren or those of his brother Daemon. In the past, he would never have dared to dream of such a blessing.

What need was there to be Hand of the King when you had this? Viserys thought. If only his health weren’t declining day by day, he wouldn’t have to worry about his eldest son’s lack of interest in ruling. Rhaegar barely attended the Small Council meetings anymore.

The story had just begun when Alicent entered from the side of the hall, her voice gentle but insistent.

“Let me stay a little longer; there’s no rush,” Viserys replied, brushing off her concern as he scooped Visenya into one arm and Aegor into the other. After so many years of duty and hardship, he wanted nothing more than to enjoy this moment with his grandchildren.

“You always say that,” Alicent sighed, draping a blanket over his lap and gently resting a hand on his leg. As she did, her eyes drifted to his left hand, still wrapped in a bandage from where the Iron Throne had cut him days before. A small patch of dried blood had formed. The wound hadn’t festered, but neither had it healed.

Viserys noticed the bandage and smiled softly, saying nothing. It was just a cut, after all.

The two sat together in silence, watching their grandchildren—the mischievous dragon hatchlings—run and play. Alicent, now over forty, had become a grandmother herself. She scooped up Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, who were idly picking at the floor, holding them close. Her eldest son Aegon’s children were her pride and joy—pure, innocent, and far more dear to her than the others.

“Aren’t you going to the tea party?” Viserys asked, mildly surprised at her lingering presence. He wasn’t used to having his story time interrupted.

“I’ll stay with you,” Alicent replied, her voice quieter than usual, her gaze distant.

Viserys could tell she had something weighing on her mind. He knew all too well what it was. “What’s troubling you, my love?” he asked gently.

Alicent hesitated, then whispered, “The court is buzzing about the election of the Hand of the King.” She glanced up at him, her expression conflicted. “My father...”

“Otto is doing a fine job in Qohor,” Viserys cut in, his tone growing firmer. He had heard this before.

Alicent wasn’t deterred. “He’s old, Viserys, and being so far away is unsettling. We need him here.”

King’s Landing was no longer the secure place it once was, and without Otto, Alicent felt exposed. If her father returned as Hand, she would feel safer, more supported.

“Alicent, it won’t work,” Viserys sighed, placing his hand over hers. “Otto chose to spend his final years in Qohor. That was his decision.”

Otto and Cole were crucial in governing the distant city of Qohor and the Golden Fields. Rhaegar wouldn’t agree to his recall, not when so much was at stake in Essos.

Alicent fell silent, her eyes downcast. She couldn’t hide her disappointment, her face shadowed by a quiet sadness.

...

The Council Chamber.

Knock, knock!

Baelon sat in the hall, leafing through old documents, when the knock interrupted him.

“I’ll get it,” said Baela, standing by the bookshelves with a feather duster in hand. She moved gracefully toward the door, her slender figure exuding a mature charm.

With a creak, the door swung open to reveal a portly old man.

“And you are?” Baela asked, her brow furrowing. She didn’t recognize the visitor.

“My name is Desmond Manderly. The heir prince knows me.” Desmond smiled, his triangular eyes glinting with sharp intelligence. He glanced past Baela, immediately spotting Baelon seated within.

Baelon looked up at the sound of the familiar voice. “Lord Desmond? When did you arrive in King’s Landing?” he asked in surprise. Desmond Manderly, the Lord of White Harbor, was one of the most prominent nobles in the North. Dressed in finely tailored silk robes and adorned with rings of gold and gemstones, his graying hair neatly combed back, he looked more the part of a wealthy merchant than a northern lord.

“I landed at the Mud Gate this morning, Prince,” Desmond replied humbly, offering a deep bow. “The Commander of the Kingsguard informed me that His Grace was resting, so he led me here to see you.”

Understanding the situation, Baelon smiled warmly. “Please, have a seat, my lord.”

He glanced at Baela, offering an apologetic look. “Would you mind pouring Lord Desmond a glass of wine? We wouldn’t want our guest from afar to feel unwelcome.”

Baela nodded, gracefully pouring wine from a jug. The brother and sister’s coordination didn’t go unnoticed by Desmond. Though he had not received the grand reception he likely expected after such a long journey, Baelon’s courteous words and attention smoothed over any lingering disappointment.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Prince,” Desmond said, flashing a broad smile. He turned to Baela, who handed him the glass, adding, “And thank you, my lady.”

As he spoke, Desmond discreetly glanced around the room. His gaze lingered on Baela, the eldest daughter of Prince Daemon, heir to Tyrosh across the Narrow Sea. She remained unmarried after the death of her fiancé, Prince Aemon. There was something calculating in Desmond’s eyes as he observed her.

Baela, ever perceptive, caught the subtle appraisal and frowned slightly. “You’re welcome, Lord Desmond,” she replied, her voice polite but clipped.

Baelon noticed her reaction and then looked at Lord Desmond, whose warm smile remained fixed in place. Anyone who knew Baela well could see she was close to losing her temper. Sensing the tension, Baelon decided to move things along before the situation escalated.

“What brings you here, my lord?” he asked, steering the conversation to business.

Desmond’s smile faded as he adopted a more serious tone. “Prince, the kingdom has won the war against the Basilisk Isles. In light of this, I seek to borrow a sum of money from the national treasury on behalf of White Harbor.”

Baelon’s brow furrowed in confusion. “White Harbor has always been wealthy. Why borrow from the treasury? Wouldn’t the Iron Bank of Braavos be more suited for such a request?”

White Harbor and Braavos had strong trade connections, after all.

“You misunderstand, Prince,” Desmond replied, his tone now somber. “White Harbor, and the North as a whole, face unique difficulties.” He sighed heavily before continuing, “You are a Dragonlord from the South, and you’ve experienced nothing but the long ten-year summer. You may not have seen the true bite of winter.”

Baelon’s frown deepened. The hardships of the North were something he hadn’t fully grasped, but Desmond’s words hinted at challenges he had yet to understand.

Desmond continued, “King's Landing may be basking in summer, but the North is already gripped by winter. Heavy snow has blanketed the crops.”

“How can that be?” Baela, still holding the jug of wine, exclaimed in surprise. The North should also be enjoying the long summer.

Desmond, sensing her confusion, responded with a somber tone. “You don’t understand. Spring in the North was warm, yes, but the snow fell suddenly and without warning.”

He sighed heavily, adding, “Lord Cregan, during his inspection, noted that the entire region will likely face a poor harvest this year.”

House Manderly, though not originally from the North, had long since adapted to its harsh climate, becoming one of the region’s most influential families over the past thousand years.

Baelon, stunned by this news, quickly searched through the official records from the North over the past six months. To his surprise, there was little to no communication from the noble houses, as if the North had become a world unto itself.

“Has winter truly come to the North already?” Baelon murmured, his heart sinking. He recalled the prophecies from A Song of Ice and Fire, Aegon the Conqueror’s foretelling of the Long Night and the Others beyond the Wall. His father’s urgency in securing the Golden Fields of Essos was driven by these concerns, for the future of House Targaryen.

“Prince, I know borrowing from the national treasury is a bold request,” Desmond said, his voice tinged with helplessness, “but White Harbor is running out of options. The Iron Bank has refused us, and if we don’t act soon, the port will freeze over. I must prepare before the true winter arrives.”

Baelon fell silent, considering the situation. He understood why the Iron Bank had turned White Harbor away. Throughout past wars, White Harbor and Gulltown had been pivotal in defending against Braavos.

Now, with the fall of the Basilisk Isles, Braavos had lost a potential ally and had no interest in assisting a weakened White Harbor. Why lend aid to an enemy who could no longer serve their interests?

As Baelon pondered, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked up to find Baela’s eyes meeting his, offering silent encouragement. She didn’t interfere with his decision, but her presence grounded him, clearing his thoughts.

“I am truly sorry for what has befallen the North,” Baelon began, his tone softening. “The royal family will not turn a blind eye.”

Desmond, however, was growing impatient. Polite words meant little to him; he wanted action, repayment for his family’s loyalty to the crown.

“Please, Lord Desmond, be patient,” Baelon said, leaning back in his chair. “As the saying goes, it’s not the lack of resources that causes problems, but the mismanagement of them. The natural disaster has affected all the noble houses of the North.”

Desmond narrowed his eyes. “And what do you mean by that?”

“I can’t make the final decision on this,” Baelon admitted, shifting the responsibility higher up. “But I will speak with my father, and we’ll ensure proper reinforcements are sent to the North.”

His words were well-calculated, artfully vague, and delivered with a practiced ease. Desmond, a seasoned player in the political game, understood the subtext immediately. The heir prince was buying time.

Desmond’s face darkened, and he stood abruptly. “Very well. I shall await the king’s decision. In the meantime, I’ll take my leave and stay as a guest at the inn.”

He nodded cordially to Baela and stormed out, his frustration barely contained.

Baela, now free from the formalities of hosting, poured herself a glass of wine and leaned against the table, her tone more relaxed. “You’ve offended him,” she remarked, taking a sip of the sweet wine.

Baelon snorted in response. “He offended me first,” he retorted. “Borrowing money is a favor, not a right. Throwing a tantrum when denied isn’t going to help his case.”

He frowned, his irritation growing. “White Harbor acts as if they’re indispensable. Even Oldtown pledges its allegiance to the crown without such arrogance—why should White Harbor be any different?”

“Careful,” Baela warned, her voice calm but serious. “White Harbor’s support represents half of the North’s strength.”

She sipped her wine, her expression serene, though her eyes held a wisdom beyond her years.

“Are you really that much older than me?” Baelon muttered, feeling uncomfortable under her knowing gaze.

“Mm-hm,” Baela replied with a casual shrug, her eyes still full of concern.

Baelon sighed, resting his chin in his hand. The chamber fell silent as the weight of the conversation lingered between them.

...

It was night.

Rhaegar had just woken from a deep sleep when the sudden news hit him like a hammer blow.

“It’s snowing in the North?” His voice was groggy, and his sleepy eyes struggled to focus, but the gravity of the message jolted him awake.

Baelon, standing by his bedside, nodded rapidly, like a chicken pecking at grain. “I’ve sent a raven to Winterfell, asking Lord Cregan for more details.”

“Good thinking,” Rhaegar muttered, running a hand through his long, tangled silver-and-gold hair. He sighed. “The end of the ten-year summer is near. I wonder how hard this winter will strike.”

A dull headache pulsed behind his eyes. First sleep brings migraines, now this news makes it worse.

“Father, what should we do?” Baelon’s expression was serious, his brow furrowed.

“The North isn’t like the South—it’s a stubborn place, resistant to change.” Rhaegar’s mind raced as he formulated a plan. “To be cautious, we need someone to go and work with Cregan directly, to get the full picture.”

Desmond’s words, though urgent, could not be fully trusted. He was a shrewd businessman, and there was always a mix of truth and exaggeration in his claims. It was better to see things firsthand.

“Who should we send?” Baelon’s eyes gleamed with interest.

Rhaegar noticed his son’s eagerness and paused, biting back the name Aegon that was on the tip of his tongue. “You want to go?” he asked, reading Baelon’s expression.

Sending Baelon to the North made sense. It would demonstrate the royal family’s sincerity and show the Northerners they were taking the situation seriously. Aegon, however, was unreliable—too impulsive for such delicate matters.

“I can go,” Baelon said with a broad smile. The prospect of leaving King’s Landing clearly excited him, especially after spending so much time idle in the capital. His dragon, Uragax, was also restless, flying circles over Blackwater Bay with nothing to do.

“You won’t go alone,” Rhaegar said firmly, his eyes narrowing. The fate of his second son weighed heavily on him, and he wasn’t about to risk another disaster.

Baelon, catching the hint, grinned and winked. “What if Baela accompanies me?”

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow. His eldest foster daughter was capable—strong-willed, fearless, and skilled. The two of them together would make an impressive pair, a royal delegation that could handle any situation the North threw at them.

The idea had merit.