Game of Thrones: A Song Of Blood & Fire

Jaehaerys POV: The First Test of Kingship

The bells tolled over King's Landing.

A low, solemn chime, echoing from the Great Sept of Baelor—a constant reminder of what had been lost. It had rung for his father, his mother, and his brother. It had rung for Ser Duncan the Tall, the greatest knight Westeros had known.

It was a city in the grip of sorrow and uncertainty.

The people had lost their king—a king who had tried to save them, who had died in fire and dreams. Their queen was gone. Their prince was lost.

And in their place, only uncertainty remained.

It tolled for House Targaryen's fallen dreams.

The dragons had burned, and all of Westeros could smell the ashes.

Now, it was up to him to rebuild the house that had ruled for centuries.

His father's legacy was dead. His duty as King of Westeros had begun.

Jaehaerys Targaryen listened as he stood before the Tower of the Hand, the cool morning air carrying the scent of salt from Blackwater Bay. The Red Keep loomed behind him—a fortress of shadows and secrets, the weight of its halls pressing upon him like a second skin.

This was the first time he would preside over the Small Council.

His father should have been here. Aegon the Fifth should have been here.

Instead, his ashes rested beneath the Summerhall, and Jaehaerys stood in his place.

A lifetime of learning, of preparation, of studying the art of rule—and yet, no lesson had prepared him for this moment.

He had spent the night staring at maps, at letters from lords across the realm, at the accounts of the treasury, the military reports, and the whispered intelligence from spies across the Narrow Sea.

Even as exhaustion clawed at him, his mind refused to still.

The realm looked to him now. And he could not fail.

Taking a final breath, he entered the council chamber.

The air in the Small Council Chamber was heavy with the weight of mourning, the scent of melted wax from candlelight, and the unspoken fear of what the future held. Though daylight still burned beyond the stained-glass windows, the chamber felt cloaked in twilight—a room of men burdened with the fate of a kingdom without a king.

The chamber was cold, despite the braziers burning in their golden sconces. The polished wooden oak table, lined with carved dragons, stretched before him. At its centre sat a map of Westeros, inked with markings of fortifications, supply lines, and trade routes.

Seven chairs. Seven men. Seven ambitions.

At the head of the table, his chair awaited him.

His father's chair.

Jaehaerys sat, schooling his features into one of calm control. No hesitation. A king did not falter.

Inside the Tower of the Hand, the Small Council gathered for the first time under Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen—soon to be King. The long, polished table was a place of power and treachery, where whispers could shape realms, and ambitions often clashed behind polite smiles. 

At the head of the polished oak table, Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen sat tall and composed, his violet eyes sharp, betraying nothing of the storm raging within him. He had not yet worn the crown, yet already it weighed upon his shoulders heavier than any steel could.

Aegon the Fifth was dead. His mother was dead. His brother was dead. Ser Duncan the Tall, the man who had crushed the Blackfyres once and for all, was gone.

The realm had been left to him.

The silence was deafening as the Small Council, his future court, watched him with a mixture of expectation, reverence, and calculation. He let his gaze travel across the room, measuring the men who would help him rule—or see him fail.

At Jaehaerys' right, the true power of the realm at this moment—Lord Ormund Baratheon, Hand of the King, his brother-in-law by marriage. A mountain of a man with broad shoulders, streaks of silver already touching his dark Baratheon-black hair, his beard neatly trimmed. His strong jaw lined with steel-gray stubble, and dark blue eyes fierce with unwavering loyalty. His presence was a rock against the storm, but even he could not hide the weight of grief in his posture. His eldest son, Steffon, remained at Storm's End, overseeing the Baratheon seat. His face was weathered, that of a man who had seen both war and court intrigue. A man who had prepared for rule his whole life, yet now bore the weight of the realm's uncertainty.

Beside him sat Rhaelle Targaryen, Jaehaerys' elder sister, wife of Ormund, and the woman who had ruled in their father's absence.

At Jaehaerys' left, Shaera Targaryen, his beloved wife, her expression carefully schooled, yet her fingers traced nervously over the polished wood of the table.

Prince Aerys Targaryen, his son and heir, sat opposite him. Lean, sharp-featured, with violet eyes that gleamed with arrogance. He lounged carelessly, fingers tapping the table as if bored by affairs of state. Jaehaerys knew better—Aerys relished power but did not yet understand its cost.

Grand Maester Pycelle, the oldest among them, though still in his forties. His beard was streaked with grey, his eyes half-lidded as if contemplating some great wisdom. He had served Aegon V and now studied Jaehaerys with measured curiosity. Pycelle held the weight of tradition, and tradition could be both a shield and a shackle. His sharp eyes betrayed the political mind behind the scholarly robes. He, perhaps, was the only man in the room unaffected by emotion—only by calculation.

Ser Gerold Hightower, the Bull, is the acting commander of the Kingsguard. A man of unshakable discipline, his white cloak draped over broad shoulders, his expression unreadable. The Kingsguard had suffered a great loss. Ser Duncan the Tall was gone. And with him, one of House Targaryen's greatest shields.

Lord Steffon Darklyn, Master of Laws, A balding man with sharp, keen eyes, and a hawk-like face betraying his stern, uncompromising nature. His long fingers laced together, the weight of legal affairs heavy on his mind. The laws of the realm would be tested under Jaehaerys' reign.

Lord Manfred Velaryon, Master of Ships, A proud, aged Valyrian noble, his sapphire cloak embroidered with seahorse with sea-weathered skin and salt-streaked silver hair, a man of naval strategy but also of great pride. The Velaryons had always been close to the Targaryens, but alliances could shift like the tides.

Lord Martyn Celtigar, Master of Coin, A plump, calculating lord with deep-set eyes, was already concerned with the cost of the coronation and stability of trade. His wrinkled face carried more concern for numbers than people. His loyalty was to the crown's treasury, not necessarily its ruler.

Lord Denys Sunglass, Master of Whisperers, is A thin, shadowed man, dressed in muted greys with with sharp, knowing eyes. A spymaster with ears in every brothel and dockside inn, his network of spies across Westeros and Essos kept secrets that could build or destroy empires.

And then, there was Tywin Lannister, barely sixteen, standing at the edge of the chamber, the cupbearer of King Aegon V, now serving Jaehaerys. His golden hair gleamed in the torchlight, his green eyes observing everything, speaking nothing.

He was meant to serve, but even now, the young lion of the Rock watched, learned, and calculated. His golden lion pendant gleamed at his throat. He listened more than he spoke. His sharp green eyes studied every movement, every glance, every flicker of weakness. A boy who already understood power.

Jaehaerys let the silence stretch. A ruler's silence was a weapon—one his father had taught him.

Jaehaerys cleared his throat, "Let us begin."

Lord Ormund spoke first, his deep voice steady,

"The entire realm mourns, but the kingdom must see its king laid to rest."

"The funeral will take place in one week," Jaehaerys announced. His voice did not waver. "It will be a small ceremony, consisting of family and council members."

A moment of solemn nods.

"King Aegon, Queen Betha, and Prince Duncan and his wife will be laid in the crypts of Dragonstone."

Grand Maester Pycelle murmured. "A fitting rest."

"And Ser Duncan ?" Gerold Hightower asked, his voice quiet.

Jaehaerys' jaw tightened. "He will be given the highest place of honour among the Kingsguard."

Ormund gave a firm nod of approval.

Aerys barely seemed to care.

Ormund cleared his throat. "The realm must have a crowned king. The realm cannot linger in uncertainty."

Jaehaerys exhaled. It felt too soon.

"We cannot allow hesitation," Darklyn added. "A kingdom without a crowned king invites chaos."

Aerys smirked. "Then perhaps my father should hurry. The Iron Throne does not wait."

Jaehaerys let the words hang.

"We cannot delay the coronation," Ormund Baratheon interjected. His powerful voice left no room for debate. "Two weeks after the funeral, the realm must have a crowned King, Your Grace."

Jaehaerys, who still reeled from his father's loss, clenched his jaw. He had always known this day would come. But not like this.

"It will be done," he said, though his heart remained heavy. "Send word to all noble houses, all lords of Westeros will be expected to attend. They are summoned to King's Landing in three weeks for my ascension.

"The coronation will take place at the Great Sept of Baelor," he announced, his voice steady but laced with emotion. "All lords of Westeros are summoned to swear the fealty to their king."

Lord Darklyn nodded grimly. "It will be the largest gathering of nobles in decades. The Great Sept will barely contain them."

Rhaelle's voice was quiet but firm, "This is the first time the Faith will host such a coronation in decades. We must ensure the people see it as a moment of unity."

Lord Martyn Celtigar frowned, "The costs will be high, Your Grace. This coronation will be… grander than any since Aegon the Unworthy's ascension."

Jaehaerys didn't hesitate, "Spare no expense. This is not just a coronation. It is a message."

Lord Celtigar sighed, rubbing his temples. "The expense will be enormous."

Jaehaerys' eyes flickered to him. "Would you rather the realm crumble into instability?"

Celtigar's mouth snapped shut.

Aerys smirked, stretching lazily in his chair. "A crown wasted on a man reluctant to wear it."

Jaehaerys' fingers curled slightly, but he ignored his son's arrogance.

"As tradition dictates," Ormund continued, his sharp eyes flickering to Aerys, "the heir must be formally recognized."

Jaehaerys exhaled. "Aerys Targaryen will be named heir to the Iron Throne and granted the title Prince of Dragonstone."

Aerys straightened, a smug, knowing smirk curling his lips.

"Of course," he said, as if it had never been in question.

Jaehaerys did not miss the way Gerold Hightower's brow furrowed ever so slightly. Even some Kingsguard had concerns about Aerys' reckless, arrogant nature.

"Your responsibilities will increase, Aerys," Jaehaerys stated coolly. "Your actions will be watched closely."

Aerys gave a dismissive chuckle. "What is a prince without ambition, father?"

Ormund's jaw tightened. Aerys' words carried a dangerous arrogance that neither Jaehaerys nor his advisors could afford to ignore. Then, the conversation turned darker.

Ormund's voice hardened. "There is still the matter of Maelys Blackfyre."

Jaehaerys looked at Lord Denys Sunglass, his spymaster.

"What of Maelys Blackfyre?" he asked.

The room tensed.

Denys leaned forward, placing his thin hands against the wooden table. "The Band of Nine grows stronger. Tyrosh has fallen fully under their control and pledged itself to their cause. The Free Cities watch in hesitation, but Maelys commands the Golden Company, and his influence spreads."

Jaehaerys remained calm, but his eyes darkened. "Are we certain of their intentions?"

Sunglass' expression remained unreadable. "We are certain they see Summerhall as an opportunity. They believe House Targaryen is at its weakest."

Lord Velaryon's fingers tapped against the table. "If they take the Stepstones, they will control the trade routes between Westeros and Essos."

Lord Darkyln explained. "If they conquer and fortify Stepstones, they could use it as a perfect stage to invade Westros and could also use to choke our shipping lanes and our fleets."

Martyn Celtigar sighed. "Which means higher costs, lost coin, and a weakened navy."

Aerys scoffed. "The Blackfyres have always failed before."

"That does not mean they will fail again," Gerold Hightower countered, his deep voice steady. "Maelys is not like the others, he is different. He killed his own kin for his claim. He is no ordinary pretender—he is a monster."

Pycelle nodded gravely. "We cannot ignore this threat."

Jaehaerys turned to Denys Sunglass. "Send spies into Tyrosh. I want to know their numbers, their movements, their allies. I want everything, we will not act blindly."

"It will be done," Sunglass said.

Jaehaerys now felt the weight of his father's legacy pressing upon him.

He was not just mourning a king.

He was preparing for war.

Jaehaerys looked around the table. He could see the weight of responsibility pressing upon each man—some hesitant, some calculating, some waiting for him to make the next move.

This was the burden of rule.

"I will not allow House Targaryen to falter," he said finally. "The realm will see stability under my reign. But know this—the moment Maelys Blackfyre sets foot upon Westerosi soil, we will meet him with fire and steel."

The room remained silent.

The Small Council had expected a grieving prince, a hesitant ruler.

Instead, they saw a king in the making.

Jaehaerys pushed back his chair, rising to his feet. "This council is dismissed."

As the lords and commanders left the chamber, only Ormund remained.

"You did well," the Hand murmured.

Jaehaerys did not answer. He only exhaled, staring down at the map of Westeros.

His father had burned for a dream.

Jaehaerys would build one out of stone and steel.

And no Blackfyre pretender would take it from him.

Aemon POV

Darkness.

Silence.

A weightless abyss.

Then—A gasp.

Aemon's eyes snapped open, and the world flooded back into him like a crashing tide.

The world was… silent.

Then, breathe.

Then came the first sensation—pain.

Not the screaming agony of burns or broken flesh, but a deep, heavy ache in his bones, as if his very body had been reforged in fire.

A shuddering inhale, sharp and ragged, as though he had never drawn air before. His chest rose, the sensation alien yet familiar, a contrast of pain and strength coursing through his veins. His eyes flickered open, greeted by dim candlelight swaying in the evening breeze. The weight of the world settled upon him, yet his body felt impossibly light.

Aemon Targaryen had awoken.

The smell of aged parchment, incense, and the faintest trace of lavender filled his senses. The furs beneath him were softer than he remembered. He lay in an unfamiliar bed, surrounded by thick, red velvet curtains.

He was awake. Alive. Breathing.

But something was wrong.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, each beat sharp and precise as if something unnatural pulsed within his veins. His body felt lighter, stronger—his senses stretched beyond what they should. The world was too clear, too sharp, too loud.

The sound of fabric shifting. The rustle of breathing. The faint scent of lavender and something deeper—warm, comforting. Mother.

For a long moment, he did not move.

His mind… something was wrong with his mind. It was too clear, too sharp. Memories of the fire flashed behind his eyes—the searing heat, his father's arms shielding him, his mother's final whisper. And then… nothing.

What happened after?

He tried to grasp at the fragments, but the moment he did, they slipped through his fingers like grains of sand. His last memory was the inferno roaring around him, then darkness. And now, he was here.

Alive.

He should not be alive.

Aemon slowly lifted his hand. He expected it to shake, to be weak from a month of unconsciousness. Instead, it felt… steady. Strong. His fingers curled, flexed, every motion precise, effortless.

And beneath his skin, something stirred.

A whisper. Not a voice, not something spoken aloud—but a distant hum in the back of his mind. Something had saved him, something beyond understanding. He knew it had been there in the fire, surrounding him, protecting him. But when he reached for it now…

Nothing.

No answer. No voice. Only silence.

Aemon's breath quickened. Was it real? Had he imagined it? Or had he simply gone mad?

Was it a dream? A memory?

Or had something inside him awakened?

Aemon's breathing steadied, but the unease remained. He clenched his tiny fists, feeling the unnatural strength in his fingers, the smooth precision of his own movement.

Something had changed within him.

And he did not yet know what it was.

Aemon forced himself to remain still.

He was not supposed to be like this.

A baby was meant to be weak. Helpless. Fragile.

He was none of those things.

Was this… the power that saved him? The thing that kept him from burning when Summerhall fell?

He tried to reach for it, but it did not answer.

Not yet.

For now, it slept inside him.

But it was there.

How long had he been asleep?

Where am I?

The thought chilled him more than the cold air of the chamber. His senses were heightened. The flickering flames from the torches outside the chamber cast moving shadows that he could track without effort. He could hear the soft murmurs of voices beyond the thick stone walls, the faintest whisper of fabric shifting against the skin, and the distant toll of a bell from the Great Sept of Baelor. His vision, his hearing, his very presence—everything had changed.

The fire should have killed him. But instead, it had made him… something else.

Then, he heard them.

Footsteps.

A creak sounded. He tensed.

The heavy wooden door to his chamber opened slowly, letting the golden light of torches flood the chamber. Aemon turned his head just as Princess Shaera Targaryen, his father's younger sister—soon to be queen—stepped inside. Behind her followed another figure, softer in presence but no less familiar—Princess Rhaella Targaryen with a bundle in her arms carrying newborn Rheagar, his aunt, though in his heart, she had always been more than that. And yet, the moment her eyes met his, there was something deeper there.

A mother's gaze.

"Aemon," Shaera whispered, breathless, her violet eyes wide with something fierce—relief, fear, protectiveness. She hurried to his bedside, Rhaella close behind, tears shining in her gaze.

He tried to make some noise , but his throat was too dry. A soft hand, warm and steady, lifted a goblet of lukewarm goat's milk to his lips. He drank greedily, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat. His body was small, a child's shell housing something far greater.

She pulled him closer, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. She had been waiting for this moment.

"Thank the gods," Rhaella whispered, cradling the newborn Rhaegar in her arms. "He lives."

Aemon did not react as a child should.

He knew it, and yet… he could not pretend. There was too much awareness in his mind now.

His gaze settled on them both.

He did not cry. He did not wail like an infant awakening from a nightmare.

He only blinked, watching them.

His silence unnerved them.

Rhaella knelt beside him, trembling. Her fingers brushed against his cheek, her breath shaky.

"You're safe now, little one," she whispered.

For the first time, Aemon wanted to believe it.

But he knew better.

"The gods spared you, my child. It's been a month since you woke up." Her voice was barely a whisper, filled with emotion she dared not express in front of others. She did not cry. But she held him as if she might never let go.

Aemon looked at her for a long moment, his tiny fingers clenching the fabric of her gown. Something in him whispered—she had already chosen to protect him.

Perhaps it was instinct. Perhaps it was fate.

Or perhaps she, too, sensed that he was no ordinary child.

Aemon closed his eyes. A month.

A month in darkness. A month lost to whatever had happened to him.

A month since his parents had died.

A heavy weight pressed against his chest, an ache deeper than the confusion of his survival. He had not even seen them buried. Had not mourned them. They had died shielding him from the fire, and he had been too weak, too small, to do anything but be saved. What right did he have to live when they had not?

A soft touch brushed his hair.

"You're safe now," Rhaella whispered, stroking his silver locks. "You're home."

Home.

He is in Red Keep.

He did not feel safe. He did not feel like he was home. He felt… different. More.

A sharp knock interrupted them. The door opened again, revealing Grand Maester Pycelle, his robes heavy with the weight of his station. His expression was unreadable, but his sharp gaze flickered with something more as he studied Aemon.

"A miracle," Pycelle murmured, stepping forward. "To survive such a fire, yet not a mark remains upon him."

"Strange," he muttered from the side. "Very strange indeed."

Grand Maester Pycelle stepped forward, his aged, wrinkled hands clasped behind his back. His eyes—sharp despite his feigned frailty—lingered too long on Aemon.

"He woke up," Pycelle said, his tone carefully neutral. "A child who should have perished in the flames… untouched, unburnt."

Aemon's skin prickled.

Aemon's stomach twisted.

Pycelle's eyes were studying him—not as a child, but as a specimen.

Aemon could do nothing, but for the first time in his young life, he felt it.

Unease.

His mind screamed warnings as Pycelle reached for him, his wrinkled hands already moving as if to touch his skin. To test. To confirm what the rumours had whispered—that Aemon Targaryen had walked through fire and emerged whole.

Then, the Maester reached out.

"To be sure," Pycelle mused, "perhaps a simple test—"

A hand shot out.

Not his.

Princess Shaera moved like a storm, her grip like steel as she caught Pycelle's wrist mid-motion.

"Do not touch him."

The room fell into silence.

Pycelle stilled, surprised by the steel in her voice.

"A simple test, Princess," he said smoothly. "A candle, nothing more. If he is unburnt—"

"I said no."

Shaera's voice was like a blade.

Shaera's violet eyes burned. "You are a sworn Maester bound to serve House Targaryen, not the gods or Citadel," she said coldly. "Do not play at fate."

"You will not test him."

The room fell silent.

Pycelle blinked. "Princess, surely you understand the importance—"

"I hope you understand that he is my brother's child," Shaera interrupted, her Targaryen violet eyes burning like cold fire. "And I will not allow him to be treated like some experiment."

A tense moment passed before Pycelle exhaled, stepping back with a slow nod."Of course, my princess."

But his curiosity did not fade.

Aemon saw it.

A silent battle had been fought here, and though Shaera had won, Pycelle would not forget.

Nor would he.

The moment the maester retreated, Shaera sat beside Aemon, gently pulling him into her arms. He stiffened at first—but then, slowly, he allowed himself to rest against her warmth.

Aemon had not realized how cold he was.

Shaera whispered softly, stroking his hair as she held him. "The fate spared you for a reason," she murmured. "You are meant to be here."

Aemon did not answer.

His mother had whispered the same thing as she died.

Was it the gods? Or was it something else?

Aemon did not understand why—but her embrace felt like a promise.

A silent one.

One he would not break.

He was no longer just a boy who had survived.

He was something more.

Something buried deep inside him, waiting to awaken.

Aemon closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling at him once more.

Memories of Summerhall flickered at the edges of his thoughts—not in full, but in sensations. Heat, sorrow, the distant echo of screaming voices.

He should not be alive.

But he was.

Why did I survive?

He did not know. But one day, the world would ask that same question.

A slow breath passed his lips, quiet, steady. His hands curled into tiny fists.

One day, he would find out.

And when that day came—

He would give them an answer.

Shaera continued to cradle him, humming softly, an ancient lullaby that once had been sung in Old Valyria itself.

Zaldrīzes, ānogrose, (Dragons, in the dream,)

Nyke jorrāelagon ao, (I love you so,)

Ēza sȳz issa, mijegon, (All is well, sleep now,)

Hen jāhon syt ao. (For the world is yours.)

Hae perzys, hae sīr, (Like fire, like stars,)

Kesy tubī ezīmagon. (This light will never fade.)

Ñuha prūmi syt ao tolvie, (My heart beats for you always,)

Hae gevie ñuhys rūklon. (Like the wings of my soul.)

Kesi kostōba ēza ao syt, (The night is dark for you,)

Yn ñuha prūmi jorrāelza ao, (But my heart loves you still,)

Dārilaros, ānogrose, (Little prince, in the dream,)

Va perzys va zaldrīzesse. (By fire and dragons bright.)

Lȳs ānogrose se perzys, (Only dreams and fire,)

Kostilus ao ūndegon. (Can carry you home.)

Zaldrīzes ūndis, kostilus ñuhe. (Dragons rise, my love, let them fly.)

Ao īlvon, ānogrose, syt drēje. (You are ours, little one, forever.)

She cradled him gently, her warmth soothing yet fragile.

She had lost so much. She had lost her father, her mother, her brother, her home.

The shadows of the past loomed over them all, but in that moment, Aemon did not cry.

He would not cry.

He would listen.

He would wait.

Because something inside him had awakened.

And one day, it would awaken fully.