Game of Thrones: A Song Of Blood & Fire

Author's Note:

Hey everyone,

I know some of you have noticed that the story has been very slow-paced, and we're already at Chapter 16, with the MC still being a baby. When I first started writing this, I intended to make it more fast-paced with MC growing up quickly, but as I dove deeper into the world-building, I found myself naturally drawn to exploring the history, background, and side characters in more detail.

The War Arc wasn't part of my original plan, but once I introduced certain villain characters, I realized I couldn't just skip over it. It became essential for setting up the bigger picture and ensuring a smooth and coherent storyline. Skipping it would've left gaps that would've hurt the narrative moving forward.

That being said, I truly apologize if this slower pace wasn't what some of you expected. The good news is that the War Arc will wrap up in 2-3 more chapters, and after that, the focus will fully shift to the MC's journey and growth.

Thank you for your patience and for sticking with the story so far. I hope you'll continue reading and enjoy what's to come!

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Aemon's POV

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I remember the warmth before the cold, the soft touch of silk sheets and the distant sounds of voices I could barely understand. The Red Keep—my home—felt vast, like a labyrinth of towering walls and endless corridors. To me, it was both a cradle and a castle, a place where my first memories were etched, though the world around me was embroiled in the fires of war.

The war beyond the walls still raged, though the sounds of steel and screams never reached my ears. They spoke of it in whispers—the attrition, the losses, the weight of Ormund Baratheon's death that hung like a shadow over the court. There were no grand battles, only a slow, agonizing bleed of men and gold. But I was too young to grasp the heaviness of it then. My world was simpler, softer.

Queen Shaera Targaryen was the constant in my infant life. She was more than the queen—she was my guardian, my mother in all but blood. Her silver-gold hair cascaded around her shoulders as she cradled me close, her violet eyes filled with fierce, protective love.

Princess Rhaella was always near, her gentle hands brushing through my hair as I babbled nonsense in the gardens. And there was Rhaegar, my cousin, who toddled along beside me, his quiet nature already showing through even as a child. We shared toys—wooden dragons and carved knights—and though he was older, he never let me fall behind. Rhaella would often laugh, watching us waddle together through the marble halls.

King Jaehaerys II sat heavier upon the Iron Throne, burdened by the growing unrest. His hand trembled more with each passing council session, his patience thinning. Queen Shaera bore it all with quiet strength, though I could sense her fear for the stability of the realm. The lords bickered over strategy, blaming each other for the stalemates and the mounting casualties. Some whispered that Maelys would wear them down in time—that the crown could not afford a war of years.

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The Red Keep—an architectural marvel built by dragons, ruled by madmen, and now, the unfortunate playground of a fully grown man trapped in the squishy, fragile body of a baby. Ah, life .

I remember the first time I looked at the Red Keep from my perch in the nursery—those towering spires, the endless maze of courtyards, and the guards who took their jobs way too seriously. There I was, drooling (for dramatic effect, obviously), all the while thinking, How in the seven hells did Maegor think this was homey?

It's a fortress with the emotional warmth of a tombstone.

The guards were a special breed. Armoured head-to-toe, stoic faces that probably hadn't cracked a smile since the Doom of Valyria. They paraded around with their swords, doing their rounds with the intensity of men who thought baby-snatching was a daily threat. I, of course, made it my mission to wave at them like a deranged pigeon every time I was carried past. The confusion on their faces? Priceless .

Then there were the maids. Sweet girls, truly. But Mother above, the amount of baby talk I had to endure. "Who's my wittle prince? Who's my precious dragon?" I am a man, woman!

But no, I had to gurgle and coo like a moron while they pinched my chubby cheeks. And don't even get me started on bath time. It's bad enough to be bathed like a fragile goose, but having a dozen maids singing lullabies while scrubbing my toes? That was a new form of torture.

I remember the day I finally decided enough was enough—it was time to walk. I mean, sure, I was trapped in this absurdly tiny baby body, limbs like jelly and balance worse than a drunk Lannister at a feast, but a man has his pride. Even if that man now wore tiny woollen booties.

Learning to walk again was its circus. There I was, focusing every ounce of willpower into keeping my chubby legs straight, only to have them buckle like wet noodles. Shaera and Rhaella would clap wildly as I stumbled, face-planting into the rug like it was the greatest thing they'd ever seen. "Look at him go! Such strength!" Strength? Woman, I just split atoms in my past life.

Here I was, wobbling on chubby legs that barely understood what muscles were for. Queen Shaera sat nearby, watching me with that same patient, motherly smile she always wore, while Princess Rhaella hovered like an anxious hen, Rhaegar bouncing in her arms, probably judging me with his solemn baby face. I could almost hear him: "You good, bro? Need help?"

I pushed myself up. My pudgy little hands flailed for balance—curse this tiny body! No core strength, no stability. My head was absurdly large compared to my legs. I cursed silently, though what came out was more of a high-pitched gurgle.

"Come on, sweet boy! You can do it!" Shaera clapped her hands gently.

And the maids—Seven bless them—were relentless in their quest to make me say "mama" or "dragon."

I chose "dragon" first, naturally. The look of pride on their faces was almost worth the humiliation. Almost.

"Dragon!" I yelled. Or, well, I tried. It came out more like, "Dwaguuun!"

Shaera gasped, positively glowing. "Did you hear that? He said dragon!"

"Smart boy," Rhaella beamed, bouncing Rhaegar, who blinked at me as if saying, "One word, huh? Took you long enough."

I took a step—victory!—and immediately toppled sideways into a pile of silk cushions. Not my proudest moment. Shaera rushed over, scooping me up, but I waved my chubby arms, determined to try again.

And try I did. Over and over. Stumble. Fall. Curse my tiny legs. Stumble again.

"Say 'Muna,' Aemon," Shaera cooed, tapping my nose.

"Muuu...nuh!"

I called her 'Muna'—my first word, a jumble of sounds that made her weep with joy. It was the word that tethered me to her, as though fate had chosen her to be my mother.

She melted. "He called me mother!"

Technically, yes. But in my mind? Finally! Someone listens around here.

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Oh, the tragedy of my existence—an ancient soul trapped in the pudgy, wobbly body of a one-year-old. And let me tell you, pretending to be a clueless baby while internally critiquing the politics of Westeros? Absolute torture.

Every morning began the same way: a maid bustling in with a shrill, "Time to wake up, little prince!" as if I didn't already have existential dread staring at the ceiling for hours. My limbs, those stubby traitors, flailed wildly as she scooped me up like a sack of flour, cooing nonsense. I let out what I hoped sounded like an innocent giggle, though in my mind, I was screaming.

Queen Shaera, the saint she was, often took me into her arms, her violet eyes filled with warmth. "Such a sweet boy," she'd whisper. Sweet? Lady, I'm over fifty in here. But I gurgled on cue, trying my best not to look like I was silently judging the court's latest political blunder.

And then there was Princess Rhaella. My dear cousin—who had no clue I had the mind of a grown man—would pinch my cheeks and sing lullabies, all while little Rhaegar toddled beside us, eyeing me like I was competition. Which, honestly, I was. I might be stuck in this mini body, but even I knew I was way cuter.

But oh, the worst part? The moments no one warns you about when you're a fully grown man trapped in a baby's body—breastfeeding.

Yep. Picture this: me, once a grown man with years of life experience, only to find myself latched onto Rhealla as she cooed softly, guiding me to—well, you get the picture. I wanted to scream. I wanted to leap up and demand a proper meal, maybe a mug of Dornish red.

Instead, I sucked in the most humiliating way possible, my mind a flurry of "Why, gods, why?" while she sang lullabies about dragons and destiny. I wanted to die of shame. Every time it happened, I stared blankly at the wall, silently vowing revenge against whatever cosmic force thought this was funny. It wasn't.

And don't get me started on the maids. Powdering me. Cooing at me. One even pinched my cheeks so hard I swear I blacked out for a second. It was a nightmare wrapped in lace and frilly baby tunics.

But in the end? Worth it. Because every time I took a wobbly step or babbled a new word, Shaera would light up, Rhaella would smile that soft, maternal smile and even tiny Rhaegar would crack what I swear was a baby smirk.

And so I stumbled on. Quite literally. I am one step closer to reclaiming my dignity, one ridiculous baby misstep at a time.

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But the court? Oh, the court. Sitting in Queen Shaera's lap during council meetings, drooling slightly (on purpose) while internally dissecting Lord Tyrell's idiotic strategies, was an exercise in self-control.

If the guards were statues and the maids were songbirds, the lords and ladies of the Red Keep were a flock of crows—loud, self-important, and constantly circling. The council members were worse. Maester Pycelle, with his beard long enough to knit a blanket, always muttering about how the realm was "on the brink."

Lord Rosby coughed through every sentence, and I swear Lady Velaryon glared at me like I was planning the next Blackfyre Rebellion from my crib.

There I was, in my soft baby clothes, occasionally blowing raspberries, all while thinking, You absolute fools, that's not how you win a war.

So yes, I mastered the art of baby theatre—perfecting the innocent coo, the gummy smile, the poorly timed burp. All while my inner monologue raged about the incompetence around me.

And no one suspected a thing.

Is this the true Game of Thrones?

Pretending to be a clueless baby in the most dangerous court in Westeros.

And I was winning.

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And the family? Well, that's where things got... complicated.

Queen Shaera—my so-called "aunt "—dotingly held me as if I were her very heart. I didn't have the heart (or the vocal cords) to tell her I was mentally older than she was. She smelled of lavender and ink, always humming softly when she cradled me. Her love was genuine, and for a moment, it made me forget the absurdity of my situation.

Princess Rhaella was... well, she was a saint. The poor girl had been through too much, and yet here she was, treating me like the hope of the realm. She'd play with me for hours, sometimes with baby Rhaegar beside her, cooing at me like we were equals. Rhaegar, my lad, one day you're going to cause a whole lot of trouble, and I'll be here, still in this damn baby body, watching it unfold.

And then there was Aerys. Oh, sweet Seven, Aerys. The man was already showing signs of eccentricity. He visited the nursery once, before going to war, peered down at me with his sharp, suspicious eyes, and mumbled something about "the blood of the dragon running strong." I cooed at him—nailed it, by the way—and he left, convinced I was an innocent babe. If only he knew.

Despite the absurdity, there were moments—rare, golden moments—when I felt the warmth of this strange, dysfunctional family. Shaera rocked me as she read the histories of Old Valyria. Rhaella softly sang while Rhaegar tugged at her skirts. Even the distant toll of the bells from the city below felt... oddly comforting.

But Seven save me if I have to endure one more round of "Who's a good wittle princely-wincey?" I might just spit fire. Or, at least, a very angry burp.

Thus went my life in the Red Keep—both a cradle and a cage. And all I could do was bide my time, gurgle when expected, and plan for the day I could finally walk into that damn council chamber and scare the smallfolk out of their wits.

But for now? Back to pretending I'm mesmerized by a shiny spoon.

Seven hells, I miss coffee...

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The news hit King's Landing like a hammer blow. The death of Ormund Baratheon and Ser Jason Lannister sent ripples of grief and dread through the Red Keep, staining its stone walls with a heavy, choking silence.

I remember it not through the eyes of an infant, but with the bitter clarity of my true mind, trapped in this ridiculous, pudgy body. I could feel the shift in the castle's heartbeat the moment the raven arrived. Servants spoke in hushed whispers, their faces pale, as if death itself had flown in on those black wings.

Princess Rhaelle Baratheon… gods, her grief was a force of nature. She wailed—a deep, soul-shattering sound that seemed to tear through the very halls of the Red Keep. I was cradled in Queen Shaera's arms when the news broke, her grip tightening around me as if shielding me from the weight of the loss. I could feel the Queen's sorrow, too, buried beneath layers of royal decorum. Even Rhaella, sweet and soft-hearted, held me close, tears slipping silently down her cheeks as she tried to shield Rhaegar from the depth of the tragedy.

When Ormund's body finally arrived in King's Landing, the atmosphere grew heavier still. The bells tolled, slow and sombre, their echoes reverberating through the city like a heartbeat fading away. I remember being carried through the halls, seeing the great lords and ladies gathered, their faces masks of grief and politics—because even in mourning, the court couldn't abandon its games.

The vigil was… suffocating. Ormund lay in the great hall, armoured in his finest black and gold, his Warhammer placed across his chest. Steffon knelt beside his father, head bowed so low it nearly touched the cold stone floor. Princess Rhaelle stood near, her shoulders squared despite the tears in her eyes. I might've offered some sarcastic commentary if I hadn't been stuck pretending to be a drooling baby.

And then there was Tywin Lannister, who had returned to bury his uncle Jason. Stoic as ever, the golden lion stood like a statue, his grief hidden deep beneath layers of cold calculation. Even then, I could see the gears turning in his mind, already plotting his next moves.

When Ormund's body was taken back to Storm's End for burial among his ancestors, Rhaelle and Steffon went with the procession. The sight of the great Baratheon banners fluttering as they rode out from the Red Keep was a sombre reminder of the weight of legacy and duty.

They stayed at Storm's End for a week, letting the tides of grief wash over them, before Steffon and Tywin returned to the Stepstones, the war waiting for no man's mourning.

Back in the Red Keep, the court was a storm cloud waiting to break. Tension thrummed in the air—everyone could feel it. The war had dragged on, turning into a brutal, bloody war of attrition. No grand battles, no decisive victories—just slow, relentless death.

And me? I spent my days being passed between maids and noblewomen, pretending to giggle and coo, all while my mind boiled in frustration. There's nothing quite like mourning a man while also drooling on your bib.

I was lying in my cradle that night, the lingering echoes of the funeral processions still heavy in the air. The stone walls of the Red Keep felt colder than usual, a quiet void hanging over the castle after the passing of Lord Ormund Baratheon and Ser Jason Lannister. It was the kind of silence that wasn't peaceful—it was the kind that clawed at the edges of your thoughts, stirring up questions you'd rather not ask.

The halls had been filled with mourners, nobles with hollow eyes and heavy cloaks, all bowing their heads as Ormund's body was prepared for the final journey to Storm's End. Princess Rhaelle had been inconsolable, her grief etched deep into her features, her tears falling freely as she clutched Steffon. It wasn't often you saw a Baratheon so broken, and it twisted something in me—even if I was trapped in a body that couldn't offer more than a gurgle of sympathy.

I couldn't help but wonder about Steffon. The poor lad had been forced to shoulder a weight no boy should bear, inheriting Storm's End at the cost of his father's life. I saw it in his eyes when he left, heading back to the Stepstones with Tywin Lannister after Jason's burial. There was a steeliness there, a resolve I hadn't noticed before. Loss changes people. It hardens them.

Lying there in the nursery, swaddled in ridiculous silk blankets, I found myself staring at the wooden beams above me, the faint flicker of torchlight dancing shadows across the ceiling. My tiny hands—still pudgy and useless—clenched in the air. I hated how helpless I was. A grown man's mind in a baby's body. Every time I tried to dwell on strategy or politics, I'd end up drooling all over myself. Not exactly the legacy I planned.

But still, my mind wandered. The war dragged on, a slow bleed rather than the swift death Westeros had hoped for. Attrition. A battle of patience and resources. No grand clashes or heroic charges—just men starving in trenches, supplies dwindling, and morale fraying. Maelys Blackfyre was still out there, a thorn in the realm's side, and with Ormund gone, the leadership felt shaky.

I thought about the future—my future. One day, I'd walk these halls with a sword at my hip, no longer some swaddled bundle passed between maids. But that future felt so distant, and between now and then lay an ocean of war, courtly schemes, and gods knew what else.

Would the realm survive Maelys and the coming dangers?

Would I?

The thought was sobering, even for someone used to more control over his destiny. I didn't get to finish that train of thought, though. Sleep crept in—soft, warm, and inevitable. My eyelids drooped, the haze of exhaustion pulling me under.

Before I drifted off completely, one final thought slipped through:

"Gods, I hope I don't drool again in my sleep."

And then, darkness.....

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