Game of Thrones: A Song Of Blood & Fire

General POV

The halls of Summerhall glowed in the golden embrace of the late afternoon sun, bathing the castle in an ethereal warmth. A gentle breeze swept through the open terraces, carrying with it the sweet scent of summer roses and the distant melody of birdsong. It was a day untouched by the burdens of fate—a day where laughter echoed through the halls, where the bonds of family were cherished in quiet, unknowing bliss.

Prince Duncan Targaryen walked slowly through the sunlit corridors of Summerhall, his newborn son cradled gently in his arms. Aemon was a small thing, barely more than a week old. His tiny hands grasped at the air, and his violet eyes were wide and unblinking as he took in the world around him.

Duncan smiled down at him.

"I wonder if you can see already," he mused, adjusting the child's soft crimson blanket. "Children are supposed to be blind at birth, but you... you are different."

Aemon's tiny fingers curled around the edge of Duncan's sleeve, his grip surprisingly strong for an infant. Duncan chuckled, brushing his thumb over his son's soft silver hair.

"Ah, you will be a warrior, won't you?" he murmured. "Or perhaps something more. An Adventurer? A scholar?" He sighed, shaking his head. "Whatever you choose to be, my son, I swear to you—I will be there."

He carried Aemon through the castle, past grand tapestries depicting dragons of old, past the stained-glass windows that painted the floors in brilliant hues of red and gold.

As they passed the Great Hall, Duncan could hear the laughter of his family—his mother, Queen Betha, was teasing Jaehaerys about his devotion to his books. At the same time, Shaera defended her husband with a playful wit. Aerys sat nearby, half-listening, more interested in the dagger he idly spun between his fingers.

Duncan ignored them for now. Instead, he stepped onto the terrace, where the vast expanse of Summerhall's gardens stretched below them. The scent of earth and roses filled the air, and beyond the walls, the lands of the Stormlands rolled out toward the horizon.

"This is our home," Duncan whispered to Aemon. "A place built for our family. One day, you will run through these halls, you will laugh in these gardens… you will know love and warmth."

His voice faltered.

A shadow of unease crept into his heart.

Why did those words feel like a lie?

He shook his head, pushing the thought away. Today was not a day for sorrow. Today was for family.

Inside the halls, Jenny sat by the fire, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the wooden armrest of her chair. Her eyes lingered on Duncan and Aemon as they stood on the terrace, a soft smile curving her lips.

He was a good man, her husband. A foolish man, perhaps, for giving up the Iron Throne for love, but a man of true heart and devotion. And now, she had given him a son.

A prince born of royal and common blood, a child of two worlds.

Would he ever belong to either?

Jenny's heart ached at the thought. She knew what the court whispered—what they would say about Aemon in years to come. He would never be a true Targaryen in their eyes, just as she had never been a true princess.

But what did it matter?

She rose from her chair and made her way toward them, stepping onto the terrace, her gaze locking onto Duncan's. He turned at the sound of her approach, and for a moment, everything else faded.

"You've been keeping him all to yourself," she teased, reaching out to take Aemon into her arms. Duncan laughed, pressing a kiss to her temple before releasing their son into her care.

"Can you blame me?" he murmured. "Look at him, Jenny. Look at our son."

Jenny did. And in that moment, all her fears melted away.

"He's perfect." she whispered.

Inside the Great Hall, the rest of House Targaryen had gathered. The atmosphere was one of warmth, a stark contrast to the usual coldness of the court. Here, at Summerhall, there was no Iron Throne, no council, no war to be waged. Here, they were just a family.

King Aegon V sat at the head of the table, watching his children and grandchildren with quiet contentment. Queen Betha, his ever-steadfast wife, leaned toward him, murmuring something that made him chuckle under his breath.

Jaehaerys and Shaera sat side by side, their fingers interlaced beneath the table. Their love, though controversial, was one of deep devotion. Shaera glanced toward Jenny and Duncan, her lips quirking in amusement.

"You look different, Duncan," she observed.

Duncan raised an eyebrow. "Different?"

"Happier," she said simply.

Duncan smiled. "Fatherhood suits me."

Aerys, who had been swirling his wine absentmindedly, snorted. "We shall see if you say the same when he keeps you up all night screaming."

Duncan shot him a glare, but it was Ser Duncan the Tall who responded, his voice calm but firm. "Aemon is a strong child. He does not cry easily, my prince."

Aerys arched a brow. "A true dragon, then?"

Prince Jaehaerys, who had been silent thus far, finally spoke. "A dragon's worth is not measured by fire alone, my son."

Aerys smirked, raising his cup in mock surrender. "I meant no insult, father."

The conversation moved on to lighter topics, and soon, the hall was filled with laughter and stories of old. Aegon himself shared a tale from his youth, of days spent travelling the realm with Ser Duncan, of lessons learned in hardship and exile.

It was a night of warmth, of happiness.

None of them knew it was their last.

As the night drew on, Aegon stood, his expression turning sombre.

"Tomorrow," he announced, "will be a day of great importance."

The room fell silent.

"Tomorrow, we take the next step toward the return of dragons."

Duncan's grip on Jenny's hand tightened. Shaera lowered her gaze. Even Betha's expression darkened.

None of them spoke their fears aloud.

But they all felt it.

Something was coming.

And nothing would ever be the same again.

The Wood Witch's Final Prophecy: A Harbinger of Fire and Fate

The night air in Summerhall was thick with the scent of burning candles and damp stone. The distant crackling of the hearth filled the silence, but even its warmth could not ease the creeping unease that settled over the gathering chamber.

Jenny of Oldstones stood near the doorway, her arms protectively wrapped around her newborn son. Duncan stood beside her, his broad form tense, his eyes shifting warily to the ancient figure seated before them.

The Wood Witch.

She was small and withered, her age uncountable, as if time itself had lost its hold on her. She wore layers of tattered robes in shades of deep green and black, their frayed edges sweeping against the stone floor. Around her throat hung strings of old bones and carved wooden charms, whispering faintly as they shifted with her movements. But it was her staff that drew the eye—a twisted length of white wood, smooth as polished stone yet gnarled with age. A weirwood staff streaked with veins of red sap.

Her fingers, gnarled and claw-like, curled around it with an iron grip as if the staff were the only thing keeping her tethered to this world.

The firelight cast eerie shadows across her hollowed cheeks, deepening the creases in her timeworn face. Her hair, once white, had turned an ashen grey, hanging in wild, unkempt strands that framed her face like a tattered veil.

But it was her eyes—milky, clouded, yet still piercing with unnatural knowing—that sent a chill down Duncan's spine.

She had been Jenny's friend for years. She had spoken to kings. And now, she had come for one last prophecy.

Jenny clutched Aemon closer. "You need not do this," she murmured, though her voice trembled with uncertainty.

The Witch exhaled a slow, rattling breath. "I must."

She turned those ancient eyes toward the babe in Jenny's arms.

And she froze.

A sharp breath left her lips, like a dying gasp. Her fingers spasmed around the weirwood staff, her frail body shuddering as if a sudden sickness had overtaken her.

Her breath hitched violently. Her knees buckled, and for a moment—just a moment—she almost collapsed.

A strangled noise—not quite a word, not quite a cry—escaped her lips as she stumbled backwards, her grip tightening on the staff until her knuckles turned bone white.

Jenny stepped forward, alarmed. "What is it? What do you see?"

But the Witch did not answer. Her mouth hung open, her aged face twisted in something between terror and disbelief.

"I…" The word barely left her lips, hoarse and shaken. "This… this child…"

She did not finish.

Instead, she lifted a trembling hand toward Aemon, as if reaching out to touch him—but stopped just short, as if the mere thought of laying her fingers upon his skin filled her with dread.

Duncan frowned, his protective instincts flaring. "What do you mean?" His voice was sharp, demanding.

The Witch's hand fell to her side, curling into the fabric of her robes as she gathered herself, forcing the fear from her features.

She would not explain. Not yet.

Instead, she turned toward the hearth.

The flames had been steady before. Now, they roared to life.

A gust of wind swept through the chamber, though there were no open windows nor doors. The fire twisted, leaping toward the ceiling, its embers flaring like a dozen screaming spirits.

Shadows danced wildly across the walls, stretching and contorting, moving like living things.

The Witch recoiled, her hands rising as if to shield herself from the sight. Her breath came in short, rapid gasps.

She could see it now.

The paths. The choices.

Two futures.

One of dawn.

One of destruction.

The child in Jenny's arms would either be a saviour or a harbinger of ruin.

Her aged lips parted, trembling as they began to form words—words that would shape fate itself.

The Prophecy of the Promised Prince

"Long ago," she whispered, "I spoke of a prince."

Duncan's breath stilled. He knew these words. They all did.

For years, a prophecy had hung over House Targaryen, a whispered promise of salvation.

The Prince That Was Promised.

It was why Jaehaerys had wed his children together. Why Rhaella now carried a child within her womb.

Because the prince would come from their line.

The Witch's fingers trembled over the weirwood staff. Her eyes—those unseeing, yet all-seeing orbs—flickered between the flames and Aemon.

"I see two roads," she murmured. "One leads to a blade of blackened steel, carried by one born of ice and fire…"

Jon.

"The other… to a girl whose blood sings with fire, who walks through ashes unburned…"

Daenerys.

Jenny's grip tightened on Aemon, but the Witch was not done.

She turned fully toward the child once more.

"And yet," she rasped, "this one… this one is not in the song."

Duncan tensed. "What does that mean?"

The Witch exhaled slowly.

"I do not know."

Her gaze darkened, her voice lowering to something barely above a whisper.

"He should not exist."

Jenny flinched, pulling Aemon closer, but the Witch did not soften her tone.

"I do not know if he is a gift… or a curse. I do not know if his fire will bring salvation… or damnation."

She reached for the flames once more, as if trying to pull the answer from the fire itself.

And then, softly—so softly the words barely touched the air—she spoke one last warning.

"Beware the throne bathed in black and red… beware the crown of silent chains."

Duncan's frown deepened. "What does that mean?"

The Witch did not answer.

She only stared into the flames, seeing something she would never reveal.

Something no one was meant to know.

The chamber had fallen into an unnatural stillness. The flames, once roaring with ethereal energy, had dimmed to a quiet smoulder, flickering against the weirwood staff clutched in the Witch's trembling hands.

Jenny's breath was unsteady, her arms curled protectively around Aemon as if the babe's warmth could shield her from the cold grip of prophecy. Duncan stood rigid beside her, the weight of the Witch's words pressing down on him like an unseen force. The warning—cryptic, terrifying—lingered in the air like the last whisper of a dying ember.

Then, as if something unseen had called her away, the Witch turned abruptly.

She moved with an eerie, unnatural grace, her ragged robes whispering against the stone floor like dry leaves in the wind. Her weirwood staff tapped rhythmically as she made her way toward the chamber door, the sound hollow—a heartbeat fading into silence.

Duncan shuddered.

For all his years of battle, for all the horrors he had faced, nothing had ever unnerved him like this frail, ancient woman. There was something wrong about her, something not entirely… human.

"Aemon…" she rasped, stopping just at the doorway.

Duncan stiffened, his protective instincts flaring as she spoke his son's name one final time.

Jenny sucked in a breath. "What about him?"

The Witch's fingers twitched over the worn carvings of her staff. Her clouded eyes flickered toward the child one last time—as if committing his face to memory.

Then—she did something neither of them expected.

She smiled.

Not with warmth. Not with malice. But with sadness.

"…One day, you will understand."

Jenny took a step forward. "Wait—"

But the Wood Witch was already gone.

Jenny rushed after her, her heart pounding as she followed the sound of the Witch's retreating footsteps down the dimly lit hall.

The air had changed—thicker, colder.

A mist had begun to coil through the corridors of Summerhall, drifting like ghostly tendrils, curling along the stone floors and creeping up the ancient walls. The torches flickered erratically as if struggling to keep their light from being swallowed.

Jenny's breath came fast.

She could see the Witch's outline moving ahead—a shadow against the fog.

"Wait!" Jenny called out. "You didn't explain what you meant! What did you see?"

But the old woman did not stop.

She walked forward, straight into the mist.

And vanished.

Jenny stumbled, her eyes darting through the unnatural fog. "No… that's not possible."

She had been there. She had been right there.

And now—nothing.

Not a single footprint disturbed the thin layer of dust on the stone floor. No hint of her tattered robes in the mist.

Nothing at all.

Then—a whisper.

Not in Jenny's ears. In her mind.

"The fire comes for you all."

Jenny gasped, her hands tightening around Aemon, her pulse hammering.

The torches sputtered violently—then died all at once.

Darkness swallowed the hall.

Jenny turned and ran.

Far beyond the castle walls, on the outskirts of the wooded hills, the Wood Witch stood motionless, gazing back at Summerhall.

The mist curled at her feet, shifting like a restless spectre. The wind was silent.

Her clouded eyes narrowed, searching the distant towers, the warm golden light spilling from the great hall. The last glow of a house that did not yet know it was already doomed.

She inhaled deeply as if trying to commit this place to memory—as if knowing she would never look upon it again.

The past could not be changed.

The future could not be stopped.

The fire was coming.

The dragons would fall.

And the boy…

She exhaled slowly. "Aemon…"

The name tasted of both promise and destruction.

Perhaps it was better this way.

Perhaps it was better that no one knew what he truly was.

Then—without a sound, without a trace—

She was gone.

The mist in the hills slowly began to disperse.

Summerhall stood in the distance, its towers untouched, its walls still gleaming beneath the moonlight. The halls still echoed with laughter and still held the warmth of a family gathered in love.

But the night itself seemed to know what was coming.

The wind whispered through the trees like a mourning dirge. The stars flickered, their light dimming as if in sorrow.

And deep within the castle, Aemon stirred in his sleep.

Somewhere, in the farthest reaches of his newborn mind, he felt the weight of something unseen—a force neither of this world nor beyond it.

Something watching.

Something waiting.

The fire was not yet here.

But it was coming.

And it would devour everything.