Game of Thrones: A Song Of Blood & Fire

Author's Note

Dear readers,

Thank you for your incredible support! This chapter is a long and emotional one—the night Summerhall burned, the end of a dream, and the beginning of a legend. Every moment here matters, every loss is felt.

Brace yourselves. The flames are rising.

Now, let's begin.

GENERAL POV

The night was wrong.

The air itself felt… unnatural.

Summerhall, a place of warmth and celebration, now stood cloaked in an eerie silence, as if the world itself had drawn a deep breath and refused to exhale. The castle's stone walls, once comforting in their sturdy embrace, now loomed like silent sentinels, their shadows stretching long and distorted beneath the flickering torchlight. The great towers, normally proud against the sky, seemed smaller beneath the weight of an unseen force pressing down upon them.

A suffocating humidity clung to the air, thick and unyielding, coating the skin like unseen shackles. The usual cool of the Stormlands night had vanished, replaced by a heat that should not exist, a warmth that did not belong to the darkness. Even the wind, which so often howled through the hills, had stilled, leaving only an eerie emptiness in its absence.

Nothing moved.

The horses in the royal stables, beasts trained to fear nothing, shuffled uneasily in their stalls, their ears twitching, nostrils flaring as if sensing a predator unseen. The hounds, ever loyal and fierce, refused to settle, whining and pacing at the edges of their chains. The birds that nested in the castle's high towers had gone silent hours ago, their usual songs replaced by an ominous stillness.

It was as if the world itself knew.

Far below, in the castle's lower halls, the servants moved in hushed tones, their eyes darting toward the high windows where the moon hung, veiled behind thick clouds. They did not speak of it—not aloud—but they felt it.

Something was coming.

Something no mortal hands could stop.

Above them, in the heart of the castle, King Aegon V Targaryen prepared for a ritual that would seal all their fates.

Away from the tension of the lower halls, hidden behind the thick stone walls of their chamber, Duncan Targaryen sat in a pool of candlelight, cradling his son in his arms.

Jenny of Oldstones lay beside him, her head resting against his shoulder, her fingers curled lightly around his free hand. Her body was tired, and her mind weighed with exhaustion, but her eyes—her deep, knowing eyes—were still wide open, watching the tiny babe nestled against Duncan's chest.

Aemon stirred, his silver hair gleaming in the dim glow of the flames, his violet eyes half-lidded but watchful, as if he, too, could sense the unease in the air.

Duncan ran a calloused thumb over the child's small fingers, marvelling at how something so tiny, so fragile, could feel so perfect.

For a long while, there were no words.

There didn't need to be.

Jenny shifted slightly, her fingers tracing slow circles over the back of Duncan's hand. "It's too quiet," she murmured.

Duncan exhaled, the weight of his own unease settling over his shoulders. "Aye," he admitted. "It is."

Jenny's grip tightened. "Does it feel… wrong to you?"

Duncan hesitated.

Then, quietly: "Yes."

The flames in the hearth flickered, dimming for just a moment. The shadows along the walls stretched and wavered, distorting in unnatural ways before settling once more.

Jenny closed her eyes, pressing her lips to Aemon's soft hair. "I don't want to think about tomorrow," she whispered. "Not tonight. Not here."

Duncan pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, inhaling the faint scent of wildflowers woven into her curls. "Then we won't."

And for that fleeting moment, within the walls of their chamber, within the warmth of their quiet love, the world did not exist.

It was just them.

Husband. Wife. Son.

A family, in the last night they would ever have together.

But outside, beyond that fragile bubble of peace, Summerhall continued to unravel.

The torches lining the hallways flickered erratically, their flames spitting embers as if disturbed by unseen hands. The air smelled of something acrid, something burning, though no fire had yet been lit.

Deep within the heart of the castle, in the chamber where the ritual would take place, the air itself hummed with something unnatural. The scrolls laid upon the stone table rustled though there was no wind. The brazier that would soon be filled with dragonbone and wildfire hissed, tendrils of green mist curling at its edges.

King Aegon stood over it, his hands steady, his expression unreadable.

Tomorrow would be a new dawn.

Or the end of them all.

And somewhere in the darkness of the castle, something unseen watched.

Waiting.

Hungry.

The night stretched long, the minutes creeping forward with agonizing slowness, yet slipping through unseen fingers all the same. The world held its breath. The halls of Summerhall stood untouched, its towers high, its walls unbroken.

But something was coming.

A whisper in the air. A shiver in the stone.

The night itself seemed to mourn what was about to unfold.

And as Duncan and Jenny drifted into a restless sleep, their son curled between them, the final embers of their happiness flickered.

By dawn, Summerhall would burn.

King Aegon's POV- The Ritual Begins & His Final Gamble.

The chamber was suffocating.

The heat clung to Aegon's skin like a serpent, winding tighter with each passing breath. The room beneath Summerhall had been prepared for this night—sealed away from the rest of the castle, its walls adorned with glyphs older than Westeros itself. Strange symbols, drawn in a mixture of dragon bone ash and alchemical compounds, curled across the stone floor, forming a spiral of forgotten power.

Aegon stood at the ritual's heart, his shadow flickering against the damp walls. His fingers trembled as he held the old parchment before him, his tired eyes scanning the Valyrian script one last time.

He had devoted years to this moment.

A lifetime of searching, of following the whispers of sorcerers and the forgotten knowledge buried within the ruins of Valyria. The maesters had called him a fool. Even his family, those who loved him most, had grown wary of his obsession.

But they did not understand.

He had to do this.

For House Targaryen. For his sons. For the future.

He took a deep breath and looked at the men standing around him. His alchemists—chosen from the greatest minds in Westeros—knelt beside the glyphs, their hands trembling as they placed the last of the wildfire into the etched grooves. Their faces were slick with sweat, their robes already damp from the unnatural heat.

Aegon turned toward them, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him.

"Jurnegon kesīr." (Begin now.)

The alchemists moved quickly, striking flint against steel. Sparks leapt, then caught, and in an instant, the first of the glyphs came alive.

The wildfire ignited with a sickly green flame, slithering along the grooves of the stone like a living thing. The symbols pulsed, glowing with a sinister luminescence. The air crackled with a force unseen, as if the world itself had taken notice of what was unfolding.

Aegon took a deep breath and stepped forward, raising his arms over the fire. His cloak of deep crimson dragged across the stone, absorbing the rising heat.

His voice rose in ancient words, a tongue that had not been spoken in Westeros since the Doom of Valyria.

"Rytsas iārza mazverdagon, hen zaldrīzes mazverdagon!"

(Hail the flame reborn, hail the dragons reborn!)

The fire hissed in response, surging higher. The shadows on the walls stretched unnaturally, flickering and twisting as if whispering among themselves.

"Se nyke vestragon ao sagon hae Valyria iā ānogar!"

(And I command you, be as Valyria once was!)

The flames rippled.

The alchemists cast uneasy glances at each other, but they dared not interrupt.

Aegon's heart pounded as he stepped closer to the brazier at the centre of the room. Resting within it was the key to everything—dragon eggs, dark and ancient, pulsing with dormant power. They had been passed down for generations, their shells cold and unyielding.

He reached out, placing his hands over them, his fingers hovering just above the surface. The heat beneath his palms was growing unbearable, but he did not pull away.

"Kesīr zȳhon ivestragon se drēje zaldrīzesse!"

(Here is their awakening, the return of dragons!)

For a single, breathless moment, everything was still.

The chamber seemed to hold its breath. The fire dimmed. The world waited.

Then—

Aegon felt it.

A pulse beneath his fingertips.

A flicker of something vast and unknowable, stirring beneath the surface of the eggs. A primal force, something buried deep in the bones of the world.

He had done it.

He had reached them.

His lips parted, a triumphant breath escaping as his eyes widened—it was working.

Then—the fire shifted.

It moved.

Not in a natural way, not as flames should. It did not flicker or waver.

It writhed.

A sickening lurch twisted through the air as if the fire itself had just awoken from some ancient slumber. The glow from the glyphs changed—where before they burned with steady green light, now they flashed erratically, pulsing with something unstable.

Aegon's heartbeat stilled.

No.

No, no, this was not supposed to happen.

The wildfire suddenly roared, erupting higher than the ceiling, licking across the walls, twisting into a living cyclone of flame. The alchemists scrambled backwards, their screams piercing the thick, humid air.

The fire was growing.

Too fast. Too violent. Too unnatural.

Aegon staggered, his gaze locked onto the writhing inferno. His breath turned to steam in his throat, the heat now unbearable, pressing down on him like an invisible force.

The dragon eggs beneath his palms shuddered as if caught in a storm.

A moment later, they cracked.

A horrifying sound filled the chamber—a screech, a roar, a howl unlike anything human. It was not the cry of a newborn dragon. It was something older. Something wrong.

The fire did not answer his call.

It had never been his to control.

It was alive.

And it was hungry.

The wildfire ignited the air itself, turning everything into a blazing storm of roaring green flame. The glyphs, which were supposed to contain the fire, shattered apart, their symbols twisting into unreadable chaos. The chamber was now a furnace, a death trap.

The alchemists did not even have time to scream.

The fire swallowed them whole, their forms turning to silhouettes for a mere instant before they were nothing but ash in the inferno.

Aegon fell to his knees, gasping, choking, his fingers clawing at the stone as the heat tore through his flesh.

He had failed.

There would be no dragons.

Only death.

The fire surged forward, wrapping around him like a lover's embrace, whispering in a tongue older than even his own.

Aegon did not fight it.

His dreams were burning.

His wife was somewhere above. His children, his grandchild.

His legacy.

All of it was lost.

He exhaled a shuddering breath and closed his eyes.

And in that moment, Aegon V, the dreamer king, ceased to be.

The fire no longer needed him.

It had already taken everything.

The first explosion tore through Summerhall with the force of a raging tempest.

One moment, the castle stood proud beneath the moonlit sky, its high walls and tall towers casting long shadows across the courtyard. The next, flames erupted from within, a monstrous wave of green fire bursting forth like a dragon unfurling its wings.

The night was no longer silent.

A thunderous roar shattered the stillness, shaking the very foundation of the castle. The explosion sent a shockwave rolling outward, hurling embers and shards of stone into the air like deadly projectiles. Walls cracked. Windows shattered. Ceilings groaned under the force of the inferno surging through the corridors.

And then, the screaming began.

It started as a single voice, a high, keening wail of someone caught in the first breath of the wildfire. Then another. Then a dozen more. The halls of Summerhall, once filled with laughter, became a chorus of agony.

The fire was alive.

It did not spread—it hunted.

It twisted and surged unnaturally, creeping up walls, and slithering through corridors like a serpent with insatiable hunger. Where it touched, the stone turned to molten ruin, wooden beams erupted into towering pillars of flame, and flesh melted from the bone in an instant.

Servants, knights, courtiers—those who had been dreaming of tomorrow—were now running for their lives. But there was no escape.

The exits were gone, swallowed by the roaring inferno.

Duncan POV - Final Moments

The first thing Duncan felt was heat.

A slow, creeping warmth that pressed against his skin, growing hotter with every passing second. Then, the scent hit him—thick smoke, choking and suffocating, curling into his lungs like a serpent.

He gasped awake.

Beside him, Jenny stirred, coughing violently, her arms instinctively tightening around Aemon's small body. The baby whimpered but did not cry—his tiny frame trembling in his mother's embrace as the world around them cracked and groaned under the weight of fire's wrath.

Then they saw it.

The door to their chamber—wreathed in flames.

Duncan bolted upright, his heart pounding. The fire had already spread beyond the threshold, licking hungrily at the walls and ceiling. Smoke swirled in thick, suffocating tendrils, turning the air into a burning haze.

"Duncan!" Jenny gasped, her voice raw, panicked. "We have to move—now!"

Duncan didn't hesitate. He grabbed the nearest cloth—a heavy woollen cloak—and swung it over Jenny and Aemon, shielding them as best as he could. Then, with all the strength in his body, he kicked open the burning door.

A wave of blistering heat roared into the room, nearly knocking him off his feet. The hallway beyond was already half-collapsed, the tapestries that once bore the sigils of House Targaryen now reduced to cinders.

But there was still a way forward.

"We need to get out of here!" Duncan shouted, grabbing Jenny's hand as they hurried into the inferno.

The corridors of Summerhall had become a labyrinth of fire.

The once-grand hallways, adorned with golden chandeliers and dragon-carved pillars, were now blackened ruins, collapsing under the weight of the raging inferno.

Duncan led the way, shielding Jenny and Aemon as burning beams crashed down around them.

Then—a voice.

A cry—hoarse, desperate.

"Help—please!"

Duncan turned sharply, his heart lurching in his chest.

Through the swirling smoke and fire, he saw them.

Queen Betha.

His mother.

She stood at the end of the corridor, her once-regal figure now draped in soot-stained robes. Her black hair was disheveled, streaked with ash, her normally strong, commanding presence reduced to desperation.

Beside her, two of her handmaidens clung to each other, terror etched into their faces.

"Duncan!" Betha gasped, reaching for him. "We have to—"

The fire struck first.

A monstrous wave of green flames surged down the corridor, twisting unnaturally, like a living beast.

There was no time to think.

No time to save her.

The wildfire engulfed them.

Betha's scream was lost beneath the deafening roar of the flames.

Duncan lunged forward—too late.

The fire devoured them all.

Where his mother had stood, there was nothing left but blackened ash.

Duncan staggered back, his breath stolen, his mind unable to comprehend what had just happened.

His mother was gone.

Just like that.

Jenny reached for him, her eyes wide with grief, her hands trembling.

"Duncan…" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the fire's roar.

But Duncan couldn't move.

He stood frozen, staring at the place where his mother had vanished.

A prince. A son. A warrior. And yet—he had been powerless.

Aemon let out a soft whimper, his tiny hands curling into Jenny's cloak.

That was what broke him.

Duncan's jaw clenched, his grief twisting into raw determination. He turned back to Jenny, eyes burning—not just from the fire, but from a deep, soul-crushing fury.

"We keep moving," he said, his voice hoarse, unyielding. "We don't stop."

Jenny nodded, tears streaking down her soot-covered cheeks.

And so they ran.

They reached the Great Hall.

And stopped.

Jenny's breath hitched. Duncan's blood turned to ice.

Every exit—every door, every window—was gone.

Swallowed by fire.

The flames had curled around the walls, sealing every passage, and turning the hall into a burning tomb.

The towering chandeliers crashed down, the dragon-forged pillars splitting and crumbling as the ceiling above began to cave in.

There was no way out.

The realization hit them like a blade to the chest.

Duncan turned, his breathing ragged, his hands shaking as he stared at Jenny—at Aemon.

This was it.

Their fate was sealed.

Jenny held Aemon close, her face streaked with soot and sorrow. Her eyes met Duncan's, filled with love… and acceptance.

Tears blurred Duncan's vision. He stepped forward, pulling them both into his arms, holding them as tightly as he could.

If they were to die, they would die together.

Jenny pressed a trembling kiss to Aemon's forehead, her voice was soft but unshakable, a mother's final gift to her child.

"My sweet boy," she whispered, "if you live… you must live. Truly live. Do you hear me?"

Her voice wavered, but she pressed on. "Be kind. Be strong. Love fiercely, as we have. Find happiness, wherever you can. Don't let this world make you hard." Her lips trembled, but she forced a smile, her blue eyes glistening as she looked down at him. "And know this, always—we love you."

Duncan's throat tightened, his entire body shaking as he placed a firm, warm hand over Aemon's small back.

"Aemon," he rasped, his voice hoarse but steady. "You are my son. My greatest joy. My greatest pride." His fingers clenched as he swallowed the sob rising in his throat. "I wish I had more time to teach you. To show you the world. To be the father you deserve."

His chest tightened. "But listen to me now, my son. If you live… then live for us. Live for yourself. Find joy where you can. Find love. A love like the one your mother and I shared—because it is the greatest thing you will ever have."

Jenny nodded, pressing her forehead to Aemon's tiny head, her tears falling freely onto his silver hair. "And no matter where you go… no matter where life takes you… we will always be with you, my love. In your heart. In the wind. In the stars."

Duncan pressed his lips against Jenny's temple, his arms tightening around them both. "And if the gods are kind… we will watch over you. Always."

Jenny let out a quiet, shuddering breath. Then, slowly, she turned to Duncan.

They gazed at each other—two souls who had defied the world to be together, who had fought for love, who had won their own happiness despite everything.

And in that moment, even with death upon them, they had no regrets.

Jenny reached up, her soot-covered fingers brushing gently over Duncan's cheek. He caught her hand, pressing a firm kiss to her palm before lowering his forehead to hers.

"I love you," she whispered.

Duncan's lips trembled, his eyes shining as he whispered back, "I love you, Jenny. In this life and the next."

She smiled—a soft, radiant smile, filled with warmth despite the raging inferno around them.

Then, as the flames surged forward—they kissed.

One last time.

A kiss of love. A kiss of farewell.

A kiss that held an eternity.

And as the fire finally crashed down upon them, they turned—shielding Aemon with their bodies, cradling him in the only protection they had left.

Their lives.

The flames swallowed them whole.

But in their last moments—they did not scream.

They held each other.

They held their son.

And they let go.

Rhaella's POV – A Child Born in Fire and Ash.

The world was burning.

Rhaella Targaryen could see the flames licking the sky, the smoke rising in twisting tendrils, consuming Summerhall in a blinding inferno. The castle—the home that had once been filled with warmth and laughter—was now a funeral pyre.

And inside, her family was trapped.

Her family.

The people she had loved—gone.

Her breath came in ragged, gasping cries, her body wracked with pain as she lay upon a hastily prepared bedroll beneath the dark canopy of trees, only a short distance from the burning castle.

Pain.

It tore through her, deeper and more unforgiving than the fire consuming Summerhall.

She had always known childbirth was agony, but this—this was a storm within her body, a war she was powerless to stop.

"Your Grace, you must push!" the midwife pleaded, her hands firm against Rhaella's thighs. "The child is coming!"

But Rhaella could barely hear her.

Her ears were filled with screams.

Not from her. From the castle.

From the people inside.

From the ones dying.

Her vision blurred with tears and smoke.

She wanted to be in there. She wanted to run into the fire, to tear down the burning walls with her bare hands, to save them—to save her father, her mother, her uncle.

But she couldn't.

She was here.

On the cold, damp ground, surrounded by women she barely knew, screaming not for her own pain, but for the loss she could do nothing to prevent.

She was helpless.

Another sharp contraction ripped through her, stealing the breath from her lungs. Her body arched against the blankets, her hands clawing at the earth beneath her, fingernails digging into the dirt.

It wasn't fair.

It wasn't fucking fair.

She should have been inside with them.

She should have burned with them.

But instead, she was here—bringing life into a world that had just taken so much from her.

Aerys' voice broke through the haze of pain.

"Rhaella! Breathe, damn you!"

She turned her head sharply, her tear-filled violet eyes locking onto her husband's. Aerys knelt at her side, his face pale—not from the fire, not from the loss—but from fear.

Fear for her.

For the first time since the fire started, Aerys was not the prince with dangerous ambitions. He was just a man watching his wife suffer.

She could see it in his face, the raw panic beneath his usual arrogance. The way his fingers twitched, like he wanted to touch her, to offer her comfort—but didn't know how.

Rhaella hated him at that moment.

Why?

Why had Aegon done this?

Why had he gambled everything on a dream?

On dragons that never came?

Rhaella clenched her jaw, gritting her teeth against the pain, the rage, the sorrow.

The fire roared louder. The screams grew fainter.

She felt something tear inside her.

And then—

A cry.

A baby's cry.

The world shrank.

The flames, the burning castle, the death—it all faded into nothing.

There was only this moment.

A wail pierced the night, small but fierce. A sound of life against the backdrop of destruction.

The midwife's trembling hands placed a small, bloodied form into Rhaella's arms.

Her son.

Her hands shook as she pulled him close, and she looked at him for the first time.

Silver hair. Pale, damp skin. A tiny, fragile body that fit perfectly against her chest.

His small cries softened the moment he touched her as if he had only been waiting for the warmth of her embrace.

Tears spilled down Rhaella's face.

She had never imagined what it would feel like to hold her child—to hold something that was hers, something untouched by war, by fire, by grief.

But now she knew.

And it terrified her.

Because this world was cruel.

This world had stolen so much from her already.

Would it take him, too?

Aerys exhaled sharply beside her, his hands twitching, his breath uneven. He stared down at the infant, his gaze unreadable.

Finally, he spoke.

"…Rhaegar."

Rhaella barely had the strength to nod.

She wasn't sure if the name had come from her or Aerys, or if it had simply existed before either of them spoke it aloud.

But it fit.

She bent her head, pressing her lips to her son's forehead, whispering a silent vow against his skin.

"I will protect you."

No matter what it took.

No matter what she had to endure.

She would protect him.

Aerys turned his head toward the inferno in the distance, his jaw clenched tight, his face cast in flickering orange light.

Summerhall was gone.

And with it—their past.

Rhaella stared into the darkness, her fingers tightening around Rhaegar.

Her grandfather had gambled everything to bring dragons back.

He had lost.

But as she looked down at her son—the child born amidst fire and sorrow—she could not help but wonder.

Was he the dragon her father had been waiting for?

Had Rhaegar Targaryen been born in the ashes of a dream… or to fulfil one?

Ser Duncan the Tall's POV – The Last Stand of the Tall Knight.

The heat was unbearable.

Ser Duncan the Tall had faced many battles in his lifetime. He had fought in tournaments, defended kings, and waded through battlefields soaked in blood and rain. He had once thought he had seen the worst of what war could bring.

But this?

This was not war.

This was hell.

The flames engulfed everything. The grand halls of Summerhall, the banners of the dragons, the sacred relics of House Targaryen—all consumed by fire. The air itself screamed as the wildfire burned hotter than any natural flame should.

Duncan's body ached from the heat, sweat pouring down his face, his vision swimming from the sheer intensity of it all. But he could not stop. He would not stop.

Because there were still lives to save.

Ahead of him, Prince Jaehaerys and Princess Shaera stumbled through the collapsing halls, their hands clasped tightly together. Their fine silks were already singed, their faces streaked with soot and desperation.

"Ser Duncan!" Jaehaerys gasped, barely able to speak between frantic breaths. "The fire—it—it's everywhere!"

Duncan could see it in their eyes. The fear. The knowledge that their home—their family—was being swallowed whole.

And that they might not make it out.

Not unless he got them out.

He turned back, scanning the corridor. Behind him, the shadows danced violently, cast by the fire that chased them like a living beast. The flames flickered unnaturally, hungrily, as if something more than wildfire raged within them.

Aegon… Jenny… Duncan the Small…

He did not know if they were alive.

But he could save these two.

And he would.

"Go!" Duncan roared, gripping his massive greatsword tightly. He turned, swinging the blade with all the strength left in his weary body, cleaving through the debris that threatened to block their way.

"Follow me!"

Shaera sobbed, her grip on her husband tightening as they stumbled after Duncan. The great knight moved like an unstoppable force, carving a path through burning wood and falling beams, shielding them as embers rained down like the tears of the gods.

They were close now.

The great doors of Summerhall loomed ahead, cracked and scorched but still standing. Just beyond them, the night air—safety.

A way out.

But the fire had one last trick to play.

A massive beam cracked overhead—the main support of the entry hall. Duncan's sharp eyes caught it just as it began to fall.

Jaehaerys and Shaera were still too far from the door.

They wouldn't make it.

Duncan had no time to think.

He moved.

He lunged forward, gripping them both by the shoulders and throwing them with all his might.

Jaehaerys hit the ground first, tumbling forward, his arms instinctively wrapping around Shaera as they rolled across the threshold—out of the fire.

They had made it.

But Duncan had not.

The beam came crashing down.

The last thing Duncan saw was the horrified expression on Jaehaerys' face, his mouth opening in a desperate scream.

The last thing Duncan felt was the heat rising all around him.

The fire welcomed him.

He had saved them.

That was all that mattered.

As the weight of the burning wood pinned him down, as the flames began to consume him, Ser Duncan the Tall closed his eyes.

Egg… I'm coming.

And then, the greatest knight who ever lived was no more.

Prince Jaehaerys' POV – Ashes of a Dynasty.

The night air was thick with smoke. Even outside, beyond the walls of Summerhall, the acrid scent of wildfire clung to Jaehaerys' lungs, searing his throat with every breath.

His legs trembled beneath him as he collapsed onto the cool grass, dragging Shaera into his arms. She was shaking violently, ashen-faced and breathless, but alive.

Alive.

Jaehaerys let out a choked breath of relief—but it was not over.

Not yet.

A guttural roar split the night as the main towers of Summerhall began to crumble. The castle—their home—was being torn apart by fire, by fate, by Aegon's desperation.

Jaehaerys twisted onto his knees, his arms tightening around Shaera. His mind refused to accept what was happening.

This was supposed to be a celebration.

A birth, a legacy, a new future.

And now, it was a grave.

But no—no, it could not be.

His father was still inside.

His mother.

His brother Duncan. Jenny. Their son.

His family.

"NO!" Jaehaerys stumbled to his feet, his heart hammering in his chest. His hands clenched into fists so tight that his nails nearly pierced his skin. He turned toward the soldiers, the guards who had fled when the wildfire erupted, their faces filled with horror.

"GO BACK!" he bellowed, his voice hoarse and raw. "WE CAN STILL SAVE THEM!"

The men hesitated. The flames were too strong. The heat was unbearable even from here, where they stood on the outer grounds.

Shaera reached for him, her hands trembling as she clutched at his sleeve. "Jae, please, there's nothing we can—"

"DON'T SAY THAT!"

She flinched, and guilt surged through him, but he couldn't—wouldn't—accept this.

"They are still inside," he whispered, his voice breaking. "My father. My mother. My brother. They are still inside."

His words went unanswered.

The truth was too cruel to speak aloud.

The flames howled as they rose higher, licking at the sky like a dragon unleashed from its chains. Sparks of emerald and gold danced in the air as if mocking him. The castle groaned—screaming as it died.

He clenched his jaw, his throat burning with grief.

His father had done this.

For what?

To bring back dragons? To restore their house's power?

And now he was dead, along with everyone inside.

A child's wail shattered through his despair.

Jaehaerys turned sharply, his heart nearly stopping as he spotted the midwives emerging from the woods.

And in their arms—a newborn.

His feet carried him forward before he could think. His hands shook violently as he reached for the small, swaddled bundle.

His grandson.

Rhaegar.

Jaehaerys let out a shuddering breath as he gazed down at his grandchild. Rhaegar's face was still red from birth, his tiny features scrunched together, his fists clenched tightly. He was so small, so fragile—so unaware that his family was burning.

Tears blurred Jaehaerys' vision.

Aegon had destroyed Summerhall for a dream.

And yet, in this moment—this tiny life in his hands—was all that mattered.

A sob escaped him. He pressed his forehead against Rhaegar's soft hair, whispering his name as if it would anchor him back to reality.

"My child" he murmured brokenly.

He had lost his father, his mother, his brother. But here—here was the future.

The boy squirmed as if sensing his grandfather's sorrow. Jaehaerys swallowed hard, looking down at his grandson with an aching heart.

"You will not be a king of ashes," he whispered. "I swear it."

He lifted his gaze, back to Summerhall.

The fire raged on.

The roof caved in.

And Jaehaerys knew—there was nothing left.

His family was gone.

And he was king now.

The dream of dragons had died tonight.

But the future of House Targaryen—his children, his grandson and his heir—was still here.

And for that, he would not let his grief destroy him.

Not yet.

Aemon POV: Love in the Flames and His Rise.

Aemon was only a week old. Too young to understand the world, too young to know loss.

And yet, he could feel it.

The fire. The terror. The love.

He was cradled against his mother's chest, her trembling arms wrapped tightly around him. Her heartbeat was frantic, a rapid, erratic rhythm that told him everything he needed to know.

They were going to die.

The flames raged around them, turning the walls to molten ruin. The air was thick with smoke, choking and suffocating. Aemon's tiny lungs ached, his body trembling from the unbearable heat. He could barely breathe. Every sound was drowned beneath the monstrous roar of the wildfire.

Through blurry, tear-stained vision, he looked up at his parents.

Their faces were streaked with soot and desperation, but still, they smiled at him.

Jenny, his mother, pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, her lips cracked but warm. Her blue eyes shimmered, filled with a love so fierce it defied the doom surrounding them.

"My sweet Aemon," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "If you live, promise me… you will be kind."

Aemon let out a weak, whimpering sound—he didn't understand.

Duncan, his father, knelt beside them, shielding them both from the falling debris. His large, calloused hands stroked Aemon's silver hair with an aching gentleness.

"Promise me, my son," Duncan murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "You will grow strong. Stronger than me. Strong enough to protect those who cannot protect themselves."

The fire closed in. The pillars groaned the ceiling cracked—they had seconds left.

Jenny smiled through her tears. "Find love, Aemon."

Duncan pressed a hand over Aemon's tiny chest, his grip firm but reassuring. "Live, my son. No matter what happens, live."

The fire engulfed them.

Jenny turned to Duncan one last time, her breath shaky, but filled with peace. They had no regrets.

They had chosen love.

She reached for him, her fingers brushing against his cheek.

Duncan smiled. He had always been a fool for love.

And so, they kissed.

Their last moment in this world was not of fear, but of love.

Then, they turned, wrapping their bodies around Aemon.

Shielding him.

Protecting him.

Giving him their final gift.

The fire rushed in, swallowing them whole.

Darkness.

Pain.

Silence.

For a long, endless moment, Aemon felt nothing.

Then—agony.

His parents were gone.

He could still feel them. Their warmth, their arms around him—but they were not moving.

The fire had taken them.

Aemon's tiny body trembled violently.

They died protecting him.

They died for him.

Something cracked inside his newborn heart, something deep and impossible to describe. A sorrow so profound it threatened to drown him.

He was one week old.

And he had lost everything.

Tears leaked from his violet eyes. His small fingers curled weakly into his mother's soot-covered dress.

A whimper.

A breath.

Then—a vow.

"I will live."

The words had no sound, no shape—only raw feeling.

"I will be strong."

"I will protect the weak."

"I will find love."

"I will make their sacrifice mean something."

The smoke thickened. Aemon's tiny lungs burned. He let out a fragile cry, his body giving in.

He was dying.

Just as his parents had.

His vision blurred, blackness creeping in from the edges. The fire crept closer, curling around his small frame like a hungry beast.

This was it.

His life would end where it began.

Then—a voice.

No, not a voice.

A pulse.

[ EMERGENCY PROTOCOL ACTIVATED. ]

Aemon's entire body shuddered violently. His tiny veins pulsed with a strange, alien warmth as if something deep inside him had suddenly awoken.

A spark—then an inferno.

Something changed.

The fire reached him—and did nothing.

The flames danced along his skin, curling around his limbs—but he did not burn.

A pulse rippled through his blood, his bones, his very being.

[ INITIATING GENETIC RESTRUCTURING. ]

Aemon's tiny form began to change.

The blood of Old Valyria, the fireborn legacy of his ancestors, surged within him.

The blood of the First Men, the ancient strength of the old world, solidified in his bones.

His skin toughened, his body hardened, and his organs adapted.

His mind—evolved.

Aemon was no longer just a newborn.

He was something else.

Something… more.

[ UPGRADE COMPLETE. ]

The fire licked at him, but could not touch him.

The heat wrapped around him, but could not harm him.

He was Unburnt.

Aemon's tiny fingers twitched.

His violet eyes glowed faintly in the firelight.

And then, as quickly as it had come—the surge of power faded.

[ SYSTEM SHUTDOWN – ENERGY DEPLETED. ]

Aemon's body collapsed.

He was alive.

But he could not move.

His mind went blank, his body slipping into unconsciousness.

GENERAL POV: The Last Dragon Stands Alone

The fire burned through the night.

By morning, Summerhall was nothing but ruins.

Prince Jaehaerys stood among the smouldering wreckage, his face pale with grief.

His father was gone.

His mother was gone.

Duncan. Jenny. Ser Duncan the Tall.

All dead.

Only a handful had survived.

The soldiers scoured the ruins, searching desperately for any sign of life.

And then—

"My prince! Over here!"

Jaehaerys turned sharply, his heart lurching in his chest.

The guards had found something.

No—someone.

Beneath the shattered stone and ash, wrapped in the burnt remnants of his mother's dress—

Aemon.

Unharmed.

Unburnt.

Alive.

Jaehaerys stared in disbelief.

It was impossible. No one should have survived.

And yet—there he was.

The last son of Duncan Targaryen.

Aemon stirred weakly, his small fingers twitching.

Jaehaerys knelt down, carefully lifting the baby into his arms. The child barely breathed, his skin still warm from the fire—but untouched.

The prince swallowed hard, his throat tightening.

"…How?" he whispered.

No answer came.

Only the whispering wind, the echoes of the dead, and the cries of a House that had lost everything.

Jaehaerys cradled Aemon against his chest, holding him as tightly as if he could shield him from the cruel world.

"We will protect him," he murmured.

Shaera stepped forward, her eyes wet with grief, her arms wrapping around them both.

"He is the last of them," she whispered.

Jaehaerys closed his eyes.

The dream of dragons had died last night.

But from its ashes…

One still remained...