Game of Thrones: A Song Of Blood & Fire

JAEHAERYS POV

The air was thick with the stench of charred stone, burnt flesh, and smouldering ruin.

Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen stood amid the ashen remnants of Summerhall, his eyes scanning the devastation that had once been a castle—a home, a dream, a grave.

The blackened ruins stretched before him, silent and unyielding, as if the fire had devoured not only the walls but the very soul of the place. Smoke still curled from the shattered remnants, rising into the sky like ghostly fingers, whispering of the lives lost within.

The place where his father had burned.

Where his mother had perished.

Where his brother Duncan had died with his wife, shielding their son with their very lives.

And where one had survived.

He turned, his weary gaze settling on Shaera, who cradled the unconscious form of Aemon, the last son of Duncan. The boy lay limp in her arms, untouched by the fire that had devoured his parents.

A miracle. A mystery. A reminder of all they had lost.

Nearby, Aerys stood, his usual arrogance stripped away, replaced by a silent, brooding weight. His gaze flickered to his cousin Steffon, then back to the ruins, but he said nothing.

And then, there was Rhaella—weakened, exhausted, still pale from childbirth, yet unbroken. She held Rhaegar tightly, the newborn's soft whimpers the only sound against the silence of the fallen keep.

Jaehaerys exhaled.

He felt… nothing.

No tears. No cries of anguish. Only the crushing, all-consuming weight of his new burden.

He was King now.

The realization settled in his bones like iron shackles.

Aegon V's dream had burned with him. And now, Jaehaerys would inherit not just a kingdom, but a broken legacy, a family in ruins, and the weight of a throne built upon fire and ashes.

The kingship was his. The burden was his alone.

But there was no time to grieve.

They had to leave.

Jaehaerys turned to the remaining Kingsguards and soldiers, those who had survived the inferno. Their faces were streaked with soot and grief, their armour dented, their eyes hollow.

"Gather whatever remains," Jaehaerys commanded, his voice quiet but absolute. "We take what we can… and we leave."

There was little left to salvage.

The golden banners of House Targaryen were reduced to blackened tatters. The once grand stained-glass windows, depicting dragons and kings of old, were shattered, their shards glinting in the dying embers.

The only thing recovered from the ruins was a single half-burned crown, once belonging to King Aegon V.

A cruel irony.

The crown had survived when its wearer had not.

Jaehaerys looked down at it, feeling the sharp weight of fate pressing upon him.

With measured hands, he took the broken relic and held it against his chest.

"Father… was this what you wanted?"

The wind answered only with silence.

The journey to Storm's End was slow and haunted by silence.

Their party was small—Jaehaerys, Shaera, Aerys, Rhaella, the newborn Rhaegar, the unconscious Aemon, a handful of Kingsguard, and the remaining soldiers.

The road was long, winding through withered forests and rocky hills, the sky above them grey with storm clouds.

Jaehaerys rode at the front, his eyes unfocused, lost in thought.

He could feel the weight of his grief, pressing against his ribs like an iron band.

He had not been there. He had been too late.

He had failed them.

His father. His mother. Duncan. Jenny. His sworn protector, Ser Duncan the Tall.

He had failed them all.

And now, all that remained were the broken pieces of a shattered house.

"You are the last pillar."

Those were the words his uncle Maester Aemon had spoken to him before he left Summerhall to the Wall.

"One day, you will stand alone. And when that day comes, you must not fall."

He had never imagined that day would come so soon.

His hands trembled on the reins. He could feel the eyes of his people on him, waiting for him to be strong, to lead them forward.

But inside, he was still the boy who had laughed at his father's side, who had watched Duncan and Jenny dance in the moonlight, who had dreamed of a future where they would all stand together.

Now, they were ghosts, and he was alone.

He clenched his jaw, his voice a whisper in the wind.

"I will not fall."

He had no choice.

The journey had been long, marked by silence and the heavy weight of mourning, but as Storm's End came into view, Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen felt an odd sense of relief—for the first time in days, he could breathe.

The great castle of the Stormlands, a monolith of unbroken stone and unyielding strength, stood defiant against the winds, its walls thick with history and legend. Unlike Summerhall, which had burned in a single night, Storm's End had withstood a thousand tempests and would stand for a thousand more.

The skies had darkened, grey clouds gathering above, and the salt-tinged wind from Shipbreaker Bay howled through the cliffs, carrying with it the distant roar of waves crashing against the mighty curtain walls.

Storm's End had always been a fortress first, a home second.

Its rounded, towering keep loomed over the coastline, its architecture unlike any other castle in Westeros—a smooth, near-impenetrable wall of stone with no weak points, no cracks for wind or war to exploit. The barbicans and battlements stretched wide across the rocky cliffs, and the great oaken gates, reinforced with iron, stood shut like the maw of a sleeping giant.

As they neared, the banner of House Baratheon—a crowned stag in gold upon a black field—fluttered in the wind, standing firm beneath the Targaryen dragon that flew above it.

This was not just a castle.

It was a bastion. A place that had never fallen.

And today, it welcomed the remnants of a family that had lost everything.

As the royal entourage rode through the open gates, they were met by Steffon Baratheon, heir of Storm's End and the only son of Lord Ormund and his eldest sister Princess Rhaelle Targaryen.

At sixteen, Steffon was already a towering figure, tall and broad-shouldered, built like a true Baratheon warrior. His hair was dark, almost black, falling in loose waves over his brow, and his storm-blue eyes held both warmth and unwavering steel. His jaw was strong, already touched with the first hints of a beard, and his posture was proud yet welcoming.

Dressed in a deep black tunic embroidered with the golden-crowned stag of his house, with a cloak of Baratheon yellow clasped at his shoulder, Steffon looked every inch the future Lord of Storm's End.

Beside him stood his betrothed, Lady Cassana Estermont—a slender young woman with chestnut-brown hair and gentle green eyes, dressed in a fine dark blue gown embroidered with seafoam patterns.

Though young, Steffon had been raised to lead, and today, he would welcome his family home.

As Jaehaerys and his retinue approached, Steffon stepped forward and knelt, lowering his head in deep reverence.

"Your Grace," Steffon said, his voice firm yet laden with sorrow, "Storm's End stands with House Targaryen, as it always has, and as it always will."

Jaehaerys looked down at his nephew—the son of his eldest sister, Rhaelle—and for a moment, he saw something of his father in him.

He did not speak immediately. Instead, he dismounted, reaching out to clasp Steffon's forearm in a firm grip, pulling him up.

"Your words honour your house nephew," Jaehaerys said quietly. "But more than that… your presence brings me comfort."

Steffon nodded, his grip tightening, offering strength where words could not.

"We grieve with you, Uncle."

Steffon then turned to Shaera, who still held Aemon in her arms, the boy still unconscious, untouched by the flames. His expression softened as he gazed upon the child who had miraculously survived what no one else had.

Then, he turned to Aerys, his cousin and closest friend.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence between them.

Then, without a word, Steffon pulled Aerys into an embrace, gripping his shoulder. A silent vow of brotherhood.

Aerys, so often arrogant and brash, said nothing—but for once, he did not pull away.

When Steffon finally released him, his storm-blue gaze shifted to Rhaella, who stood exhausted but unbroken, cradling her newborn son, Rhaegar.

The young Lord of Storm's End knelt once more, this time before her.

"My lady, it is an honour to witness the birth of your son," he said with a soft, respectful bow. "Prince Rhaegar is the future of our house. You have my congratulations… and my sword, should he ever need it."

Rhaella's lips parted slightly, and for a moment, her grief softened.

"Thank you, Steffon," she murmured, her fingers gently stroking Rhaegar's tiny hand.

For the first time since Summerhall burned, the royal family could breathe.

Storm's End offered sanctuary.

Inside, the halls were vast, with great torches lining the walls, casting long shadows over the high, curved ceilings. Unlike the Red Keep, Storm's End was a fortress first, built to withstand war, not luxury.

The great wooden beams smelled of salt and rain, and the scent carried in through the open windows where the sea crashed relentlessly against the cliffs below.

The throne of Storm's End, carved from blackened oak and lined with iron bands, stood at the head of the great hall, where Lord Ormund would usually preside. But tonight, it remained empty, a silent symbol of the Baratheons' loyalty to the Targaryens.

The night was spent in quiet mourning and reflection.

Steffon ordered warm meals and fresh clothes for the weary travellers, though Jaehaerys ate little, speaking even less.

The halls were filled with low murmurs, the flickering candlelight casting eerie shapes against the stone walls. It was a night of mourning, but also of rebuilding.

They had lost much.

But they had each other.

And that, for now, was enough.

After two days of rest, it was time to leave.

Storm's End had given them shelter, but Jaehaerys could not hide from his burden forever.

King's Landing awaited.

The Iron Throne awaited.

As they prepared to depart, Steffon stood beside Jaehaerys, watching as the royal party mounted their horses.

"You don't have to face this alone," Steffon said, his voice quiet. "You have us. House Baratheon will always stand beside you."

Jaehaerys exhaled slowly, gripping the reins.

"…Thank you, Steffon."

As the gates of Storm's End opened behind them, Jaehaerys looked ahead—toward the long road to King's Landing.

He knew what awaited him there.

His older sister, Rhaelle, did not yet know.

She still ruled in King's Landing, governing in his father's absence with her husband Lord Ormund who was the Hand of King, believing her father, her mother, and her younger brother Duncan… were still alive.

But when he arrived, he would be the one to tell her.

He would be the one to shatter her world.

He would be the one to carry the weight of their fallen house.

Jaehaerys closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath.

Then, with a final glance back at Storm's End, he rode forward—toward his fate.

The road to King's Landing was long, stretching across the Stormlands' rolling hills and dense forests, winding through villages and hamlets that had yet to hear of Summerhall's fall. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and fresh pine, a stark contrast to the suffocating ash and smoke that had once filled Jaehaerys' lungs.

As the royal retinue rode, the rhythmic sound of hooves against packed dirt was the only company to Jaehaerys' thoughts. He had not spoken much since they left Storm's End, his mind trapped within the iron cage of his own making.

The weight of kingship settled upon him with every mile they rode.

He was the last son of Aegon the Fifth. The sole protector of House Targaryen.

And he had failed.

As the capital loomed ever closer, Jaehaerys found his thoughts drifting to those who would seek to use his house's weakness against them.

The great houses of Westeros had long bowed to the dragons, but loyalty was often just another form of patience.

House Lannister—Tywin Lannister was young, but his father, Lord Tytos, was a weak ruler. The lions of Casterly Rock had been licking their wounds for years, their pride wounded after years of instability.

Would they remain loyal?

House Arryn—the Eyrie had been neutral, but the Lords of the Vale had never forgotten how the dragons had bent them to their will.

House Stark—they had remained loyal for centuries. But would that loyalty endure if winter truly came?

And then… there was the Faith.

His Family's greatest enemy.

The Seven had not forgotten how Aegon V had stripped them of their power. The High Septon and his followers would never be open in their defiance, but in the shadows, their whispers would grow.

Jaehaerys exhaled, his breath slow, measured.

He would need to be careful.

His gaze drifted to Aemon.

The boy was still unconscious, wrapped in a thick crimson cloak that shielded him from the cool winds of the road. Shaera held him gently, watching over him with the quiet devotion of a mother, even though he was not hers.

Jaehaerys had seen death in Summerhall. He had seen the fire consume everything, devouring flesh and stone alike.

And yet… Aemon had survived.

He had been barely a month old, trapped in a firestorm, and yet he bore no burns, no scars.

He should have died.

But he hadn't.

Jaehaerys did not believe in prophecies the way his father had, nor did he put faith in the old magic of the world.

But this?

This was not normal.

Aemon slept peacefully, his small face unmarked by the tragedy that had stolen his parents. His silver hair shimmered in the faint sunlight, a reminder that he was, without question, a Targaryen.

And yet, Jaehaerys felt uneasy.

Was it a blessing?

Or a warning?

Was this boy meant to be House Targaryen's salvation?

Or would his survival bring something worse?

Jaehaerys did not know.

But he vowed to watch him closely.

Whatever power had saved him—it had changed him.

That much, he was certain of.

As the city walls of King's Landing came into view, Jaehaerys felt the full weight of his duty settles upon him.

This was no longer about grief.

This was about the future.

He had lost his father, his mother, his brother, his home.

But he would not lose his house.

He would rule wisely. He would be careful.

He would not make the mistakes of his ancestors.

Aegon had chased dreams and burned for them.

Jaehaerys would build something stronger.

House Targaryen would not fall.

Not while he drew breath.

With one final breath, he straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and rode toward his fate.

Toward his throne.