Game of Thrones: A Song Of Blood & Fire

The royal carriage rumbled through the cobbled streets of King's Landing, its golden and crimson banners fluttering weakly in the faint breeze. The capital, the heart of the Seven Kingdoms, stood before them, sprawling across the banks of the Blackwater Rush like a great, restless beast. Yet today, it was a city drowning in a heavy silence, thick with sorrow, uncertainty, and whispers of ghosts.

The walls of the city loomed tall and foreboding, their ancient stone stained by centuries of war, rule, and ruin. The once-proud Iron Gate opened reluctantly, its rusted hinges groaning under the weight of history. Beyond it, the capital stretched in all directions—a labyrinth of winding streets, wooden hovels, grand manors, and towering septs, all intertwined in the chaotic brilliance that was King's Landing.

But something was different.

There was no fanfare, no joyous cheers that usually heralded the arrival of the royal family. Instead, there was only the low tolling of bells from the Great Sept of Baelor, a solemn dirge echoing across the city, mourning the fallen Targaryens who had perished at Summerhall. The sound rolled through the streets like distant thunder, filling the hearts of men with unease.

The city itself bore a strange, fractured atmosphere. Some wept openly in the streets, commoners clutching at their loved ones, mourning a king they had never seen but who had ruled in peace. Others stood in quiet disbelief, whispering amongst themselves, watching the royal procession pass with a mixture of awe and dread.

Yet, not all wept.

For every commoner who grieved, another simply went about their business, indifferent to the tragedy, more concerned with the price of bread or the pickpockets weaving through the gathered crowds. The Goldcloaks, clad in their familiar golden helms, stood tense at every corner, struggling to maintain order.

The thick, humid air carried the scents of roasting meat and unwashed bodies, of baked bread and foul sewage, mingling with the sharp tang of salt from Blackwater Bay. Smoke from the forges of Flea Bottom curled into the air, mixing with the scent of incense drifting from the Great Sept. The city was alive—

And yet, it felt as if a shadow loomed over it.

The royal procession advanced through the Street of Steel, where blacksmiths hammered away at swords, armour, and horseshoes, pausing only briefly to offer stiff bows as the carriage rolled past. Further ahead, the Street of Flourbustled with bakers hawking their goods, their faces pale beneath the weight of what had been lost. Flea Bottom, as always, was filled with filth, squalor, and desperation.

The royal family could not hear the whispers of the city, but they felt them.

"The King is dead."

"The Prince too, and the Queen—gods help them."

"And the Foolish Prince, the one who married for love? Gone too."

"And yet… the child lived?"

As they neared the Hill of Rhaenys, a hulking ruin came into view—the Dragonpit, a crumbling, haunted spectre of House Targaryen's once-unrivalled power. The vast dome, once a prison for dragons, now stood as a tomb of their memory, cracked and broken, its hollow depths echoing with nothing but the wind. A cruel reminder of what once was, what could have been, and what had been lost.

Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen watched as they passed it, his jaw tightening. This was what remained of his house. A legacy of ruin and ghosts.

The Red Keep stood above it all, perched high on Aegon's High Hill, the seat of the Iron Throne. It was an imposing fortress of red stone, its towers stretching toward the heavens like jagged, grasping claws. From its walls, banners of House Targaryen still flew, but the flame in them felt dimmer now.

The great doors of Maegor's Holdfast creaked open, and the royal family stepped into the echoing halls of the Red Keep.

At the far end of the Throne Room, standing beneath the towering Iron Throne, was Princess Rhaelle Targaryen, the eldest daughter of Aegon V. Dressed in a gown of mourning black, her silver hair was neatly braided, but her normally poised expression was haunted with worry.

Her hands clenched tightly at her sides as her gaze flickered across the faces before her, scanning, searching—

And then, she saw her brother.

Jaehaerys.

Her breath hitched, her eyes widening. Behind him, she saw Shaera, carrying the unconscious Aemon, saw Aerys, his usual arrogance replaced with a quiet, grieving weight, saw Rhaella, pale and holding her newborn son, Rhaegar, to her chest.

Her hands trembled. Where was—?

"No…"

Rhaelle took a step forward, then another, her voice breaking as her worst fears were confirmed. Their parents were not there. Duncan was not here. Jenny was not here.

Jaehaerys barely had time to react before Rhaelle crossed the room, throwing herself into his arms.

She clutched him desperately as if he might disappear too, her body trembling, her nails digging into his back. "No, no, no…" she whispered. "Not them. Not all of them."

Jaehaerys said nothing.

For a long moment, they simply stood there. Brother and sisters. The last children of Aegon the Unlikely.

When Rhaelle finally pulled back, her violet eyes were rimmed with red, her lips parted, trembling. "Tell me it's not true," she whispered a desperate, broken plea.

Jaehaerys couldn't.

He simply shook his head.

Rhaelle choked on a sob and turned away, pressing a hand to her mouth as if to stop the grief from escaping.

Stepping forward, Lord Ormund Baratheon, Hand of the King and Lord of Storm's End, knelt before Jaehaerys.

His dark, storm-blue eyes were shadowed with grief, his strong features weighed by responsibility.

"My prince—my king," Ormund said solemnly. "Your father was my king. Your brother was once my friend. I swore my loyalty to House Targaryen then, and I swear it again now."

He lowered his head, his voice quiet but firm.

"Storm's End stands with you. I will be your shield, your sword, and your hand, as long as you need me. Your house will not fall while I draw breath."

Jaehaerys, still reeling from the weight of everything, nodded once, placing a hand upon Ormund's shoulder. "Then I shall trust you as my father did."

Jaehaerys finally turned to the gathered lords and courtiers, his expression unreadable.

"There will be a meeting of the court tomorrow." His voice was quiet but firm. "To discuss the funerals of my family, to prepare for what must come next." His shoulders straightened. "The realm must have a king."

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Jaehaerys exhaled, his hands tightening at his sides.

His mourning was not yet over.

But his reign had already begun.

GENERAL POV

The tragedy at Summerhall did not remain a whispered secret within the walls of the Red Keep for long. Like a spark igniting dry parchment, the news spread across the Seven Kingdoms with terrifying speed. Messengers on horseback, ravens sent from King's Landing, and travelling merchants all carried the same harrowing tale:

"The Wildfire at Summerhall had claimed the lives of King Aegon V, Queen Betha, Prince Duncan Targaryen, his wife Jenny of Oldstones, and the legendary Ser Duncan the Tall, along with a host of courtiers and guards. The king and his dream of dragons had burned to nothing, leaving behind only ash."

The Seven Kingdoms reeled at the enormity of the loss. The nobility, the smallfolk, the Faith, and even those across the Narrow Sea felt the weight of the disaster. Aegon the Unlikely had been beloved by many, and his death—along with the loss of his kin—sent ripples of fear, uncertainty, and speculation across Westeros.

What truly set tongues wagging, however, was the news of one sole survivor of the inferno: Aemon Targaryen, the infant son of Prince Duncan and Jenny of Oldstones.

The boy had been cradled in his parents' arms as the flames engulfed them, yet when the ruins cooled, he was found untouched, unburnt, with not a single mark upon his skin. The fire that had devoured kings and warriors alike had somehow left him unharmed.

Rumors began to spread like plague:

The Faithful whispered "that the boy was protected by the gods, a child of destiny chosen by the Seven to survive where all others had perished."

The superstitious claimed "he had been shielded by his mother's bloodline, the old magic of the First Men protecting him from the wrath of the flames."

The nobles whispered of darker things—"was the child truly mortal, or had he been marked by something unnatural? Had the fire forged him into something beyond human?"

The Maesters at the Citadel debated endlessly on the subject, scoffing at the superstitions yet unable to explain the phenomenon themselves. Some believed he had been placed in a protective barrier of stone and rubble that insulated him from the fire. Others theorized that he was born with an unnatural resistance to heat, like the dragons of old.

The most sinister of rumours suggested that

Aemon was not a survivor but a herald of doom. That the fire had not spared him—it had chosen him. That he was some terrible prophecy come to life, and that where he walked, destruction would follow.

Whatever the truth, the legend of Aemon's survival took root across the Seven Kingdoms. His name was spoken in hushed tones, and even those who dismissed the rumours could not shake the unease that accompanied them.

Yet, amid the ashes of Summerhall, another Targaryen had entered the world: Prince Rhaegar, the firstborn son of Prince Aerys and Princess Rhaella.

His birth was seen by many as the only light in the darkness, a sign that the Targaryen bloodline would endure despite the terrible loss. With King Aegon and Prince Duncan dead, Prince Jaehaerys was now the rightful ruler, and Rhaegar's existence ensured the line of succession.

The Lords of the realm sent their congratulations and condolences, but behind closed doors, many pondered what this meant for the future. A newborn heir was a fragile thing, and the Targaryen dynasty had just suffered an unprecedented blow. Could they truly recover from this disaster?

In the North, Lord Rickard Stark received the news with the quiet solemnity of his people. The North had always respected Aegon V, despite his Southern policies, and the tragedy was mourned in the halls of Winterfell. However, Rickard was a pragmatic man. While he grieved the loss of the king, his mind turned to the implications of House Targaryen's newfound weakness. If the dragons faltered, the balance of power in Westeros might shift.

Lord Tytos Lannister, often seen as weak-willed by his peers, was deeply unsettled by the news. The destruction of Summerhall meant a potential power vacuum, and with Tywin Lannister, his eldest son, watching keenly, the future of the realm suddenly became far more precarious.

Tywin, ever the strategist, saw this as an opportunity. Aerys, his childhood friend, had just become the Crown Prince. If he played his cards right, the Lannisters could rise higher than ever before.

Lord Ormund Baratheon, Hand of the King, felt the loss keenly. His wife, Rhaelle Targaryen, had lost her parents, her brother, and much of her family. His son, Steffon, had just welcomed the royal family to Storm's End, standing as one of their few remaining pillars of support.

But Ormund was no fool. He knew that with the death of Aegon, the realm would turn its eyes to King's Landing, waiting to see if House Targaryen would crumble under the weight of its own loss.

The Lords of the Vale were cautious, mourning the loss of the king but keeping their distance. They had long been wary of House Targaryen's dominance, and the weakening of the dragonlords only reinforced their preference for isolation.

Dorne had always held mixed feelings toward House Targaryen. While they had no love for the dragons of old, Aegon V had been a king who sought peace. His death was received with quiet mourning, but no great outcry.

In King's Landing, the Faith of the Seven took the tragedy as a sign from the gods. The Great Sept of Baelor rang its bells in mourning, and prayers were held across Westeros for the souls of the fallen. Yet, among the highest circles of the Faith, whispers spread that the Targaryens had grown too bold, too consumed by their dreams of fire and blood. Was Summerhall a warning?

The scholars of Oldtown debated the event tirelessly. Some believed Aegon V had dabbled too deeply in forgotten Valyrian sorcery. Others suggested that the entire affair was proof that the dragons were truly gone—and should remain that way.

But more than anything, they wanted to know how Aemon had survived.

For the common people, the tragedy was a tale of horror and myth. Some wept for the loss of the king who had tried to do right by them. Others saw it as the inevitable downfall of dragonlords who had flown too close to the sun.

But everyone, from the lowest beggar to the wealthiest merchant, spoke of the boy who did not burn.

The name Aemon Targaryen would be forever tied to fire and survival.

And as the realm watched, waiting to see what would come next, one truth became clear:

House Targaryen had been wounded—but not yet broken.

The question was—would they rise again?

Or was this the beginning of their end?