Game of Thrones: A Song Of Blood & Fire

Aemon POV.

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The world had been a blur of sounds and sensations for three long weeks—three weeks of mourning, whispers, and heavy silences. Three weeks since he had been reborn into this world of fire and blood.

Aemon was a babe, barely a month old, yet his mind was sharp, his thoughts lucid. He saw, he listened, he learned. And he remembered.

His past life—an existence beyond this world—was a fading whisper, slipping like grains of sand through his fingers. But clarity remained in his newfound reality. He had been born into House Targaryen, a house of fire, dragons, and destiny. He was no ordinary child; he was the son of a prince and the blood of kings flowed through his veins.

Yet his birth had been shadowed by sorrow.

The halls of the Red Keep had been draped in mourning when he first opened his eyes to the world. The air had been heavy with grief, the wails of courtiers and servants echoing through the stone corridors. The tragedy of Summerhall still clung to the walls like smoke, thick and suffocating. A disaster that had claimed the lives of his parents, Duncan and Jenny, and his grandfather, King Aegon V. The realm had lost its king, its prince, and its queen of the woods in one night of flames.

He had been too young to see it with his own eyes, but he had heard the sorrow in every whispered conversation, seen it in the faces of the royal family who cradled him like a fragile relic of the dead. His uncle, Jaehaerys, had barely spoken in the past weeks, his eyes hollow with the weight of sudden kingship.

And his aunt and new queen, Shaera, had been inconsolable.Her grief buried under duty.

Aemon had been present at the funeral—if only as a silent observer, an infant swaddled in soft silk, cradled in the arms of his aunt. He had felt the weight of the moment even then, his small heart pounding in tune with the somber bells of the Great Sept of Baelor. The city had stood in eerie silence that day, banners of black and red fluttering solemnly over the capital.

He had seen the coffins, each draped in the colors of their station.

It was a funeral unlike any the realm had seen in decades. Lords and ladies had bowed their heads, the Great Sept had been filled to its limits, and the High Septon himself had spoken of destiny, sacrifice, and the unknowable will of the gods.

But none of it had mattered. None of it could change the past.

The king was dead.

His parents was dead.

And now, today, a new king would rise.

Jaehaerys, his uncle, would be crowned before all of Westeros. The bells that had tolled for the dead now rang for the living. The streets of King's Landing were alive once more, though the mourning still clung to the hearts of many.

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The bells of King's Landing tolled, echoing through the sprawling streets of the city, heralding a day that would be remembered in history—the coronation of Jaehaerys II Targaryen. The air buzzed with anticipation, excitement, and reverence as thousands gathered to witness the ascension of their new king. The sun bathed the streets in golden light, illuminating banners of black and red fluttering atop every tower, reflecting the power of House Targaryen.

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He barely a month old, yet his mind, occupied by a soul, not of this world, perceived everything with clarity. The maids dressed him with the utmost care, their hands gentle as they wrapped him warmly for the grand occasion. Swaddled in fine dornish silk, the rich fabric embroidered with the sigil of his house—a three-headed dragon in threads of black and red—he was nestled securely in the arms of aunt, Princess Rhaelle Baratheon. The warmth of her embrace was comforting, her scent gentle and soothing. He could feel the steady rhythm of her heartbeat as she carried him, a reminder that despite the grandeur of this day, to her, he was but an innocent babe. The halls of the Red Keep echoed with murmurs and hurried footsteps as the royal family prepared to make their way to the Great Sept of Baelor.

The city was alive with the energy of the coronation. Bells tolled in the distance, their solemn chimes mixing with the cheers of the smallfolk lining the streets. Banners of red and black fluttered from the parapets, and the air smelled of burning incense and rich perfumes carried on the breeze. The great nobles had arrived in force, their banners waving proudly as they processed towards the Sept. The anticipation was palpable.

From his vantage point, Aemon observed the grandeur of the Great Sept of Baelor as they approached its massive steps. Its pale domes gleamed under the morning sun, reflecting divinity and power. The stained-glass windows depicted the Seven in their celestial majesty, and before the immense doors, an assembly of nobles, knights, and commoners stood in reverence. The massive interior was filled with the scent of incense and burning candles, an aura of sacredness washing over all who entered.

At the High Altar stood the High Septon, garbed in his resplendent robes, a tall crown of crystal and gold resting upon his head. His presence was commanding, his every movement laced with the solemnity of duty. To his left, Jaehaerys stood, regal in his attire—black and red robes of the purest silk, edged with golden embroidery. Upon his shoulders rested a mantle of fine sable, a mark of his new station. At his side, Queen Shaera stood adorned in silver and crimson, the grace of her lineage evident in every delicate movement.

Aerys stood regally at its forefront, his frame encased in robes of deep Targaryen red with threads of gold and silver forming dragons along the sleeves. Beside him stood Princess Rhealla holding Rheagar, her gown of white and crimson flowing like a river of silk, her face etched with solemnity. Princess Rhaelle stood beside them, while Aemon rested in her arms.

The light streaming through the stained-glass windows cast brilliant hues across the assembled lords and ladies who had come to bear witness.

The crowd fell into hushed silence as the High Septon raised his hands. His voice, deep and resonant, filled the vast Sept, reverberating off the walls with divine authority.

"Before the Seven who see all, we gather to witness the anointment and coronation of Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, protector of the realm. May the Seven grant him wisdom as the Father, strength as the Warrior, and justice as the Crone. May his rule be long and his heart true."

He turned to Jaehaerys and lifted a golden chalice filled with sanctified oils. Dipping his fingers within, he traced the sacred sigils upon the king's brow, marking him with the divine blessing of the Seven.

"With the Father's wisdom, the Mother's mercy, the Warrior's strength, the Smith's diligence, the Maiden's innocence, the Crone's foresight, and the Stranger's inevitability, I anoint thee, Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms."

The High Septon then took the Crown of Maekar I, a band of red gold adorned with tall spikes of black iron, the black iron points gleamed ominously against the red gold band that encircled it, a symbol of strength and duty. A warrior's crown, and set it upon Jaehaerys' head. The weight of history and duty settled upon him as he looked across the gathered nobility.

"By the grace of the Seven, I crown you Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, protector of the realm, defender of the faith, and shield of his people."

"The Seven who see all have watched over this kingdom since the days of Aegon the Conqueror, and today, they bear witness to the dawn of a new reign. May King Jaehaerys II be the beacon of justice as the Father, the unwavering blade as the Warrior, and the wise ruler as the Crone. His rule shall be a shield against darkness and a flame against all that would seek to undo the realm. Let all gathered here today know that the Seven have spoken, and this is the will of the gods."

"Long May He Reign "

The crown was placed upon his head, and the lords and knights in attendance knelt as one, their voices ringing through the Sept.

"Long live the King! Long live Jaehaerys!"

As the High Septon anointed Jaehaerys, the realm changed forever, and Aemon watched as history unfolded before him. The air shimmered with reverence, with purpose. The scent of his aunt's perfume, the solemn faces of the lords, the banners of his house stretching high—all of it was overwhelming, but I understood. The world had shifted. A king had risen. And he was here to witness it.

As one, the gathered lords fell to their knees, their voices united in a solemn oath. The ceremony then proceeded to the Red Keep, where Jaehaerys would ascend the Iron Throne.

The city of King's Landing trembled with anticipation. The great bells of the Great Sept of Baelor tolled in deep, reverberating tones that echoed through the winding streets and towering spires. The sky was a brilliant canvas of gold and crimson, the sun shining brightly upon the capital of the Seven Kingdoms. Crowds gathered along the processional route, their voices a cacophony of cheers, prayers, and hushed murmurs as they awaited the sight of their new king.

From the grand steps of the Great Sept emerged the royal family, bathed in the divine light filtering through the sept's massive stained-glass windows. King Jaehaerys II led the procession, resplendent in robes of deep black and crimson, embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Upon his brow rested the warlike crown of his grandfather Maekar, the iron spikes glinting ominously beneath the sun. Queen Shaera walked beside him, her silken gown shimmering like liquid silver, her pale hands resting upon his arm. Behind them followed Prince Aerys, named heir and Prince of Dragonstone, his Valyrian silver hair cascading past his shoulders, his violet eyes alight with intrigue and ambition.

At the heart of the procession, Princess Rhaella held baby Rhaegar in her arms, his tiny fingers clutching the edges of his mother's royal garb. Beside them, Princess Rhealle carefully bore Prince Aemon, wrapped in the softest black silk, embroidered with minute Targaryen dragons in gold and red. Though merely a babe, Aemon's wide, starlit violet eyes reflected the grandeur around him, his infant mind absorbing every flicker of movement, every whispered word, every moment of history unfolding before him.

The Kingsguard, gleaming in their immaculate white cloaks and shining plates, flanked the procession. Leading them was Ser Gerald Hightower, the White Bull, a steadfast guardian of the crown. Behind him, the esteemed Ser Renly of Fair Isle marched with measured grace, his hand never far from the hilt of his longsword. The sight of the royal procession moving through the streets sent a wave of emotion through the gathered populace—many knelt in reverence, others raised their hands in exultation. Even those who had long harboured grievances against the monarchy found themselves awed by the spectacle.

Trumpeters announced their arrival at the Red Keep's massive gates, which swung open with a groan of ancient hinges. The dragon banners of House Targaryen rippled in the breeze atop the castle walls. The procession ascended the winding stone paths leading to the heart of the fortress, the towering Throne Room.

As the grand doors of the hall swung open, a sea of noble lords and ladies stood waiting, lining the columns of red marble. The hall was vast, an imposing chamber where the weight of history lingered in every shadow. And there, at the farthest end, atop a raised dais of black stone, loomed the Iron Throne.

Forged by the breath of Balerion the Black Dread, the Iron Throne was a jagged, fearsome construct of fused swords—thousands of blades taken from Aegon the Conqueror's foes , melted together into a monstrous, twisted seat of power. Its surface was uneven, razor-sharp edges jutting outward like the fangs of a great beast. The throne was high, looming above all who dared approach, a stark reminder that kingship was not a comfortable burden. Tales spoke of past rulers cut by the very seat they claimed, a divine omen that the throne rejected the unworthy. Even now, the blades seemed to whisper the names of those who had ruled, fought and died upon it.

The Herald, robed in cloth of gold, raised his arms before the gathered lords, his voice rising above the murmurs.

"Behold, your King!"

"All hail King Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm."

The hall erupted into reverent silence as King Jaehaerys ascended the dais, his boots ringing against the cold stone. The Iron Throne loomed before him—a jagged, wicked thing of melted blades, cruel and unyielding. Each step toward it echoed through the great hall, the weight of history pressing upon his shoulders. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the cold steel. A faint whisper. Or was it his imagination? The ghosts of past kings seemed to watch in silence. When he turned to face the gathered lords, he saw them kneeling, their oaths sealing his reign. The Dragon had ascended.

"All hail the King " The noble houses declared in unison, their voices rising like a wave.

All present knelt as the realm acknowledged its ruler.

Jaehaerys then stood, raising a hand for silence. "As my first act as king, I name Aerys of House Targaryen, my son, to be the heir to the Iron Throne and the Prince of Dragonstone. Let all present bear witness to this decree."

A resounding murmur spread, though none dared to question the decree.

Aemon, despite his infancy, was enraptured by the spectacle. He could not comprehend all, yet the gravity of the moment was undeniable. He watched the King and Queen lead the royal procession from the Sept to the Red Keep, where Jaehaerys ascended the Iron Throne, its jagged edges glinting ominously in the torchlight.

The throne room was packed with noble lords and ladies, the great houses standing in solemn rows, each lord prepared to swear their fealty. Jaehaerys seated himself upon the throne, the jagged iron pressing against his back, a reminder of the burden of rule.

One by one, the great lords stepped forward to kneel and swear their oaths.

Lord Rickard Stark was the first to speak, his voice steady and resolute.

"I, Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden and Lord Paramount of the North, do hereby swear my sword and my life to King Jaehaerys Targaryen, Second of His Name, and to his heir, Prince Aerys Targaryen, the Prince of Dragonstone. I will serve you faithfully in war and in peace, defending your realm against all enemies, foreign and domestic.

I swear to protect your reign, defend your lands, and uphold your justice. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New."

Jaehaerys nodded solemnly. "And I vow that you shall always have a place by my heart, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonour. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. Arise."

Next came Lord Hoster Tully, placing a hand over his heart. "I, Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Trident pledge my house and my bannermen to your rule, King Jaehaerys, Second of His Name, and to Prince Aerys, your heir. We shall be your river, unyielding, carrying your will through the lands. I shall serve you faithfully, in peace and war, in light and shadow. By the Old Gods and the New, I swear it."

"And I vow that House Tully shall always have the Crown's favour, and the Trident shall remain strong. Arise, my lord."

Lord Jon Arryn followed, his words filled with the honour of the Vale.

"I, Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East, swear fealty to you, King Jaehaerys, Second of His Name, and to his heir Prince Aerys. I swear upon my honour that the Vale shall stand with you in war and peace. The Vale stands with the Crown now and always, our swords and shields ever at your command. As the mountains stand eternal, so too shall my fealty to the Crown remain unbroken. By the Old Gods and the New, I pledge this."

"The Vale shall always have my trust and gratitude," the king responded. "Arise."

Lord Tytos Lannister knelt next, golden mane gleaming under the torchlight.

"I, Tytos Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, and Warden of the West, swear my fealty to you and your house, King Jaehaerys. The gold of Casterly Rock shall support your reign, and our blades shall defend it. I offer my sword and my gold, my walls and my fleets, to you, may the realm prosper under your rule. By the Old Gods and the New, I swear it."

" I vow that House Lannister shall ever hold its place of honour among the great houses. Arise."

"I, Ormund Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, Warden and Lord Paramount of Stormslands, swear my sword and my strength to your reign and your house. I shall defend the Stormlands and your rule until my last breath."

"And Storm's End shall always be a fortress of the crown. Arise."

One by one, the great lords of Westeros swore their vows. Lord Luthor Tyrell of the Reach, Quellon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, Lord Manfred Hightower of Oldtown and the elderly Prince Quentyn Martell of Dorne, knelt with great difficulty but spoke with unwavering pride. Each vow reaffirmed the strength of the realm, binding their houses to the Targaryen rule. Even those who harboured secret ambitions or doubts spoke with the voice of duty, for now, they stood before their king offering their swords and their loyalty in turn.

Jaehaerys, with solemn authority, responded to each, his voice unwavering.

"And I vow that you shall always have a place by my heart, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonour. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. Arise."

Each voice, though unique, carried the same unwavering devotion and pledge of loyalty. In the arms of his aunt, young Aemon Targaryen watched with wide, knowing eyes, the echoes of oaths and the weight of history settling into the depths of his soul.

The final words of the ceremony echoed through the hall:

"All hail Jaehaerys, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men! Long may he reign!"

The gathered lords and knights echoed the cry, their voices shaking the very foundations of the Sept.

With the vows complete, King Jaehaerys spoke at last. "Tonight, a grand feast shall be held in the Great Hall of the Red Keep, that we may celebrate not only my ascension but the unity of the realm. And on the morrow, the Small Council shall convene with the great lords of Westeros, for there is much to discuss—the realm stands upon the edge of change, and we must prepare for what is to come."

The lords bowed their heads in acceptance.

"All hail King Jaehaerys!" the herald proclaimed. "Long may he reign!"

The throne room resounded with the voices of the realm's greatest lords, their oaths bound by blood and honour, marking the dawn of a new reign.

With that, the coronation was complete, and the realm entered a new era under the reign of King Jaehaerys II Targaryen.

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MAELYS POV: The Coming Storm, Black Dragon Rises.

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In the harbours of Bloodstone and Torturer's Deep, war galleys were being outfitted for invasion. Black sails, adorned with the sigil of the Blackfyre dragon, flapped against the wind. Thousands of men—sellswords from the Free Cities, savage reavers from the Basilisk Isles, and hardened exiles from Westeros—stood ready. Spears gleamed under the dying light, and war drums thundered through the encampments.

Pirate captains exiled nobles, and sellsword commanders gathered beneath the banner of the black dragon, their voices a discordant mix of languages and accents. The likes of Alequo Adarys, the self-proclaimed 'King of Tyrosh,' and the ruthless warlord Liomond Lashare, who ruled over a fleet of corsairs, had pledged their men. The Golden Company, though diminished, remained steadfast under Maelys' command, their loyalty bound by blood, vengeance, and the promise of plunder.

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A messenger arrived, breathless, kneeling before him.

"My Liege, the fleet is ready. The men await your command."

Maelys exhaled slowly, savouring the moment. The tide was rising, the gods whispering of war. His blood sang for battle.

He stood upon the deck of the Tyrant's Roar, his sharp eyes fixed upon the horizon as the setting sun bathed the Stepstones in hues of crimson and gold. The sea breeze carried the stench of salt, sweat, and the smoke of a hundred forges—his army was preparing, sharpening their blades, fitting their armour, and whispering of conquest. At this very moment, across the Narrow Sea, Jaehaerys Targaryen was being crowned and hailed as King of the Seven Kingdoms. Maelys clenched his fists, his monstrous strength evident even beneath the thick leather of his gauntlets. That throne should have been his. The Iron Throne was his by right of blood, by the legacy of House Blackfyre, by sheer will. And he would take it.

Maelys strode through the ranks of his warriors, his mere presence sending shivers down spines. They whispered of his inhuman strength, of how he had crushed his own cousin's skull with his bare hands. The name 'Maelys the Monstrous' carried weight, and it was fear that bound these men to him. Fear and the promise of victory.

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He turned to his gathered captains, then strode forward onto a makeshift dais, towering over the assembled warriors. The sea of men before him, soldiers, pirates, and mercenaries alike, fell silent as they awaited his words.

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Raising Blackfyre, the ancestral sword of House Targaryen, he held it high. The rippling steel caught the dying sunlight, glinting like a dragon's eye. The very sword that once forged a dynasty was now in his hands—proof of his claim, proof of his destiny.

"Behold! The sword of Aegon the Conqueror! The sword of Daemon Blackfyre! The sword of kings!" His voice, deep and unrelenting, thundered over the assembled legions.

"Look at them!" Maelys bellowed, his voice carrying over the crashing waves and the gathered soldiers. "Westeros cowers behind its banners and walls, believing itself safe under the rule of a feeble dragon hatchling! A sickly green king sits upon my throne, hiding behind his council, his banners, and his ancient name! He calls himself the Blood of the Dragon, but I tell you now—his blood is weak! His ancestors were conquerors, but he is no conqueror. He is a worm writhing in the shadow of greater men. He is not the fire that forged Westeros—he is the dying embers of a once-mighty flame!"

The gathered warriors roared in agreement, their voices rising like an approaching storm. Maelys let the fury build, let it grow into something unstoppable.

"But I am no worm! I am no hatchling! I am Maelys Blackfyre! I am the storm, the fire, the fury! I am the vengeance of my ancestors, the rightful king of Westeros! The dragon's roar has been stolen, and I will take it back in blood!"

A roar erupted from his men, their cries of bloodlust and loyalty shaking the air.

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He swept Blackfyre before him, pointing the legendary blade toward the darkening horizon, where the ships lay ready to set sail.

"Jaehaerys sits upon the Iron Throne today, but his reign will not last! We will burn the Stepstones, seize the Narrow Sea, and when Westeros looks east, it will not see merchants and corsairs nor a peaceful sea—they will see our sails, our swords, and our vengeance. They will see Blackfyre banners, they will see their true king—King Maelys the First of His Name. They will see their doom coming upon them with fire and fury! We will drown their cities in black banners, and the false king will tremble upon his stolen throne! "

He lowered the sword, pointing it toward the ships that awaited them.

"Today, we do not sail as men.

We sail as conquerors.

We sail as Avengers.

We sail as the rightful heirs of a throne that was stolen from us!

Today, we sail for war!

Today, we carve our legacy in steel and fire!

Today, we claim what is rightfully ours!"

The war drums pounded louder, a frenzied rhythm that matched the rising bloodlust of the army before him. Maelys grinned, baring his teeth like a beast about to tear into flesh.

He thrust Blackfyre into the air, the sword of kings gleaming in defiance of the gods themselves.

"No better friend! No fiercer foe! The words of House Blackfyre! Remember them well, for Westeros will soon learn their meaning! We will take what is ours! And the world shall tremble at the might of the Black Dragon!"

A monstrous roar erupted from his men, weapons raised, stamping their feet upon the blood-stained sand.

The fleet was ready.

The Ninepenny Kings were ready.

The tide was rising, and with it, the wrath of House Blackfyre.

Maelys turned to the ships, his final words ringing like prophecy.

"Onward, my brothers! To war! To victory! To destiny!"

The men cheered, weapons raised, stamping their feet upon the blood-stained sand. The war drums beat louder. The fleet was ready. The Ninepenny Kings were ready. The tide was rising, and with it, the wrath of House Blackfyre.

The first ships raised anchor.

The fleet began its slow crawl toward the shores of the Stepstones.

A storm brewed upon the horizon.

And Maelys Blackfyre smiled.