Game of Thrones: A Song Of Blood & Fire

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Aemon stood at the highest battlement of Dragonstone, his violet eyes fixed on the horizon. The sea churned beneath a sky of gathering clouds as if the world itself sensed the tension in the air. The royal fleet had come.

The banners of House Targaryen rippled in the wind, red and black against the grey sky. Dozens of ships approached the harbour, their sails taut, their prows slicing through the restless waves. The flagship at the front bore the Royal Standard—a three-headed dragon in gold, marking the presence of the King.

Aemon inhaled slowly, steadying himself. Duty before grief. Strength before sorrow. He turned, descending from the tower with purpose, his cloak billowing behind him. His men were already assembling in the courtyard below.

Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jonothor Darry waited at the base of the steps, both clad in the polished white armour of the Kingsguard. Beyond them, ranks of Dragonstone's garrison stood at attention, their steel gleaming in the overcast light.

"My prince," Barristan greeted, studying Aemon carefully. "The royal fleet is nearly at the docks. The men are ready."

Aemon nodded, sweeping his gaze over the gathered soldiers. The air was thick with expectation, with whispers of what the King's arrival might bring. Would he come with comfort? With scorn? Or with questions, Aemon was not yet prepared to answer?

He pushed those thoughts aside. He could not afford hesitation.

"Get the men ready," he commanded evenly. "We will receive them as tradition demands."

At once, the garrison moved into formation. The castle gates were unbarred, the banners adjusted to full mast. The royal procession would have nothing to fault in their welcome.

The waves crashed against the rocky shores of Dragonstone as the royal fleet finally reached the black sands of the beach. The flagship, bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, came to a halt, its sails folding like the wings of a beast at rest. The air was thick with salt, the sky overcast with the weight of the moment.

Aemon stood at the forefront, his expression carefully schooled into quiet solemnity. He was clad in a grey tunic, the colour subdued beneath a black cloak clasped with a silver dragon. Behind him, a formation of guards stood in perfect discipline, their polished armour glinting dully in the morning light. At his side, Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jonothor Darry waited, their hands resting lightly on their sword pommels, ever vigilant.

As the first of the gangplanks were lowered, the royal procession disembarked.

The sea wind was colder today. Or perhaps it only felt that way.

She should have been here. Standing beside him. Her hand resting lightly on his arm, her voice reminding him to carry himself with dignity. But the wind carried only silence now.

The first boat landed, and the King stepped onto the sand.

King Aerys was a striking figure draped in a flowing black robe, his hands encased in elegant gloves that matched the darkness of his attire. Upon his brow rested the crown of Aegon the Unworthy, heavy with rubies, its dull gleam only adding to the sombre weight of his presence. His silver hair, long and unkempt, flowed past his shoulders. His violet eyes, sharp and piercing, swept over the beach, landing on Aemon with an unreadable glint.

Behind him, Queen Rhaella descended with careful steps, her hand resting on the arm of Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Clad in mourning black, her gown fell gracefully around her, its fabric moving like waves in the wind. Though grief was evident in the shadows beneath her eyes, another presence was unmistakable—the slight swell of her belly. She was four months with child, carrying another heir to the Targaryen dynasty, a silent testament to the ever-turning wheel of fate.

Then came Rhaegar.

Aemon's gaze flickered to his cousin. The boy, a week younger than him, seemed far smaller—his frame delicate, his silver hair neatly combed yet thinner than Aemon's own. He looked small beside his mother, a head shorter than Aemon, his silver hair neatly combed but his face unreadable. He was quiet, his violet eyes lacking the childish energy of a boy his age, instead carrying something more reserved—something distant. He moved carefully, deliberately, as if he was already aware of the importance of every step he took.

Flanking them, the remaining five Kingsguard knights disembarked in perfect formation. Their white cloaks billowed against the wind, their hands never straying far from their weapons.

Ser Gerold Hightower led them, he features a mask of unwavering duty. Beside him walked Ser Gwayne Gaunt, Ser Renly of Fair Isle, Ser Harlan Grandison, and Ser Oswell Whent—each clad in the white armour of the Kingsguard, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords. Their collective presence is a living reminder of the power and prestige of House Targaryen.

As the royal family and their escort reached the black sand, Aemon stepped forward, his movement measured and deliberate. Then, without hesitation, he dropped to one knee, lowering his gaze in practised reverence.

"Your Grace."

His voice was steady, unwavering.

As one, the soldiers and the Kingsguard stationed at Dragonstone followed, bowing their heads in deference to the King. The only sounds were the crashing of the waves and the rustling of banners in the wind.

King Aerys let the silence linger for a moment, then lifted his chin.

"Rise," he commanded.

The gathered men obeyed, standing as one.

The King's violet eyes found Aemon's, and he took a step forward.

His gaze did not soften, but something flickered beneath the weight of his words. He looked Aemon up and down, studying him in the same way one might examine a sword fresh from the forge.

"You have matured, Aemon," Aerys said. "As expected of a dragon's blood."

The words were meant as praise, yet there was an undercurrent of expectation beneath them.

Aemon inclined his head. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"The realm has lost a queen," Aerys declared, his voice carrying across the beach. "A mother, a sister, a Targaryen. My mother has gone, and with her, a part of our House has been lost."

The King turned to the gathered men. "Tomorrow, we shall have the funeral for my mother. It will be done by Targaryen tradition." His voice was firm and decisive. "Her body will be burned upon the pyre, as is our way, and her remains will be buried in the crypts of Dragonstone, where she belongs."

A breeze swept through the beach, carrying the scent of the sea, and for a moment, all was still.

Aerys exhaled, his gaze sweeping over the assembled knights and soldiers.

"The night is upon us," he said. "We will take our rest and prepare for tomorrow's rites."

As the King and his retinue made their way toward Dragonstone, Aemon stepped forward, moving toward Queen Rhaella, who still stood near the shore.

The sea breeze tugged at her black mourning robes, her long silver hair pinned back in an elegant braid. There was a weariness in her violet eyes, a quiet sorrow that had settled deep within her.

Aemon lowered his head respectfully and gently took her hand. He bent his head and pressed a kiss against her knuckles.

"Your Grace," he murmured. "I am deeply sorry for your loss."

Rhaella did not answer at first.

Instead, she stepped forward and—before Aemon could react—wrapped her arms around him.

The embrace was warm, familiar, and filled with something that words could not express. She did not offer empty condolences, did not say the usual phrases meant to dull grief.

She simply held him.

Aemon's breath hitched, his body tensing for a moment before he slowly relaxed into the embrace. She understood. She knew his pain was greater than hers.

When she finally pulled back, her hands lingered on his arms, her violet eyes searching his face. "I see so much of her in you," she whispered. "You have grown, Aemon."

Aemon swallowed the tightness in his throat and nodded. "I will carry her memory with me, Your Grace. Always."

Rhaella gave a small, sad smile before turning slightly, gesturing toward the quiet boy standing at her side.

"Do you remember your cousin, Rhaegar?" she asked gently.

Aemon's gaze shifted.

Prince Rhaegar stood just beside his mother, his small hands clasped in front of him. His silver hair was neatly combed, but his violet eyes were shadowed with something distant.

He was quiet—far too quiet for a boy his age.

The last time they had seen each other, they had been three years old, too young to remember much.

For a moment, Rhaegar hesitated, staring at Aemon as if unsure of what to say. Then, his lips parted, and in a small, quiet voice, he finally spoke.

"Hello."

Aemon, despite the weight of grief pressing on him, let out a breath and softened his expression.

He crouched slightly to look his cousin in the eye and offered him a small, warm smile.

"Hello, little cousin."

The tension in the air eased.

It was small—just a moment—but it was enough.

Rhaegar's lips twitched slightly as if trying to mirror the expression, but he said nothing more. Still, the warmth in Aemon's voice seemed to settle something in him.

Aemon straightened, turning back to Queen Rhaella.

"It is too cold to linger out here," he said gently. "Come, let us go inside. I have made sure your chambers are prepared for your stay."

Rhaella nodded in quiet gratitude.

With that, Aemon turned and led them up toward the castle keep of Dragonstone, away from the cold wind and the crashing waves, toward the warmth of the great halls and the waiting fire.

.

.

.

The great hall of Dragonstone was a cavern of shadows and firelight, its black stone walls swallowing the flickering glow of the torches lining its edges. The air was heavy with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine, but the silence at the long table stripped the meal of any warmth.

This was no feast.

This was a gathering of mourning.

At the head of the table, King Aerys sat draped in flowing black robes, the crown of Aegon the Unworthy glinting darkly atop his silver head. His sharp violet eyes scanned the hall with an unreadable gaze, his fingers tapping idly against the stem of his goblet. He had touched little of his food. None of them had.

Beside him, Queen Rhaella sat in quiet stillness, her hands resting in her lap. Though her posture remained poised, there was something brittle about her tonight, as if too much weight had been placed upon her shoulders. Even the faint swell of her belly, the life she carried within her, seemed an afterthought to the grief hanging over her like a shroud.

To her right, Prince Rhaegar sat wordlessly. His small hands were neatly folded before him, his silver hair brushing against his cheek as he stared down at his untouched plate. He had the solemn, distant air of someone much older than six years. His gaze flickered up once—to Aemon, across the table—but quickly lowered again.

Aemon sat opposite them, his back straight, his expression carefully schooled. His silver hair caught the dim candlelight, his violet eyes unreadable in the glow of the fire. He had trained himself to remain composed, but the weight pressing against his ribs had not lessened.

Around the hall, the Seven Kingsguard stood in silent vigilance.

Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander, was a solid, unmoving presence beside the King, his watchful eyes scanning the room. Ser Gwayne Gaunt stood near Queen Rhaella as if shielding her from some unseen threat. Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Renly of Fair Isle lingered near the hall's entrance, while Ser Harlan Grandison took position along the wall, arms crossed.

Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jonothor Darry stood closest to Aemon.

The air was thick.

The torches flickered, their dim glow casting jagged shadows across the black stone. The table, set with silver plates and goblets of deep red wine, stood as an unwanted contrast to the grief settling like a mist over them all.

The King spoke first.

"Aemon."

His voice cut through the silence like a blade.

"Tell me—how was she?" A pause. "How did she spend her last days?"

The hall seemed to be still.

Aemon inhaled, his grip tightening beneath the table before he met his cousin's gaze.

For a moment, he hesitated.

Speaking of her—his mother—made the grief sharpen, twisting like a knife inside his chest. But this was his duty.

Then, he answered.

He had known this question would come.

He had prepared himself for it.

But knowing did not make it easier.

His voice was quiet when he finally spoke.

"She was… tired," Aemon said, his voice even, though it took effort. "After King Jaehaerys' death, she withdrew from court life. She spent most of her time in her chambers, quiet, thoughtful." His gaze flickered to Rhaella, acknowledging her loss before continuing. "She grew weaker as the moons passed, though she never let it be known. She bore it in silence."

Aerys hummed, sipping from his goblet, but his gaze remained fixed on his nephew.

Aemon exhaled slowly. "After she received word of her sister's death, it was as if something inside her broke."

Rhaella's lips parted slightly. Her pale hands trembled where they rested in her lap.

"She collapsed that night," Aemon continued. "She remained in her bed for days. The maesters could do little but ease her pain. She refused to eat, refused to speak."

Silence stretched.

Aemon's voice softened, but the words did not come any easier.

"She longed to see them one last time," he murmured. "Her family. But the gods are cruel."

Across the table, Rhaella's lashes fluttered as she blinked away the sheen in her eyes. She inhaled sharply, composing herself.

"She called me to her chambers last week," he continued after a moment. "She gifted me this."

Reaching to his hip, he carefully unsheathed a small dagger, laying it on the table.

It was Valyrian steel, dark and rippling with an unnatural sheen. The hilt was forged into the shape of a dragon, its wings curled around the pommel in intricate detail.

Aerys' gaze flickered to the weapon, his fingers drumming against the goblet.

"She told me it belonged to our bloodline," Aemon said quietly. "That I should have it."

His hands curled slightly in his lap.

"She asked me to play her favourite song." A breath. A pause. His voice dropped lower. "So I did."

The weight of the moment settled heavily over the table.

Aemon's breath hitched slightly, but he forced himself to continue.

"She smiled… and then she was gone."

The words were simple. But they were enough.

His mother had smiled as she died.

The memory was too much. The grief surged, raw and unbearable.

For a moment, his mask slipped.

His breath hitched, his eyes stung—but then, he shut it down. He clenched his jaw, swallowing the sob that threatened to escape.

He would not break here.

Not before the King. Not before the realm.

Rhaella's hand tightened against the fabric of her gown. Aerys remained silent, his expression unreadable.

Across the table, Rhaegar, who had been silent the entire evening, shifted slightly in his seat.

Aemon's gaze flickered to him.

The boy had not spoken a word since they sat.

His violet eyes, eerily similar to their mother's, were clouded with something unspoken. Not grief—at least, not one that was fully understood.

Perhaps confusion. Perhaps fear. Perhaps both.

Aemon studied him for a moment before offering something small—barely noticeable to the rest.

A nod.

Rhaegar hesitated before nodding back, just slightly.

A moment. A small one. But enough.

A sharp, shuddering inhale. His fingers clenched against the wood. His shoulders tensed, his throat closing.

He exhaled slowly, his fingers brushing over the dagger before he finally lifted his head.

"That was how she spent her last moments, Your Grace."

A heavy silence followed.

Aerys sat still, his expression unreadable. His violet eyes flickered to the dagger on the table, his fingers tapping against the wooden table.

Then, after a long pause, he nodded.

"She was strong," the King murmured. "A true daughter of the Valyria."

Aemon's fingers curled slightly beneath the table.

Was she, Your Grace?

Or had she simply endured—the way all Targaryen women were expected to? Had she been strong, or had she simply been trapped, worn down by grief, duty, and exile?

He did not voice these thoughts. He only dipped his head slightly, murmuring, "Yes, Your Grace.".

The hall remained silent, the grief settling over them like a storm cloud.

And in the flickering candlelight, Aemon clenched his hands beneath the table.

Because, despite everything, despite the careful mask he wore—

The grief still tore at him, sinking its claws into his heart.

The silence in the hall stretched, thick and suffocating. The weight of Aemon's words still lingered, settling over the gathered family like a heavy fog.

Then, at last, Rhaella spoke.

"She loved you, Aemon."

Her voice was soft but steady. A mother's voice. A voice that, despite the sorrow, still carried warmth.

Aemon turned to her, watching as she looked at him—not as a prince, not as a subject, but as a grieving son.

"She was proud of you." Rhaella's violet eyes shone with something unreadable. "Even in her last moments, she was thinking of you."

Aemon swallowed, his throat dry.

He had known that. He had felt it in the way Shaera had smiled, in the way she had reached for his hand before the light left her eyes.

But hearing it from Rhaella made it real.

Made it hurt.

His fingers twitched slightly against the table, but he nodded, pressing the grief down, forcing himself to remain composed.

"Thank you… Your Grace." His voice was quiet, steady—though it took effort.

Rhaella's expression softened, and for a brief moment, Aemon saw something motherly in her gaze. Something that reminded him of Shaera.

A painful comfort.

Aerys, who had remained silent as his queen spoke, suddenly exhaled sharply.

His patience had run thin.

The King set his goblet down with a sharp clink against the wood.

"Enough mourning for tonight." His voice cut through the silence like a blade.

Aemon forced himself to turn his attention to the King, keeping his posture straight, his face unreadable.

"Tomorrow, we will honour her as is tradition," Aerys declared. "The pyre will burn, and what remains shall be laid to rest beneath Dragonstone."

His gaze flickered across the table, sharp and commanding.

"The matter is settled. This dinner is over."

The room stirred at his words. Servants, who had been standing silently along the walls, immediately stepped forward to clear the table. The Kingsguard remained motionless, their white cloaks untouched by the sombre atmosphere.

Aemon rose slowly from his seat, watching as Aerys stood, his long black robes flowing behind him.

The King did not look at him again.

Without another word, he turned and left the hall, the sound of his boots echoing in the silence.

Queen Rhaella followed, her gaze lingering on Aemon for a moment before she, too, departed.

Prince Rhaegar hesitated.

His violet eyes, so much like their ancestors, yet so distant, met Aemon's directly for the first time.

There was something there.

Curiosity, perhaps. Or uncertainty. Or something even deeper—something unspoken, unformed.

Then, his gaze flickered.

His small fingers twitched at his sides, barely perceptible.

Aemon narrowed his eyes slightly, but Rhaegar quickly dropped his gaze, his face smoothing back into unreadable silence. Then, after a brief pause, he turned and followed his parents.

Aemon watched him go.

There was something there. Something quiet.

But he said nothing.

Soon, only Aemon remained.

And the silence, though always present, felt heavier than before.

The great hall, once filled with the murmur of mourning, had emptied into silence. The torches along the walls flickered, casting dancing shadows against the black stone. The Valyrian steel dagger still lay on the table before him, its dark metal catching the light in thin, gleaming edges.

His mother's gift.

Her final words.

He reached for it slowly, his fingers brushing over the hilt—cool, unyielding, permanent. Unlike her.

Aemon exhaled slowly, his breath steady but cold.

He had spoken of her tonight, but the grief had not lessened. It would never lessen. He would carry it with him—through the funeral, through the days ahead, through whatever came next.

Tomorrow, the pyre would burn.

Tomorrow, he would say goodbye.

But as he sat alone in the fading candlelight, grief pressing into the hollow spaces of his chest, a single thought whispered through his mind.

The fire would take her body. But the weight of her loss would never leave him.

And some wounds, he knew, did not heal.

They only learned how to endure.