Game of Thrones: A Song Of Blood & Fire

The morning sky was painted in deep shades of red and orange, a dawn of fire and blood. The sun barely pierced the thick clouds that hung low over Dragonstone, as if the heavens themselves grieved.

The black stone of the castle was cold beneath Aemon's fingers as he stood by his chamber window, staring out toward the cliffs. The sea stretched endlessly beyond the jagged rocks, the waves crashing against the shore with a restless fury.

It had been her favourite place—the high cliffs where the wind carried the scent of salt and freedom, where the dragons had once rested, where she had once sat beside him, watching the endless horizon in quiet contemplation.

Now, her pyre stood there.

Aemon exhaled slowly, turning away from the window.

He dressed in black mourning robes, fastening the silver dragon clasp at his shoulder. The fabric was heavy, but not as heavy as the silence pressing against his chest.

By the time he stepped into the courtyard, the preparations were nearly complete.

The septon and attendants crept, arranging wood and dragonbone in careful layers, ensuring the flames would burn hot enough to reduce her body to ash. The scent of oils and dried herbs filled the air, mingling with the ever-present salt of the sea.

Aemon stood at the edge of the procession, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the pyre. His expression was unreadable, but inside, something coiled tight in his chest.

A presence moved beside him.

Ser Barristan Selmy.

The Kingsguard stood solemnly, his white cloak stark against the dark stones of Dragonstone. He did not speak at first, only standing beside Aemon, gazing at the pyre with quiet reverence.

Then, after a long pause, he spoke.

"She would be proud of you, my prince."

Aemon did not move.

For a moment, the words settled between them, carried away by the wind.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, Aemon answered.

"She deserved more."

The pyre waited, and the sea raged on.

The fire would soon rise.

Aemon's gaze lingered on the towering pyre, its structure standing resolute against the howling winds of Dragonstone. His fingers twitched at his side, and his mind wavered over an unspoken thought—one that had haunted him since the night she passed.

The dragon eggs.

Three of them. Hidden away in the depths of his chamber, locked away where no one—not even the maesters—knew of their existence.

His mother had once spoken of dragons as if they were meant to return, as if their absence had left the world lesser. "Westeros was not made to be ruled by men alone, Aemon. We are dragons, not lions, not wolves." Her words echoed in his mind, pressing against him with the weight of legacy.

Would it be right? To place the eggs upon the pyre, to let the flames decide their fate?

The fire had once birthed dragons from stone. It had also stolen them away.

Would it be different this time? Would the flames grant life—or only take more?

His gaze darkened. Summerhall.

The mere thought of it sent a chill through his bones. Aerys did not speak of it, nor did Rhaella, nor even the lords who whispered behind closed doors. But Aemon had read enough to know that fire, for all its might, was an unpredictable beast.

Aegon V had sought to bring back dragons, and in his desperation, he had burned his family, his court, and his dreams to nothing but ash.

Would his mother's pyre be any different?

He clenched his fists. No. He would not take that risk. Not here. Not now.

The eggs would remain hidden. No one could know of them—not yet.

Instead, he would seek knowledge, not blind faith.

He had already begun forming a plan. Once the funeral was over and they returned to King's Landing, he would comb through the royal library, gathering every scrap of history, lore, and accounts of dragon hatchings. But he knew even that would not be enough.

The answers lie in the Citadel.

One day, when the time was right, he would go to Oldtown himself. He would walk through the halls of the Citadel, unearth the knowledge buried beneath centuries of dust and doctrine. If dragons were meant to return, he would find the truth—not through prophecy, but through understanding.

A gust of wind swept through the cliffs, rustling his black cloak.

Aemon exhaled slowly, casting one last glance toward the waiting pyre.

Not yet. But soon.

He turned on his heel and walked away, the weight of his decision settling over him like the storm brewing on the horizon.

The winds howled as the procession moved through the black stone corridors of Dragonstone, stepping into the open air where the waiting pyre loomed against the storm-dark sky.

At the head of the solemn march was King Aerys II, his long black robes billowing behind him. His expression was unreadable—neither grief nor warmth lined his sharp features. Instead, his violet eyes burned with something else, something distant, calculating.

Beside him, Queen Rhaella walked in silence, her delicate hand resting lightly on the curve of her swollen belly. The fabric of her mourning dress—black and flowing—made her seem almost spectral, a woman burdened by both grief and duty.

Behind them, Prince Rhaegar moved like a shadow, small and quiet, his silver hair barely stirring in the wind. His violet eyes remained lowered, distant, and unreadable. At only six years old, he seemed far too still—far too composed for a boy who had just lost his grandmother.

Then came the Kingsguard.

Seven men draped in pristine white cloaks, their armour gleaming faintly beneath the overcast sky. Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander, walked beside the Queen, his presence steadfast. Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jonothor Darry followed at Aemon's flank, their hands resting lightly upon the hilts of their swords.

The gathering of nobles and household retainers followed in solemn silence. No banners waved, no trumpets sounded—only the wind, the waves, and the distant crackle of torches in the gathering dusk.

At the front of the pyre, Aemon stood waiting.

He was not among them in the march. He had been here first. Watching. Waiting. The torch already rested in his hand, its flame flickering against the cold wind.

His place was not among the mourners—his place was before them, at the head of this farewell, standing as the closest kin to the one they had lost.

Aemon stepped forward, torch in hand, his shadow stretching long against the black stone as the flames flickered in his violet eyes.

The pyre stood tall and unyielding, the woven wood and dragonbone stacked in perfect formation. At its heart, his mother lay draped in her mourning silks, silver hair flowing like liquid starlight against the dark fabric beneath her.

His hand hovered over her face but did not touch.

She looked like she was only sleeping.

But her skin was cold. Colder than Dragonstone's black stone.

His fingers curled into a fist. No warmth left. No heartbeat. Nothing.

A gust of wind howled through the cliffs, whipping at Aemon's cloak as if the world itself hesitated at this moment.

Aemon's grip on the torch tightened. The fire had always been a part of his blood, the very essence of House Targaryen. But now, as he stood before the waiting flames, it felt like something else. Something cruel.

His hand trembled. His nails dug into his palm. A sharp, biting pain. He exhaled, slow and steady, forcing his grip to loosen.

The fire did not burn him, but the grief did.

For the first time since her death, his control slipped. Just for a moment.

What if he did not let go? What if he kept her here, just a little longer?

But death was not kind. Nor was the fire.

Slowly, deliberately, he lowered himself to one knee before the pyre.

For a moment, everything else faded. The nobles, the Kingsguard, the weight of watchful eyes. There was only him, the fire, and her.

The wind howled, carrying the scent of oil and charred wood, but as he gazed at his mother's still form, another scent ghosted through his mind—lavender and myrrh.

A memory surfaced, unbidden.

A warm chamber bathed in the dim glow of candlelight. His mother's laughter was soft and full of affection, like the chiming of bells in the wind.

"Is that supposed to be a dragon, my love?"

Aemon frowned, staring at the misshapen smudge of ink on the parchment. The wings were lopsided, the tail too thick, and the head—gods, the head looked more like a horse's than a dragon's.

"It's a strong dragon," he had insisted. "It just looks… different."

Shaera had hummed, tilting her head as if examining a great masterpiece.

"Different, yes. Perhaps it is a dragon that does not wish to be like the others."

She had smoothed a hand over his hair, fingers warm against his scalp. "Art is not meant to be perfect, my love. It is meant to be felt. Just like music."

Another memory stirred.

A stormy evening, rain tapping against the windows of Dragonstone. Aemon, no older than four, sitting cross-legged on the rug, clutching a small lyre. His fingers fumbled over the strings, the notes coming out broken, uncertain.

He had winced at the sound. "I can't do it right."

"Then do it wrong," his mother had said simply.

He had blinked up at her, confused, but Shaera only smiled.

"Music is not about being perfect, my love. It is about making something yours."

She had taken the lyre from his hands, plucking a single note—off-key, sharp, wrong. And then she had played again, turning the mistake into something else, something that flowed, something beautiful.

"Even dragons learn to sing in their way."

The memory faded. The warmth of her touch, the sound of her voice, the scent of lavender and myrrh—gone.

Aemon tightened his jaw. His fingers clenched around the torch.

She had always believed in him. In his paintings, in his music, in all the things he had dismissed as unworthy.

She had seen his mistakes and called them art.

Now, the fire would take her. And she would never laugh at his failed paintings again. Never listen to his stumbling songs, never hum along to correct his rhythm.

The grief swelled, sharp and unbearable, but he swallowed it down.

Slowly, deliberately, he exhaled and whispered:

"Goodbye, Mother. May the gods be kinder in your next life."

The words carried away with the wind, lost to the sea.

Then, without another moment's hesitation, he cast the torch upon the pyre.

The fire did not simply rise—it consumed. It howled against the wind, a dragon's breath given form, devouring flesh, bone, and memory alike. It surged and twisted, swallowing the pyre whole, licking at the night sky as if it wished to devour the stars themselves. The fire twisted and curled, reaching for the sky like a dragon's breath. It moved with purpose—hungry, knowing.

As if it understood what it was taking.

The flames devoured the oil-soaked wood in mere seconds, climbing higher, reaching skyward as if trying to consume the very heavens.

 The air shimmered, bending beneath the unbearable heat.

The attendants and noble retainers stepped back instinctively, the fire's wrath licking at their skin even from a distance. Even the Kingsguard—men who had faced death countless times—shifted uneasily, their white cloaks snapping in the scorching wind. This was not the burial of the Andal kings, nor the customs of the Faith—it was something older, something primal.

But Aemon did not move.

The heat should have seared his flesh, should have made him flinch, should have driven him back like it did the others. But he felt nothing.

The flames curled around him, their fury whispering against his skin like a forgotten touch. Not pain. Not fire.

Something familiar.

A breeze—cool and weightless, brushing past him as if it meant to embrace rather than consume. The kind of warmth he had once felt as a babe, curled beside his mother beneath thick furs as she whispered stories of dragons into the dark.

The pyre burned hot enough to melt iron, yet to Aemon, it felt like nothing more than the kiss of an old friend.

The fire welcomed him, yet he had never felt colder.

The Kingsguard exchanged uneasy glances, watching the firestorm rage mere feet from the prince, yet he stood unflinching, untouched.

Aemon's violet eyes remained fixed on the pyre.

On her.

As the flames rose higher, he thought—just for a moment—that he could see her face, wreathed in fire. Not in agony, not in suffering, but smiling, her silver hair flickering like starlight amid the embers.

The attendants murmured in fear, stepping farther back, shielding their faces from the inferno.

Yet Aemon stood still, the heatless fire swirling around him, its hunger stealing away the last of his mother.

Beside him, Aerys did not blink. His lips curled—not in grief, but in something else. Something dark. His violet eyes gleamed, reflecting the flames as if they belonged to him alone.

Aemon saw it. And he said nothing.

Instead, his gaze remained fixed on the pyre, on the flames that licked hungrily at the night sky, on the burning silhouette that had once been his mother.

He did not move. Not even when the flames howled. Not even when the world burned.

Only when the pyre began to collapse into cinders did his fingers twitch at his side.

The fire had taken her.

And still, he remained.

The pyre burned for hours.

The flames had risen high into the night, stretching toward the sky as if trying to consume the stars themselves. Now, only embers remained, glowing faintly against the black stone. The air was thick with the scent of charred wood and dragonbone, the last whispers of the fire fading into the sea wind.

Aemon stood still, watching.

He had thought the flames might take something from him—might burn away the grief that clawed at his chest, might leave him feeling lighter, emptier, free.

But the fire had taken only her body.

Not the ache. Not the weight.

Not the quiet, hollow pain that settled deep in his ribs, refusing to leave.

The fire took her body, but not my grief.

A gust of wind swept across the cliffs, sending a wave of ashes into the sky, scattering them over the restless sea. Aemon watched as they vanished, lost to the vast horizon.

Aerys exhaled sharply beside him as if he had been holding his breath in the presence of the flames. Then, in a voice that carried the cold certainty of a king, he spoke.

"She is with our ancestors now." His violet eyes flickered with something unreadable as he turned from the dying pyre. "This is how a Targaryen should be remembered."

Aemon's jaw tightened.

He did not respond.

Not as a queen, he thought bitterly. Not as a woman who had ruled, who had loved, who had longed for more.

As a caged dragon, forced to burn.

He inhaled slowly, burying the thought deep beneath his silence. There was no point in saying it.

Aerys did not wait for an answer. He turned, his black cloak swirling in the firelight as he strode back toward the castle. The Royal family and nobles followed in his wake, whispering among themselves, their faces unreadable in the dim glow of the torches.

The Kingsguard moved as one, stepping into formation behind the King.

The ceremony was over. The pyre had burned, the flames had risen, and the whispers of mourning had faded into the cold halls of Dragonstone.

But Aemon did not follow the others inside.

Instead, he walked alone, his boots silent against the dark stone as he made his way toward the edge of the cliffs.

The wind howled, tugging at his cloak, carrying with it the last remnants of smoke and ash, scattering them into the endless sea below.

He stood there for a long moment, staring out over the waves.

The ocean stretched before him, vast and unbroken, as empty as the feeling inside his chest.

Slowly, he reached for his belt and withdrew the dagger.

Valyrian steel. A blade dark as a shadow, its rippling surface catching the faintest gleam of moonlight.

His mother had given it to him—her final gift.

Aemon turned it in his hands, watching as the reflection of the dying embers of the pyre flickered across the blade's surface.

The steel shimmered, catching the last glow of the embers. For a moment, it looked as though the fire had not died at all—but had simply chosen to live within the blade instead.

For a moment, he thought of Summerhall. Of how the fire had taken his grandfather. His father. His mother.

Of how the fire had shaped the fate of House Targaryen—and how it would shape his.

His fingers curled around the hilt.

The fire has taken her, but the weight of her memory will never burn away.

The embers glowed weakly now, the fire's hunger finally spent.

A single crackle echoed from the remains—a last whisper before silence reclaimed the cliffs. For a moment, it sounded almost like a voice. Almost....