Aemon's POV – A Soul Between Two Worlds, A Legacy Bound in Fire
I had lived once before.
I knew that now.
The memories of my past life were still fragmented, blurred like an old dream slipping from my grasp. But I knew enough. I had been alone, a man without a name that mattered, a wanderer who gave his life for others and died forgotten in a fire.
And now, I was here.
Not just reborn—but reborn in an alternate reality.
I had seen the show. I had read the stories. In the history of Westeros, Duncan the Small and Jenny of Oldstones had no children. Their love was one of legend, but it was never meant to bear fruit. And yet… here I was.
Their son.
Aemon Targaryen.
I was living a life that had never been written. A life that should not exist.
And yet, as I lay cradled in my mother's arms, her warmth wrapping around me like a shield, I could not deny the truth.
This was real.
Her touch was real.
The deep voice of my father, whispering words of devotion and promises of protection, was real.
This was my life now.
I was the son of Duncan Targaryen, the prince who gave up a kingdom for love. A grandson of Aegon V, the king who sought to bring back the dragons. A descendant of both Valyria and the First Men, bloodlines as ancient as the world itself.
I was born of fire and magic, of duty and defiance.
And yet, all of it—the legacy, the love, the future I could have—was doomed before it even began.
Because I knew where I was.
Summerhall.
The place where House Targaryen would burn.
My father. My mother. My grandparents.
I had just found them, just felt the warmth of having a family, and I was already going to lose them.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to fight. But I was powerless, trapped in the body of a babe, unable to change the future.
How long do we have?
Days? Weeks?
I didn't know.
But I could feel it in my bones, in the way the wind whispered through the halls of Summerhall.
Something was coming.
A storm of fire and sorrow.
And when it did, I would be left with nothing but ashes.
Gen POV: A Family United, A Fate Sealed
The sun cast a golden light over Summerhall, its glow draping the castle in warmth and splendour. The air was rich with the scent of blooming flowers from the royal gardens, and for a moment, the ancient halls of House Targaryen seemed untouched by time, as if the ghosts of old kings whispered their blessings upon this gathering.
But the winds carried more than just the fragrance of spring—they carried the weight of expectation, uncertainty, and fate.
From the castle walls, banners of red and black rippled in the wind as the royal procession arrived. The King himself had come to witness the birth of his grandson, accompanied by the most important figures of House Targaryen.
Leading the retinue was King Aegon V, the once idealistic ruler now burdened by years of duty and a desperate dream he refused to abandon. His cloak of deep crimson swept behind him, his once-youthful face now lined with the weight of too many losses and too many failures.
Beside him, Queen Black Betha, her presence as steady as the tides. Though she had never been a queen of dragon's blood, she carried herself with a regal air that none dared question. Her sharp eyes softened only when she saw her son, Duncan, waiting to greet them.
Behind them rode Crown Prince Jaehaerys and his wife, Shaera—siblings bound in a love that defied the world, much like Duncan and Jenny. They were the picture of Valyrian beauty, their pale hair glinting like molten silver beneath the sun. Yet, there was a stiffness to their postures, a silent tension in their expressions.
Then came Prince Aerys, his hand resting protectively on his young, pregnant wife, Rhaella. He had been indifferent about this journey, dismissing it as another of his father's foolish sentimentalities, but Rhaella had been insistent. She wanted to be here, to meet Duncan's child, to see the family whole, if only for a moment.
Last among them rode the men who had once shaped Duncan's life—Ser Duncan the Tall, his weathered face carved from years of war and loyalty, and Maester Aemon, the man who had chosen duty over his name, now returning, if only briefly, to see the family he had left behind.
Summerhall had never held so many dragons at once.
And perhaps it never would again.
The great hall was filled with the glow of candlelight when Duncan finally stepped forward, Aemon in his arms. The infant, wrapped in soft crimson silk embroidered with black dragons, stirred but did not cry. His silver hair gleamed under the light, his violet eyes wide and unblinking as he took in the faces before him.
King Aegon stared for a long time, his expression unreadable as he reached out to take the child from Duncan's arms.
A moment of silence passed.
Then, a slow exhale.
"He has your eyes," Aegon murmured, brushing a weathered hand over Aemon's tiny brow. His grip was steady, but there was something else in his gaze—something haunted.
Aemon did not fuss in his arms. He simply watched the old king, as if he could already see the weight of his burdens.
"He is strong," Queen Betha said softly, leaning closer to her husband. "Stronger than he looks."
Jaehaerys and Shaera exchanged a cautious glance, studying the child with curiosity and calculation. Their love had already placed them on uncertain ground with the court, and Duncan's defiance of tradition had only worsened the tensions between the royal family and the realm.
"What do you think, Aerys?" Jaehaerys turned to his younger brother.
Aerys smirked, arms crossed over his chest. "He is only a boy," he said with a careless shrug. "A dragon's fire is in his blood, or it is not."
Rhaella, unlike her husband, smiled warmly as she stepped forward, gently touching Aemon's tiny hand. "My child will have a cousin to play with," she whispered as if already imagining a world where their children grew up together, unburdened by the weight of crowns.
Ser Duncan the Tall stood quietly behind them all, his gaze heavy, his thoughts his own.
Maester Aemon, standing at the edges of the hall, watched with something deeper than mere familial affection. The child was half common, half royal, born of two worlds yet belonging to neither. He could not help but wonder what future awaited this boy.
None of them could.
For one night, the halls of Summerhall were filled with laughter, love, and warmth.
The family feasted together, celebrating Aemon's birth. Duncan and Aegon reminisced, the bond between father and son rekindled, if only for a moment.
Jenny sang.
Her voice, haunting yet beautiful, filled the hall with an old song—a melody of love lost and found again.
Ser Duncan sat beside his prince, watching over them all like a guardian of old.
Aerys drank, his mind already drifting to visions of fire and power.
Jaehaerys and Shaera whispered between themselves, thoughts of duty and legacy hanging over them like a storm.
Rhaella, carrying the next generation in her womb, smiled as she held Aemon, whispering a quiet prayer for his future.
And Aemon watched them all, knowing—feeling—that this was the last time they would ever be together.
For tomorrow, the fire would come.
And everything would change.