Song of the Blessed (Patreon)

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters and works; all other characters and worlds belong to their respective owners (in this case, George R.R. Martin). Enjoy.

Song of The Blessed 

Chapter 01 – The Beginning 

~ Cersei Lannister, In the Royal Gardens ~ 

Cersei Lannister had never been one to put stock in prophecies. Yet, the words of the fortune-teller—the witch Maggy the Frog—had haunted her ever since that fateful day. The prophecy had been buried somewhere in the deepest parts of her mind, and it sprung to the front that night. The night her life changed forever.

The night she wed Robert Baratheon; a man who had loved a dead woman more than he could ever love her. To be ignored, to be compared, to be made to feel lesser—it stung her pride like nothing else. And why should it? She was the daughter of Tywin Lannister, the richest man in Westeros, and part of its most powerful family.

But her life had irrevocably changed that day.

The only solace she found during her wretched marriage to Robert was the proximity of her twin and lover, Jaime. Without him, she wasn’t sure she could have borne the suffocating weight of King’s Landing or the humiliation of her husband’s incessant whoring and drunkenness. She had wanted Jaime to father her children—a defiant response to Robert’s countless insults. Yet the gods, ever cruel, had given her a son born of Robert’s blood instead.

She sat in the Royal Gardens, watching the child playing before her. Black hair, blue eyes—a true Baratheon, unmistakably Robert’s son. Her heart ached with a complicated mix of emotions. She had longed to be a mother ever since she was old enough to understand her destiny: to become Queen to Prince Rhaegar. That had been her dream, her singular ambition. And though she had not gained her dragon prince, she had still ascended the throne as Queen, the mother of the future King of the Seven Kingdoms.

But she had never felt the depth of maternal affection for this boy that she knew she should. He was Robert’s son. Not Jaime’s. The distinction haunted her. As the boy grew older, his bright blue eyes began to mirror an innocence that only deepened her guilt. She knew he would eventually sense the difference in how she treated him. She could not help it.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the child’s cheerful voice.

“Mother, look!” he cried, running towards her with a handful of golden roses. “They’re pretty. Just like your hair!” he exclaimed, his face alight with a radiant smile.

Cersei forced herself to return the smile, taking the roses from his small hands. “Thank you, my sweet boy,” she said softly, her words tinged with a warmth she didn’t quite feel. The child’s joy brightened her sombre mood, if only momentarily.

Her son was so innocent, so pure.

Engrossed in her musings, Cersei failed to notice the snake slithering dangerously close to her feet. It was her son who saw it first.

“Mother, watch out!” he shouted, lunging forward.

The next moments unfolded in chaos. The boy grabbed the snake just as it struck, its fangs sinking into his small hand. His cry of pain pierced the air, startling everyone nearby. The guards rushed forward, swords drawn, but Jaime Lannister, clad in the white cloak of the Kingsguard, was faster. He dispatched the snake with a single thrust of his blade, his eyes flashing with fury.

Jaime scooped the boy into his arms as he writhed in pain, his small body trembling. Cersei was frozen, paralysed by the horrifying realisation of what had just transpired. Her son had saved her life—at the cost of his own safety.

“Draedon!” she screamed, breaking free from her stupor. She rushed to his side, her heart pounding as she saw him clutching his arm, tears streaming down his face.

“Cersei, we need to take him to Pycelle—now!” Jaime barked, his voice sharp with urgency.

Without hesitation, they turned and began the frantic race to the Grand Maester’s chambers, Cersei clutching the roses her son had given her, now streaked with drops of his blood.

~ In Pycelle’s Chamber ~ 

The Grand Maester worked tirelessly through the night, meticulously tending to the crown prince in a desperate bid to purge the venom from his small body. The boy’s anguished screams echoed down the hall, tormenting the guards stationed outside and tearing at the heart of his distraught mother.

It was not until sunrise that Pycelle emerged from his chambers. His robes, darkened and streaked with blood, sent a wave of horror through Cersei.

“You were fortunate to bring him back so quickly, Ser Jaime,” Pycelle said gravely, his tone tinged with both relief and authority. “Had you been a moment later, the prince might have lost his arm.”

Jaime inclined his head in silent acknowledgment, the irony of the situation not lost on him. He, the Kingslayer, had just saved the life of the future king.

‘I wonder what Stark would have to say about that?’ he thought wryly, suppressing a smirk.

“Is my son going to be alright, Pycelle?” Cersei demanded, her voice trembling despite the sternness she tried to maintain. Her tear-streaked face betrayed the depth of her fear.

The old man’s expression softened slightly as he addressed her. “He will recover, Your Grace. The prince is fortunate—the venom had not travelled deeply. I’ve ensured it was removed, and I believe he will regain full function in his arm. However, the pain and the trauma inflicted on one so young will undoubtedly leave its mark. Not just physically, but mentally as well. I advise you to remain close to him during this time. He is unconscious now, and I cannot predict when he might awaken.”

Before Cersei could respond, a thunderous voice rang out in the corridor.

“What in the seven hells happened to my son?”

Robert Baratheon’s bellow filled the hallway as he strode towards them, Jon Arryn at his side. The king had clearly rushed back from his hunt, his face glistening with sweat and his expression dark with worry.

“Just as I’ve explained to Her Grace, Your Grace,” Pycelle began, puffing out his chest as though expecting praise. “Prince Draedon was bitten by a venomous snake, but he is stable now and will recover fully under my care.”

Robert, however, had no patience for the Grand Maester’s posturing. With a swift motion, he swatted Pycelle aside, sending the old man stumbling into the guards. Without a second glance, he stormed into the chamber, Cersei and Jon Arryn close behind.

Cersei had long ceased to respect Robert as a man, but she would admit—grudgingly, perhaps—that he had always shown affection for Draedon. She watched silently as he approached their son’s bedside, his movements uncharacteristically gentle.

Robert sat and stroked the boy’s dark hair, his large hand cradling Draedon’s bandaged arm. Small patches of blood seeped through the wrappings, a stark reminder of how close they had come to tragedy.

“You’ll be alright, my boy,” Robert murmured softly. “You’re a Baratheon. A strong one at that.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to his son’s forehead before rising, his shoulders heavy with unspoken emotion.

At the door, he paused, his broad back still turned to Cersei. His voice was low and menacing when he finally spoke.

“If anything happens to him, I’ll kill you. I don’t give a damn what Tywin has to say about it.”

Cersei’s gaze never left her son as she replied, her voice cold and resolute. “If anything happens to him, I’ll jump out of the window myself.”

Robert said nothing more and stormed out of the chamber, Jon Arryn trailing behind him.

“Lord Arryn,” Cersei called out as the Hand reached the door. He paused, turning to face her.

“Station guards outside this chamber,” she commanded, her tone sharp and imperious. “And tell Pycelle to stay elsewhere. I’m not leaving my son’s side until he wakes.”

Jon Arryn regarded her with a look of quiet approval she didn’t catch, too focused on the breathing form of her son, watching his chest rise and fall as he slept.

“As you command, Your Grace,” he said simply, before departing and closing the doors behind him.

Alone at last, Cersei approached Draedon’s bedside. She sank down beside him, her fingers brushing the hair from his pale face. Leaning forward, she pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, her voice barely a whisper.

“I promise you, my sweet boy, I’ll be a better mother. I will never let anything happen to you again.”

The queen stayed by her son’s side as the morning light spilled through the windows, her vow echoing silently in the stillness of the room.

~ With Draedon, In His Dream ~ 

“Who are you? And why do you look like my mother?” the young prince asked, his eyes wide with curiosity as he stared at the striking woman before him.

She was breathtakingly beautiful, her golden hair arranged in an intricate Greek crown braid. Her emerald green eyes shone with warmth, and though her dress—a flowing white gown—was elegant, it revealed far more than his mother would ever wear.

The woman’s lips curved into a soft smile. “My dear, I appear in the form of whomever you find most beautiful. It seems, Prince Draedon, that you consider your mother to hold that honour,” she explained, her voice melodious and soothing.

Draedon blinked, momentarily captivated, but soon his gaze shifted to his surroundings. This wasn’t the Red Keep, nor any part of the castle he knew. The room was otherworldly, its intricate architecture and radiant beauty leaving him awestruck.

“Fascinated by the design, are you?” the woman asked, her amusement clear.

The boy nodded earnestly, his awe written plainly on his face.

“This is my temple,” she explained, a note of pride in her voice. “I doubt your world has ever seen anything quite like it.”

“My world?” Draedon questioned, tilting his head. “So, you’re not from my world?”

“No, child,” she replied gently. “I exist only within your dreams. My world, and that of my kin, is far removed from yours. But do you know why I’m here?”

Draedon shook his head, his curiosity deepening.

“It is because of you,” she continued, her emerald gaze locking with his.

“Me?”

“Yes, my dear prince. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Aphrodite, the Greek Goddess of Love and Beauty. I’ve come to you with a proposition,” she said, her tone both earnest and enticing.

Draedon’s eyes widened as he stared up at her, intrigue etched into his young face.

“My kin and I are divine beings from another realm,” Aphrodite explained. “But our existence there is fading. We are in search of a new home, and that quest has brought us here. Would you, my dear prince, be willing to help us?”

“How can I help you?” Draedon asked, his young mind racing.

Aphrodite smiled, pleased by his willingness to listen. “It’s simple,” she said. “You must spread the word of our existence in your world. In return, each of us shall bestow upon you our blessings and powers—one every three years. Does that sound fair to you?”

Draedon considered her words carefully. “Will these powers make me strong enough to be a good king and protect my family?”

“My dear,” Aphrodite said, her tone sincere and her gaze unwavering, “these powers will make you the greatest king this world has ever known. No one will rival your strength, and under your rule, your family will flourish.”

Draedon’s resolve hardened, his love for his family and kingdom outweighing all other concerns. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

Aphrodite’s smile widened; her delight evident. “I see you’ve made your decision. Let’s proceed, then,” she said, clapping her hands.

The ethereal temple faded away, replaced by a grand throne room. Thirteen colossal statues lined the room, each exuding an almost tangible power. The largest statue depicted a bearded man wielding a bolt of lightning, towering over the rest with an air of authority.

Draedon felt the energy emanating from each figure and turned to Aphrodite for guidance.

“These are my kin,” she said, gesturing towards the statues. “Each represents one of us. By making a pact with any one of them, you’ll gain a unique set of powers they deem fitting for your world. But beware—once a pact is made, it cannot be undone. And you may only forge another after three years.”

She motioned towards the statues. “The powers are inscribed at the base of each figure. If you’d like to examine them before deciding—”

“I wish to make a pact with you,” Draedon interrupted, his voice steady and decisive.

Aphrodite blinked, momentarily surprised. “Why me, my dear?” she asked, her curiosity genuine.

“You were the first to speak to me,” Draedon replied simply. “And you’re the only one here who isn’t encased in stone.”

His reasoning, though childlike, was sincere—and it warmed Aphrodite’s heart.

She knelt before him, her smile radiant and her voice gentle. “You’ve made me very happy, Draedon,” she said. “I promise to do everything in my power to make you the greatest man your world has ever known.”

Leaning forward, she kissed his forehead. As her lips touched his skin, a surge of warmth spread through him.

“With this kiss, I seal our pact,” she declared. “Go forth, Draedon Baratheon, Champion of Aphrodite.”

And with that, Draedon finally opened his eyes.

The world had changed. The game would never be the same. And the players remained blissfully unaware about the force that had awakened.

Author’s Notes

Back with another Game of Thrones story. I have a rough idea of where I want to take this. It should be interesting. Keep up with on patreon and subscribe for advanced chapters.

See you soon.