Chapter 19: The Union of Flames and the Hidden Seed
King's Landing, 170 AC – 172 AC
The realm under Aenys II Targaryen—now firmly in his thirties, silver hair still untouched by gray, violet eyes burning with the accumulated cunning of centuries—had become an industrial colossus. Steam locomotives thundered along iron rails from the Wall to Sunspear; cement bridges spanned swollen rivers; ironclad steamships carved trade routes across every sea; gunpowder factories and cannon foundries hummed day and night under the watchful eyes of the Bloody Dragons. Mortality rates had fallen to levels undreamed of in the days of Aegon the Conqueror; the population swelled, cities grew, and the Dragon Bank's vaults groaned under mountains of gold. Yet even a god-king needed heirs—pure, potent, and plentiful—to carry the eternal line forward.
In 170 AC, Aenys decreed the greatest wedding since the Golden Wedding of his grandfather Maegor II. He would take two brides: his aunt Daera Targaryen, daughter of Maegor II and Alyssa, now thirty-eight, fierce and unbowed, her silver hair cropped warrior-short, body honed by decades commanding Thunder Legions; and his full sister Visenya the Younger, daughter of Maegor II and Alyssa as well, forty-five, still lithe and lethal, violet eyes like storm clouds, her presence a blade wrapped in silk. Both women had ridden dragons since girlhood, both bore the unblemished Valyrian features, both had waited—patiently, hungrily—for the reborn king to claim them fully.
The Small Council approved without hesitation. Jaehaerys, ever the diplomat, saw the political cement: two powerful Targaryen women binding the military and court factions tighter to the throne. Aemon, the tactician, calculated the bloodline purity: near-perfect. The Bloody Dragons chanted approval in their cloisters. Printed broadsheets flooded the realm: "The God-King weds Flame and Steel—two queens to birth an eternal dynasty."
The wedding was set for the first day of summer in 171 AC—a date chosen for its long light and warm winds, auspicious in the Academy's rewritten calendars. Lords arrived from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond.
From the North came Lord Eddard Stark—now in his forties, dark-haired with those faint violet flecks no one dared name aloud—leading a retinue of fur-cloaked bannermen bearing weirwood bows and mammoth-ivory gifts. The Westerlands sent Lord Lannister with golden wagons groaning under Casterly Rock's wealth. Stormlands knights thundered in under black-and-gold banners; Vale lords arrived on white destriers with moonstone jewelry; Riverlands houses navigated the new concrete canals; Reach lords bloomed with floral tributes; Dornish princes rode sand steeds draped in orange silk; even Ironborn captains sailed grudgingly into Blackwater Bay, offering ambergris and whalebone under the shadow of ironclads.
Smallfolk lined the streets from the Dragon Gate to the Red Keep—hundreds of thousands, cleaner than any generation before, dressed in printed tunics of crimson and black, waving flags emblazoned with the three-headed dragon entwined with steam and flame. They cheered until their voices cracked as the royal procession passed: Aenys on Stormwing's back, silver armor chased with gold, monstrous presence unmistakable even from afar; Daera and Visenya riding matching black destriers, clad in matching Valyrian steel plate chased with crimson silk, their dragons—Emberwing's daughter Flameheart and a young crimson beast named Ironscale—circling overhead.
The ceremony unfolded in the Dragonpit, now the grandest arena in the known world. No septon tainted the rite. Valyrian priests in dragon-scale robes chanted ancient words as Aenys, Daera, and Visenya stood on a raised dais of black obsidian veined with red gold. They cut their palms with obsidian blades, let blood mingle in a golden chalice, drank together—lips brushing in a three-way kiss that tasted of iron, wine, and destiny. Dragons descended in a roaring spiral: Stormwing, Flameheart, Ironscale, Shadowclaw, Harpwing, and every hatchling old enough to fly. Flames erupted in perfect unison—black, crimson, silver, gold—forming a blazing ring around the trio as they declared in High Valyrian: "One blood, three flames, one realm eternal."
The feast lasted nine days and nine nights—longer than any before. Tables stretched across the Red Keep's courtyards and spilled into the streets: roast aurochs glazed with Dornish peppers, lamprey pies from the Riverlands, honey-glazed boar from the Stormlands, Reach apples baked in pastry, Sothoryos spices scenting every dish, Yi Ti silks draping the high seats. Wine flowed from fountains; singers from Lys and Braavos performed ballads of Aenys's conquests rewritten to exalt the new queens. Common folk feasted in organized squares—tables set by Bloody Dragon quartermasters, each citizen given a printed scroll proclaiming "The dragon weds; the realm is blessed."
On the final night, in the royal apartments atop the High Tower—where the eternal flame cast flickering crimson light—Aenys claimed his brides.
Daera first—fierce, demanding. She shoved him onto the vast bed, straddling his monstrous cock with a growl. "Fuck me like you conquered Braavos, husband-nephew." He obliged, hands gripping her hips as she sank down, gasping at the stretch. Eleven inches buried deep, girth splitting her wide. She rode him hard, breasts bouncing, nails drawing blood down his chest. The system boosted: [Fertility Surge: Active]. He flipped her, pounding from behind until she shattered around him, walls milking his release. Thick seed flooded her—copious, hot—ensuring conception.
Visenya joined silently, slipping into the sheets like shadow. She took him in her mouth first—lips straining around the head, tongue worshiping every ridge, saliva dripping as she deep-throated what she could. Aenys pulled her up, entering her slowly, letting her adjust to the beast. She whimpered, then moaned as he thrust deep, one hand on her throat, the other circling her clit with weapon-master precision. Daera kissed her sister through it, fingers teasing Visenya's breasts. Aenys came inside her too, the overflow dripping as she collapsed in bliss.
Nine moons later, in the spring of 172 AC, the births came swiftly and strong.
Daera labored first in the High Tower's birthing chamber—maesters chanting Targaryen hymns, steam-sterilized tools gleaming, Bloody Dragon guards at every door. A son emerged—robust, silver-haired, violet eyes fierce from the first breath. Named Daemon after ancient Valyrian lords, he wailed with lungs that promised dragonfire. Aenys held him first, whispering "My prince," while Daera smiled through exhaustion, hand on the boy's tiny fist.
Visenya's turn came days later in the same chamber. Aenys held her hand as their daughter arrived: delicate yet strong, silver-gold curls framing a face that echoed Visenya the Elder's grace. They named her Rhaella, after the ancient queens who burned bright. She opened violet eyes and cooed softly, as if already dreaming of flight.
The realm rejoiced. Printed broadsheets spread the news: "Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaella born to the Triple Union—new flames for the dragon's hearth." Smallfolk lit bonfires in every square; lords sent gifts—lion pelts from Casterly Rock, weirwood carvings from Winterfell, Myrish lace from the Free Cities. The Dragon Bank minted commemorative coins: one side the three-headed dragon, the other the entwined sigils of Aenys, Daera, and Visenya.
Yet the wedding's shadow held one final, secret thread.
Lady Catelyn Stark—now in her late forties, still strikingly beautiful, auburn hair streaked with silver, Tully blue eyes sharp with quiet knowledge—had come south with Lord Eddard for the festivities. The North's gratitude for Aenys's grain, rails, and cement had deepened into something more intimate over the decades. During the ninth night of feasting, when the High Tower's halls echoed with music and wine, Catelyn slipped away from her husband's side.
She found Aenys in a private solar overlooking Blackwater Bay—fire roaring, shadows dancing on cement walls etched with dragon motifs. She closed the door softly.
"Your Grace," she whispered, voice trembling only slightly. "The North owes you more than iron and grain can repay."
Aenys rose, monstrous presence filling the room. "The debt is paid in loyalty."
She stepped closer, unlacing her gown. Silk pooled at her feet. Beneath, she wore nothing—skin pale in firelight, breasts full, hips curved from bearing children. "Then let me repay in the only coin I have."
They came together fiercely. Aenys lifted her onto the table, spreading her thighs. His breeches fell; the monstrous cock sprang free—eleven inches, thick as a wrist, already hard. Catelyn gasped at the sight, then guided him inside her. The stretch was immediate and overwhelming; she bit her lip to stifle a cry as he filled her completely. He thrust deep, slow at first, then harder—hands gripping her hips, leaving marks. She wrapped her legs around him, nails digging into his back, moaning softly against his neck.
"God-king," she breathed, the old Academy-taught title slipping out.
He fucked her until she shattered—walls clenching, body trembling. Then he buried himself to the hilt and came—thick, hot ropes flooding her womb, the system's ancient fertility enhancement ensuring the seed took root. When he pulled out, white seed leaked from her, dripping onto the table. Catelyn touched her belly, eyes wide with secret knowledge.
"This stays between us," Aenys said quietly.
She nodded, kissed him once—soft, grateful—and slipped from the room.
Nine moons later, in the depths of winter 172 AC, Lady Catelyn gave birth in Winterfell's birthing chamber. Lord Eddard claimed the child as his own—a boy, dark-haired like the Starks, but with faint violet flecks in his eyes that no one dared mention. The North whispered of another "dragon's gift." They named him Brandon—strong, quiet, destined to inherit Winterfell in another life. The secret remained buried, known only to two people and the system that tracked [Bloodline Infusion: Stark Branch – 18% Valyrian].
Aenys stood atop the High Tower, watching steam rise from distant factories, dragons wheeling in the sky. Daemon and Rhaella cried in cradles of black wood and crimson silk; the realm—stronger, richer, more populous than ever—looked to the future with unblinking violet eyes.
The dragon's line had never been deeper.
Peace endured—golden, eternal, and now mechanized.
(Word count: 2497)