Chapter 27: The Eternal Flame Fades – Ascension, Union, and the People's Lament
King's Landing, 250 AC – 255 AC (Transition and Mourning Montage)
The flame that had burned for over a century finally guttered.
Aenys II Targaryen—Elias reborn, the eternal architect who had planted the seed in Rhaenys's womb, conquered Dorne with brilliance, crushed the Faith with fanatic shadows, forged innovations from printing presses to steam engines, claimed Sothoryos's black gold, and elevated the commons through schools and the Dragon Church—had reached the limits even the system could not fully defy. In 250 AC, he was biologically one hundred fifteen, body a vessel of ancient will: silver hair thinned to wisps, violet eyes dimmed but piercing, frame supported by a cane of Valyrian steel etched with dragon runes. The system pinged warnings: [Host Vitality: 12%. Rebirth Cycle: Primed for Next Host.] He had outlived queens, seen heirs rise, watched the realm evolve into an industrial empire where oil fueled endless machines, dragons soared unbreakable, and the church bound souls in fanatic devotion.
His end came peacefully, as such things did for gods who had already won eternity.
It was a quiet winter dawn in 251 AC. The eternal flame of the High Tower burned steady outside the royal bedchamber. Aenys lay in the vast bed, surrounded by his line: Queen Daera—old but fierce, hand clasping his; Prince Daemon, now forty, broad and unyielding, axe at his side; Princess Rhaella, thirty-eight, silver-gold hair cascading, eyes like storm amethysts. Grandchildren arrayed around—Baelor the tactician, others commanding Thunder Legions and dragon wings. No maesters hovered; the church elders chanted softly from the shadows.
No final command. No dramatic breath. Aenys simply exhaled—long, slow, final. His chest did not rise. The system activated silently: [Rebirth Cycle: Engage. Host Transfer: Pending.]
The realm shattered.
Word spread like oil fire on water—ravens, rail couriers, ironclad signals. Printed broadsheets screamed in crimson ink: "The God-King Aenys II, Eternal Flame, High Priest of the Dragon, Ascends to the Pyre!" Smallfolk in Flea Bottom's cement streets collapsed weeping; factory workers halted steam engines, kneeling in silence. In the North, Brandon Stark's descendants lit bonfires on frozen lakes; in Dorne, oil wells paused, workers chanting Codex verses. In Sothoryos, ape-handlers released roars that echoed through jungles; in Braavos, canal merchants draped three-headed banners in black.
Uproar followed grief. The commons, fanatic in faith, saw not death but betrayal—the lords who had whispered against the church, the heretics who had survived the crusade. "The flame fades because of sin!" preachers thundered in village squares. Cries rose: self-sacrifices began. In Stoneford, a farmer immolated himself on a pyre of Codices, screaming "For the eternal flame!" In Blackgold Hold, oil workers doused themselves in black gold, igniting in ritual circles. Church elders tried to stop them—preaching "The dragon endures through us!"—but fanaticism burned hotter. Hundreds died in the first moon, bodies offered to makeshift altars, ashes scattered to winds toward Dragonstone.
Lords trembled. Those unconverted hid in keeps; even converted ones faced mobs demanding oaths renewed in blood. Bloody Dragons—swollen to half a million, fanatic core of the church—mobilized by rail, quelling riots not with blades but sermons: "The god-king's will lives in his heir!"
Daemon Targaryen ascended amid the chaos.
The coronation was held in the Dragonpit—now a colossal arena of cement and steel, roofed with pure glass domes. No gentle rite; it was a spectacle of flame and fury. Daemon stood on the black obsidian dais, clad in Valyrian steel chased with oil-black scales, axe Blackfyre (forged anew) in hand. Rhaella flanked him—his sister, his betrothed, silver-gold gown clinging like dragon wings. Dragons circled overhead: Crimsonfang, Moonshadow, dozens more—scales gleaming with evolutions against every threat.
Church elders anointed him with oil from Sothoryos wells, chanting: "The flame passes; the dragon endures." Aenys's crown—black iron with ruby scales—was placed on Daemon's brow by Harlan Reed's successor, the First Elder. "You are Daemon I, God-King, High Priest," he proclaimed. The crowd—hundreds of thousands, from commons to lords—roared approval, but sobs mingled with cheers.
To bind the line and quell unrest, Daemon married Rhaella that same day.
The union was Valyrian pure—blood mingled in a golden chalice, drunk under dragonfire rings. No septon; only church priests in crimson. They cut palms with obsidian blades, declared: "Brother and sister, flame and shadow, one blood eternal." The kiss was fierce—tongues tasting iron and destiny—while dragons roared salute.
That night, in the High Tower's royal bedchamber—eternal flame flickering crimson—Aenys's deathbed—Daemon claimed his sister-wife.
Rhaella entered first, shedding her gown like molted scales. She was beautiful—lithe, curves honed by dragon saddle and sword drill, violet eyes dark with hunger. "The realm weeps," she whispered. "Make me forget."
Daemon pulled her close, mouth crushing hers in a war of teeth and tongues. He lifted her onto the bed, hands roaming—gripping breasts, nails raking hips. His cock—monstrous like his father's, system-inherited—sprang free, eleven inches of veined steel. Rhaella dropped to her knees, taking him in her mouth: lips stretching wide, tongue swirling, sucking with deliberate pulls. She deep-throated half, gagging but unyielding, hands stroking the rest. Daemon groaned, fingers threading her silver-gold hair, thrusting gently.
When pressure built, he pulled her up, entering her pussy in one brutal stroke. She cried out—stretch obscene, walls gripping like a vice. He fucked her relentlessly—deep thrusts pounding her cervix, hands on her throat for control. Rhaella bucked, meeting him, nails drawing blood down his back. "Harder… god-king…" She came first—shuddering, milking him. He followed, flooding her womb with thick ropes, overflow dripping.
But the night demanded more. He flipped her, pressing into her ass—slow at first, then savage. She gasped, arching, pushing back. "Claim me… all…" He pounded deeper, fingers circling her clit. She shattered again; he unleashed inside her, marking her fully.
They collapsed entwined—seed leaking from her, bodies slick. "The line continues," she murmured, hand on her belly.
Nine moons later, twins: a boy, Aenys III, robust and violet-eyed; a girl, Daenys, fierce from the first wail. The realm rejoiced amid mourning—broadsheets proclaiming "New Flames from the Eternal Union!"
Yet the uproar lingered. Self-sacrifices continued—fanatics immolating in squares, crying "Join the god-king in flame!" Church elders decreed against it, but grief fueled frenzy. In Sothoryos, ape-riders leaped into oil fires; in the North, villagers froze in snow pyres. Thousands died—offering bodies to the dragon, ashes scattered as holy relics.
Daemon I—now king—channeled the pain. He decreed grand memorials: cement statues of Aenys II in every square, eternal oil flames lit in church chapels. Bloody Dragons hunted remaining heretics—lords who had celebrated the old king's death in secret, executed publicly to sate the cries. The Dragon Church swelled—converts pouring in, chapters organizing grief rituals: mass chants, Codex readings by rail light.
By 255 AC, the lament faded into legend. Self-sacrifices banned under pain of heresy; the uproar forged deeper fanaticism. The commons whispered of Aenys II's "ascension," not death—his spirit in every dragon, every steam engine.
Daemon sat the Throne, Rhaella at his side, twins playing at his feet. The system—now in his mind? No, waiting for the next cycle—pinged faintly in the ether: [Legacy Secured. Rebirth Path: Open.]
The dragon endured—through death, union, and the people's undying cry.
(Word count: 1998)