Chapter 7: Seeds of Legacy and the Queen's Eternal Flame
King's Landing, 50 AC – 60 AC (Fast-Forward Montage)
The realm under King Aenys I Targaryen hummed with the rhythm of unchallenged power. The Royal Academy churned out zealots disguised as scholars; the Bloody Dragons patrolled borders like vigilant shadows; innovations like the printing press and pure glass turned gold into rivers flowing into the treasury. Peace was not fragile—it was forged, unbreakable as Valyrian steel. Yet even gods in mortal flesh hungered for more: legacy through blood, wealth through cunning, and farewells etched in fire.
In the royal bedchamber atop the Dragon High Tower, where winds whispered secrets from across the Narrow Sea and the eternal flame beacon cast flickering crimson light, Aenys claimed his queen-wives anew. The twins—Vaella and Olena, now in their prime at thirty-five—had grown into embodiments of Targaryen duality: Vaella the fierce, her silver hair cropped short like a warrior's, body honed by sword and saddle; Olena the cunning, her curves softer, eyes like violet storms plotting in silence. Their children—Maegor a brutal enforcer at twenty-five, Alyssa a silver-tongued diplomat at the same age—already extended the line, but Aenys desired more heirs, purer blood.
It began on a storm-lashed night in 51 AC. The Small Council had adjourned after debating trade pacts with Braavos—Visenya, graying but unbowed at seventy, arguing for ironclad tariffs; Orys long dead, replaced by a Academy-trained loyalist whispering of espionage. Aenys retired early, the system's [Fertility Enhancement: Active] pulsing in his veins like dragonfire.
Vaella entered first, shedding her black leather armor with deliberate slowness, violet eyes locked on his. "The realm is yours, husband-brother. Now make me yours again." She pushed him onto the vast bed, straddling his monstrous cock—still eleven inches of veined dominance, girth unyielding. He gripped her hips, guiding her down; she gasped at the stretch, walls clenching as she sank fully, rocking with warrior rhythm. Nails raked his chest; he thrust up, pounding deep, the system's stamina turning the coupling into a marathon. Vaella came twice—shuddering, moaning "God-king!"—before he unleashed, flooding her womb with thick, potent seed. [Conception Probability: 98%], the system confirmed.
Olena joined silently, slipping into the sheets like a 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 from behind while Vaella kissed her twin's neck. Olena's softer body yielded differently—wet, welcoming, her cries muffled against Vaella's breast. He alternated thrusts, hands roaming, until release came again: copious ropes filling her, overflowing down thighs. The twins collapsed entwined, marked inside by their god-king's essence.
Nine moons later, in 52 AC, the births shook the realm. Vaella labored first in the High Tower's birthing chamber, Visenya holding her hand with iron grip, maesters—Academy-trained, chanting Targaryen hymns—attending. A boy emerged wailing, silver-haired and robust, named Rhaegar after ancient Valyrian lords. "A warrior born," Visenya declared, eyes gleaming.
Olena's turn came days later, her cries echoing through stone halls. A girl—delicate yet fierce, with eyes like amethysts—slid into the world, dubbed Visenya the Younger in honor of her "grandmother." The system pinged: [Bloodline Purity: 92%. Heirs Upgraded. Rebirth Paths: Multiplied]. Feasts lasted weeks; smallfolk cheered in organized streets, Bloody Dragons distributing soap-scented favors and printed broadsheets glorifying the "divine births."
With the treasury bloated—gold from glass exports stacking like dragon hoards—Aenys turned to safeguarding wealth. In 53 AC, he founded the Dragon Bank in King's Landing's heart, a fortress of black stone and red iron rising beside the Academy. "Gold is the dragon's blood," he proclaimed at the opening, Balerion's skull mounted above vault doors. The Small Council advised: Visenya pushed for militarized guards; the new Master of Coin, an Academy zealot, suggested interest loans to bind lords; Qhorin Velaryon warned of Braavosi envy. Aenys wove it all with system logic: [Financial Dominion Unlocked. Security Boost: +50%].
The bank centralized the realm's riches—taxes funneled through Academy auditors, loans issued at royal rates to loyal houses, defaults punished by Bloody Dragon seizures. Pure glass vaults gleamed with stacked ingots; printing presses minted promissory notes bearing Targaryen seals. Interest compounded mathematically, taught in Academy classes; lords borrowed for castles, repaying with fealty. Smallfolk deposited coppers in branch outposts, earning tiny yields—binding them to the dragon's prosperity. By 55 AC, the bank's coffers dwarfed the Iron Bank's; envoys from Essos begged alliances, gold flowing endlessly.
Visenya, the founding queen, watched the empire she helped forge with quiet pride. At eighty in 58 AC, her body weakened—battles and births taking toll—but her spirit burned fierce. She patrolled on Vhagar less, spending days training Maegor in Dark Sister's arts, nights in the High Tower with Aenys. Their bond, forged in forbidden seed, remained secret fire.
Her end came peacefully in 60 AC, on a crisp autumn eve. Visenya lay in the royal bed, silver braid undone, violet eyes dim but sharp. Aenys sat beside her, the twins flanking, children gathered. "The conquest endures," she whispered, hand on his. But peace was not her only wish.
Alone later, she beckoned him closer. "One last conquest, my king." Her voice was rough, eyes hungry. Aenys understood—the system's [Endurance Eternal] ensuring he could grant it. He unlaced his breeches, the monstrous cock springing free—still unyielding, veined and heavy. Visenya took him in her mouth with warrior precision: lips stretching wide, tongue tracing familiar paths, sucking with deliberate pulls. No rush; she savored, hands cupping his swollen balls, drawing out the pleasure. Aenys threaded fingers through her hair, thrusting gently, the weight of decades in every motion.
She hummed around him—vibrations sending sparks up his spine. When release built, she pulled back slightly, eyes locked on his. He came in pulses: thick, hot ropes filling her mouth, overflowing corners, dripping down her chin. Visenya swallowed what she could, the rest pooling on her tongue as she smiled—faint, triumphant. "Taste of gods," she murmured, then closed her eyes, breath slowing to stillness. Peace claimed her, mouth still glistening with his seed—a final, intimate mark.
The Seven Kingdoms wept. Printed broadsheets spread the news like dragonfire: "Founding Queen Visenya, Mother of Conquest, ascends to the gods." Smallfolk in organized streets lit candles; lords paused tourneys; even Dornish sands whispered grief. Academy hymns echoed in every sept—reformed to honor Targaryen divinity. "She who tamed the skies now rules the heavens," chanters intoned. Riots of mourning broke in the Reach; Bloody Dragons channeled them into vigils, soap-clean hands clasped in prayer.
Lords from all Seven Kingdoms converged on King's Landing for the royal funeral—a procession unmatched. From the North, Lord Stark rode with fur-cloaked retinue; Westerlands Lannisters glittered in gold; Stormlands Baratheons thundered in; Vale Arryns soared by raven-flanked paths; Riverlands Tullys navigated annexed waters; Iron Islands Greyjoys sailed begrudgingly; Reach Tyrells bloomed in floral tribute; Dornish Martells arrived with spices and silence. They filled the Dragonpit, now a grand arena, banners of every house dipping in respect.
The rite was Targaryen pure. Visenya's body, clad in black armor, Dark Sister at her side, lay on a pyre of ancient oak and wildfire jars. Aenys spoke from the High Tower's shadow: "She was fire made flesh, god-queen eternal." The twins wept openly; Maegor stood stoic, axe in hand; Alyssa clutched her siblings. Bloody Dragons formed a ring, chanting "Mother Visenya, divine forever!"
Dragons descended: Balerion, Vhagar (now Maegor's), Vhagar's Shadow, and younger beasts hatched in the pit. Aenys commanded the burn—flames black, crimson, green erupting in unison. The pyre ignited in a roar, heat warping air, Visenya's form consumed in purifying blaze. Ashes swirled skyward, carried by winds to Valyria's ghosts. Lords knelt, tears mixing with awe; even Stark murmured, "A queen for the ages."
The realm mourned a moon's turn—feasts turned somber, markets hushed. But legacy endured: the Dragon Bank swelled with memorial tributes; Academy texts immortalized her as goddess; Bloody Dragons swelled, recruits chanting her name. Aenys stood alone in the High Tower, system pinging [Lineage Eternalized. Next Rebirth: Visenya Path Unlocked]. The Seven Kingdoms, firmer under dragon rule, pressed on—peace laced with fire, gold, and undying blood.
(Word count: 2004)