Chapter 8: The Golden Wedding

King's Landing, 62 AC

The realm had never seen a celebration like it.

Seven years after Visenya's ashes rose into the sky, King Aenys I Targaryen decreed the marriage of his eldest son, Prince Maegor Targaryen, to his sister Alyssa Targaryen. The union was no quiet affair of blood and fire whispered in Dragonstone's halls—it was golden, radiant, a declaration to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms that the dragon's line would burn eternal and unchallenged.

They called it the Golden Wedding.

Maegor, now twenty-eight, stood taller than most men, broad-shouldered and brutal, his silver hair cropped short in warrior fashion, violet eyes cold as winter steel. He bore the name of the Conqueror's most feared son, yet tempered by Aenys's system-enhanced discipline: a mind sharp as Dark Sister, a body honed to perfection, and a monstrous cock that had already sired three bastards on willing court ladies—proof of potency, never hidden. Alyssa, twenty-eight as well, was his mirror and opposite: silver-gold hair cascading to her waist, eyes the deep amethyst of storm clouds, body lithe and graceful yet carrying the same lethal grace as her mother Visenya. She had trained with sword and bow since childhood, ridden dragons since twelve, and ruled the court with quiet, deadly charm.

The wedding was set for the seventh day of the seventh month—auspicious, divine, a number the Academy texts now claimed belonged to the Targaryens alone.

Lords arrived from every kingdom like rivers flowing to the sea.

From the North, Lord Rickon Stark rode at the head of two hundred fur-cloaked bannermen, direwolf pelts draped over shoulders, bringing gifts of white weirwood bows and mammoth ivory. The Westerlands sent Lord Lyman Lannister with golden wagons groaning under the weight of Casterly Rock's wealth—chests of yellow gold, lion-embossed plate, and barrels of Arbor gold so potent it burned the tongue. The Stormlands thundered in under Lord Rogar Baratheon's black-and-gold banner; his knights wore antlered helms and carried warhammers etched with lightning. The Vale arrived on white horses, Lord Jeyne Arryn's knights in sky-blue cloaks, bearing moonstone jewelry and falcon-feathered arrows. The Riverlands, still half-annexed, came under Tully colors—red-and-blue trout banners flying high, though many lords now wore the dragon's three-headed sigil beside their own. The Reach poured forth in splendor: Lord Lyonel Tyrell in green-and-gold, bringing orchards of fruit, casks of summerwine, and singers whose voices could make stones weep. Even the Iron Islands sent a grudging delegation—Lord Quellon Greyjoy in black iron, salt-crusted ships anchored in Blackwater Bay, offering whalebone and ambergris. Dorne arrived last, Prince Mors Martell in flowing silks of orange and crimson, his gifts spiced and strange: sand steeds, myrrh, and curved daggers of rippled steel.

Common folk lined the streets from the Dragon Gate to the Red Keep—hundreds of thousands, cleaned with royal soap, dressed in printed tunics bearing the three-headed dragon in crimson thread. They cheered until their throats bled, waving banners and throwing petals that drifted like snow.

The feast lasted seven days and seven nights.

Day One: The Arrival and the Oath

Maegor and Alyssa rode through the city on matching black destriers, cloaks of crimson samite trailing behind. The High Tower's beacon flame burned golden for the occasion. In the Great Hall, lords swore fealty anew—kneeling before the Iron Throne while Maegor and Alyssa stood beside Aenys, hands clasped. "By blood and fire, we bind the realm," Aenys intoned. Every lord echoed it, even the Ironborn growling the words through clenched teeth.

Day Two: The Ceremony

The rite was Valyrian, performed on a platform of black stone in the Dragonpit's center. No septon spoke. Two priests of the old blood—Academy-trained, faces tattooed in dragon-scale patterns—chanted in High Valyrian as Maegor and Alyssa cut their palms with obsidian blades, mingling blood in a golden chalice. They drank together, lips stained red. Then they kissed—slow, fierce, tongues tasting iron and wine—while Balerion's skull loomed above, hollow eye sockets watching. Dragons circled overhead: Vhagar's Shadow, Alyssa's silver beast Starfyre, and younger hatchlings. Flames roared in salute, black and gold and crimson.

Day Three: The First Feast

Tables stretched the length of the Red Keep's courtyards—roast aurochs, honey-glazed boar, lamprey pies, Dornish peppers stuffed with cheese, Reach apples baked in pastry, and cakes layered with cream and gold leaf. Wine flowed from fountains; singers from the Reach and Braavos performed ballads of Aegon's Conquest rewritten to exalt Maegor as "the Golden Prince." Common folk feasted in the streets—tables set by Bloody Dragon quartermasters, each citizen given a printed scroll proclaiming "The dragon feeds his children."

Day Four: The Tourney

Knights clashed in the Dragonpit arena—lances splintering, shields painted with house sigils. Maegor himself entered the lists, unhorsing three champions in succession before yielding the champion's laurel to Alyssa, who rode in on a white mare and tilted against lesser knights with a lance of her own. She unhorsed Lord Florent in three passes, earning roars of approval. Prizes were gold dragons stamped with the twins' entwined sigils.

Day Five: The Masque and Revels

Courtiers wore masks of dragon scale and gold—Maegor as a black dragon, Alyssa as a silver one. They danced in the torchlit gardens until midnight, then vanished together to the High Tower. Rumors spread that they consummated the marriage atop the tower, under the eternal flame, while dragons roared below. Whether true or not, the realm believed it divine.

Day Six: The Second Feast and Gifts

More food arrived—river trout, Ironborn crab, Vale cheeses, North venison. Gifts piled in the throne room: chests of gems, swords of rippled steel, tapestries woven with the wedding scene, dragon eggs (petrified, but presented in hope). Maegor accepted each with a nod; Alyssa kissed cheeks and whispered thanks, binding lords tighter with charm.

Day Seven: The Final Oath and Departure

At dawn, lords knelt one last time. Aenys rose from the Iron Throne, voice carrying across the city: "The dragon's blood is one. The realm is one." Maegor and Alyssa stood before him, hands joined, rings of Valyrian steel on their fingers. The Bloody Dragons formed a crimson wall, chanting "Gold and Fire!" Smallfolk echoed it from the walls. Then the lords departed—wagons groaning, banners high—carrying tales of the greatest wedding since Aegon's day.

That night, in the royal bedchamber, Maegor and Alyssa celebrated alone. She rode him first—slow, deliberate, golden hair spilling over his chest as she took every inch of his monstrous length. He flipped her, pounding deep, her cries echoing off stone. They fucked through the night—on the bed, against the wall, atop the table overlooking the sleeping city—until dawn painted the sky gold. When they finished, seed leaked from her thighs, and she smiled, hand on her belly.

"The line continues," she whispered.

The Golden Wedding was over.

The dragon's grip had never been tighter.

(Word count: 1002)