Chapter 28: The Peaceful Reign, the Eternal Cycle, and the Shadow of Asshai – Ignition of the Second Crusade
King's Landing, 255 AC – 295 AC (Fast-Forward Montage)
The ascension of Daemon I Targaryen marked a golden interlude in the endless saga of the dragon's dominion. Where Aenys II had been the architect—forging innovations from steam and steel, conquering Sothoryos's black gold fields, uplifting the commons through schools and the Dragon Church—Daemon was the guardian. Broad-shouldered and axe-wielding, with silver hair cropped short and violet eyes like tempered steel, he ruled with a firm hand wrapped in velvet. His marriage to Rhaella had sealed the line's purity; their twins, Aenys III and Daenys, grew into embodiments of Targaryen duality: Aenys the thoughtful tactician, silver-haired and bookish, claiming a sleek black dragon named Nightfire; Daenys the fierce rider, gold-silver curls whipping in the wind atop her crimson beast, Bloodwing.
Daemon's reign was peaceful—twenty years of unbroken harmony, the realm humming like a well-oiled steam engine. Oil flowed endlessly from Sothoryos wells, fueling locomotives that crisscrossed the continent faster than ever; cement cities expanded with towering academies and factories; the Dragon Church's chapters organized communal harvests, medical clinics, and ritual pyres where fanatics offered prayers instead of bodies. The smallfolk prospered—literacy universal, mortality rates a fraction of old times, populations swelling to feed the empire's endless needs. Lords, chastened by the First Crusade's fanatic blades, bent knees deeper; heretics hid in whispers, their cruelties buried under royal assizes.
Daemon toured the realm by royal rail—inspecting oil refineries in Blackgold Hold, blessing church elders in Stoneford, reviewing Thunder Legions in Harrenhal. He mediated disputes with Codex in hand, his voice booming: "The flame protects the humble; the dragon judges the proud." Trade boomed—ironclads carrying rubber, iron, and uranium to Yi Ti and beyond, returning with silks and spices. Dragons patrolled skies, their evolutions rendering them immune to jungle venoms and cannon fire. The Faith of Seven—reformed and subdued—lingered in scattered septs, its septons preaching diluted sermons under dragon icons, but many had fled east during the church's rise, vanishing into Essos's shadows.
Yet peace, even divine, could not last forever.
In the autumn of 275 AC, Daemon I—now sixty, body scarred from minor Sothoryos skirmishes but unbowed—fell ill during a northern tour. A chill from Winterfell's winds turned to fever; Academy maesters with steam-sterilized tools fought it, but age claimed its toll. He returned to King's Landing by special locomotive, bedridden in the High Tower. Rhaella held vigil at his side; Aenys III and Daenys knelt in prayer with church elders. No dramatic farewell—Daemon simply exhaled one dawn, his chest stilling as the eternal flame flickered outside. The system, ever watchful, pinged in the ether: [Host Candidate: Aenys III Targaryen. Bloodline Purity: 99.8%. Rebirth Cycle: Engage.]
Daemon was gone.
The realm's cry echoed the uproar of Aenys II's passing, but deeper—fanaticism honed by decades of church doctrine. Broadsheets wailed: "The Guardian Flame Ascends—Daemon I Joins the Eternal Pyre!" Smallfolk in cement streets collapsed in grief; factory whistles blew mournful dirges; rail traffic halted as workers knelt on tracks. In Sothoryos, ape-handlers released roars that shook pyramids; in Braavos, canal merchants draped black over dragon banners. Self-sacrifices flared anew—fanatics immolating in squares, crying "Join the guardian in flame!" despite church bans. Hundreds perished in the first week, ashes offered to winds toward Dragonstone.
The funeral was a spectacle of divine scale. Daemon's body—clad in black armor, axe Blackfyre at his side—lay on a vast pyre in the Dragonpit, surrounded by oil jars and cement barriers. Aenys III spoke from the dais: "Father guarded the flame; now we carry it." Rhaella wept openly; Daenys stood fierce, hand on Bloodwing's scale. Church elders chanted Codex verses; Bloody Dragons formed a crimson ring, roaring "The dragon endures!"
Dragons descended—Nightfire, Bloodwing, Crimsonfang's descendants—unleashing flames in unison: black, crimson, silver, gold. The pyre ignited in a roar that shook the city; heat warped air, ashes swirling skyward toward Valyria's ghosts. The realm stood silent, then erupted in unified chant: "Fire and blood! Fire and blood!"
Aenys III ascended amid the ashes.
The coronation blended throne and church—held in the Dragonpit under dragon wings. He was twenty-four, silver-haired and thoughtful, but with his father's steel edge. Elders anointed him with Sothoryos oil: "Aenys III, God-King, High Priest, Eternal Flame Renewed." The crown—black iron with ruby scales—settled heavy on his brow. But the system stirred: [Rebirth Cycle: Complete. Host: Aenys III Targaryen. Memories Unlocked. Legacy Rewards: Pending.] Elias awoke again—centuries of cunning flooding the young body, enhancing weapon-master skills, tactical genius, the monstrous endowment a familiar weight.
To bind the line and quell grief, Aenys III married Daenys that day.
The union was Valyrian and church-infused—blood mingled in a golden chalice blessed by elders, drunk under Codex chants. They cut palms with obsidian blades: "Brother and sister, mind and might, one blood eternal." The kiss was fierce—tongues battling, tasting iron and destiny—while dragons roared approval.
That night, in the High Tower's royal bedchamber—eternal flame casting crimson shadows—Aenys claimed his sister-wife.
Daenys entered, shedding her gown like flame unveiling steel. She was twenty-four, lithe and untamed, curves honed by dragon saddle, violet eyes hungry. "The realm mourns," she whispered. "Make me burn."
Aenys—reborn will surging—pulled her close, mouth crushing hers in war. He lifted her onto the bed, hands gripping hips, nails raking. His cock—monstrous, system-perfected—sprang free. Daenys dropped to knees, taking him in mouth: lips stretching, tongue swirling, sucking deep. She hummed vibrations; he groaned, fingers in her gold-silver curls.
He pulled her up, entering her pussy in one thrust—stretch obscene, walls gripping. She cried out, bucking. He fucked relentlessly—deep, hard, hands on throat. "Sister… queen…" She came shuddering; he flooded her womb, seed overflowing.
More: he flipped her, pressing into her ass—slow, then savage. She gasped, pushing back. "Claim… all…" Fingers circled her clit; she shattered again. He unleashed inside, marking fully.
They collapsed—bodies slick, seed leaking. "The line renews," she murmured, hand on belly.
Nine moons later, twins: a boy, Viserys, robust; a girl, Rhaenyra, fierce. Broadsheets rejoiced: "New Sparks from the Renewed Flame!"
Yet shadows lingered beyond the Narrow Sea.
The Faith of Seven—crushed in the First Crusade, its septons fleeing during the church's rise—had not died. Exiles escaped to Asshai-by-the-Shadow, the shadowed city where light feared to tread. In Asshai's black stone streets, masked inhabitants and shadowbinders offered sanctuary. The Faith twisted there—blending with dark rites, seven-pointed stars etched in blood, sermons preached in crypts where candles burned blue. For twenty years, it rose in secrecy: converts from Essosi outcasts, Yi Ti dissidents, Qartheen warlocks seeking power. They called it the Shadowed Seven—preaching hatred of the "dragon heresy," the church that had stolen their gods.
In 275 AC, as Daemon lay dying, the Shadowed Seven struck.
Dragon Church missionaries—fanatic elders sailing ironclads to Asshai's ports—preached the Codex in shadowed markets: "The flame enlightens even the dark." The Faith responded with savagery. Missionaries were ambushed in alleys: killed, raped, hanged from black stone arches. Bodies desecrated—genitals mutilated, eyes sewn with seven threads, Codices burned in their mouths. One woman elder was flayed alive, her screams echoing as shadowbinders laughed. The atrocities were paraded: hanged corpses dangled from the Titan's shadow in Braavos (smuggled north), world envoys invited to mock. Yi Ti courts laughed at "dragon fools"; Qartheen balls featured effigies raped for sport.
Word reached Westeros by ironclad survivor. Broadsheets screamed: "Missionaries Martyred in Shadow—Raped, Hanged, the World Mocks the Flame!" The commons erupted—fanaticism ignited anew. "The Shadowed Seven defiles our elders!" chanted crowds. Self-sacrifices flared; Dragon Knights reformed—titans in oil-black armor, mounted on steam-charging steeds.
Aenys III—reborn Aenys I, cunning eternal—summoned the council. "The old faith hides in Asshai's dark. They mock us. We answer with the Second Crusade."
The crusade launched in 276 AC—a holy storm of steel and flame.
Fanatic armies mobilized: Bloody Dragons by the hundred thousand, Dragon Knights from commons, converted lords' hosts. Ironclads—oil-fueled behemoths—sailed east, cannons primed. Dragons mustered: fifty beasts, riders chanting Codex in flight.
They struck Asshai first.
Ironclads blockaded black harbors; dragons strafed stone streets—flames piercing shadows, binding magics shattering under evolved heat. Bloody Dragons stormed ashore—rifles cracking in crypts, bayonets red in ritual chambers. Shadowbinders died screaming; Shadowed Seven septons hanged from their own arches, bodies desecrated in mimicry—eyes sewn, Codices stuffed in wounds.
The crusade spread. Yi Ti courts harboring exiles burned—dragons razing palaces, knights executing warlords. Qartheen pleasure houses where effigies mocked were shelled from sea; fanatics searched ruins, killing heretics without mercy.
For twenty years, the war raged—crusaders pushing into Asshai's hinterlands, claiming shadow-veiled ruins. Atrocities answered with atrocities: heretic villages flayed, but commons helped—church establishing aid in conquered lands, converting survivors with Codex and bread.
By 295 AC, the Shadowed Seven shattered—last septons crucified in Asshai's square, world watching in silence. The crusade ended; Asshai became a protectorate, its shadows bent to the flame.
Aenys III sat the Throne, Daenys at his side. The system hummed: [Crusade Complete. Faith Dominance: Global.]
The dragon endured—avenged, unmocked, eternal.
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