Chapter 32: The Passing Flame – Ascensions, Unions, and Forbidden Renewals
King's Landing, 370 AC – 390 AC (Fast-Forward Montage)
The Voice of the Flame had bound the empire in ways no chain or rail could match. Radio towers pierced skies from the Wall to Ulthos cliffs, broadcasting Codex sermons, royal edicts, and Academy lectures to billions. Electric lights glowed eternal in cement cities; uranium reactors hummed in forges that split atoms for power beyond dragonfire; airships carried missionaries across seas, wyverns scouting alongside. Aenys III Targaryen—reborn Elias, eternal architect—ruled at one hundred fourteen, body a relic sustained by system enhancements, oil-infused medicine, and church prayers. Silver hair thinned to wisps, violet eyes dim but piercing, frame bent over a cane of Valyrian steel. The realm thrived under his shadow: populations swelling, knowledge booming, the Dragon Church fanatic in its benevolence.
Yet even gods in flesh fade.
The end came in the winter of 370 AC—a quiet dawn in the High Tower's royal bedchamber, electric lights mingling with the eternal flame's crimson glow. Aenys III lay in the vast bed, surrounded by his line: Queen Daenys—old but fierce, hand clasping his; Prince Viserys, seventy-nine, broad and commanding, axe Blackfyre at his side; Princess Rhaenyra, seventy-three, radiant and unyielding, eyes like storm amethysts. Grandchildren arrayed around: Aegon the thoughtful, forty-seven, silver-haired and bookish, rider of Nightfire's son Shadowrend; Visenya the fierce, forty-seven, gold-silver curls whipping in memory of flights atop Bloodwing's heir Venomstorm. Church elders chanted softly; maesters with steam-sterilized tools stood vigil.
No final command. No dramatic breath. Aenys III simply exhaled—long, slow, final. His chest did not rise. The system activated silently: [Host Vitality: 0%. Rebirth Cycle: Engage. Host Transfer: Pending.]
Aenys III was gone.
The realm's cry echoed the uproars of past passings, but deeper—fanaticism forged by radio voices uniting billions in grief. Broadsheets screamed: "The Eternal Architect Ascends—Flame Renewed in the Heavens!" Radio broadcasts halted for silence, then erupted in chants heard across continents. Smallfolk in Flea Bottom's electric-lit streets collapsed weeping; factory workers shut down uranium reactors, kneeling in prayer. In Sothoryos, ape-handlers released roars that shook pyramids; in Ulthos, wyvern riders dove in mourning spirals. Self-sacrifices flared—fanatics immolating on airship decks or in village squares, crying "Join the architect in flame!" despite church bans. Thousands perished in the first week, ashes scattered to winds toward Dragonstone.
Lords trembled anew. Whispers of heresy—remnants of the Shadowed Seven or unbowed septons—surfaced; Bloody Dragons mobilized by radio, quelling riots with sermons and swift justice.
Viserys Targaryen ascended amid the chaos.
The coronation was broadcast live across the Voice network—held in the Dragonpit under glass domes, electric lights blazing like stars. Viserys stood on the black obsidian dais, clad in black armor chased with gold, Stormrend II's scale cloak trailing. Rhaenyra flanked him—his sister-wife, silver-gold gown like dragon wings. Church elders anointed him with Sothoryos oil: "Viserys I, God-King, High Priest, Guardian Renewed." The crown—black iron with ruby scales—settled heavy on his brow.
The realm listened—millions tuning in on receivers, voices uniting in chant: "The flame endures!"
Viserys's reign was steady—ten years of vigilant peace, the empire humming under his command. He expanded radio networks—towers rising in remote Ulthos valleys, broadcasts reaching airships mid-flight. Uranium forges advanced to atomic engines—powering cities without waste; airships evolved to hybrid dragon-lifted crafts, carrying legions across seas. The Dragon Church deepened—radio sermons mandatory in schools, fanaticism channeling into volunteer legions for Sothoryos expansions. Smallfolk prospered—electric homes, voice-connected communities, knowledge flowing eternal.
Yet age claimed even guardians.
In 380 AC, Viserys—now eighty-nine, body scarred from wyvern skirmishes but unbowed—fell during a radio-addressed tour of Ulthos. A chill from mist-shrouded mountains turned to fever; airships rushed him home, but medicine failed. He died peacefully in the High Tower, Rhaenyra at his side, grandchildren kneeling. No final words—just a soft exhale, chest stilling as electric lights flickered.
The realm mourned again—radio silence blanketing the empire, then erupting in unified grief. Self-sacrifices surged; Bloody Dragons quelled unrest.
Aegon Targaryen ascended.
The coronation blended throne, church, and radio—held in the Dragonpit, broadcast to billions. Aegon was fifty-seven, silver-haired and thoughtful, but with his father's steel—rider of Shadowrend, tactician honed by Academy lectures. Yet the system stirred: [Rebirth Cycle: Complete. Host: Aegon III Targaryen. Memories Unlocked. Legacy Rewards: Pending.] Elias awoke once more—centuries flooding the body, enhancing weapon-master skills, tactical genius, the monstrous endowment a familiar weight.
To bind the line and quell mourning, Aegon III married his sister Visenya 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: Shadowrend, Venomstorm, Nightfire's heirs.
Radio carried every word—billions listening, cheering through tears.
That night, in the High Tower's royal bedchamber—eternal flame and electric glow mingling—Aegon claimed his sister-wife.
Visenya entered, shedding her gown like flame unveiling steel. She was fifty-seven, lithe and untamed, curves honed by dragon saddle, violet eyes hungry. "The realm mourns," she whispered. "Renew us."
Aegon—reborn will surging—pulled her close, mouth crushing hers. He lifted her onto the bed, hands roaming—gripping breasts, nails raking hips. His cock—monstrous, system-perfected—sprang free. Visenya dropped to knees, taking him in mouth: lips stretching, tongue swirling, sucking with deliberate pulls. She deep-throated half, gagging but unyielding, hands stroking the rest. Aegon groaned, fingers threading her gold-silver hair, thrusting gently.
When pressure built, he pulled her up, entering her pussy in one thrust—stretch obscene, walls gripping. She cried out—arch, bucking. He fucked steadily, deep and relentless, hands on her throat. "Sister… queen…" 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 deeper, girth splitting her wide. She gasped, pushing back impatiently. "Beg," he commanded, dominance aura pulsing. "Never," she snarled—but her body betrayed her, clenching. He slammed home, pounding with weapon-master precision. Fingers circled her clit; she shattered again—raw, primal. He unleashed, filling her ass with copious heat.
They fucked twice more—on the throne-like chair, against the wall—until she lay spent, marked inside and out. "The line endures," she murmured, hand on belly.
Yet Aegon's thoughts turned to his mother—Rhaenyra, now eighty-three, still radiant, silver-gold hair unbound, violet eyes sharp with decades of flame. She had ruled as queen consort, mother, high priestess. The bond between them—forged in childhood, deepened by loss—burned forbidden.
One moonless night, weeks after the wedding, Rhaenyra summoned him to her chambers.
The room glowed with electric lights and eternal flame. She lay on silk sheets, gown parted like dragon wings. "The flame renews through all blood," she whispered, eyes dark with hunger. "Claim your mother, god-king."
Aegon approached, unlacing his breeches. His cock sprang free—eleven inches of veined steel. Rhaenyra reached for him, wrapping fingers around the shaft. "Still a beast," she murmured. She took him in her mouth—lips stretching, tongue tracing veins, sucking with deliberate pulls. Age had not dulled her; she hummed vibrations, drawing groans. He threaded fingers through her silver-gold hair, thrusting gently.
He pulled her up, entering her pussy slowly—stretch familiar yet new. She gasped, arching, legs wrapping like Valyrian chains. "Deeper… my son…" He drove harder, hands gripping hips, pounding deep. Sweat slicked their skin; her moans filled the air. She came shuddering; he flooded her womb, seed overflowing.
More: he turned her, pressing into her ass—girth splitting her wide. She cried out, pushing back. "All of me…" He thrust relentlessly, fingers on her clit. She shattered again; he unleashed inside, marking her fully.
They lay entwined—bodies slick, seed leaking. "The blood burns eternal," she whispered.
Nine moons later, Rhaenyra bore a son—dark-haired with violet eyes, named Maegor after ancient kings. The realm whispered of "divine renewal"; church elders blessed it as miracle. Aegon claimed him publicly, the secret buried in flame.
The line endured—renewed, forbidden, eternal.
(Word count: 1998)