Chapter 10: The Silver Union and New Flames
King's Landing, 70 AC
The Seven Kingdoms basked in an era of unbroken harmony. The Dragon Bank's vaults gleamed with endless gold, the Royal Academy's graduates administered the realm with fanatical precision, and the Bloody Dragons stood sentinel from the Wall to the Dornish Marches. King Aenys I Targaryen, now in his late fifties, ruled from the High Tower with the calm certainty of a god who had already won every war. His children and grandchildren extended the bloodline like branches of an ancient weirwood—strong, silver-haired, violet-eyed, and utterly devoted.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, son of Lady Catelyn Stark and Aenys (a secret carried only in shadowed whispers and violet-flecked eyes), had grown into the realm's most celebrated heir. At eighteen he was tall and lean, silver hair falling past his shoulders, voice soft yet commanding, fingers skilled on the harp as on the sword. He had claimed a young dragon—Stormwing, pale as moonlight with sapphire scales—and ridden it across the Narrow Sea on diplomatic missions, returning with Essosi alliances and chests of spices. The smallfolk called him "the Silver Prince," singing Academy-composed ballads of his grace.
Visenya the Younger—daughter of Maegor and Alyssa, granddaughter of Aenys and his twin queens—was her mirror in fire. Seventeen, she bore the fierce beauty of her namesake: cropped silver hair, sharp cheekbones, body honed by daily sparring with Dark Sister's lighter twin blade. She rode a slender crimson dragon named Emberwing and had already led Bloody Dragon patrols through the Stormlands, quelling minor banditry with ruthless efficiency. Where Rhaegar charmed, Visenya struck; together they were balance incarnate.
Their wedding was decreed for the first day of spring in 70 AC—a union to bind the eldest branches of the dragon's tree and reaffirm divine continuity.
The realm converged once more on King's Landing.
Lords arrived in splendor: Stark banners of grey and white fluttering beside Lannister gold, Baratheon black-and-gold thundering through the gates, Tyrell roses scenting the air, Martell oranges bright against stone. Even Greyjoy ships anchored in Blackwater Bay, their captains grudgingly respectful after years of Dragon Bank loans keeping their reaving in check. Smallfolk filled the streets—clean with royal soap, fed from Academy granaries, waving crimson-and-black flags printed with the three-headed dragon entwined with silver flames.
The ceremony unfolded in the Dragonpit, remade grander than ever. No septon tainted the rite; only Valyrian priests in dragon-scale robes chanted ancient words. Rhaegar and Visenya stood on a raised dais of black obsidian, clad in matching armor of Valyrian steel chased with gold and crimson. They cut their palms with obsidian daggers, let blood mingle in a golden chalice, drank together—lips brushing in a kiss that tasted of iron and destiny. Dragons circled above: Stormwing and Emberwing weaving spirals, Vhagar's Shadow and Starfyre joining in salute. Flames erupted from the pit's edges—black, silver, crimson—forming a ring of fire around the couple as they declared in High Valyrian: "One blood, one flame, one realm eternal."
The feast lasted three days—shorter than the Golden Wedding, but no less lavish. Tables groaned under roast boar glazed with Dornish peppers, lamprey pies from the Riverlands, honeyed fruits from the Reach, and cakes layered with cream and edible gold leaf. Wine flowed from fountains; singers from Lys performed ballads of Rhaegar's sea voyages and Visenya's border victories. Common folk feasted in the squares below—tables set by Bloody Dragons, each citizen given a printed scroll proclaiming "The dragon's heirs wed; the gods smile."
On the final night, in the royal apartments atop the High Tower, Rhaegar and Visenya consummated the marriage alone. Firelight danced across their skin as they shed armor and silk. Rhaegar—gentler than his father—kissed her scars from training, traced the curve of her hips. Visenya pulled him down, fierce and demanding, guiding his length inside her. They moved together—slow at first, then urgent—her nails marking his back, his hands gripping her thighs. When release came, it was mutual: her walls clenching around him, his seed spilling deep, the system's ancient fertility lingering in the bloodline ensuring conception.
Nine moons later, in the depths of winter 71 AC, the births came swiftly and strong.
Visenya labored first in the birthing chamber beneath the High Tower—maesters chanting Targaryen hymns, Bloody Dragon guards at every door. A son emerged—robust, silver-haired, violet eyes fierce from the first breath. Named Aegon after the Conqueror, he wailed with lungs that promised dragonfire. Rhaegar held him first, whispering "My prince," while Visenya smiled through exhaustion, hand on the boy's tiny fist.
A week later, Rhaegar's turn came in the same chamber. Visenya—already recovered, sword at her side—held his hand as their daughter arrived: delicate yet strong, silver-gold curls framing a face that echoed Alyssa's grace. They named her Rhaenys, after the youngest Conqueror's sister-queen. She opened violet eyes and cooed softly, as if already dreaming of flight.
The realm rejoiced. Printed broadsheets spread the news: "Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys born to the Silver Union—new flames for the dragon's hearth." Smallfolk lit bonfires in every square; lords sent gifts—lion pelts from Casterly Rock, weirwood carvings from Winterfell, Myrish lace from the Free Cities. The Dragon Bank minted commemorative coins: one side the three-headed dragon, the other the entwined sigils of Rhaegar and Visenya.
Aenys watched from the High Tower's pinnacle, the eternal flame reflecting in his eyes. The system pinged softly: [Bloodline Strength: 96%. Dynasty Secured. Next Generation: Primed.]
Maegor and Alyssa stood beside him—Maegor grinning fiercely, axe on his shoulder; Alyssa's hand on her belly, already carrying another child. The North sent word of bountiful harvests thanks to southern grain; Dorne traded spices without resentment; even the Ironborn paid their debts on time.
The dragon's line had never been stronger.
New heirs cried in cradles of black wood and crimson silk.
The Seven Kingdoms—fed, ordered, devoted—looked to the future with unblinking violet eyes.
Peace endured, golden and eternal.
(Word count: 1002)