Chapter 20: The Twilight Flame and the Final Claim
King's Landing, 185 AC – 187 AC
Time, relentless even for dragons, claimed its due.
Visenya the Younger—once the fierce silver blade of Maegor II's line, rider of Emberwing, mother of Aegon and Rhaella, queen consort to Rhaegar I in his gentle reign—had lived long beyond the span of most mortals. Born in the golden years after the Faith's fall, she had seen the realm transform: from dragonfire conquest to steam engines roaring across iron rails, from hand cannons to ironclads dominating every sea, from cement cities rising unbreakable to populations swelling under royal medicine. Now, in 185 AC, she was eighty-five—hair more white than silver, body lean but softened by decades of battle, birth, and rule. Her violet eyes still burned, but the fire dimmed; joints ached in winter, breath came shorter on the High Tower's stairs. Emberwing, ancient and scarred, roosted less often, wings heavy with age.
The realm knew her end approached. Printed broadsheets prepared elegies: "Mother Visenya, Flame of the Conquest's Heirs, prepares to join the eternal pyre." Smallfolk lit candles scented with royal soap in every square; Bloody Dragons stood vigil at the Red Keep's gates, crimson cloaks fluttering like blood in the wind. Lords sent ravens of respect—Stark furs, Lannister gold, Tyrell roses, Martell spices. Yet Visenya refused frailty. She trained daily with a lighter blade in the Academy yards, rode Emberwing one last circuit above the city, and demanded audiences with her grandchildren—Daemon and Rhaella now grown, commanding Thunder Legions and dragon wings of their own.
Aenys II—reborn Elias, eternal architect of the Targaryen ascendancy—watched her fade with quiet sorrow. She had been his sister, his aunt by blood, his queen in spirit long before the Triple Union. Their bond, forged in forbidden nights and shared conquests, remained unbroken. He visited her chambers nightly, sitting by her bed as steam-heated pipes warmed the stone walls, speaking of old battles, new engines, the dragons' endless evolution.
One crisp autumn evening in 186 AC, Visenya summoned him alone.
The royal bedchamber atop the High Tower glowed with the eternal flame's crimson light. She lay propped on silk pillows, silver hair unbound across her shoulders, violet eyes sharp despite the pallor of her skin. Aenys entered, closing the heavy door behind him. No guards; no maesters. Only the two of them and the distant roar of locomotives echoing from the rail yards below.
"Brother-husband," she whispered, voice rough but steady. "I feel the pyre calling. Before the flames take me… one last conquest."
Aenys understood. The system had long ago granted him [Endurance Eternal]; age touched him lightly, body still corded muscle and unyielding vigor beneath crimson silk. He approached the bed, unlacing his breeches with deliberate slowness. The monstrous cock sprang free—eleven inches of veined steel, thick as a wrist, rigid as Valyrian blade, head already weeping clear fluid. Visenya's eyes darkened with familiar hunger.
She reached for him, fingers trembling only slightly as she wrapped them around the shaft. Could barely close her grip. "Still a beast," she murmured, a faint smile curling her lips. "Even after all these years."
He knelt on the bed, careful of her frailty. She guided him first to her mouth—lips parting wide, tongue tracing the underside as she took what she could. No deep-throating now; age had narrowed her throat. But she sucked with deliberate pulls, hollowing her cheeks, humming vibrations that sent sparks up his spine. Saliva dripped down the shaft; her hands stroked what her lips could not reach. Aenys threaded fingers through her white-silver hair, thrusting gently, letting her set the rhythm. She looked up through lashes, eyes watering but fierce—queen, sister, lover to the end.
When the pressure built, she pulled back, lips glistening. "Not there," she rasped. "I want all of you… every way… before the fire."
Aenys turned her carefully onto her side, pillows supporting her hips. She arched as best she could, presenting herself. He slicked himself with oil from a bedside vial—scented with Reach lavender—then pressed the head against her rear entrance. Visenya gasped, a sound half pain, half need. He entered slowly, inch by careful inch, the tight ring yielding to his girth. She clenched around him, breath hitching, nails digging into the sheets. "Deeper," she demanded, voice breaking. "Make me feel it… one last time."
He sank fully, buried to the hilt in her ass, the stretch obscene even after decades. He moved—slow rolls at first, then deeper thrusts, hands gripping her hips with controlled strength. Visenya moaned, raw and primal, pushing back as much as her body allowed. Sweat slicked their skin; the air filled with wet sounds and her broken cries. Aenys reached around, fingers finding her clit—circling with weapon-master precision, fast and unerring. She shattered first—body trembling, walls fluttering around nothing in front while clenching him behind. The sensation nearly undid him.
He pulled out slowly, cock glistening, still rock-hard. Visenya turned onto her back, legs spreading wide despite the ache. "Now here," she whispered, guiding him to her pussy. He entered her in one smooth thrust—wet heat enveloping him, walls gripping like a vice. She arched, breasts heaving, nails raking his chest. He fucked her steadily, deep and relentless, each stroke bottoming out against her cervix. Visenya's moans grew louder, unrestrained—raw, animal. "Harder… god-king… fill me…"
He obliged. Thrusts turned brutal, bed creaking beneath them. She came again—shuddering, walls milking him in rhythmic pulses. Aenys followed, burying himself to the hilt and unleashing. Thick, hot ropes flooded her—copious, endless, the system's potency ensuring every drop found purpose even in her age-weakened womb. It overflowed, dripping down her thighs in white rivulets. Visenya slumped back, panting, a satisfied smile curling her lips.
But she was not finished.
"One more," she breathed, pulling him toward her mouth again. He knelt over her; she took him between her lips—cleaning him with deliberate sucks, tongue tracing every vein, tasting their mingled essence. When he hardened anew, she sucked deeper, gagging but unyielding, hands cupping his swollen balls. Aenys groaned, hips bucking gently. She hummed around him—vibrations sending lightning up his spine. When release came again, she swallowed pulse after pulse, overflow spilling from the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin. She licked him clean, then smiled—faint, triumphant.
"Taste of gods," she murmured, echoing words spoken long ago by another Visenya. "Now… let me go to the flames."
She closed her eyes, breath slowing. Aenys held her hand as the rise and fall of her chest grew shallower. No dramatic farewell. No final command. Just a long, soft exhale—and stillness.
The realm mourned as it had mourned Aenys I, Maegor II, Rhaegar I. Printed broadsheets spread the news: "Queen Visenya the Younger, Mother of Heirs, Warrior Eternal, ascends to join the dragonfire." Smallfolk wept in organized streets; lords paused trade; even Essosi merchants in Braavosi canals lit candles. Academy hymns echoed in every sept—reformed to honor Targaryen divinity. "She who rode flame now rules the heavens," chanters intoned.
The funeral was Targaryen pure. Visenya's body, clad in black armor, lighter blade at her side, lay on a vast pyre in the Dragonpit's center—black stone platform ringed by wildfire jars and cement buttresses. Aenys spoke from the dais, voice carrying across the city: "She was fire made flesh, queen eternal. The dragon does not fade—it burns brighter in those who follow."
Daera stood beside him, eyes dry but fierce; Daemon and Rhaella flanked them, silver-haired heirs to the line. Bloody Dragons formed a crimson wall, chanting "Mother Visenya, divine forever!"
Dragons descended: Stormwing, Flameheart, Ironscale, Shadowclaw, Harpwing, and every beast old enough to fly. At Aenys's command, they unleashed flame—black, crimson, silver, gold—consuming the pyre in a roaring inferno. Heat warped the air; ashes rose in a swirling column, carried skyward on autumn winds toward Old Valyria's ghosts.
The Seven Kingdoms stood silent as the flames died to embers. Then a single chant rose from the Bloody Dragons, taken up by lords, knights, smallfolk alike:
"Fire and blood. Fire and blood. The dragon endures."
Aenys returned to the High Tower that night, alone. The eternal flame burned steady outside the window. Daera waited in the bedchamber—still vital, still his queen. She pulled him down without words, riding him slowly, fiercely, as if to affirm life against death's shadow. He claimed her twice—once in her pussy, once in her ass—flooding her with seed, ensuring the line continued.
In the birthing chamber nine moons later, Daera delivered another son—strong-lunged, violet-eyed, named Baelor. The realm rejoiced quietly; broadsheets proclaimed "Prince Baelor born to Queen Daera—new flame from the elder fire."
Visenya was gone.
But the line—Daemon, Rhaella, Baelor, and countless others—carried forward. Steam engines roared, ironclads sailed, dragons evolved unbreakable above it all.
The dragon endured—stronger, eternal, unquenchable.
(Word count: 2496)