Chapter 11: The Twilight of the Dragon
King's Landing, 90 AC
Time, even for dragons, moves inexorably.
King Aenys I Targaryen had ruled for over sixty years. The boy reborn through ancient systems and Valyrian seed was now an old man of eighty-four—silver hair thinned to wisps, once-mighty frame shrunken beneath crimson silk sheets, violet eyes dimmed but still sharp with the memory of conquests. He spent his days in the royal bedchamber atop the Dragon High Tower, the eternal flame outside the window flickering like a heartbeat that refused to fade. Maesters hovered, Academy-trained and loyal to the end, but they could only ease pain, not reverse age.
The realm no longer needed his hand on the tiller. Prince Maegor Targaryen—now in his late forties, broad as a bull, axe-scarred and unyielding—ruled as Prince Regent. He sat the Iron Throne in all but name, issuing decrees, reviewing Bloody Dragon reports, inspecting the Dragon Bank's ledgers. The kingdom ran smoothly: grain flowed north without question, printing presses churned propaganda of divine continuity, and the High Tower's beacon burned brighter than ever. Maegor's rule was iron—fair, but merciless to dissent. The smallfolk still loved "the Golden Prince" of old songs, now grown into a stern father of the realm.
In the birthing chamber one crisp autumn morning, Queen Alyssa Targaryen—silver-haired, weary but radiant—gave birth to her seventh child. A boy, strong-lunged and violet-eyed, named Baelon after ancient kings. Maegor held his newest son with rare gentleness, whispering, "Another flame for the hearth." Alyssa smiled through exhaustion, her hand on the infant's tiny fist. The realm rejoiced quietly—bonfires lit in every square, printed broadsheets proclaiming "A new prince for the eternal line."
Aenys, too frail to attend the birth, received the news in his bed. He smiled faintly, tears tracing the deep lines of his face. "The dragon endures," he murmured.
His wives—Vaella and Olena, the twins who had once ridden him like conquerors—were old now as well. In their seventies, hair more white than silver, bodies softened by decades of bearing heirs and ruling beside him. They rarely left his side. The three shared the vast bed most nights, a tangle of wrinkled limbs and quiet memories. No longer the fierce couplings of youth; now it was closeness, warmth, the comfort of long-shared blood.
One ritual remained, intimate and strange, born of age and devotion.
Alyssa and Visenya the Younger—both still vigorous in their forties and thirties—came often to the chamber. Alyssa, ever the nurturing queen, would bare her breast when Aenys grew restless, letting him drink her milk as though he were one of her newborns. The act was tender, almost sacred: she cradled his head against her chest, stroking his thin hair while he suckled weakly, drawing what little nourishment and comfort remained in her body. Visenya the Younger—fiercer, less patient—did the same on other days, her milk flowing freely after her own recent births. "Drink, grandfather-king," she would say softly, voice thick with emotion. "The dragon's milk sustains even gods."
Aenys took it without shame. In those moments, he was no longer conqueror or god-king—just an old man returning to the source, tasting life one last time through the women of his blood.
The end came peacefully, as such things sometimes do for those who have burned brightly.
It was a quiet spring dawn in 91 AC. The eternal flame outside still burned steady. Aenys lay between Vaella and Olena, their hands clasped in his. The twins had grown frail together—breathing shallow, eyes closed in rest. Alyssa sat vigil at the bedside, newborn Baelon asleep in her arms. Visenya the Younger stood by the window, sword at her hip, watching the sunrise paint the city gold.
No dramatic last words. No final command.
Aenys simply exhaled—long, slow, final. His chest did not rise again.
Vaella and Olena followed within moments, as though their hearts had always beaten in time with his. One last breath each, then stillness. The three old bodies lay entwined, faces serene, silver hair mingling on the pillows like spilled moonlight.
The realm mourned as it had mourned Visenya decades earlier, but deeper, longer. Printed broadsheets spread the news: "The God-King Aenys, First of His Name, and his Eternal Queens Vaella and Olena ascend to join the flames." Smallfolk wept openly in the streets; Bloody Dragons stood vigil around the Red Keep, crimson cloaks fluttering like blood in the wind. Lords arrived from every corner—Stark, Lannister, Tyrell, Martell—kneeling in the Dragonpit for the final rite.
The funeral was Targaryen tradition, pure and unrelenting.
The three bodies were laid on a single vast pyre in the Dragonpit's center—black stone platform ringed by wildfire jars. Maegor, now King Maegor II, spoke from the dais: "He forged peace from conquest, divinity from blood. The dragon does not die—it is reborn in fire." Alyssa and Visenya the Younger stood beside him, children at their sides, tears unhidden.
Dragons descended in formation: Stormwing, Emberwing, Vhagar's Shadow (now ancient and scarred), Starfyre, and a dozen younger beasts. At Maegor'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 spring 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."
Maegor placed the crown on his own head that night—black iron chased with ruby dragon scales. Alyssa and Visenya the Younger stood as his queens, Baelon and the other children arrayed behind. The High Tower's beacon burned brighter, fed by fresh wildfire.
Aenys was gone.
But the line—stronger, purer, more numerous than ever—carried on.
The realm looked to the new king, and saw not an end, but continuation.
Peace held.
The dragon flew eternal.