Chapter 22: The Black Gold Imperative – Conquest of Sothoryos
King's Landing, 192 AC – 198 AC (Fast-Forward Montage)
The discovery of the Ghiscar-Reborn kingdom in the heart of Sothoryos sent ripples through the Small Council chamber. Maps were redrawn overnight; scholars pored over captured trader journals and shadowbinder visions from Asshai. Prince Daemon's ravens arrived daily—sketches of stepped pyramids, descriptions of ape-handled war engines, reports of vast savannas stretching beyond sight. Yet Aenys II Targaryen—Elias reborn, eternal architect—saw not a distant curiosity, but necessity.
In the High Tower's war room, lit by pure glass lanterns and warmed by steam pipes, he addressed his inner circle: Queen Daera at his right, silver hair still cropped warrior-short; Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaella flanking the obsidian table; Jaehaerys the diplomat, Aemon the tactician, and Bloody Dragon commanders whose crimson cloaks pooled like blood on the floor.
"Many will ask why we fight a kingdom so far from our shores," Aenys began, voice calm but edged with steel. "The answer is simple: resources. Sothoryos is no mere jungle of fever and beasts. It is fertile land—black soil deeper than the Reach's loam, capable of feeding millions if cleared and irrigated. Iron veins run through its southern hills, richer than the Westerlands' deepest mines. Rubber sap bleeds from black-barked trees in endless quantity—vital for seals in steam engines, tires for rail wagons, gaskets in cannons. But most important of all… black gold."
He tapped a small vial on the table—dark, viscous liquid brought back by Daemon's scouts from seepages along jungle rivers. "Oil. They call it pitch in the Basilisk Isles, tar in Naath. We will call it black gold. It burns cleaner and hotter than coal; it powers lamps brighter than whale oil; refined, it fuels engines that need no firewood. With it, our ironclads sail farther, our locomotives run longer, our factories never sleep. And there are whispers—shadowbinder visions, ancient Ghiscari texts—of deeper veins: a substance called uranium. Rare, heavy, glowing faintly in the dark. If the tales hold truth, it could unleash power beyond dragonfire—endless, world-shattering."
The council was silent. Daera leaned forward. "We already dominate trade. Why bleed for distant jungles?"
"Because trade can be cut," Aenys answered. "Braavos kneels, but Essos remembers independence. Yi Ti grows bold. If black gold flows into foreign hands, our engines stall, our fleets slow, our advantage erodes. Sothoryos must belong to us—and us only. No tribute, no alliance. Complete dominion. The apes, the pyramids, the oil—all Targaryen."
Daemon grinned, hand resting on his sword hilt. "Then we take it."
Preparation consumed two years. The fleet expanded to forty ironclads—newer models with oil-fired boilers tested in secret. Cannons lengthened for greater range; explosive shells perfected. Bloody Dragons—now five thousand jungle specialists—trained with machetes, quinine prophylaxis, and steam-powered chain saws to carve paths. Dragons bred for heat tolerance; Crimsonfang's clutch produced beasts with scales resistant to jungle humidity and venom. Academy alchemists refined crude oil samples into lamp oil and early fuel—black smoke turning clean and blue.
In 194 AC, the armada sailed south. Daemon commanded from the flagship Iron Wyrm; Rhaella flew aerial reconnaissance on Moonshadow. They bypassed the Ghiscar-Reborn's outer patrols, landing instead at a wide river delta two hundred leagues north—unclaimed jungle giving way to fertile plains the scouts had mapped. Cement blockhouses rose overnight; rail spurs of portable iron extended inland. Steam winches hauled supplies; dragons burned clearings for landing fields.
The first clash came in 195 AC.
Ghiscar-Reborn scouts—riding silver-furred apes—stumbled on the beachhead. War drums thundered; twenty giant apes charged, platforms bristling with archers. Daemon signaled. Dragons dove—Crimsonfang's flames washing over the front rank. Apes roared, fur igniting, handlers tumbling. Cannons roared from ironclads offshore—shells arcing high, bursting amid the charge in gouts of shrapnel. Bloody Dragons formed firing lines—matchlocks cracking in disciplined volleys. The apes fell—dozens, then scores—bodies too massive to retreat quickly. Survivors fled; the beachhead held.
Aenys received the report by raven and smiled coldly. "They bleed. Good."
The campaign unfolded with brutal efficiency. Daemon pushed south along the great river—wide as the Mander, deep enough for ironclads. Jungle gave way to savanna; fertile black soil stretched for leagues, perfect for future plantations. Iron outcrops glittered in hills; rubber groves bled sap under steam extractors. Oil seeps bubbled black in lowlands—scouts lit them, flames roaring ten feet high. Uranium rumors grew: priests spoke of "glowing stones" in southern mountains, guarded by ape clans.
The kingdom responded in force. By 196 AC, their main army—forty thousand warriors, two hundred giant apes, war elephants, slingers—marched north. War drums shook the earth; apes carried siege towers of bone and hide; spearmen formed phalanxes in lizard-scale armor.
The Battle of the Black Plains decided the issue.
Daemon arrayed his forces on a wide savanna: ironclads anchored in the river as floating batteries, dragons perched on cement redoubts, Bloody Dragons in three ranks with rifled muskets and bayonets. Ghiscar-Reborn charged at dawn—apes roaring, elephants trumpeting, drums deafening.
Dragons struck first. Crimsonfang and Moonshadow led the wing—flames washing over the front ranks. Apes burned; platforms collapsed; elephants panicked, trampling their own. Cannons opened fire—explosive shells bursting amid the mass, shredding formations. Bloody Dragons volleyed—smoke clouds lit by muzzle flashes, lead tearing through shields and flesh.
The enemy faltered. Their queen—same regal woman from the first parley—rode a silver-furred titan ape at the center, golden staff raised. She signaled retreat; apes pulled back in disciplined order, covering the infantry.
But Aenys had planned for resilience. Daemon signaled pursuit. Ironclads paddled upstream, cannons raking the flanks. Dragons harried from above. Cement rail spurs—laid in secret—allowed steam locomotives to rush reinforcements: fresh legions with grenades and chain saws to clear escape routes.
The kingdom's capital fell in 197 AC.
The walls—massive basalt—crumbled under sustained cannonade. Dragons strafed the ape pens; handlers surrendered rather than see their charges butchered. Bloody Dragons stormed the pyramids—rifles cracking in stone corridors, bayonets red. The queen knelt in her golden hall, surrounded by slain guards and whimpering apes.
"Yield," Daemon said, Dark Sister's twin at her throat. "Your lands, your apes, your black gold—now Targaryen."
She bowed her head. "We yield… to the dragon eternal."
Terms were harsh but calculated. The kingdom became the Sothoryos Protectorate—queen retained as viceroy under Targaryen oversight. Giant apes conscripted as labor—hauling rail ties, clearing jungle, guarding oil fields. Fertile lands planted with Reach seeds; iron mines worked by mixed crews; rubber groves harvested for export. Oil wells—first drilled with steam rigs—pumped black gold into ironclad tankers. Uranium prospecting began in southern mountains—early finds glowing faintly under pure glass lenses.
By 198 AC, the first oil refinery rose near the delta—steam boilers distilling crude into fuel oil, kerosene, lubricants. Locomotives switched to oil burners—cleaner, hotter, longer range. Ironclads crossed oceans without refueling; factories ran day and night. Rubber tires cushioned rail wagons; cement roads extended south. Population boomed—Sothoryosi integrated as subjects, taught High Valyrian, drilled as auxiliary legions.
Aenys stood on the High Tower, watching oil tankers unload in Blackwater Bay. Dragons circled overhead—scales now oil-resistant, senses tuned to hydrocarbon scents. The system pinged: [Resource Dominion Achieved. Oil Integration: +80% Industrial Output. Uranium Prospect: 12% Confirmed. Dragon Evolution Progress: 1.4% (chemical adaptation to petroleum derivatives).]
The southern veil had lifted.
Sothoryos belonged to the dragon—and the dragon alone.
Fertile fields fed millions; iron armed legions; rubber sealed machines; black gold fueled an empire that would never sleep.
The line endured. The conquest continued.
(Word count: 1998)