Chapter 29: The Full Unveiling – Sothoryos Conquered and the Wyvern Kingdom Revealed
King's Landing, 295 AC – 310 AC (Fast-Forward Montage)
The Second Crusade had ended in fire and silence. Asshai's shadowed streets now flew the three-headed dragon banner; its black stone halls housed Dragon Church chapters where missionaries preached the Codex under flickering blue candles. The Shadowed Seven was broken—its last septons crucified on obsidian arches, their bodies burned as warnings. The world no longer mocked the flame; Essosi cities paid tribute in silence, their warlords converted or replaced. Aenys III Targaryen—reborn Elias once more, memories of Garrick Stone, the first Aenys, and every rebirth layered like dragon scales—sat the Iron Throne with quiet intensity. At forty-four, he remained youthful in body, silver hair untouched by gray, violet eyes sharp with centuries of cunning. His marriage to Daenys had produced heirs: Viserys the bold, Rhaenyra the fierce, and more to come. The realm thrived—oil fueling endless machines, rail lines snaking deeper into Sothoryos, the Dragon Church binding souls in fanatic loyalty.
Yet Sothoryos—the southern continent claimed in blood and black gold—still held secrets. Daemon's conquest and the crusades had secured the north: fertile deltas, iron hills, rubber groves, uranium-bearing mountains. But maps showed vast blanks south and east—jungles thicker than any Reach forest, plateaus rising into mist, rivers carving canyons wider than the Trident. Explorers whispered of endless lands, of gold veins glittering in uncharted rivers, of copper and iron mines untouched by pick or steam drill. Aenys III—high priest, god-king, eternal architect—saw not mystery, but destiny.
In 296 AC, he decreed the Final Unveiling.
"The southern veil is torn," he proclaimed from the High Tower balcony, voice carrying across King's Landing's cement spires. "Now we claim the whole. Every league, every mine, every hidden vein—Sothoryos belongs to the dragon eternal."
The expedition was unmatched. Fifty ironclads—oil-fired behemoths with reinforced hulls—sailed from Daemon's Landing, accompanied by twenty dragonriders led by Prince Viserys on his massive black beast, Stormrend II. Rhaenyra flew Bloodwing's daughter, Crimsonstorm, her silver-gold hair streaming like flame. Ten thousand Bloody Dragons—now mechanized with steam rifles and chain saws—embarked in support ships. Academy scholars carried microscopes, surveying tools, and crates of cement powder for instant fortifications. Rail spurs were laid behind the vanguard—portable iron tracks extending from coastal ports into the interior.
They pushed south along the great rivers—wide as seas, deep enough for ironclads. Jungle gave way to savanna, then to rolling hills where gold dust glittered in streambeds. Prospectors panned rivers—nuggets the size of fists unearthed in days. Mines followed: steam drills boring into hills, revealing veins of gold richer than Casterly Rock's deepest shafts. Copper lodes surfaced in red earth—malachite and azurite gleaming under lantern light. Iron deposits—hematite and magnetite—stretched for leagues, perfect for steel foundries. Uranium traces glowed faintly in mountain caves—Academy alchemists confirming deposits potent enough to power experiments beyond dragonfire.
The land itself was paradise. Fertile black soil—deeper and richer than Sothoryos's northern deltas—yielded three harvests a year when cleared. Rubber groves bled sap in endless quantity; new species of trees produced timber harder than ironwood. Spices unknown to Westeros scented the air—peppers hotter than Dornish fire, leaves that induced visions when brewed. Wildlife teemed: herds of massive horned beasts for meat and hide, birds with feathers brighter than Myrish dyes.
Settlement exploded.
Rail lines snaked south—steam locomotives hauling settlers by the thousand. Commons from the Seven Kingdoms answered the call: Reach farmers seeking richer soil, Northmen fleeing endless winters, Dornish herders tired of sand. Homesteads rose—cement blockhouses with oil lamps, villages named for martyrs of the crusades. Church chapters sprang up overnight—elders preaching the Codex while distributing land grants. Smallfolk tilled black soil, mined gold and copper, tapped rubber, prospected uranium under dragon guard.
But the continent was not empty.
In 302 AC, deep in the southeastern highlands—beyond mist-shrouded plateaus where rivers turned silver with mineral silt—the vanguard discovered the Kingdom of Wyveria.
Scouts on Crimsonstorm spotted it first: a vast city carved into a sheer cliff face, towers of white stone spiraling upward like frozen flames. Below stretched fertile valleys—terraced fields of golden grain, orchards heavy with fruit, herds of scaled beasts grazing under guard. But the true marvel was the wyverns.
Smaller than dragons—wingspans half that of Stormrend II—but vicious and numerous. Hundreds roosted on cliff ledges, scales ranging from emerald to obsidian, tails barbed with venomous stingers. Riders—tall warriors in scaled armor of wyvern hide—controlled them with reins of braided sinew. Wyverns dove in formation, stinging prey from above, carrying riders into battle with barbed tails lashing. The kingdom's army—thirty thousand strong—marched with wyvern support: spearmen in bronze plate, archers on wyvern-back platforms, war beasts trained to tear through steel.
Aenys III received the report by raven and smiled coldly. "Wyverns," he murmured to Daenys. "Lesser cousins to our dragons. They will kneel—or burn."
First contact came in 303 AC.
Viserys landed Stormrend II on a wide plateau two leagues from the city—alone, unarmed but for his sword. Wyverns sensed the dragon first—hissing, wings flaring. Riders gathered: a queen emerged from the cliff palace, tall and regal, skin bronzed by sun, hair black as night, eyes green as wyvern scales. She rode a massive emerald beast, its stinger gleaming.
"You are the dragon-riders from the north," she said in accented Common Tongue—learned, perhaps, from captured traders. "We are Wyveria—lords of the Scaled Winds since before your Valyria rose. Speak your purpose."
Viserys met her gaze. "I am Prince Viserys Targaryen, son of King Aenys III, God-King of the Seven Kingdoms, High Priest of the Dragon Church, Conqueror of Sothoryos. My father claims this land—its gold, iron, copper, uranium, rubber, fertile soil—all of it. Kneel to the dragon, and share your strength. Refuse, and we test wyvern against true dragon."
The queen laughed—sharp, musical. "We knelt to no Ghiscari, no Valyrian, no shadowbinder. Why should we kneel to you?"
Viserys signaled. From the horizon, ironclads advanced along the river—cannons run out. Above, twenty dragons joined Stormrend II, circling in perfect formation. Wyverns hissed defiance; war drums thundered from the cliffs.
The queen studied the sky, then the iron beasts. "Bring your king's terms," she said at last. "We parley. But know: wyverns do not bend easily."
Terms were harsh: unconditional surrender, wyverns conscripted as auxiliary mounts, mines and fertile lands annexed to the crown, church chapters established in every valley. The queen refused.
War came in 304 AC.
The Battle of the Scaled Cliffs decided the issue.
Wyveria charged—wyverns diving in swarms, riders loosing barbed arrows, ground forces storming with spears and slings. Dragons answered: Stormrend II led the counter—black flames washing wyvern flocks, venom stings glancing off evolved scales. Crimsonstorm strafed the cliffs; other dragons burned war platforms from the sky. Ironclads shelled from the river—explosive rounds shattering stone towers. Bloody Dragons advanced in disciplined ranks—rifles cracking, chain saws carving paths through defenders.
Wyverns fell in hundreds—wings torn, bodies burning. The queen's emerald mount charged Viserys; Stormrend II met it mid-air—claws raking, flames clashing with venom spit. The wyvern died screaming; the queen tumbled to the rocks below.
The city gates opened in surrender.
Wyveria became the Wyvern Protectorate—queen's heir ruling as viceroy under Targaryen oversight. Wyverns integrated into dragon wings—smaller, faster, venomous complements to true dragons. Gold mines pumped wealth north; iron and copper fed foundries; uranium enriched Academy experiments; rubber groves expanded; fertile valleys fed millions.
By 310 AC, Sothoryos was fully discovered—and fully claimed.
Rail lines reached the southernmost coasts; cement cities rose in every valley; church chapters preached in wyvern-shadowed halls. The continent's resources flowed endless: gold stacking in Dragon Bank vaults, iron arming legions, copper wiring factories, uranium powering glowing forges, rubber sealing machines, fertile soil feeding an empire of hundreds of millions.
Aenys III stood atop a cliff palace in Wyveria, watching wyverns and dragons fly together. The system pinged: [Continental Dominion: 100%. Resource Extraction: +300%. Dragon-Wyvern Synergy: Unlocked.]
Sothoryos was no longer a shadow.
It was the dragon's hoard—gold, iron, black gold, scaled wings, fertile heart—all eternal.
The line endured.
The flame burned brighter.
(Word count: 1999)