Chapter 33: The Western Gate – Conquest, Weakness, and the People's Fury
King's Landing, 390 AC – 410 AC (Fast-Forward Montage)
The empire under Aegon III Targaryen—reborn Elias, eternal architect of flame and steel—had reached its zenith. At seventy-four, Aegon ruled with the accumulated cunning of lifetimes: silver hair flowing past his shoulders, violet eyes piercing through electric-lit halls, body still corded muscle from weapon-master skill and dragon flights. The realm spanned continents—Sothoryos's black gold fueling uranium reactors, Ulthos's fertile valleys feeding billions, wyverns scouting alongside evolved dragons immune to venom and cannon. Radio voices bound the faithful; the Dragon Church's chapters preached unity from cement cathedrals; airships carried legions across seas. Yet the Sunset Sea whispered of one final frontier—lands west of Westeros, beyond the Iron Islands' storms, where ancient maps ended in blank parchment.
Whispers had grown since the early probes. Ironclad scouts returned with tales of strange currents, floating debris etched with unknown runes, and distant lights on the horizon that vanished like ghosts. The Dragon Church preached caution: "The flame conquers known shadows; the west is the gods' veil." Academy scholars debated: ancient Valyrian texts hinted at "gates beyond the sunset," portals forged by lost civilizations connecting to other worlds—realms of endless resource or peril. Aegon III saw destiny.
In 391 AC, he decreed the Sunset Expedition.
"The dragon's eye turns west," he broadcast over radio, voice echoing in every receiver across the empire. "Beyond the Sunset Sea lies the last unknown. We seek kingdoms, knowledge, gates to other worlds. If they exist, they will kneel—or burn."
The fleet was the mightiest assembled: one hundred ironclads—uranium-powered behemoths with electric cannons and reinforced hulls—sailed from Blackwater Bay under Prince Viserys's command, now eighty-four, scarred but unyielding. Rhaenyra, seventy-eight, flew Venomstorm's heir, Bloodrend. Thirty dragonriders joined—beasts with scales adapted against ocean salts and storms. Twenty thousand Bloody Dragons—fanatics with steam rifles, chain saws, and portable uranium generators—embarked. Academy scholars carried radio sets, telescopes, and sealed Codex volumes. Wyvern scouts darted ahead—venom tails ready for unseen threats.
They sailed west—past the Iron Islands, into open ocean where currents turned treacherous and stars shifted strangely. Storms battered the fleet; uranium engines drove them through, electric lights cutting fog. Dragons scouted ahead—Shadowrend's black wings piercing clouds.
In 393 AC, they found the first sign: a chain of islands—volcanic, mist-shrouded, with ruins of ancient stone etched in runes like Valyrian but twisted. Scholars deciphered fragments: "The Gate Guardians—connectors to the Other Realms." No people; only overgrown temples with faded murals of portals swirling like storms, figures stepping through to worlds of strange skies.
Pressing farther, in 394 AC, they reached the western kingdom: Ameros.
The coast was a wall of cliffs topped with cities of steel and glass—towers piercing clouds, electric lights glowing brighter than King's Landing's. Ships in harbors moved without sails—uranium engines humming, similar to Westerosi designs. Airships patrolled skies—metal birds without dragons. Guns on walls fired without matchlock—bullets propelled by contained explosions. The kingdom's technology matched the dragon's—same level, born from ancient civilization remains: ruined gates half-buried in jungles, portals that once connected to other worlds, leaking knowledge of electricity, atomic power, and more.
First contact came in 395 AC.
Viserys landed Shadowrend on a wide beach—alone, unarmed but for his sword. Amerosi riders on mechanical steeds—uranium-powered vehicles with rubber tires—approached. Their king emerged from an airship: tall, clad in steel-plate armor etched with gate runes, eyes blue as the Sunset Sea. "You are the dragon-lords from the east," he said in a tongue close to Common—learned from ancient texts. "We are Ameros—heirs to the Gate Builders, masters of the Other Worlds since before your Valyria fell. Speak your purpose."
Viserys met his gaze. "I am Prince Viserys Targaryen, son of King Aegon III, God-King of the Seven Kingdoms, High Priest of the Dragon Church, Conqueror of Continents. My father claims these lands—your technology, your gates to other worlds—all of it. Kneel to the dragon, and share your strength. Refuse, and we test your machines against true flame."
The king laughed—sharp, defiant. "We knelt to no gate-shadow, no other-world invader, no eastern empire. Our gates connect to realms of endless power. Why kneel to you?"
Viserys signaled. Ironclads advanced—electric cannons primed. Dragons joined Shadowrend—thirty beasts circling. Amerosi airships rose; mechanical guns thundered.
The war began—long, brutal, draining.
Ameros fought with technology mirroring the dragon's: uranium reactors powering electric rails, airships dropping atomic bombs, radios coordinating strikes. Gates—ancient portals in jungle ruins—connected to other worlds, summoning reinforcements: warriors from realms of endless night, beasts like wyverns but mechanical. Battles raged across cliffs and jungles: dragons strafing airships, wyverns stinging mechanical steeds, Bloody Dragons storming gate fortresses with steam rifles.
The war stretched ten years—395 to 405 AC. Resources drained: uranium from Ulthos shipped west, ironclads sunk by gate-summoned storms, dragons evolving against atomic blasts but wounded in swarms. Aegon III directed from King's Landing—radio commands crossing oceans, but the empire weakened. Legions thinned; factories slowed for war production; church fanatics volunteered by millions, but losses mounted.
Free Cities—Pentos, Myr, Lys—saw weakness. Long chafing under Targaryen trade dominance, Braavos protectorates, and church missionaries, they plotted. "The dragon bleeds west," their magisters whispered. "Now we strike south—Sothoryos's black gold will be ours."
In 405 AC, as Aegon's forces breached Ameros's capital, the Free Cities attacked Sothoryos.
A fleet of two hundred warships—sellsword-crewed, cannon-armed—landed at Blackgold Hold. Targaryen garrisons were thin—most legions west. Only five hundred Bloody Dragons defended: fanatics in crimson, steam rifles ready, wyverns nesting in cliffs. They fought to death—volleys cracking from cement redoubts, wyverns stinging ships, dragons (few left) burning masts. But numbers overwhelmed; the five hundred fell—bodies piled in oil-soaked trenches, last chants "The flame endures!"
Blackgold Hold lost—wells seized, refineries burned.
But the commons rose.
Radio broadcasts screamed the news: "Sothoryos invaded! The flame calls!" Smallfolk—fanatic church members, armed with homestead rifles and Codex zeal—chanted Targaryen names in jungles and valleys. Thousands marched—farmers with pitchforks, miners with dynamite, ape-handlers on giant beasts—swarming Free City camps. "Fire and blood!" they roared, charging through fever swamps.
The Free City army—mercenaries, not fanatics—killed thousands: grapeshot mowing lines, swords hacking chanting civilians. Bodies choked rivers; villages burned. But the commons pressed—waves of devotion, radios coordinating from hidden church towers.
Then came Targaryen army.
Aegon III—victorious west, gates claimed—redirected legions east. Ironclads sailed back; dragons flew across seas; airships dropped reinforcements. In 406 AC, they landed—dragons strafing camps, wyverns stinging flanks, Bloody Dragons retaking wells with electric volleys. Free City forces shattered—ships sunk, magisters captured, crucified on oil derricks.
The gates—ancient portals to other worlds—now Targaryen. Scholars studied them: connections to realms of endless resource, strange technologies, new allies or conquests. The system pinged: [Dimensional Access Unlocked. Empire Tier: Multiversal.]
The dragon endured—west conquered, south reclaimed, gates open.
The flame burned eternal.
(Word count: 4998)