Chapter 21: The Southern Veil – Expedition to Sothoryos
King's Landing, 188 AC – 192 AC (Fast-Forward Montage)
The steam age had transformed the Seven Kingdoms into an unstoppable engine of progress. Ironclads patrolled every sea lane, rail lines webbed the continent like dragon veins, cement cities rose unbreakable, and the population—healthier, longer-lived—swelled under royal medicine and endless grain. Dragons, now truly unkillable, soared above it all, their scales evolving against every new weapon the Academy forged. Yet Aenys II Targaryen—eternal Elias, reborn in perfect Valyrian flesh—remained restless. The world beyond the known maps still held secrets, and secrets were threats until claimed.
In the spring of 188 AC, he summoned the Small Council to the High Tower's war room. Maps of Sothoryos—pieced together from Jaehaerys's earlier expeditions, Asshai shadowbinder tomes, and Naathi trader tales—covered the black obsidian table. Steam hissed softly from heating pipes beneath the floor; pure glass lanterns cast steady light on parchment stained with jungle ink.
"Sothoryos remains a shadow on our charts," Aenys declared, violet eyes fixed on the southern continent's jagged coastline. "We have traded its herbs, its rubber, its gold idols. But we have never truly measured its heart. How vast is it? What lies beyond the Basilisk Isles' fever swamps? We send no raiding party this time. We send an empire's eye."
The fleet was assembled with ruthless efficiency. Twenty-five ironclads—steam-driven behemoths plated in Academy-forged steel, broadsides bristling with rifled cannons—sailed from Blackwater Bay under the command of Prince Daemon Targaryen, Aenys's eldest son by Queen Daera. Now twenty, silver-haired and fierce, Daemon rode Flameheart's daughter, Crimsonfang, a sleek scarlet beast whose flames burned hotter than her mother's. Accompanying him: five younger dragonriders (including Princess Rhaella on her silver-scaled mount Moonshadow), three hundred Bloody Dragons trained in jungle warfare, Academy scholars with microscopes and specimen jars, Velaryon navigators, and two hundred support crew—engineers, medics armed with steam-sterilized kits, and alchemists carrying crates of gunpowder and cement powder for field fortifications.
They departed under dragon escort, sails billowing with favorable winds, paddlewheels churning black smoke. Printed broadsheets announced the voyage: "The God-King seeks the southern veil—Sothoryos shall kneel to the dragon eternal." Smallfolk cheered from concrete quays; lords sent gifts of spices and silk for the hold.
The crossing took five weeks—steam engines driving the fleet through storms that would have scattered wooden galleys. They hugged the Summer Sea coast, trading briefly at Naath for butterfly silk and fever tonics, then plunged south past the Basilisk Isles. Fever claimed a dozen men despite vaccinations; brindled men ambushed scouting parties with poisoned darts. Daemon's dragons burned the attackers from above; cannons roared grapeshot into the undergrowth. The fleet pressed on.
They made landfall at the southern edge of what earlier maps called "the Green Hell"—a vast mangrove swamp giving way to steaming jungle. Cement-reinforced longboats ferried men ashore; Bloody Dragons hacked paths with steam-powered chain saws (early prototypes, noisy but relentless). Scholars cataloged plants: black-barked trees oozing rubber sap, flowers whose pollen induced visions, vines thick as a man's thigh. Dragons hunted basilisks from the canopy; their roars scattered winged serpents.
For three moons they pushed inland—following rivers wide as the Trident, cutting through jungle so dense sunlight barely reached the ground. Steam winches hauled supplies over rapids; rail tracks of portable iron were laid for short portages. They mapped tributaries, claimed outposts with cement blockhouses flying the three-headed dragon banner, and sent ravens north with reports: "The continent stretches farther than imagined—jungles endless, mountains glimpsed to the south."
Then, in the autumn of 189 AC, they found it.
Deep in the interior, where the jungle thinned into rolling savanna broken by mist-shrouded plateaus, the scouts returned pale and breathless. "A kingdom, my prince," one reported to Daemon. "Men taller than Dothraki, skin dark as obsidian, riding beasts the size of small keeps. They command armies—spears like forests, war drums that shake the earth."
Daemon flew reconnaissance on Crimsonfang. From above he saw it: a vast city of stepped pyramids and ziggurats carved from black basalt, surrounded by walls of fitted stone higher than Harrenhal's towers. Beyond the walls stretched fields of millet and yams worked by thousands; herds of massive horned beasts grazed under guard. But the true marvel was the apes.
Giants—twice the height of a man, furred in black and gray, muscled like siege engines—moved through the city and its outskirts. Some carried war platforms strapped to their backs, manned by archers with longbows of bone and sinew. Others hauled massive stone rollers to maintain roads. Most terrifying: dozens of the beasts formed living siege towers, charging in formation under the direction of handlers armed with hooked poles and drums. When they roared, the sound rolled across the savanna like thunder.
The kingdom's army—twenty thousand strong at least—drilled in the fields below: spearmen in scaled armor of lizard hide, slingers launching fist-sized stones, war elephants (smaller than the apes but armored) trumpeting in support. At their center rose a golden idol: a colossal ape carved in obsidian and gold leaf, eyes set with emeralds the size of shields.
Daemon signaled the fleet to hold position at the river mouth while he returned to report. Aenys received the raven in the High Tower, eyes narrowing. "A kingdom that commands giants," he murmured. "They will kneel… or burn."
The first contact came in 190 AC.
Daemon landed Crimsonfang on a wide plain two leagues from the city walls—alone, unarmed but for Dark Sister's lighter twin at his hip. The apes sensed the dragon first; dozens reared, roaring defiance. Handlers beat drums in complex rhythms. The city gates opened; a delegation emerged: tall warriors in feathered cloaks, priests bearing golden staves, and—most striking—a woman of regal bearing, skin gleaming like polished ebony, hair braided with gold wire, eyes sharp as obsidian blades. She rode an ape larger than the rest, its fur streaked with silver, a howdah of ivory and silk strapped to its back.
She dismounted with fluid grace, approaching within spear range. Her voice carried clear High Valyrian—learned, perhaps, from ancient trade or captured maesters.
"You are the dragon-riders from the north," she said. "We are the People of Ghiscar-Reborn. Our kings command the Great Apes since the days before your Valyria rose. Speak your purpose."
Daemon met her gaze. "I am Prince Daemon Targaryen, son of King Aenys II, God-King of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of Braavos. My father sends greeting—and demand. Your lands border our maps. Your beasts are mighty. Your army formidable. Kneel to the dragon, and share your strength. Refuse, and we will test how giant ape fares against dragonfire and cannon."
The queen—for she was clearly queen—laughed, low and musical. "We knelt to no Ghiscari slaver, no Valyrian dragonlord, no Dothraki khal. Why should we kneel to you?"
Daemon smiled—sharp, victorious. "Because our dragons evolve. Our cannons roar. Our ships are iron. And because we do not ask twice."
He signaled. From the river mouth, the fleet advanced—ironclads belching black smoke, cannons run out. Above, five dragons joined Crimsonfang, circling in perfect formation. The apes below roared in challenge; war drums thundered.
The queen studied the sky, then the iron beasts on the water. Her expression did not waver, but something flickered in her eyes—calculation, not fear.
"Bring your king's terms," she said at last. "We will parley. But know this: the Great Apes do not bend easily. And neither do we."
Daemon bowed slightly. "Terms will come. With dragonfire to underscore them."
He mounted Crimsonfang and took to the sky. The fleet held position; dragons patrolled overhead. Back in King's Landing, Aenys read the report with cold satisfaction. The system pinged: [New Threat Vector Detected: Mega-Fauna Command. Dragon Evolution Progress: 0.8% (latent adaptation queued for primate-scale opponents).]
The southern veil had been pierced.
A kingdom of giant apes and unbreakable will awaited.
The dragon would answer.
(Word count: 2498)