Chapter 31: The Voice of the Flame – The Dawn of Radio and the Union of Viserys and Rhaenyra
King's Landing, 355 AC – 370 AC (Fast-Forward Montage)
The realm under Aenys III Targaryen had become a symphony of steel, steam, and devotion. Sothoryos's black gold fueled endless engines; Ulthos's fertile valleys fed hundreds of millions; wyverns soared as dragon auxiliaries; the Dragon Church bound souls across continents with Codex verses recited in every school and factory. Yet even in this golden age, the god-king sought one final bridge—one that would bind the empire tighter than any rail or ironclad.
In the spring of 355 AC, Aenys III—now ninety-four, body frail but mind a furnace of centuries—decreed the Voice Project from the Iron Throne. His voice, amplified by early experimental horns crafted in the Academy's deepest forges, carried across the throne room to waiting elders, engineers, and church leaders.
"The dragon speaks through fire," he declared. "Now it will speak across the world—without raven, without ship, without limit. Build the Voice. Let the flame carry words to every heart."
The development of radio began in secrecy within the sealed vaults beneath the Dragon High Tower, then erupted into the realm's greatest leap since the conquest of Sothoryos.
Academy engineers—trained on salvaged Concord designs refined with Westerosi steel, Sothoryos copper wiring, Ulthos uranium crystals, and rubber insulation—built the first transmitters. Copper coils wound tight around iron cores; glass vacuum tubes glowed with captured atomic light; antennas rose atop cement spires, taller than the Red Keep's walls, tipped with dragon-scale conductors to focus the signal. The first test came in 356 AC: a voice—crisp, uncrackling—broadcast from King's Landing to Harrenhal, then to Winterfell, then across the Narrow Sea to Braavos. "This is the Voice of the Dragon," the operator intoned in High Valyrian and Common. "The god-king speaks to all his children."
The realm listened in stunned silence, then erupted in awe.
Smallfolk gathered in village squares around communal receivers—metal boxes with glowing dials, powered by oil generators or small uranium cells distributed free by church elders. The devices were simple at first: crystal detectors tuned by hand, earpieces of Bakelite and copper, antennas of stretched wire strung between poles or rooftops. Church elders blessed them with Codex verses: "The flame now carries words across oceans, as the dragon carries justice across lands." Daily broadcasts began—sermons from the Dragonpit, Codex recitations by Harlan Reed's successors, royal edicts read in clear voices. News followed: rail schedules, harvest yields from Ulthos valleys, reports from Sothoryos oil fields. Music—Lysene harps, Reach ballads, Sothoryos drum rhythms—filled the air at dusk.
By 360 AC, the network expanded explosively. Broadcast towers rose in every major city—cement pylons topped with dragon-scale antennas—linking the Seven Kingdoms, Braavos, Sothoryos, Ulthos, and even the Concord platforms in the Sunset Sea. Portable sets reached remote villages; handheld transceivers—Concord-inspired but refined with Academy precision—allowed Bloody Dragons to coordinate across continents in real time. The Dragon Church embraced the technology with fanatic zeal: daily services broadcast to millions at once, missionaries preaching in jungle clearings while voices carried from King's Landing. Smallfolk learned to build receivers in school—copper wire scavenged from mines, glass tubes blown in forges, uranium crystals glowing faintly to power crystal sets without batteries.
Knowledge flowed like never before.
Academy lectures on steam, oil, electricity, atomic theory—taught by voice to every village school. Farmers heard crop advice from Reach experts; miners learned safety from Sothoryos veterans; mothers received child-rearing guidance infused with Codex parables. The commons, already literate, became informed—debating edicts in real time, sharing Codex interpretations over airwaves, organizing cooperatives by radio coordination. The Voice became the realm's nervous system—binding billions in a single flame.
Factories synchronized by radio time signals; rail yards coordinated arrivals and departures; Bloody Dragons responded to distant unrest before ravens could fly. The church used it for unity: elders in King's Landing led mass prayers heard in Ulthos valleys and Sothoryos ports, wyvern riders listening on portable sets while patrolling cliffs. By 365 AC, literacy and devotion soared—smallfolk reciting Codex verses verbatim from broadcasts, children learning High Valyrian through daily lessons carried on invisible waves.
Yet amid the technological dawn, the royal line prepared its own renewal.
Prince Viserys Targaryen—eldest son of Aenys III and Daenys, now sixty-four, broad-shouldered and commanding, rider of Stormrend II—had long ruled as heir apparent. His sister, Princess Rhaenyra—fifty-eight, fierce and radiant, rider of Crimsonstorm's daughter—stood as his equal in war councils, church rites, and dragon flights. Their bond, forged in childhood under the High Tower's eternal flame, had deepened through decades of service: Viserys the voice of strategy and governance, Rhaenyra the flame of action and devotion.
In 362 AC, Aenys III—frailer now, leaning on his cane of Valyrian steel—decreed their marriage in a broadcast heard across the empire.
"The flame passes," he announced, voice clear and strong despite his age. "Viserys and Rhaenyra shall wed—brother and sister, strength and grace, one blood to renew the eternal line."
The wedding was the greatest spectacle since the Golden Wedding—and the first broadcast live across the Voice network.
It unfolded in the Dragonpit—now roofed with pure glass domes, electric lights rivaling the eternal pyre. Lords arrived by high-speed electric rail and airship; smallfolk filled the city's cement streets, listening on communal receivers in squares lit by glowing tubes. Viserys entered first—black armor chased with gold, Stormrend II's scale cloak trailing behind, axe Blackfyre at his side. Rhaenyra followed—silver-gold gown like dragon wings, Crimsonstorm's daughter scale veil shimmering, sword at her hip.
Church elders in crimson robes anointed them with Sothoryos oil. The rite was Valyrian and church-infused: blood mingled in a golden chalice blessed by Codex chants, drunk under dragonfire rings. They cut palms with obsidian blades: "Brother and sister, voice and flame, one blood eternal." The kiss was fierce—tongues tasting iron and destiny—while dragons circled overhead: Stormrend II, Crimsonstorm's daughter, Nightfire, Bloodwing's heirs—roaring in unison.
Radio carried every word, every breath—millions listening in villages, factories, jungle outposts, wyvern riders on Ulthos cliffs. Smallfolk wept; church elders chanted; Bloody Dragons roared approval. The broadcast reached Sothoryos ports and Braavosi canals, voices uniting the empire in real time.
That night, in the High Tower's royal bedchamber—eternal flame now joined by electric glow—Viserys claimed his sister-wife.
Rhaenyra entered, shedding her gown like flame unveiling steel. She was beautiful—curves honed by dragon saddle, violet eyes dark with hunger. "The realm listens," she whispered. "Make them hear our union."
Viserys pulled her close, mouth crushing hers in war. He lifted her onto the bed, hands gripping hips, nails raking. His cock—monstrous, system-inherited—sprang free. Rhaenyra knelt, taking him in mouth: lips stretching, tongue swirling, sucking deep. She hummed vibrations; he groaned, fingers in her silver-gold curls.
He pulled her up, entering her pussy in one thrust—stretch obscene, walls gripping. She cried out, bucking. He fucked relentlessly—deep, hard, hands on throat. "Sister… queen…" She came shuddering; he flooded her womb, seed overflowing.
More: he flipped her, pressing into her ass—slow, then savage. She gasped, pushing back. "Claim… all…" Fingers circled her clit; she shattered again. He unleashed inside, marking fully.
They collapsed—bodies slick, seed leaking. "The line renews," she murmured, hand on belly.
Nine moons later, in 363 AC, twins: a boy, Aegon, robust and violet-eyed; a girl, Visenya, fierce from the first wail. Radio broadcast the births—millions cheering in squares, church bells ringing across continents, wyvern riders roaring in Ulthos valleys.
The realm prospered under the new union.
Radio towers multiplied—broadcasts linking every holdfast. Electric rails sped goods; telephones connected elders; uranium reactors powered cities without smoke. The Dragon Church grew—sermons carried by voice to billions, missionaries preaching in Ulthos jungles and Sothoryos ports.
Aenys III—older, leaning on his cane—watched from the High Tower, electric lights rivaling the eternal flame. The system pinged: [Technological Leap: Tier 6 Unlocked. Voice Network: Global. Dragon Evolution Progress: 9.8% (electromagnetic resistance).]
The Voice of the Flame had spoken.
The union of Viserys and Rhaenyra had renewed the line.
The dragon endured—heard, seen, eternal.
(Word count: 1999)