Cole had once been a Son of the Iron Islands. One of those men born to kill and plunder. He lived without remorse until tragedy struck his own home. His sister, still a child, was raped and murdered by one of Balon Greyjoy's trusted captains. Cole tried to follow the rules. He went to his lord and asked for justice.
But the killer was one of Greyjoy's most valuable captains, so he was declared innocent and the crime went unpunished. Furious, Cole took matters into his own hands. He managed only to slice off the man's ear before being wounded and forced to flee.
Vlad found him months later in Pentos, drowning his grief in a filthy tavern. Cole was not only mourning his sister, but also bearing the weight of all the atrocities he himself had committed under the Kraken's banner.
When Vlad approached him, Cole wasn't impressed by his presence. He was just another man, albeit a striking one. He offered a simple contract: Vlad needed seasoned sailors, and Cole needed coin to keep drinking until death. He accepted, planning to finish the job and vanish.
But everything changed the day he saw Vlad fight. It was at the docks, against more than a dozen men. Cole had seen them—thugs, killers. Vlad defeated them effortlessly. It wasn't a fight; it was a massacre. In that moment, Cole understood something. If he had wielded that power, his sister would still be alive. He could have had justice. He could have destroyed everyone who had failed him.
Vlad knew it. And so, days later, he offered Cole the same thing he had offered Lena—power. Strength. Redemption.
Cole accepted. Not out of loyalty or love. He did it out of hatred. For the promise of vengeance. Since then, every night he dreamed of returning to the Iron Islands and burning them to the ground. That was the oath he swore when he was reborn as a Drakul. And Vlad, with a calm smile, had told him that day would come.
The other men seated there didn't have stories nearly as tragic as Cole's. Still, they all had something in common: a reason to follow Vlad.
Edward, for example, had been a nameless slave, born and raised on a spice plantation east of Qarth.
His entire life had consisted of obeying, hauling weight, and staying silent. He'd never had a chance to fight for anything, let alone for himself. Vlad found him chained in a cage, displayed in a slave market like any other piece of merchandise. He asked no questions—he simply bought him, broke the chains before everyone, and offered him a choice: be free and go his own way, or follow him. And Edward, without hesitation, chose to follow.
Since then, he had never left his side. He wasn't the smartest, nor the strongest, but no one doubted his loyalty.
To him, Vlad wasn't just a savior—he was the only figure of power who had ever treated him with respect. And so, even though he wasn't born for war or intrigue, he had been one of the first to accept the embrace. Because if Vlad needed him eternal, eternal he would be.
Dorian, on the other hand, was a different story. From the moment he entered the hall, his appearance gave him away: well-cut clothes, carefully groomed hair, discreet yet expensive jewelry. He was the type of man who knew how to speak so others said yes without knowing why. He had been a moneylender in Braavos, a known name among merchants and minor houses.
For years he lent money to those in need and collected it with brutal interest. But his mistake had been trusting the wrong person. One of his partners betrayed him, arranged a kidnapping, and sold him into slavery in Volantis, taking over the business and stripping him of everything—his wealth, his position, his contacts.
It was Vlad who rescued him—not out of compassion, but because he saw his value. They talked for hours. Dorian told his story without embellishment or excuses. Vlad explained what he planned to do in Westeros and how he needed someone like him to move gold, debts, and names from the shadows.
Dorian didn't care about blood, war, or dragons. But he did care about power. And Vlad offered real, lasting power. He accepted the deal without hesitation. Now he had youth, influence, and a position that even before his fall he would've considered unthinkable.
There was only one thing that bothered him: he couldn't betray Vlad, not even if he wanted to. But he compensated for that frustration with wine, women, and feasts that would've shamed any Westerosi noble.
Malik was a different piece altogether.
At first glance, he looked like a beggar. Worn clothes, thin face, nervous eyes. But under that facade was a sharp mind, trained from childhood to listen, memorize, and survive. He had been one of Varys's little birds, trained to move in silence, to slip through shadows, to know when a conversation was mere chatter and when it held a valuable secret.
But as the years passed, he grew. His voice deepened, his movements became clumsier, and he stopped going unnoticed. He ended up living off what he could steal or extort, always on the move, always hungry. Vlad found him in one of those nameless cities, filthy and exhausted, but with ears still sharp. They reached an agreement quickly. Malik knew how information networks worked, and Vlad needed one of his own.
He offered him safety, a home, a purpose… and eternal life. Unlike others, Malik didn't hesitate for a second. He didn't care about power or glory. He just wanted to survive, and Vlad guaranteed that. Now he ran a network of informants that stretched across several cities, and no one suspected the quiet beggar who sometimes sat at temple gates asking for a coin.
Lars was perhaps the most unexpected of them all. An actor, nothing more. He had worked for years in small traveling troupes, moving from town to town, playing minor roles.
But he had talent, and Vlad recognized it. He saw him perform once in a small square, playing a priest comforting a town ravaged by war. He was convincing—so much so that the very villagers offered him bread and shelter without realizing it was all an act. Vlad approached him that same night. Not to applaud, but to offer him a much more enduring role. He turned him and gave him clear instructions: infiltrate the Faith of the Seven, rise through the ranks, and slowly sow chaos.
Lars accepted, and gladly. He was proud of his acting skills, and now he was given a truly meaningful part. He became a model priest, always ready to help, to console, to bless. He had already reached the rank of septon, and if things continued, he would soon be one of the most influential voices in the Faith.
And now, they were all there. In that luxurious mansion, sitting in silence, each with their story and their reasons. All waiting for a mysterious guest—though they all suspected who it would be.
Edward suddenly stood up with the same calm and dignity that always characterized him. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt with an automatic gesture before raising his voice, clear and solemn, projecting every word with confidence.
—My lords, my ladies... —he began, looking at each of them with a slight nod—. Our lord will arrive in a few moments. I ask you to remain composed and receive him with the respect he deserves.
A soft murmur swept through the room.
—So it was true? —Lena whispered with near-reverent tone—. I thought he wouldn't come in person...
—He doesn't gather everyone unless it's important —added Cole in a deep voice, arms crossed—. But that he shows up himself...
—And how will he arrive? —Dorian asked, unable to hide his curiosity.
Edward didn't respond immediately. He simply gestured for them to follow him.
He led them through a silent corridor to an adjoining room, completely empty except for a large stone platform in the center and a small brazier alight. The flame was dim and calm.
—Wait here —Edward said in a tone that allowed no argument. Then he turned to the brazier, drew a small dagger, and without ceremony, cut the palm of his hand.
—What are you doing? —asked a voice in a low, tense tone.
—Calling my lord —Edward replied without looking back.
The blood dripped onto the flame. Instantly, the fire roared violently, as if fed with oil. The flames rose, casting red and orange glows that painted shadows on the walls. Everyone took a step back, instinctively.
—Had he done this before? —Lars asked, a mix of fear and fascination in his voice.
—No —Lena answered, eyes fixed on the fire—. This is new.
The fire began to take shape. A silhouette emerged from the flames, at first vaguely human, then more defined—a being of fire, with eyes glowing like coals, rose like a god before them, and no one dared move.
The flames began to recede, revealing flesh. Muscles, bones, skin... each part of his body formed before their eyes, as if the fire wove Vlad from within. Finally, when the last flicker vanished, he was there. Tangible. Dressed in black, calm and lethal.
Vlad looked at them, and a subtle smile crossed his face.
—It's a pleasure to see you, ladies and gentlemen... —he said in a deep voice—. Now come. We have a wedding to attend.