The leather bag thudded against the stone floor, sending up a small cloud of ancient dust. Damian Thorne pulled out the contents: a simple pair of black trousers and a plain shirt.
"I can't keep running around naked every time I transform. This will do," he muttered under his breath, inspecting the clothes while surveying the ruins around him.
Broken black boulders jutted upward like teeth, forming roofless spires that reached toward the stormy sky. Weathered stone statues, chipped and scarred by centuries of wind and sea, cast grotesque silhouettes across the shadowed ground. The air was thick with a musty, stagnant smell, like a tomb sealed for a millennium.
"This should be the ruins of High Gothos," Damian said quietly, scanning the island from above. He compared it to the map etched into his memory. This was the Isle of Tears, the southernmost colony of the ancient Valyrian Freehold, long abandoned and forgotten by the world.
He closed his eyes. A subtle pulse of his will stretched outward, invisible yet immense. Air currents bent and twisted like spectral tentacles, sweeping through every corner of the ruins. Through the cold, salty breeze, Damian felt every crack in the stone, every crevice in the ancient walls. Feedback returned to him: the chill of the wind, the salty tang of seawater, and an eerie, profound silence.
"No one…" he murmured.
It didn't make sense. The largest island of the Basilisk Archipelago, once the capital, remained untouched by pirates. He traced the outlines of nearby islands in his mind. A single name surfaced, like a spark igniting in the darkness, and Damian flexed his knees. In an instant, he transformed mid-air. Scales glimmering black, wings unfurling against the storm-laden clouds, he soared above the ruins, clutching his bag in his claws. The wind tore past him as he vanished into the sky.
---
Axe Isle reeked of chaos. The entire island was a vast, seething refuse heap of sweat, fish, and fermenting alcohol, the stench clinging to every crevice. Pirates from every corner of Essos and Westeros were present, their appearances as diverse as their backgrounds, yet each shared the same desperate, predatory glint in their eyes.
All the prominent pirate captains of the Basilisk Islands had gathered to elect a king.
In a drafty wooden house at the heart of the island, shadows danced across the walls. The air was thick with the smoke of pipes and the stink of unwashed bodies. At the center, the blind old man, leader of the Sawtooth Skulls, scanned the room with eyes that were white yet disturbingly sharp. His gaze pierced through the gloom, though his eyelids remained closed. Baring his jagged yellow teeth, he broke the suffocating silence.
"The Stepstones have been taken by the Three Bitches' navy. Qarth's fleet guards the Jade Gate like a watchdog. Slaver's Bay has been unified by some bastard dragonlord who appeared from nowhere," he said, drumming his dry fingers on the table. "If we do not unite, the uniformed armies of Essos will wipe us out one by one."
"We need rules," said Nilo, a Qarthite pirate from the Thirteenth Brotherhood, his silk handkerchief covering his mouth and nose. His eyes darted nervously at the grimy floor. "How should we decide a king? Voting? Or follow the Ironborn tradition?"
"Ironborn kingsmoot!" bellowed Qichuan Luo, a bear-like giant who led the Steel Axe Regiment. His deep voice made the wine glasses tremble. "Whoever wants to be king, put forth your treasures! The one who gives the most shall lead, and the rest of us will obey!"
The room erupted. Thugs pressed against doors and windows, pirate leaders of minor crews who had come only to swell the numbers, all clamoring and shouting. The word treasure ignited a frenzy, and chaos consumed the hall.
Qichuan Luo's wide grin widened further as he slammed the table, trying to assert control.
"Silence!" he roared.
"Snap! Snap! Snap!"
Drake, leader of the Bloody Hand Skeletons, leaped to his feet, slamming his massive hands onto the table to drown out the noise. As the host of Axe Island, his influence was unmatched. Members of his crew drew weapons in unison, using the flat sides of blades and fists alike to restore order through sheer intimidation.
After two clashes and six bodies, the hall finally sank back into tense silence.
Yet beneath the calm, rivalries simmered. Drake wanted to be king but was far too stingy. Qichuan Luo lacked the authority to dominate others. Nilo was suspected of being a foreign agent. Old Blind Eye, though cunning, cared only for profit and remaining invisible. The stalemate was inevitable, and the leaders left the hall in frustration, agreeing to reconvene the next day.
---
Far beyond the Basilisk Archipelago, the world shifted quietly because of a new "king."
Within the secret chamber of the Kingdom of the Three Daughters, a vast map of the Narrow Sea stretched across the table. The death of the Crab Feeder and the loss of the Stepstones left their strategic position dangerously exposed.
"We must win Dorne. The Iron Throne threatens us all," a noble voice urged.
"And to the east… the new Dragon King. Slaver's Bay is under his control," another added, worry threading each word.
"Send an embassy. Lavish gifts. We will need his dragons against the Targaryens," the council concluded, urgency and fear tempering their diplomacy.
In Braavos, in the secret city crisscrossed by canals and hidden passageways, the Sea King heard reports from his men.
"'New dragonlords, new chains,' 'scourge of Valyria'—these are the whispers circulating in the streets," a messenger reported.
The Sea King's expression remained unreadable. After long silence, he spoke in a quiet, measured tone. "He, too, will celebrate his rise. Send an envoy to Meereen. I want to see this dragon that emerged from the ruins with my own eyes."
---
Back on Claw Island, fire lit the pirate stronghold, flames roaring into the night sky with an orange-red fury. Wood cracked and splintered under the heat, sending showers of sparks into the darkness. Damian Thorne stood in the shadows beyond the firelight, eyes cold and unblinking. At his feet, a pirate writhed on the scorched earth, legs broken, groaning and shivering.
"You mean… you are electing a Pirate King?" Damian's voice was calm, flat, without emotion.
The pirate twisted in agony, nodding frantically. His teeth chattered, and he emitted pitiful, incoherent whimpers.
Damian raised his head, eyes narrowing toward Axe Island, a faint, icy curve of a smile on his lips.
"Interesting," he murmured. "They have all gathered."
He lowered his gaze, looking at the pool of ruined flesh beneath him. His voice was softer now, almost like a breeze.
"I am here to help you break your addiction… to kings."
The wind carried his words through the ruined camp, into the hearts of those who dared to plot, deceive, and kill for power. And somewhere, across the vast expanse of Essos, the pulse of his empire grew stronger, carrying the shadow of a dragon across every island, every coast, and every throne.
Damian Thorne, the Dragon King, had arrived at the Basilisk Islands. The old order of pirates would learn, painfully and swiftly, that power no longer belonged to chaos—but to him.
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