The grand celebration of Meereen had lasted three days in a dazzling display of power, spectacle, and loyalty. Now, as the final echoes of music, laughter, and cheers faded into the early morning, a quieter, more deliberate calm settled over the city. The streets still smelled richly of roasted meats and spices, but the frenzy of the carnival had been replaced by the disciplined order that only power and authority could command.
The convoys of the delegations departed the port in perfect formation. Merchant ships and caravans spread the news of the Dragon King's presence across Essos, carrying awe, reverence, and a healthy dose of fear with them. Every corner of the continent would soon hear of the New Valyrian Empire, and of its young, ambitious, and unstoppable Emperor, Damian Thorne.
As the last envoys left, a blue-lipped wizard from Qarth found himself near the docks, staring at a lone figure moving quietly through the crowd. His gaze locked on Alan, Damian Thorne's magical advisor.
"Sir Alan," the wizard's voice floated like silk, imbued with a strange, almost hypnotic cadence, "your magic… it is unlike anything I have ever seen. So many pirates, so much power… the source of such sorcery cannot belong to ordinary men."
He leaned closer, eyes intent, as if trying to pierce the very essence of Alan's being. "The gates of the Immortal Palace are always open to wise men such as yourself."
Alan turned slowly, a polite but distant smile forming on his pale face. "You flatter me," he replied, his voice soft yet carrying an undeniable sincerity. "All that I possess comes from His Majesty. He is a god walking among mortals. I am merely His humblest servant."
The wizard blinked, pupils shrinking slightly. He did not detect falsehood in Alan's words. Only pure, unyielding faith radiated from him. He opened his mouth to ask more, but before he could, Alan gave a slight bow, turned, and followed Damian Thorne's personal guards, never once looking back.
The wizard remained frozen, watching Alan's retreating figure. His mind swirled with questions, doubts, and a gnawing fear. When he finally turned back to the dock, he could only return to Qarth, his thoughts haunted by the strange and powerful magic he had witnessed.
Meanwhile, the three city-states of Slaver's Bay had already begun preparations to rebuild Gogothos. Materials, labor, and supplies were mobilized with unprecedented efficiency, every movement coordinated with meticulous precision. The city would rise again, not merely as a settlement, but as a fortress and symbol of the Empire's unstoppable reach.
But Alan did not return to the pyramid. Instead, he wandered alone to the Arena District, the dirtiest, most chaotic part of Meereen. The air was acrid with blood, sweat, and the stench of cheap ale. Gamblers, gladiators, and spectators stared as he passed, but he ignored them entirely, moving directly toward the arena's owner: a corpulent Ghisman adorned with rings and jewels.
Alan's voice was calm, as though discussing mundane business rather than life and death. "I want all combatants who have been seriously injured in battle or training—those who can no longer fight."
The arena owner blinked, initially confused. But when Alan tossed a heavy bag of gold coins onto the counter, the man's face brightened into a flattering grin. "Of course, of course! It would be an honor for these… losers to serve you!"
Word of the transaction spread quickly through Meereen's underworld. One by one, former gladiators—once unmatched in combat but now broken by injury, disease, or old age—were transported to a hidden laboratory outside the city. Here, the air was thick with the stench of chemicals, preservatives, and a peculiar sense of the forbidden.
Alan, wearing a bloodstained leather apron, moved among the corpses with morbid precision. His eyes glinted with excitement, almost reverence, as he guided dark green liquid through the veins of a recently "repaired" gladiator. He raised his hands to the ceiling of the cold stone laboratory, a fervent cry escaping his lips.
"I will raise a truly immortal legion for His Majesty!"
Meanwhile, in Meereen, Dakka strode into the throne room with a booming voice that matched the clang of war drums. The Dothraki cavalry, rested and newly equipped, followed him in formation. Gone were the mismatched leather armors and varying weapons of old. In their place were uniform black scale armors and gleaming steel arakhs, transforming the once disparate warriors into a single, lethal instrument of imperial power.
Dakka knelt before Damian Thorne, his voice trembling with excitement. "Your Majesty, we discovered something remarkable while clearing an old noble estate. A slave revealed that the noble secretly mined iron in the mountains behind the manor."
Damian Thorne tapped his fingers lightly on the obsidian armrests of his throne. "Very good." His eyes flicked to Sidara Nachen, his trusted lieutenant. "Hidara, take charge of this matter. I want molten iron flowing for the Empire in the shortest possible time."
"Yes, Your Majesty!" Sidara accepted the command without hesitation.
Dakka added, "The slave has been freed and rewarded according to the laws of the khal."
Damian Thorne nodded. Precisely what he had intended. By leveraging the interests and fears of the old order, he could dismantle centuries of hierarchy and forge a new world—one loyal only to him.
Later that night, while the city slept, Damian Thorne retreated to his private chambers. He produced a glass candle, black and smooth as obsidian. Infusing a trace of his mental power, the candle's top ignited without flame, a soft platinum fire dancing atop the wick.
Within the flame, the weathered face of Ma Zhuo appeared, vivid and detailed. Damian spoke directly into the image.
"Ma Zhuo, how fares the grassland?"
Ma Zhuo knelt in the spectral flames, reverence clear despite the distance. "Khal, your khalasar grows stronger. We have defeated and subjugated three wandering tribes." His voice trembled slightly with excitement. "We also learned from the captives that the khal en route to Qohor was killed by crossbowmen. His khalasar shattered, and now the plains are littered with leaderless warriors."
"Very good," Damian said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "Use this respite to bring as many stragglers as possible under our banner. Show them that following me brings unmatched glory and conquest."
"As you command, Your Majesty! The grasslands shall serve you!"
The flame extinguished, and the communication ended. Damian Thorne set the glass candle aside, a cold calculation burning in his eyes. Slaver's Bay was secure. Dakka organized the troops in Meereen. The Undead Navy, Nero's masterpiece, had nearly completed the cleansing of the Basilisk Islands.
It was time to confront the "Eldest Daughter of Valyria".
That night, the silk curtains of Damian's chamber swayed gently in the night breeze. Damian lay on his side, one hand wrapped around Ilaria's slender waist, the other tracing the warmth of Linara's soft breath. The fragrance of the two women, mingled with the faint warmth of their bodies, created a rare moment of peace.
Ilaria's long silver hair spilled across black sheets like liquid moonlight, her purple eyes shimmering with adoration and trust. Linara, on the other side, curled tightly, timid yet reluctant to drift too far, her slight tremor betraying her fear—but also her desire for safety under Damian's protection.
Damian Thorne did not speak. He simply savored the moment. The blood, the conquest, the unrelenting march of power—these were his duties. Yet these fleeting moments of softness were a rare solace for his restless mind.
By dawn, Damian rose. He dressed and walked to the terrace atop the Great Pyramid, the city below still shrouded in the last threads of morning mist. Sidara Nachen was already waiting.
"While I am away, you will oversee all affairs in Meereen," Damian instructed, voice calm, but carrying the undeniable majesty of his office.
"As you command, Your Majesty," Sidara said, bowing deeply, hiding her excitement beneath the weight of duty.
Damian Thorne said nothing more. He stepped forward.
"Crack… Crack…"
His body began to change in the morning light. Black scales erupted across his skin like living armor, dragon horns pierced the heavens, and enormous wings, dark as midnight, unfolded to blot out the sun.
In an instant, the man became a black dragon, over fifty-five meters in length. The creature roared, shaking the clouds and announcing the Emperor's departure.
With a powerful beat of wings, Damian surged into the sky, his massive form slicing through the air like black lightning, heading southwest toward Volantis—the first of many conquests yet to come.
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