A massive black shadow swept over the cracked, barren expanse of the Devil's Road.
Flying southwest from Meereen, the sheer presence of the black dragon sent a wave of panic through every city, town, and settlement below. Its immense wings, stretching wide enough to cover entire villages, stirred violent gusts of wind that shredded tents, uprooted carts, and sent loose stones spinning across the road. Sand and dust swirled into miniature whirlwinds, and travelers, merchants, and guards alike dropped to their knees in awe and terror.
"Magic dragon!"
"The Dragon King of Slaver's Bay!"
Countless voices cried out, a chorus of fear and reverence. People stared skyward, mouths agape, powerless to act, their hearts hammering as the legendary black beast blotted out the sun.
But Damian Thorne did not concern himself with the awe or panic below. His obsidian eyes scanned the earth beneath him, observing the ancient Valyrian roads that snaked through deserts, plains, and mountains like scars etched into the world. Every mile carried him closer to his next prize: Volantis, the so-called "Eldest Daughter of Valyria."
From this height, the city's grandeur was undeniable. Its buildings, bridges, and walls shone in the morning sunlight, a testament to centuries of wealth, culture, and ambition. The River Lorne bisected the city, its estuary dominated by a colossal bridge lined with towers and battlements. From ten thousand meters above, the city looked almost unreal, like a painting brought to life.
Yet Damian Thorne's sharp perception quickly caught the imperfections that marred the surface. Beyond the core districts near the black wall and the central bridge, the outskirts revealed decay. Blocks that should have been filled with gardens, fountains, and opulent villas now lay abandoned or collapsed. Fountains were dry, facades peeled, and swamps encroached on former streets. The wounds left by the failed war in the Disputed Lands had left their mark.
Damian's lips curved into a faint, cold smile. A war can erase a generation, leaving even a great city to reveal its rot and weakness.
He no longer hid his presence.
"ROAR!"
A voice of thunder, tearing the clouds apart, erupted from the sky. The sound rolled like a tangible hammer across the city. Below, panic spread like wildfire. Crowds stampeded across the long bridge, boats tipped in the river, and nobles clutched their children in fright. All eyes turned skyward.
Above them descended a black titan, scales glittering like molten obsidian, claws and wings tearing the air, eyes burning with living fire. For those who had only heard tales, it was the culmination of legend. The dragon of the Dragon King had come.
Damian Thorne ignored the terror below. His target was the black wall—the symbol of Volantis' power and antiquity. He surged toward it with calculated precision, the wind roaring past his wings.
A few hundred meters from the wall, his massive form folded in the air, shrinking in ways that defied physics. The bones inside his body seemed to explode and reform as scales, claws, and wings melted away, leaving behind the young man beneath them. Damian Thorne stood on the open ground, tall, imposing, yet dressed in black and gold garments that hinted at both elegance and authority.
Dozens of Volantis nobles, adorned in flowing silks and escorted by tiger-robed soldiers, rushed forward in trembling awe. Leading them were the three archons, rulers of the city, their faces pale yet filled with apprehension.
"Welcome to the Emperor of the New Valyrian Empire, Conqueror of Slaver's Bay, His Majesty, Damian Thorne!"
Inside the palace, the three archons bowed low, every movement measured and careful. The lead was an elderly man, gray-haired but with eyes as sharp as a hawk. A tiger emblem adorned his chest; this was Rios, governor of the Tiger Party. Behind him, a man and a woman bore elephant emblems—the archons Talion and Lannas.
They looked at the young man before them, scarcely believing the story their spies and merchants had reported. A man in his twenties, yet he had united Slaver's Bay with lightning speed, crushed pirates, and forced New Ghis to surrender without a fight. Most terrifying of all: he was said to be a dragon himself.
Damian Thorne waved a hand casually. "No need for formalities," he said, his voice calm, yet every syllable carried an undeniable authority. "Volantis… it does not look well."
The words hit the archons like a shockwave. Rios' eyes blazed with suppressed excitement. He stepped forward, voice trembling with a mixture of awe and impatience.
"Your Majesty is correct! It is precisely because of Volantis' decline that we desire your leadership more than ever! If you will take us, all of Volantis—from Tigers to Elephants—will obey and restore the glory of Valyria!"
Talion and Lannas exchanged nervous glances, but the force of Rios' passion was infectious.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Talion said cautiously. "We will form the most solid alliance with you."
Lannas added, concern still etched on her face, "But… Your Majesty, if we act too rashly against the Kingdom of the Three Daughters in the Disputed Lands, might we not draw the Targaryens' ire from Westeros?"
Merchants first, cautious of war. They feared the costs, especially when dragons were involved.
Rios laughed, sharp and derisive, turning to face them. "Lannas! You worry too much!" His voice resonated across the hall. "Targaryen? King Viserys I does not even command a flying dragon! His only hope, his rebellious brother Daemon, is tied up fighting the Three Daughters. Do you expect him to abandon his vendetta for us?"
His fingers pointed toward the black walls outside, voice thick with anger. "Look at this city! Do you see the ruined neighborhoods, the desolate blocks? The last war wiped out a generation of our youth! Their bones still lie in the mud of the Disputed Lands! And you… you worry about a distant king who cannot even protect his own city?!"
Rios' words struck like hammers. Talion and Lannas paled. Hesitation gave way to humiliation—and a fierce desire for redemption.
Finally, they bowed deeply. "Your Majesty… we agree."
Damian Thorne allowed the corners of his lips to rise in a subtle, playful arc. "Very good," he said.
"As for the alliance's details, the governors of Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor will form a delegation to discuss specifics with you. From this day forth, the New Valyrian Empire and Volantis are bound in alliance. I will lead it. Who stands with me? Who opposes me?"
The hall was silent. The three archons lowered their heads even further.
"No objection, Your Majesty."
That night, Volantis threw itself into celebration. The black walls held the city's nobles in all their grandeur, draped in silks, bearing treasures, and displaying their utmost humility. Damian Thorne took the main seat, expressionless, surveying their flattery with keen, calculating eyes.
Every gesture, every gift, every whisper of deference was cataloged, measured, and stored. He sipped a glass of scarlet wine, his gaze sweeping over the proud Volantene nobles.
The eldest daughter of Valyria had bowed—not out of fear alone, but out of necessity. And now, she would serve him in the dawn of the New Valyrian Empire.
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