The bronze doors, engraved with a faded harpy in relief, groaned as they opened. The harsh friction of metal against metal echoed through the empty streets of Meereen, announcing the arrival of the last authority the city had ever known.
Beyond the doors lay the final dignity of Meereen.
Hidara Zo Nachen, the first wise man to swear loyalty to the Dragon King, led a dozen equally "wise" noble heads, kneeling in a line along the grand avenue. Behind them, their families were packed densely, like reeds in a storm, pressed together and bending under invisible pressure.
Every face was lowered, eyes averted, each person unwilling to look at the black tide creeping across the horizon.
A hundred thousand Dothraki warriors thundered toward the city.
Silent Iron Hoof.
The sound—or rather, the lack of the expected sound—was more terrifying than the mightiest charge of war. The city's defenders had feared the storm of hooves, yet no clamor of battle erupted at the gate. Instead, a sudden gust of wind whipped through the square, raising a cloud of dust that stung the eyes and made it almost impossible for the kneeling nobles to see.
Through the haze, Sidara lifted his head with great effort. And then he saw it.
A shadow eclipsed the square in front of the Great Pyramid. It was not a cloud, nor any natural phenomenon. A dragon, vast and pitch black, descended from the sky, its wings stretching wide enough to blot out the sun. It came down silently, effortlessly, and yet the wind it generated pressed down on all who knelt, forcing them closer to the ground as if the weight of a god's hand had fallen upon them.
"Bang."
A muffled impact.
The dragon landed. The square trembled, but not violently; it did not need to. Its presence alone was terror enough. From the ruins and shadowed corners of Meereen, survivors peeked out. They would never forget this sight: the black beast, the harbinger of doomsday, perched before the Great Pyramid, and the air itself seemed to warp around it, space folding in on the creature as if reality itself recognized the command of the conqueror.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the dragon vanished.
A dragon warrior emerged, holding a massive cloak, and draped it over his khal. Damian Thorne glanced at it, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. "Unsightly. I should find a way not to be naked all the time," he thought.
Then his eyes swept over the kneeling masses below him. Cold. Unfeeling. They were ants beneath his gaze—small, fragile, meaningless.
---
The throne room of the Great Pyramid had never been so empty, yet never so heavy with oppression. Damian Thorne strode up the steps of the throne, which gleamed with gold and ivory, and took the seat that had once belonged to Meereen's Great Lord. From this moment, it belonged to him.
"Bring the defector from the Naqian family here," he said. His voice was low, calm, yet it carried across the hall like a blade cutting through silk.
Within moments, two Dragon Army guards escorted Hidara Naqian into the room. He knelt, humbler than before, prostrating himself before the new Khal.
"Great Dragon King," Hidara said, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the floor, "your loyal servant is here to heed your command."
Damian Thorne did not even glance at him. His eyes were fixed instead on Dhaka, standing beside the throne, his stance radiating anticipation.
"Dhaka," Damian called.
"Kao!" Dhaka stepped forward, his chest swelling with uncontained excitement.
"Pass on my orders."
Damian leaned back, tapping his fingers lightly on the armrest, his expression unreadable.
"All 'Dragon's Minions' who participated in this battle are to receive the manors and wealth of the nobles who perished or fled," he said.
Dhaka froze. Then, as Damian continued, the command sank into its true depth:
"For three days. Civilians are not to be harassed. Families and property of those who surrendered are to remain untouched."
"Those who disobey will die."
Understanding dawned on Dhaka. This was not mere chaos. It was both reward and control, kindness and terror. He fell to one knee, pounding his chest in acknowledgment.
"As you command, Kaa of Kaa!"
Dhaka turned and exited, moving with the confidence of a man bearing divine orders.
Outside, the black sea of Dothraki erupted. The combined roar of a hundred thousand warriors shattered the silence, rolling through the city like a living wave.
"Kao! Kao!!"
The sound struck terror and awe into every corner of Meereen. Sidara's body trembled under its force. He understood now that the bloodiest of carnivals was underway. But unlike a mindless raid, this was controlled, deliberate. The Dragon King had drawn clear boundaries for the city's fate.
Damian Thorne's cold voice cut through Sidara's thoughts again.
"Hidara."
"The servant is here," Hidara replied, snapping back to attention.
"You are appointed temporary Archon of Meereen," Damian said.
Hidara's heart surged with ecstasy, though he forced himself to bow lower.
"Thank you, Your Majesty. I shall serve faithfully and give all I possess!"
Damian ignored the words entirely. "Your first task: count all the slaves from surrendered families."
Hidara froze.
"I want a list," Damian continued, voice even and emotionless. "Every blacksmith, carpenter, stonemason, farmer, servant—every skill cataloged down to the head. I expect the first list before nightfall."
Counting slaves? The order was simple, yet its implications were immense. Hidara swallowed his fear, nodded, and left immediately to carry out the command.
Damian then turned to a Dragon Warrior guard. "Send men to Astapor at once. Inform Governor Grazdan that Meereen is mine. Mobilize the fleet and blockade all sea routes to Yunkai. Let none escape."
"Yes, Your Majesty," the guard replied, disappearing into the shadows.
Silence fell over the throne room. Sidara remained kneeling, cold sweat running down his spine. It was dawning on him: the rewards were to consolidate loyalty, the slave census to organize resources, the blockade to prevent future rebellion. Damian Thorne's vision of conquest and governance extended far beyond mere bloodshed. He was an emperor in planning, not merely a conqueror.
---
Dusk set the Great Pyramid ablaze with red light. Below, the city was split: in some districts, Dothraki revelry rang with noise and distant screams, while other neighborhoods were shrouded in darkness and silence.
Sidara returned to the throne room, exhausted yet glowing with a strange energy. He handed Damian a parchment hastily filled with numbers.
"Your Majesty, this is the first list of counted technical slaves: 1,321 blacksmiths, 864 carpenters, 912 stonemasons. The rest are still being recorded."
Damian glanced at it, his expression calm, almost indifferent. Then he rose and walked to the terrace, letting the wind whip his black cloak. Below, the city simmered with a mixture of fear and jubilation.
"Pass me the third order," he said softly, yet the authority in his voice brooked no contradiction.
Sidara and Dhaka stiffened.
"All blacksmiths, carpenters, and skilled slaves necessary for war..." Damian paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the air. "...are hereby restored to free citizenship."
Sidara froze. Free? In Meereen? A city built on slavery? It was incomprehensible.
"They will be registered and integrated into my logistics corps," Damian continued. "They will receive the same treatment as the 'Dragon's Minions'."
His words struck Hidara like hammers. Damian Thorne was not merely taking a city—he was remaking it. Meereen would no longer be a place of oppression and decay, but a fortress of production, a war engine that could sustain conquest after conquest.
"In my empire," Damian said, looking down at the city below, "the sound of anvils striking will be louder than the clink of gold coins. People are my greatest treasure."
Sidara stared at the back of Damian's black cloak as it flapped in the wind. A chill ran from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. He finally understood: this Dragon King did not plunder cities; he built empires. And in the ruins of Meereen, a new and terrifying order was already taking root.
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