The air in the former slave workshops reeked of rust, sweat, and the lingering smoke of fires long extinguished. It was heavy, almost suffocating, a reminder of the years of toil and oppression that had once defined this place.
Hundreds of newly liberated craftsmen had gathered, their faces reflecting a strange, almost contradictory mixture of ecstasy, disbelief, and cautious hope. For decades, their lives had been bound by chains of servitude. Now, the chains were gone, but the reality of freedom had not yet settled fully into their minds.
An elderly blacksmith, his white beard bristling and trembling hands gripping a worn hammer, stepped forward. His movements were hesitant, as though each step carried the weight of fifty years of suppressed toil. He approached the official responsible for registration—a man who had once served under Hidara Zo Nachen but now stood straight in a freshly pressed uniform, the insignia of the Dragon King gleaming on his chest.
"Sir…" The old blacksmith's voice shook, cracking under the strain of years. "Are we… are we really free?"
The official nodded, emotionless, and with the precision of a clerk handing out supplies, he pushed a small bag of grain and several heavy copper coins across the table.
"This," he said flatly, "is the first ration and salary granted by His Majesty, the Dragon King. From this day forward, you are free men."
The old blacksmith stared at the bag as if it were a mirage, then hesitantly touched the cold metal coins. For the first time in his life, he had received a reward earned with his own hands rather than a punishment inflicted at the whim of a master.
A soft plop echoed through the workshop as the man collapsed to his knees, pressing his forehead to the cold stone floor. His tears fell freely, soaking the ground in silence. Not wails of grief, but suppressed sobs, decades of tension and sorrow finally given release.
Soon, the sound multiplied. One by one, more craftsmen dropped to the ground, letting years of suffering spill into the open air. The workshop was filled with a symphony of quiet tears, of joy and release so raw it seemed to vibrate in the walls themselves. It was not sadness—this was ecstasy, the pure exhilaration of newfound freedom.
And in the midst of that growing power, their eyes, minds, and hearts could not help but turn to the King who had brought both destruction and rebirth.
---
Inside the throne room of the Great Pyramid, the air still carried the faint smell of smoke and scorched stone. Blackened scorch marks adorned the walls, a solemn reminder of the fire that had marked the city's fall. Damian Thorne sat atop a throne reinforced with obsidian and carved stone, his expression unreadable, distant.
Before him knelt Hidara Zo Nachen, one knee pressed to the cold floor, eyes fixed on the Dragon King's dark silhouette. A brief, ceremonial appointment was underway, imbued with a majesty that seemed almost otherworldly.
Damian Thorne held a pitch-black scepter, its tip crowned with a blood-red gem that glowed faintly, a product of dragon fire melting the pyramid's apex and solidifying into an unearthly jewel.
"From this day forward," Damian said, his voice low but resonant across the hall, "you, Sidara zo Nachen, shall be my Viceroy of Meereen."
"You will command the remaining guards, oversee the ships in the city, and ensure that Meereen serves as both spear and shield for my empire."
He extended the scepter toward Hidara.
The man's hands rose to receive the artifact. The obsidian felt cold, yet it seemed to burn with an invisible heat. He held it across his chest in the traditional Valyrian manner, bowing his head until his forehead nearly touched the floor.
"I, Sidara zo Nachen, swear in the name of my family to offer you my complete loyalty, my King," he intoned. The words were heavy, binding, a commitment forged in fear, respect, and the awareness that from this moment, the fate of his family was inseparable from Damian Thorne's will.
"Rise," Damian commanded, waving a hand.
"Those slave soldiers we have recruited will now be known as the 'Meereen Servant Army.' They will be handed over to Majo for reorganization and training."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Hidara replied, standing and stepping aside, though his heart churned with a mixture of awe and fear.
Unlike any conqueror the world had seen, Damian Thorne did not rush to divide the spoils of victory. He did not care for ostentatious celebrations. Instead, he approached Meereen like a master craftsman approaching a broken statue, dismantling the decay piece by piece, and reconstructing it according to his vision of precision and efficiency.
---
Far to the east, in the bustling free-trade city of Volantis, the Merchant's House tavern was alive with noise, the air thick with smoke, sweat, and the smell of spilled ale. Information, rumor, and half-truths competed for attention, each louder and bolder than the last.
A merchant ship had arrived from Meereen, bearing news that spread like wildfire.
"Meereen… has fallen!"
The shout came from a red-faced mercenary who had just downed a large glass of beer. His voice carried across the room, and the drinkers fell silent, all eyes turning toward him.
"What do you mean?" asked a merchant nervously. "Which khal? Moreau? Koro?"
"Neither!" The mercenary slammed his hand on the table. "It's a dragon—a black dragon that blot out the sun! It burned the city walls into glass, and then a man walked right in, claiming himself Emperor of New Valyria!"
Gasps echoed through the tavern.
"The Zak family has been destroyed! Their leader slain by a Dothraki named Daka!"
"House Nachen has surrendered! Sidara zo Nachen now serves as Viceroy of Meereen!"
"One hundred thousand Dothraki now obey the Dragon King, whom they call 'Khal of Khals'!"
The news spread like a contagion, leaving the entire Slave Bay in shock overnight.
---
In Westeros, at King's Landing, the Red Keep's damp council chambers were filled with unease. A raven arrived from Pentos, carrying an urgent secret letter. King Viserys I unfolded it carefully. His hands trembled. His pale, composed face gave way to disbelief and panic.
"Essos… a black dragon… a new Valyrian Empire?" he muttered, disbelief thick in his voice. "Whose prank is this?"
He scanned the faces of his council, searching for reassurance, but Prime Minister Otto Hightower's solemn expression offered none.
"Your Majesty," Otto said, his voice even, almost cruel in its certainty, "the Governor of Pentos confirms it. Meereen has fallen. A powerful man, capable of assuming the form of a dragon, has unified the Dothraki Sea. He now calls himself Emperor of New Valyria."
Viserys staggered. "Transformed into a dragon? How… how is that possible? The Targaryens control dragons… they do not become them!"
"The Targaryen dragons are losing control," Otto replied, calm as a blade. "A new Dragonlord has arisen in Essos. We must act quickly, Your Majesty, before he grows too strong."
Viserys sank into the cold, jagged Iron Throne. The spikes threatened to pierce him, yet his terror was not for the pain—it was the realization that control was slipping from his grasp.
Otto continued: "To make matters worse, Prince Daemon and Lord Corliss are leading the kingdom's dragons and fleets against the Kingdom of the Three Daughters in the Stepstone Islands. We… have no forces left to counter this threat in the East."
The council fell silent. Every advisor present understood the grim truth: while Westeros bled and fought over inheritance, a more fearsome, mysterious dragon had risen quietly in the East. And they were powerless to stop him.
---
In a shadowed corner of Flea Bottom, King's Landing, a minor informant scribbled down the few words he had overheard: "The East… the new Dragon King… the Emperor…" He rolled the parchment, tied it to a raven's leg, and whispered to himself, "This world… is getting crazier by the day."
The raven flapped its wings and disappeared into the dim night sky.
---
High atop the Great Pyramid in Meereen, Damian Thorne leaned over a massive map, its surface showing the known world. The night wind tugged at his black cloak, sending it fluttering behind him like the shadow of a dragon.
Dhaka and Mazhuo stood behind him, their breaths measured and respectful, their eyes fixed on every movement of their king.
Damian's gaze swept over the Dothraki Sea, paused on the newly conquered Meereen, and then slowly rested on a city to the east: Yunkai.
He extended a finger, pressing lightly onto the city's name. The touch was cold, unyielding—like the fate he would bring to this place.
"Go tell the warriors the celebration is over," he said without turning. "In three days, we march on Yunkai."
His tone grew colder, sharper, a chill that could pierce steel.
"I want all of Slaver's Bay to know… the old ways are dead."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink into the silent room.
"From this day forward," Damian added, voice calm and absolute, "Slaver's Bay belongs to my empire."
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