Atop the Great Pyramid of Meereen, Sidara zo Nachen bowed deeply as he led a veiled woman through the grand corridor, lined with a deep red carpet. The faint, acrid smell of scorched stone still lingered in the air—a reminder of the dragon's wrath and the fire that had claimed the city walls. Yet Sidara's heart burned with a different fire: ambition and awe for the conqueror who now ruled over Meereen.
He stopped at the foot of the throne and lowered himself to the ground, bowing so low that his forehead nearly touched the obsidian floor. His voice carried reverence and the faint edge of fanaticism.
"My great majesty, the Emperor of the New World," Sidara began, his tone shaking slightly, "this is a treasure that the Naqian family has spent a fortune to locate for you."
Damian Thorne sat on the throne of gold and obsidian, his posture perfect, his face an unreadable mask. His gaze swept over the offering without the slightest flicker of emotion, as if Sidara had presented him with nothing more than a stone plucked from the street.
Xidara's heart thumped nervously. She hurried on, hoping her words might stir some recognition. "Her name is Ilaria… and she is said to carry the blood of a distant relative of the lost Valyrian Dragon King family!"
At this, Damian's eyebrows rose ever so slightly—a subtle acknowledgment of interest.
"Let her unveil herself," he said, voice calm and commanding, devoid of emotion.
Sidara, heart pounding, turned to the woman, signaling her with a glance. Her slender fingers trembled as she removed the veil.
The fabric fell away, revealing a face of almost inhuman beauty. Her long silver hair shimmered like moonlight, framing features so delicate and perfect that they seemed sculpted rather than born. Her lavender eyes were luminous and ethereal, like a fragment of some ancient, forgotten world. She lowered her gaze, her posture deferential, unafraid yet wary, as if aware that she now stood in the presence of a force beyond mortal reckoning.
For any ordinary man, her appearance would have been mesmerizing. But Damian Thorne did not even flinch. He examined her as one examines a rare artifact—something to be studied and cataloged, not admired.
Blood of the Valyrian Dragon King… The thought passed through his mind like a spark. Rare, indeed. Worth investigating. A living relic.
"Very good," Damian said simply, two words that signaled acceptance and nothing more.
Hildalla, Sidara's advisor, beamed with pride. His gamble had paid off. The Dragon King indeed favored those of the ancient Valyrian bloodline! He was about to offer further praise when Damian's next question silenced him completely.
"How many ships remain in Meereen for my use?"
Sidara blinked in confusion. "Ah… ships?"
"And the captured and newly forged equipment—have they been distributed?" Damian asked, rising from his throne. He ignored the silver-haired Valyrian entirely, walking past her as though she were nothing more than decoration, his gaze fixed firmly ahead.
He stopped at the door and addressed Sidara, who was frozen in place.
"Governor, you must understand," Damian said, his tone cold and sharp, cutting through any pretense of flattery. "Beauties and jewels may adorn my palace. Loyal officials and invincible soldiers build my empire."
Sidara's body shivered. Cold sweat instantly soaked his back. The truth hit him like a hammer: Damian Thorne was not interested in the ostentatious treasures of Slaver's Bay. What he sought was far greater: a war furnace, a city transformed into an engine of conquest, capable of forging his dominion across the known world.
Without another word, Damian descended the pyramid, flanked by a cautious Sidara and his personal guard. He did not visit the noble manors of Meereen. Instead, he went directly to the former slave workshops—a place that had once reeked of despair and death.
Now, the area had been utterly transformed. The silence of the past had been replaced with the roar of industry. Dozens of newly built furnaces belched fire and smoke into the twilight air. Liberated blacksmiths, their torsos bare and glistening with sweat, swung hammers with a ferocity that bordered on worship. Sparks flew with every strike, and the metallic clang resonated like the heartbeat of a newly awakened city.
Ding! Dang! Ding! Dang!
To Damian, the sound was sweeter than any music, a hymn to the birth of an empire.
In another workshop, former tailors worked with precision and purpose, sewing military uniforms and leather armor. Their faces no longer bore the blankness of submission; they shone with determination, understanding that each uniform crafted was not only a day's wage but a step toward freedom and contribution to the empire's might.
Damian entered the largest blacksmith hall. Casually, he picked up a newly forged breastplate. Its cold metal felt heavy and satisfying in his hand, grounding him.
"Can this be reinforced?" he asked an elderly craftsman with snow-white hair and a beard. "Especially the heart and ribs."
The old man nearly stumbled at the address, flattered beyond belief by the respect shown. "Y-Your Majesty… yes! With sufficient iron, we can reinforce the inner layer. It should withstand most arrows!"
"Very good," Damian replied, nodding. He set the breastplate down. "Tell everyone that starting today, craftsmen's wages are doubled. Equip every member of the vanguard with a breastplate within three days."
The old craftsman trembled and knelt in gratitude, tears brimming. Nearby artisans erupted in cheers, the sound raw, joyous, and far more powerful than any banquet's fanfare inside the pyramid.
Damian's eyes swept over the scene, a faint satisfaction tugging at the corners of his lips. This was the vision of his empire: disciplined, devoted, productive, and loyal not because of fear, but because of respect and reward.
---
Meanwhile, in Yunkai, the Wise Lord's Council Hall was suffused with dread. The chamber, usually filled with idle chatter and incense, was now stifling, as if water itself could be wrung from the air. The smell of fear mingled with faint traces of spices and sweat.
An elderly lord, trembling as though caught in an autumn gust, recounted the tales of merchants who had escaped Meereen.
"...that black dragon—its breath can melt rock!" His voice cracked. "The walls of Meereen… walls that had stood for a thousand years… melted like wax! Even the stones burned away!"
The other lords, pale and shaking, exchanged panicked glances.
"Surrender! Surrender now!" shouted one, desperation overtaking reason. "I will not see Yunkai burn like Meereen!"
"But our wealth… our treasures!" another cried. "We cannot let that… that monster take it!"
A young, brash lord slammed his fist against the table, red-faced. "Cowards! We are the lords of Yunkai! We have mercenaries, even our slaves will fight for us! Why surrender to a man of unknown origin?"
"That is a dragon!" countered an elder, voice quivering. "A dragon that melts city walls!"
"So what if it is a dragon? Aegon's time is gone! Tens of thousands of crossbows could bring it down!"
"Where would you get enough crossbows for that? Are you mad?"
"Madman! You'd have us all burned alive with you!"
Arguments spiraled into chaos, almost coming to blows as they argued, their anger mingling with fear. Then, the hall's doors burst open. A messenger staggered in, crawling forward with desperation painted across his face.
"Gentlemen! Something terrible has occurred!" he shouted.
The quarrels ceased instantly. Every eye focused on him.
"The sea route… it is blocked!" he gasped. "Astapor's fleet—under the banner of the Dragon King—controls the entire entrance to Slaver's Bay! None of our ships can escape!"
The announcement struck like a hammer. The young lord, moments before shouting defiance, turned ashen. His legs gave way beneath him, and he collapsed onto the lavish carpet, staring blankly into space.
It was over. Even if they could not defeat the Dragon King in battle, they could have used their fleet to transport their treasures and flee. Now, every escape route was sealed. Yunkai had nowhere to run.
A heavy silence settled over the chamber, broken only by ragged breathing and muffled sobs. Within moments, the lords reached a unanimous conclusion: the city must surrender.
---
Half an hour later, Yunkai's brass gates—the proud symbols of wealth and authority—creaked open. A delegation of dozens of wise lords emerged, clad not in silks or gold, but in simple linen, their status stripped and humbled. They carried a statue of a golden harpy, the emblem of Yunkai, as a token of submission.
Outside the gates, Sauron and three thousand Dothraki vanguard troops waited silently, eyes sharp and cold. The lords faltered beneath the scrutiny of the mounted warriors, feeling the weight of inevitability pressing down.
"The Yunkai sheep have surrendered," Sauron murmured, voice low, but tinged with satisfaction.
Under the unyielding gaze of the Dothraki and the shadow of Damian Thorne's conquests, Slaver's Bay had been united under a single banner.
---