Beneath the sun-scorched skies of Yunkai, countless wise lords knelt on the ground, their hands trembling and eyes lowered in submission. The once-proud rulers of a city renowned for its wealth and cunning now lay prostrate before the conqueror.
Damian Thorne sat atop a makeshift platform, his black cloak fluttering slightly in the warm breeze. He looked down at the kneeling lords, his face an impassive mask. In front of him, a golden harpy statue was presented with hands quivering. Damian reached forward, weighed it briefly in his palm, and tossed it casually to Dhaka, who caught it without a word.
"From this day forward," Damian's voice rang out across the city square, calm yet commanding, "Yunkai is incorporated into the New Valyrian Empire."
A hushed silence fell over the square, broken only by the shuffling of robes and the distant cries of startled citizens.
He raised a hand and pointed at one of the wise lords, the one who had been most eager to surrender.
"You," he said, his tone deliberate, "will temporarily serve as the Governor of Yunkai. Implement the same policies we've established in Astapor and Meereen."
The chosen lord's body shook violently as he bowed again and again, his voice quivering with elation.
"As you command, my Emperor!"
With the incorporation of Yunkai, the three pearls of Slaver's Bay were now entirely under Damian Thorne's control. Yet as triumph echoed in his mind, a cold reminder sounded softly:
[Ding, mission phase completed. Rewards distributed.]
---
Far to the west, in the Free City of Volantis, a storm of debate raged within the black walls of the Merchant District. The Elephant Party and the Tiger Party were locked in heated discussion, voices raised and hands waving as tensions flared.
"Crazy! All of it is crazy!" roared a portly archon from the Elephant Party. His silk robes trembled as he slammed a hand onto the table, knocking over a small cup of wine. "Slaver's Bay! Our largest source of goods… gone, just like that! In a single month, a man calling himself the 'Dragon King,' accompanied by a hundred thousand iron-clad Dothraki, has obliterated centuries of trade!"
His companions recoiled in shock. "This… this is a declaration of war against Volantis!" he continued, pounding the table with both fists. His face was flushed with anger and disbelief.
Across the table, a lean, hawk-eyed man representing the Tiger Party spoke with a measured, almost cold precision.
"Shut up, you fat pig who only counts coins," he snapped, his gaze sharp. Unlike his Elephant Party counterparts, there was no panic in his eyes—only a flicker of exhilaration. "You see loss. I see opportunity."
He stood, letting the room fall silent under the weight of his presence.
"Do not forget who we are," he said, voice rising with controlled fervor. "Descendants of Valyria! Blood of the ancient empire still runs through the Black Wall! A true Dragon King has arisen in the East. Why not recognize him, ally with him, and restore the glory of the Freehold?"
Another member of the Tiger Party nodded vigorously. "Yes! Send an envoy, acknowledge his rule, even provide financial support! If we can gain his favor, perhaps we can redirect his attention against Braavos and share in the power of the new Valyrian Empire!"
The Elephant Party archon sneered. "Alliance? You would invite a tiger to share our skin? That Dragon King is a greater threat than Braavos ever was. He now controls Slaver's Bay. If we do not act, he will be unstoppable. We must unite with the other city-states and crush him before his power matures!"
Within the stone walls of Volantis, arguments erupted endlessly, voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony. No one yet understood how the storm rising in the East would sweep across the continent, altering trade, politics, and power forever.
---
Far across the Narrow Sea, aboard the flagship of the Targaryen fleet in the Stone Steps Islands, the air was thick with the scent of salt, blood, and iron. The dark wooden cabin shivered with each wave, its timbers creaking under the relentless wind.
Prince Daemon Targaryen held the tip of his Valyrian steel sword, Dark Sister, pressed firmly against the throat of a trembling Lysene merchant. The sword's edge glimmered with cold menace, and the merchant flinched violently under its weight.
"Explain." Daemon did not speak; his violet eyes were sharp, observing every reaction, but silent.
It was Corlys Velaryon, the "Sea Snake," standing beside him, who questioned the captive. His weathered face, lined from decades at sea, was a mask of controlled concern.
"What has happened in the East? What is this… New Valyrian Empire everyone is whispering about?"
The merchant's teeth chattered uncontrollably, his Adam's apple bobbing with each word.
"A… a dragon… a black dragon, huge enough to blot out the sun… The walls of Meereen… they crumbled… melted like sand… And… and the Dothraki… a hundred thousand strong… armored… they call their leader 'Khal of Khals'…"
Daemon's expression did not change. His hand holding Dark Sister remained unflinching, but the tension in the cabin was palpable. Corlys frowned, sensing the strategic implications of this report.
"Who is this man?" he asked.
The merchant closed his eyes, summoning his courage, and shouted with what strength he could muster:
"They call him… the Dragon King!"
The moment the words left his mouth, the cabin seemed to still. The wind outside slowed, and even the waves appeared to hesitate.
A flicker of calculation passed through Corlys Velaryon's eyes. A black dragon, the unification of Slaver's Bay, an army of a hundred thousand Dothraki—this was a force capable of reshaping the Narrow Sea and beyond. Whether it was a blessing or a curse, he could not yet tell.
Daemon's reaction, however, was far more personal. Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew Dark Sister from the merchant's throat. The man collapsed to the floor as if he had been pardoned.
There was no shock in Daemon's eyes. No fear. Only the cold, burning recognition that his sacred domain had been brazenly challenged.
He was a Targaryen. He controlled the dragon Bloodworm Korax. The title "Dragon King" was his by birthright, a glory embedded in the blood flowing through his veins. And now, some unknown man dared to assume the same name?
Within Daemon, a storm of jealousy and rage ignited. It was a fire hotter than fear, sharper than anger. In those violet eyes, the Targaryen legacy—the pride, the entitlement, the ancient power—blazed without restraint.
"Another king riding a black dragon?" he whispered, voice low but carrying a deadly intent, as if the words alone could alter the temperature of the room. He tilted his head, letting a cruel smile curl across his lips.
"This world… cannot accommodate two true dragons."
Outside the cabin, the sea roared against the rocks. The distant horizon, however, seemed to shiver with the rising shadow of Damian Thorne's empire. The unification of Slaver's Bay was complete. The New Valyrian Empire had risen. And with it, the world was about to change forever.
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