The candle flame flickered quietly within its obsidian prison, casting cold, pale light across the chamber. There was no warmth in its glow, only a calm, unyielding clarity that mirrored the mind of its master.
Damian Thorne leaned back in his chair, fingertips brushing the smooth surface of the Glass Candle. The obsidian blackness reflected a faint, eerie light, like the memory of molten rock frozen in time.
Through the candle, a manor appeared—unfamiliar yet vivid in Damian's vision. Dakkar and his Dothraki cavalry moved like a dark tide, silent and unstoppable, drowning every vestige of resistance. There were no shouts, no cries of surrender—only the dull thud of blades piercing flesh and the rhythmic pounding of hooves across the grass.
This was a war controlled from afar. A silent cleansing orchestrated with absolute precision.
"I want one too," came a soft voice from the bed, tinged with deliberate sweetness. Ilaria perched on the edge, her lavender eyes fixed on the obsidian candle in Damian's hand.
Damian did not turn, his mind already flickering through the images within the candle. With a faint motion, the vision dissolved, replaced by another unlit black candle. It slid silently across the smooth stone table, stopping just at the edge.
Ilaria stepped forward, delicate fingers twisting the cold obsidian in her hands. Her smile was quiet, satisfied—a reflection of her fascination with the magic before her.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Steady, restrained, deliberate. Sidara zo Nachen entered, his tokar robes perfectly arranged, his expression solemn and grave.
"Your Majesty," he said with a bow, voice low and respectful, "I believe the Temple of Holy Grace will not yield so easily."
Damian's dark eyes lifted, calm and unreadable. He motioned for him to continue.
"They have served the gods for generations," Sidara continued, voice barely above a whisper. "Their arrogance is unmatched, even among nobles. One grand celebration will not bring their hearts to true submission. I request the formation of a special force—answerable only to you—to monitor and infiltrate the Temple."
"What is it called?" Damian asked, tone level, betraying no emotion.
"Son of the Banshee," Sidara replied, a flicker of fanatic zeal in his eyes. "By the ancient emblem of Meereen, in darkness we watch, unseen. In silence we serve. This is the way to defend your rule."
"And the personnel?" Damian asked.
"Among the surrendered nobles, some families control covert channels. There are also specially trained slaves in the city. Their skills… are perfect for the task."
Damian tapped his knuckles lightly against the obsidian table. The sound was dull, deliberate, final. "Permission granted."
There were no questions. No need for further instructions. He only wanted results.
Sidara bowed deeply and withdrew. Within days, a new cadre of slaves—silent, empty-eyed, and unremarkable—was dispatched to the Temple of Holy Grace. They moved like shadows, unseen and unremarkable to the eyes of the devout, yet carrying the will of the Dragon King into every hidden corridor and chamber.
While the empire recuperated quietly, news of Damian Thorne's ascension spread like wildfire across the continent of Essos. Envoys from every major city-state set out to witness the Dragon King who had unified Slaver's Bay. In Pentos, a servant slipped a sealed scroll onto a merchant ship bound for King's Landing, the words within carrying the power to ignite fear and awe in equal measure.
King's Landing, the Red Keep.
King Viserys I traced the edges of the wax seal with his fingers, breaking it with deliberate care. His eyes scanned the words, then paused. He read them again, slowly, disbelief mingling with rising dread: "A dragonlord who calls himself the new Emperor of Valyria, your majesty."
"Become a dragon," he muttered under his breath, voice tight with unease.
Hand Otto Hightower's icy voice cut through the tension. "Whether true or not, this is a direct provocation to House Targaryen. A threat to the Iron Throne."
Viserys walked to the window, staring out at the harbor without replying. His thoughts wandered. "Rhaenyra still refuses to forgive me. Daemon… he's causing trouble in the Stepstones again." A faint note of exhaustion threaded his words. "And aside from Sylax, the Iron Throne commands no dragons."
The Narrow Sea was restless. In the damp, salty caves of the Stepstones, the Crab Feeder and his men were entrenched among natural fortresses, waiting for the coming storm. Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, had returned to them, blood soaking the layers of bandages wrapped around a deep wound in his abdomen. His fleet had suffered catastrophic losses. Every attack, every strategy—like waves breaking on jagged reefs, ultimately futile against the unpredictable fury of the enemy.
"Your Highness," a Valyrian captain whispered, voice strained, "Lord Sea Snake is grievously wounded. We must retreat to repair and regroup."
Daemon Targaryen's head snapped back. The words barely left his teeth. "Retreat?" His hands clenched the hilt of Dark Sister until his knuckles whitened. "That Dragon King of Slaver's Bay—he conquered entire city-states! And I, a Targaryen prince, rider of Bloodworm, am repelled by pirates hiding in a cave?"
Jealousy and fury burned in his violet eyes. Ignoring the desperate protests of those around him, he strode out of the cave. Bloodworm, sensing his rider's wrath, let out a sharp, piercing neigh and launched into the stormy sky. Red lightning streaked across the Stepstones as Daemon plunged toward the ambush lair of the Crab Feeder.
"Follow him!" the captain shouted. "We cannot abandon the prince!"
The remaining fleet had no choice but to pursue him into a deadly trap.
Meanwhile, in Meereen, atop the Great Pyramid, a messenger burst into the throne room, sweat and panic plastering his face.
"Your Majesty! The fleet sent to purchase iron and fuel… plundered by pirates from the Basilisk Islands!"
Damian Thorne turned slowly from the massive map, his brown eyes unflinching, unreadable.
"Foolish pirates," he murmured, a faint sneer curling his lips. "With control of the air currents, their ships were nothing but sitting ducks."
He looked to Hilda and Soran, both frozen in tense anticipation. "Manage Meereen," he commanded. His words were concise, absolute, leaving no room for debate.
Then he walked toward the terrace. Onlookers froze as his form began to twist and expand. Bones cracked and reshaped with horrifying precision, scales shimmering as they emerged. Muscles bulged, stretching and reforming, until in an instant, Damian Thorne was no longer a man.
A colossal black dragon stretched over fifty meters long now stood where he had been. Its scales were metallic black, reflecting the sunlight like a river of shadow. Its roar, deep and resonant, shook the pyramid itself.
The great wings unfurled, casting a shadow over the Dothraki encampment below. With a powerful flap, Damian launched into the southeast sky, his black form cutting through clouds like an omen of doom.
"Has His Majesty grown larger again?" one centurion whispered.
"The Dragon King becomes more formidable with each conquest," another replied, awe and fear mingling in his voice.
Far to the east, in the Stone Steps Archipelago, Collis awoke to throbbing pain, his body battered and bruised. The battle was over.
A soldier, soaked in blood, leaned against the cabin wall, voice hoarse. "Sir, you are awake. The battle… it's over."
"Where's Damon?" Collis rasped, struggling to sit upright.
"Prince Daemon… he killed the Crab Feeder in single combat," the soldier said, his voice strained with grief. "But… our losses… were severe."
Collis sank back onto the bed, chest heaving, staring at the cabin ceiling swaying above him. He wanted to shout, to berate Daemon for his recklessness—but the words never formed. Instead, a heavy sigh escaped his lips. That was the king's brother, unstoppable when consumed by wrath, and there was nothing he could do.
The world outside was changing. Damian Thorne, the Dragon King, had unified Slaver's Bay, forged a hundred-thousand-strong army, and wielded power that even Targaryens could not ignore. The storm of his ambition had begun, and nothing, not even the ancient dragons of House Targaryen, could stand unshaken in its path.
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