The air over the Volantis docks was thick and heavy, like congealed grease.
Dakkar wiped his beloved arakh with a strip of oily deerskin, the blade catching the sunlight and flashing a cold, lethal gleam.
Behind him, the Dothraki camp had come alive once more. Tens of thousands of horsemen were ready after days of rest. Their initial fear of the ocean—the endless water that terrified every rider of the grasslands—had faded. The seasickness that had plagued them was now replaced with restless energy. They sharpened their weapons, brushed their steeds, and glanced anxiously toward the west, toward the Kingdom of the Three Daughters, as if they could already smell the blood of their next prey.
On the far side of the dock, the Gogothos Navy—the silent fleet of the dead—was boarding in eerie unison.
These pale, hollow-eyed sailors moved with mechanical precision, not a word uttered among them. Their faces were drained of all color, of all emotion. Their orders were simple: sail back to Astapor and escort the final contingent of Unsullied warriors.
This fleet of corpses would soon become the sharpest spearhead in Damian Thorne's growing empire.
---
The Black Walls of Volantis
Inside the Palace of Ancient Blood, where ivory pillars met golden archways, the air was colder than a blade's edge.
Damian Thorne sat on the high seat, the light from the torches casting sharp shadows over his face. Before him knelt three Volantene archons, their expressions respectful but strained. Opposite them stood an envoy from the Kingdom of the Three Daughters.
"For the sake of final peace—for the end of suffering for all peoples."
The leading envoy, a plump Myrish diplomat, spoke with a false smile and a voice slick as oil. His perfumed hair gleamed in the light.
"In the name of peace," he continued, bowing deeply, "the Kingdom of the Three Daughters is willing to demonstrate our utmost sincerity to Your Majesty. Each year, we shall pay the New Valyrian Empire enough gold to arm a hundred thousand men—so long as Your Majesty extends the hand of friendship and peace."
Damian said nothing.
He merely lifted his wine glass and swirled the dark red liquid, the motion calm, detached.
Money.
Of all things in the world, that was what he lacked the least.
Governor Rios Emerton of the Tiger Party suddenly stood, rage twisting his scarred face.
"Peace? Friendship?" His voice cracked like thunder across the hall. "What about the Disputed Lands? The blood of Volantis you've spilled for centuries—can that be washed away with gold?"
The Myrish envoy's smile faltered, his voice stuttering.
"Your Excellency… we come with sincerity. As for past conflicts, perhaps—perhaps they can be… discussed in time…"
"There is no in time!"
Rios slammed his palm against the ebony table, rattling the golden cups.
"Either return the lands—or face war! There is no third choice!"
The envoys blanched. They turned to Damian Thorne for help, hoping for a softer answer.
But the Dragon King of Slaver's Bay remained utterly still.
His face was unreadable—cold, majestic, and cruelly calm.
It was as though he were not part of the negotiation at all, merely an observer watching a farce unfold before him.
In the end, the meeting collapsed into chaos, Rios's fury driving the envoys into retreat.
They left the palace in panic, their fine Myrish cloaks trailing behind them like defeated banners.
Damian lowered his goblet, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Buying peace with gold," he murmured. "How naïve."
He rose, his crimson cloak sweeping across the marble floor.
"Handle trade with Xidala as planned," he said to the archons. "As for the war—continue according to the original strategy."
Without another glance, Damian turned and walked away. The three archons bowed deeply, their foreheads nearly touching the floor.
---
The Dragon King's Palace
The palace built for Damian Thorne was a monument of black stone and quiet power. Three hundred Unsullied guarded it, lined up like statues in their polished helmets and armor.
They neither spoke nor moved.
Their loyalty was absolute. Their silence, unbreakable.
Damian walked alone through the corridor and stepped onto the highest terrace. From there, the vast sprawl of Volantis stretched before him. The Rhoyne River wound like a silver serpent into the Summer Sea, gleaming beneath the sun.
Money was meaningless to him—just numbers on ledgers.
Only land, people, and obedience mattered.
They were the foundation stones of empire.
As for the Kingdom of the Three Daughters…
Their greed and internal strife were worth far more than all their gold combined.
---
The Supreme Council of Tyrosh
Inside the High Lord's Chamber of Tyrosh, thirty-three governors and nobles from Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh argued in a frenzy.
The council chamber was a cauldron ready to boil over.
"We must surrender to the Dragon King—now!"
Governor Bambaro Bazaan of Lys slammed his hands on the table, his round face pale and sweating. The memory of his fleet's destruction still haunted him.
"I saw it with my own eyes!" he cried. "That was not mortal power—it was divine punishment! A tornado of fire devoured our proudest fleet in seconds! Are you fools dreaming of resistance?"
He looked around wildly, his voice trembling with fear and rage.
"A Targaryen dragon? That one cut off Prince Daemon's hand! He fled like a beaten dog! Our only path to survival is submission. If we swear loyalty to the new Dragon King and secure our interests, he will protect us instead of burning us!"
"Ally? Bazaan, have you lost your courage with your ships?"
A Tyroshi lord with a forked purple beard struck the table, his jeweled rings flashing.
"He's just one dragon—one! We three cities possess enough gold to buy half the world! Do you think one beast can decide the outcome of a war? The Targaryens will not stand idly by while a new Valyrian Empire rises!"
Another Myrish governor nodded eagerly.
"Exactly! Daemon Targaryen's pride was wounded—he'll seek vengeance. All we need to do is offer a fortune, and the Targaryens will bring their dragons to fight him. Let the monsters kill each other while we profit!"
The purple-bearded lord sneered, tapping his rings together.
"And if not—then we simply pay the Dragon King himself to remain neutral! Once his interference is gone, our combined fleets will crush a weakened Volantis easily!"
The chamber erupted into chaos.
Some shouted for war, others for surrender, and some for bribery. The air was thick with panic and greed.
At the far end of the table, Lisandro Rogar, the wealthiest banker in the Kingdom of the Three Daughters, rubbed his aching forehead.
The "Supreme Council."
A grand name for a pit of fools.
Not one of them could see past their own profits.
"Idiots," Lisandro thought bitterly. "They think gold can buy dragons. They don't understand—times have changed."
He had seen it with his own eyes—the skies of the East torn open by a dragon wreathed in platinum flame.
The old world was crumbling, and these petty lords were still playing merchant games.
Yet, amid the shouting, a decision finally took shape.
For once, the council agreed—delegations would be sent to all major city-states, and armies would begin mobilization.
At least they had moved—finally.
Lisandro leaned back in his chair and stared at the flickering lamps above.
"Better late than never," he whispered to himself. "But gods help us if it's too late already."
---