Inside the Sea King's Palace in Braavos, the air was thick with the pungent scent of herbs. It clung to the tapestries, the polished wood, and the sickly old man who reclined on a fur-lined deck chair.
The Sea King himself looked more corpse than ruler. His pale skin was drawn tight over brittle bones, and his body seemed so fragile that a gust of wind might carry him away. Half-closed eyes gave the impression he was listening—or perhaps already asleep.
Yet when the envoy from the Kingdom of Myr arrived, waving his arms frantically and gasping for breath, the Sea King's attention sharpened like a knife.
"Your Majesty, the Sea King!" the messenger cried, his voice quivering with desperation. "That… that is no mortal! It is a demon! He has consumed the fleet of Lys in flames, raised an army of the dead, and Volantis has already fallen beneath him! Soon, we will be next! Braavos itself could be consumed!"
The echo of his voice bounced off the vaulted halls, carrying his panic to every corner.
Finally, the Sea King's turbid, deep-set eyes opened. They fell on the messenger, but there was no recognition—only the cold, detached gaze of a man observing a street jester's antics.
The Kingdom of the Three Daughters? A trifling collection of petty city-states surviving on the slave trade. Braavos had never paid them the slightest mind.
If it were not for this madman—the so-called Dragon King of the East—rising with such sudden ferocity, the Sea King might have enjoyed watching Volantis crush them entirely.
"Have you finished speaking?" His voice, though hoarse and weak, carried the undeniable weight of command.
The messenger froze, his face pale, uncertain how to continue.
The Sea King ignored him. His gaze turned toward the Narrow Sea, scanning the horizon with the calm authority of one who had seen centuries pass.
Targaryen.
That was the true threat.
Recently, an alliance had been forged with Corlys Velaryon of Driftmark. The Sea King's son was to marry Laena Velaryon, the daughter of Corlys and the rider of the legendary dragon Vhagar. With the influence of Corlys the Sea Snake in Westeros, the Braavos fleet would soon stand side by side with the Targaryen dragons.
A Dragon King from the East—unproven, unknown, and mysterious—claimed dominion over fire and sky.
Could he possibly challenge five Targaryen dragons and the combined might of Braavos' armada?
A cold smile tugged at the corners of the Sea King's mouth.
Retreat? No. He intended to show that the final say over these waters had not yet passed to this Eastern upstart.
---
Red Keep, King's Landing
"I do not understand!"
Corlys Velaryon's roar shook the Tower of the Hand, rattling inkwells and scrolls. He slammed his fists on the table, his dark eyes burning with fury as he stared at Otto Hightower, who sat unmoving, face impassive.
"Five dragons! The invincible Braavos armada! My Velaryon fleet as well! The advantage is ours! Yet His Majesty allows this… this Dragon King of unknown origin to expand his power all the way to Westeros' doorstep?!"
The Sea Snake's hands shook with suppressed rage. He slammed the table again, sending papers fluttering.
"This is a betrayal to every lord of the Seven Kingdoms!"
Otto Hightower's calm face betrayed nothing. He lifted his eyes slowly and met Corlys' glare with indifferent certainty.
"You are far too kind, Velaryon. The Hightowers support the king's every decision."
Across the room, King Viserys I fiddled with a miniature model of his beloved Valyria. The sound of Collis' voice barely penetrated his focus, buzzing in the background like an annoying fly.
Of course, the Sea Snake's agitation was predictable. His Velaryon ambition, intertwined with Targaryen dynastic politics, had always been brazen. By marrying Laena Velaryon to the Sea King's son, they sought a claim over Eastern influence and dragons alike.
Viserys, however, did not care.
"Corlys," he said at last, voice tinged with weariness, "dragon fights are too dangerous. Why would a Targaryen risk their own dragon in a struggle for another's benefit?"
His tone was calm, almost disinterested, like commenting on the weather.
He turned from the study, leaving Corlys seething. The door closed silently behind him, leaving the chamber in an oppressive silence.
Otto Hightower remained seated, watching the Sea Snake with his usual measured gaze, sharp as a blade. Corlys' chest heaved, and he could feel the bite of Hightower's calm disdain. Unable to bear it, he finally let out a low growl and stormed out of the Tower.
---
The Devil's Road
High above the jagged landscape, a giant black dragon carved through the clouds.
Damian Thorne's gaze pierced the heights, his eyes scanning the narrow path that snaked across the land below like a jagged scar.
The Devil's Road—a treacherous stretch of the old Valyrian Way connecting Volantis to the city-states farther east—lay open before him.
Sheer cliffs rose on either side, some with chasms that seemed bottomless. Certain stretches were barely wide enough for a single horseman to pass safely.
"The terrain is dangerous," Damian mused silently. "Sending even a few hundred cavalrymen along this path would be suicide. We'll need another route… perhaps through the Painted Mountains."
He made a quick assessment, adjusting his massive wings. With a powerful flap, his dark form became a streak of shadow and lightning, rushing toward the east at impossible speed.
Far in the distance, a city emerged against the horizon, its outline grotesque and foreboding.
Mataris.
The name itself sparked a memory in Damian's mind. A city infamous for its trade in slaves, a cursed settlement where monsters walked freely.
The residents noticed him immediately. Tiny figures poured from alleyways, spilling into the streets like terrified ants, their eyes fixed on the sky above.
From his high vantage, Damian could sense their fear. It was palpable, almost like smoke in the wind.
With a low, rumbling roar, he revealed himself fully.
A black shadow descended, darkening the city like an approaching storm.
Screams filled the air as people fled in every direction, their terror growing with every beat of his massive wings.
And then, with a fluid motion, Damian folded his wings and shrank in midair. The massive, mountain-like shape of the dragon contorted, compressed, until the air itself seemed to shiver with the transformation.
The next instant, Damian Thorne, clad in black and gold, landed silently in the city's center square.
He paused, surveying the faces before him—twisted, fearful, some deformed, some grotesque in ways only a city built on sin could produce.
A slow, playful curve appeared on the corner of his mouth.
---