In the central square of the cursed city of Mataris, a heavy silence hung over everything, thick and suffocating. The air seemed solid, frozen in time, pressing down on the hearts of every resident, making each breath feel like inhaling stone.
All eyes were fixed on the figure that had appeared silently from the sky—a man clad in black and gold, moving with a calm but commanding aura. Fear and awe mixed in equal measure in the gazes of the gathered crowd, reflecting the raw intensity of the moment.
From the shadowed crowd, a tall, thin man in faded, threadbare formal clothing crawled forward. The crowd parted instinctively as he fell to his knees with a resounding thud. His forehead struck the dusty bricks, sending sparks of dust into the air, and he cried out with a voice quivering in both terror and elation.
"Great Dragon King! Lord of Storm and Flame! Governor of Mataris, we welcome you!"
He raised his head abruptly, tears streaking his face, flushed with excitement. "You… you have finally come! We've been waiting for so long!"
The governor's voice trembled as he recounted the tragic fate of his city to Damian Thorne, who remained standing silently, his black eyes scanning the city with cold indifference.
Since the Doom of Valyria, Mataris had been a shadow of its former glory. Once a proud and loyal vassal of the Freehold, the city had been devastated by the cataclysm. The Valyrian Road, which had connected it to the heart of the empire, lay broken and torn, transformed into the treacherous and deadly "Devil's Road", severing trade and communication.
Even more terrifying than the ruined infrastructure were the lingering consequences of the magical cataclysm that had engulfed the region. The governor's voice quivered with despair.
"Your Majesty… the probability of our children… our offspring, being born with deformities is frighteningly high!"
He trembled, desperation clinging to every word. "We have been forgotten by the world, abandoned by the gods themselves! Yet we know that we have always been part of Valyria! Now… now, you, a true Dragon King, have come with the glory of the New Valyrian Empire. You are our only hope. Mataris will give you everything!"
Damian Thorne remained calm, his expression unreadable, as his eyes swept over the crowd. Twisted limbs, misshapen faces, and deformed bodies greeted him—evidence of generations shaped by catastrophe and misfortune.
At first, he paid little attention. But as the governor's plea reached its peak, Damian's magical perception, honed to an unprecedented degree, unfurled like a web, encompassing the entire city-state.
His pupils narrowed slightly.
'I see.'
Through his perception, the reality became clear. The city was not cursed by divine malice but suffused with a dense, chaotic magical field, a lingering remnant of the apocalyptic disaster that had reshaped the land centuries ago.
The disaster had not only warped the environment but had rewritten the very essence of the people living here. The so-called "deformities" were not signs of divine punishment—they were mutations, the natural consequences of human biology struggling to survive and adapt to the chaotic magical energies suffusing the region.
Every individual in Mataris carried a trace of latent magical potential, subtle but undeniable.
'No wonder wizards and sorcerers have always sought slaves from this city,' Damian mused.
This realization shifted his perspective entirely. Mataris was no longer just an obstacle in his path—it was a treasure trove, rich with magical potential, a city producing rare spellcasters and magical materials that could fuel the empire's ambitions for generations.
For the ambitious sorcerer Alan, Damian knew, this place would be a paradise beyond imagination.
Originally, his mission had been simple: conquer Mataris and remove a blockade on his route. But now, the possibilities stretched far beyond mere conquest.
Damian's gaze returned to the prostrate governor. His voice, calm but carrying unyielding authority, resonated across the square.
"Mataris… are you willing to join the New Valyrian Empire?"
The governor's reaction was instantaneous. His eyes widened, and for a moment, he seemed as if he had heard the voice of the gods themselves. With a shout that split the heavy air, he raised his arms to the sky.
"Yes! Mataris is willing!" he cried, tears streaming down his face. "We were once the most loyal supporters of the Valyrian Freehold! Now, you, the Dragon King, are the only one who can restore the empire's former glory! Everything Mataris has… all that we are… we dedicate to you!"
Damian inclined his head slightly. "Very good."
He accepted their loyalty with the same calm assurance that had marked every conquest of his life. He knew that the city was poor, its resources limited. What mattered most was not their present wealth but their future potential, their population, their ability to contribute to the empire's growth in the years to come.
He outlined a grand vision, promising order, prosperity, and rebirth to the city. His words were not mere rhetoric; they carried the weight of destiny. Every promise was underscored by his reputation as a Dragon King whose conquests reshaped the world.
The governor and the residents stared up at him, some almost trembling with fervor. Their admiration teetered on the edge of mania, and in response, Damian's body began to shimmer with dark power. Black flames curled from his form, licking the air like serpents of fire.
He rose into the sky, the flames expanding outward, and his body began its magnificent transformation.
Within moments, Damian Thorne became a colossal black dragon, its wings blotting out the sun, the shadow of its immense form covering the square and spilling over the surrounding streets.
The roar of the dragon shook the city to its core, stirring wind, dust, and awe alike. The residents screamed in a mixture of terror and veneration.
He flapped his wings with titanic force, sending a wave of hot wind cascading through the streets, and with a final beat, he surged into the sky, vanishing toward the horizon. His target was clear: Meereen, where the Dothraki army awaited.
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The Dothraki camp outside Meereen stretched endlessly, a black ocean of riders and horses, restless and eager for battle.
At the sight of Damian streaking across the sky like a living shadow, the ground seemed to roar. Tens of thousands of warriors lifted their voices in unison.
"Kaa! Our great Kaa has returned!"
The sound built into a tidal wave of exultation, shaking the air itself, as if the land had joined in the cheer.
Damian landed in the open central space of the camp. His enormous dragon form shrank, coiling into human shape once more, black and gold armor gleaming under the sun.
Outside the largest tent, Ma Zhuo and his officers awaited respectfully, kneeling on one knee in disciplined submission.
"His Majesty!" Ma Zhuo's voice was steady, filled with pride and unwavering loyalty.
Damian nodded once, his expression calm. "Very good." He strode into the tent, the authority of a conquering king unmistakable.
Inside, the long table was covered with detailed military maps. Ma Zhuo followed closely, beginning his report.
"Your Majesty, in accordance with your orders, I have united all tribes we could locate across the grasslands. The Khalasar now totals 134,000 warriors with over 400,000 warhorses, all ready and capable of conquering any obstacle you command."
Ma Zhuo's dedication was visible in his eyes, the faint fatigue of long campaigns tempered by the fierce glow of battle-readiness. He longed to witness history, to follow the Dragon King into unprecedented conquest.
Damian's gaze settled on the mountain range to the east displayed on the map. His voice was cold, firm, and unyielding.
"Very good. Pass on my orders. The whole army moves out. Target: the Painted Mountains."
The camp erupted into quiet, disciplined action. Horses were readied, soldiers aligned, and the wheels of a vast conquest began to turn once more under the will of the Dragon King.
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