The scepter finally slipped from Lisandra's trembling hand. For a moment, time itself seemed to pause as the gates of Rees slowly creaked open. A desperate silence hung over the city, broken only by the distant clang of armored feet.
Outside, the black banners of the Dragon King stretched across the horizon like storm clouds, pressing forward relentlessly. The Combined Fleet's soldiers advanced in perfect unison, their polished armor reflecting the harsh sunlight with an icy brilliance. Faces were expressionless, eyes cold, bodies disciplined.
The citizens of Lys shrank against the walls of the streets, their fear palpable. Resistance had long since been extinguished—smothered by the fires of the black dragon that had swept through the waters.
Lisandra, acting governor of the city, watched silently from the balcony of the council hall. His face was drawn and grim. He had only one choice to preserve the lives of his people: surrender.
The Emperor's commands were sharp, swift, and devoid of mercy. Soldiers moved through the streets, systematically searching every house—not for gold or silver, but for craftsmen. Anyone skilled in a trade, regardless of age, was seized and placed under guard.
"The Empire needs your skills," they explained, and no more. There was no appeal, no negotiation, no compassion.
Then the liquidation began.
Once-proud nobles and wealthy merchants were dragged from their mansions as if they were cattle. Their possessions—gold, silver, jewels, and artworks—were inventoried, sealed, and removed, stacked in massive piles like worthless stones. Those who resisted were executed on the spot, their cries echoing briefly before silence reclaimed the city.
The armed forces of Lys were swiftly disbanded. Weapons were confiscated, militias dissolved, and only a fraction of the Combined Fleet remained to maintain order. The black warships of the Golthos Navy anchored in the harbor like steel leviathans, their presence a constant reminder to the Lysians of the authority now ruling them.
After a brief pause, the remainder of the fleet departed, their next target set: Tyrosh.
Unlike the dead silence of Rees, the monster city of Mataris hummed with a strange vitality. Tens of thousands of laborers worked under the watchful eyes of the wizard Alan. Ships from Volantis continuously delivered timber, stone, and provisions, feeding the ceaseless drive of construction. Hunger was no longer a concern; every laborer received sufficient food.
Obedience was absolute. Efficiency was unmatched. And through it all, Alan's sharp gaze monitored every movement, noting any flaw or hesitation. The gaunt, pale face atop his black robes betrayed no emotion, but his eyes were piercing, calculating.
A magnificent college was rising from the ground. Damian Thorne had decreed that this would be the Obsidian Academy—a bastion for cultivating the Empire's spellcasters. Every stone, every brick, every laborer and child carried out their role in perfect synchronization. Alan's eyes swept over them, noting parents smiling at the provision of food, children hauling stones as though born for the task. A faint twitch of a smile crossed his lips, a memory of the order and purpose the Emperor's hand had instilled. Then it vanished, replaced once more by cold precision.
He would be the first dean of this academy. He would train generations of servants and mages loyal to Damian Thorne. Glory and destiny intertwined.
---
Damian Thorne returned to Volantis.
From his seat on the Blackstone Throne, he surveyed the entire southern expanse of Essos. Maps sprawled across the table before him, showing the conquered cities, the broken fleets, and the captured nobles. The fate of Daemon Targaryen, the Velaryons, and their dragons lay before him, bound by chains reinforced with Valyrian magic.
The Targaryens were no longer dragon riders—they were prisoners in a gilded cage.
In a grand palace with black walls, more opulent than any they had ever known, the prisoners were held. Golden carvings adorned the walls, silken curtains draped the beds, and Meereenese carpets shimmered beneath their feet. But no luxury could disguise the fact that they were caged. Freedom had been stripped away entirely.
Daemon's hand struck the white jade table, leaving blood streaks across its surface. But he did not feel the pain. What he felt was an emptiness so deep it clawed at his soul. His mind, once connected effortlessly to Korakshu, the dragon he had ridden since youth, felt severed. The bond that had been as natural as breathing was gone.
"What have you done?" he rasped, his voice as harsh as sandpaper.
The only response was the flicker of three obsidian glass candles in the corner. Their pale, unnatural flames warped shadows across the walls. The ancient Valyrian relic had severed the dragons' connection to their riders, leaving the mighty beasts and their once-proud masters as nothing more than chained prisoners.
Rhaenys sat silently by the window, feeling the same rupture. She had sensed the disruption even before Daemon did. Her connection to Melias—the Red Queen—had been severed. Her daughter, Lana, and Vhagar were caught in the same invisible snare, as if the mighty Targaryen dragons had never existed.
They were dragons without claws, riders without dragons—mere shadows of their former selves.
"This is your Majesty's mercy," the Archon of Volantis said, bowing at the doorway. His tone was polite, respectful, yet devoid of warmth.
"Your Majesty believes that contact with the beast would provoke undue emotional stress and hinder your rest," he added.
"Rest?" Daemon's violet eyes blazed with anger, a fire threatening to erupt. "Tell your Emperor… He will pay for this!"
The Archon's smile remained unwavering, polite as ever. "I shall convey your words, Your Highness. You might also consider the price King Viserys will pay for your capture."
With that, he withdrew, the heavy palace doors closing with a resounding echo, sealing the Targaryens in complete isolation.
Outside, in Volantis, slaves drove herds of goats toward the valley beyond the city. Three enormous dragons, chained to the mountainside with Valyrian fire-forged iron, roared and struggled. Their cries echoed across the valley, a sound of raw fury and confusion. When food was brought, they calmed briefly, obediently consuming it, yet the chains remained an ever-present reminder of their captivity.
Through the palace window, Damian Thorne watched everything with the cold detachment of a god observing mortals. Then he turned to the map before him. Lys had fallen. Myr had been shattered. Soon, Tyrosh would be captured, and the Kingdom of the Three Daughters would be entirely at his mercy. Southern Essos, from the Disputed Lands to the Summer Sea, would lie at his feet.
And yet, he waited.
Waiting for the final stages of the war. Waiting for news from Westeros. Waiting to see the price King Viserys would pay to reclaim his captured kin.
A small, playful arc curled across Damian Thorne's lips—a predator savoring the inevitability of the hunt.
---
Volantis, Longbridge.
A down-and-out nobleman rode a skinny, emaciated horse across the bridge. His head lifted to observe the Dragon King's black banner fluttering above the city gate. The three-headed dragon insignia loomed large, ferocious and majestic.
Gray eyes devoid of emotion scanned the crowd. A whisper passed his lips, lost to the wind:
"All men must die."
Dismounting, he left the horse at the bridgehead and moved forward alone, stepping into a city whose master had irrevocably changed. His figure soon merged into the throng of people on the bridge, blending seamlessly, indistinguishable from the crowd. And yet, within him burned the quiet fury of one who had lost everything—dragons, family, freedom—but who still lived to see the world bow before the Dragon King.
In the shadow of Damian Thorne, even the mightiest of men were humbled, and every step he took brought the world closer to the destiny he had meticulously crafted.
---