In the great port city of Tyrosh, the sea was sealed beneath a storm of black sails. Countless warships, emblazoned with the sigil of the Black Dragon King, loomed across the horizon. Their banners whipped in the ocean wind, fluttering like the tolling of a death knell.
Long before the fleet's arrival, the sharp-eyed nobles and the wealthiest merchants had already fled with whatever treasures they could carry. Yet, far more people remained trapped within the city's walls.
It was not loyalty that kept them there—it was fear.
The Freemen, those once-oppressed souls who had been enslaved for generations, had risen. They filled the streets with their crude weapons—swords, clubs, and rusted spears—and blocked every exit from the city.
"If you run," one shouted, his voice hoarse from years of silence, "who will bear the wrath of His Majesty, the Dragon King?"
The eyes of these Freemen, once dulled by despair, now burned with madness. The fear had shifted. It was no longer theirs—it belonged to the nobility.
Trapped between the uprising within and the armada without, the nobles and merchants huddled in their mansions like rats, trembling as they waited for what they believed would be salvation: the Imperial Combined Fleet.
But salvation never came. Only reckoning.
When the fleet made landfall, the city fell swiftly. Harys and Niro led the Dragon King's army with cold precision, sweeping through the streets like an iron tide. They confiscated treasure, seized workshops and forges, and registered every craftsman, blacksmith, and merchant. Nothing was spared.
The same fate that had befallen Myr and Lys now visited Tyrosh.
Weapons were gathered and stacked high in the city squares, forming small mountains of steel and iron. Mercenaries who had once defended the city were the first to surrender when the black sails appeared on the horizon. They betrayed their employers without hesitation, believing they had preserved their lives through cunning.
Now, those same mercenaries stood in the port square, their faces pale but relieved, congratulating themselves for surviving the storm.
Niro watched them from atop the steps of the governor's palace, his eyes filled with quiet contempt. "They think betrayal is a virtue," he muttered, the disgust in his tone barely restrained.
Still, he kept his promise of clemency. He ordered the mercenaries organized into a new unit—the Qohor Auxiliary Army.
But even as the men cheered for their supposed good fortune, Niro turned to the old man beside him, his patience thinning. "When will Master Allan's potion arrive?" he asked. "If these dogs don't drink their share of 'loyalty,' they'll turn rabid in Qohor and pollute His Majesty's soil."
The man he addressed, known simply as the Old Blind Man, stood sipping a goblet of Arbor Gold wine he had plundered from a noble's cellar. His pale, sightless eyes turned toward the crowd as a crooked smile spread across his wrinkled face.
"It will not be long," the old man said, savoring the taste of the wine. "I've already petitioned His Majesty. The potion is on its way as we speak."
Harys, standing nearby, could only shake his head. He looked at the mercenaries—men who had spent their lives killing for coin—and saw not warriors, but ghosts. They thought they had escaped death, but from the moment they betrayed their masters, their fates were sealed. The noose had already tightened.
They would soon learn that what awaited them was not freedom, but a colder, deeper kind of slavery.
---
The Black Stone Throne – Volantis
Far away, in the great city of Volantis, Damian Thorne sat upon the Black Stone Throne. The cold light of the hall shimmered off the obsidian throne, making his shadow stretch like that of a god.
A faint ripple of energy shimmered through the air—a magical communication from Allan.
> "Your Majesty," came Allan's trembling yet exhilarated voice, "the foundation for Mataris's academy has been dug. I humbly beseech you to come in person and lay the obsidian—blessed by your divine power—into the earth."
Damian's amber eyes opened slowly, reflecting not just the light of the room but the map of all Essos etched in his mind. The Dragon King rose from his throne, his long cloak sweeping across the floor like the wings of a beast.
An invisible power pulsed around him, distorting the air. The great dome of the palace trembled, and a sound like the cracking of heaven itself filled the city.
Then came a roar—vast, ancient, and full of fury.
It was the cry of a dragon.
The people of Volantis fell to their knees as the skies darkened. From the palace roof burst forth a monstrous black dragon, over seventy meters long. Its wings spread wide enough to blot out the sun, and its scales shimmered like molten iron.
The sheer weight of its presence pressed upon the city like a divine judgment. Those who dared to look up found their legs trembling, their minds screaming for them to bow.
In the dragon's talons hung a cage wrapped in glowing magical runes. Inside writhed a broken figure—a Faceless Man of Braavos. His limbs had been burned off by dragonfire, each sealed in a separate corner of the cage. He twitched helplessly, a mutilated relic of the shadows.
The dragon gave a single, thunderous beat of its wings, and the air exploded with sound.
With a deafening boom, the beast shot into the heavens like black lightning, racing toward the city of monsters—Mataris.
---
Mataris: The City of Monsters
At the outskirts of Mataris, a colossal construction site hummed with life. Tens of thousands of laborers worked like ants beneath the sun, hauling stones, digging trenches, and assembling scaffolds.
Once, this had been nothing but barren hills. Now it was the foundation of something far greater.
At the center of the site stood Allan, his black robe whipping in the wind. He moved among the builders, his sharp gaze missing no detail.
"The drainage system must be flawless," he commanded. "There must be no standing water—not even after a storm."
He pointed to a group of masons struggling to align stone columns. "The load-bearing pillars must be made from the strongest granite. No deviations—none."
"And here," he said, tapping a point on the blueprint spread before him, "a black obsidian obelisk will rise. Reinforce this foundation with refined steel. Triple the depth."
Every order was written down immediately. None dared to disobey. Allan was known to be one of Damian Thorne's most trusted lieutenants—a man of grim silence and unquestionable authority.
When the last worker had departed, Allan stood alone in the heart of the vast foundation. He could feel the pulse beneath his feet—the quiet heartbeat of the earth itself.
His lips curved into a cold smile.
An academy? No… this was not merely a school of magic.
What he envisioned was far grander—a magical relay station, a nexus that would anchor Damian Thorne's power across the world. Through this structure, the Emperor's will would spread like divine fire.
The network's energy would flow across the continent, reshaping the very bloodlines of those who lived beneath its reach.
The people of Mataris, long feared as deformed or cursed, would evolve. Their mutations would no longer be marks of shame, but blessings. They would grow stronger, faster, more adaptable to the magic that saturated the land.
They would become the Empire's chosen—living vessels of power, the embryos of future sorcerers.
Mataris, the so-called City of Monsters, would become the cradle of a new magical age.
Allan closed his eyes, feeling the thrill of creation surge through him. He could already imagine the Empire that Damian Thorne would forge—a realm of dragons, magic, and divine purpose.
But then, the sky darkened.
The air trembled. A heavy, oppressive pressure fell upon the land as though the heavens themselves were collapsing.
The laborers froze, tools clattering to the ground. All eyes turned upward.
A vast shadow stretched across the sky. The wind howled, whipping sand and stone into the air.
Then came the sound—an ancient, primal roar that tore through the clouds and made the ground quake.
The shadow descended.
A black dragon—larger than any ship, greater than any fortress—descended from the heavens, its wings casting a darkness so deep it swallowed the sun. The heat from its scales shimmered in the air, distorting light like the ripples of a mirage.
Allan fell to one knee, his heart pounding with awe and devotion. His voice trembled as he cried out:
"Welcome, my Lord… Your Majesty!"
The dragon hovered above the foundation, its molten-gold eyes gazing down like twin suns. Power radiated from it, ancient and divine.
This was not merely a beast—it was the embodiment of the Dragon King himself.
Damian Thorne had arrived.
As his shadow covered Allan and every soul in Mataris, the city of monsters trembled—not in fear, but in reverence.
Under that shadow, Mataris would be reborn.
And so, beneath the gaze of the Dragon King, the foundation of a new age was laid—a world forged not by men or gods, but by dragons.