Everyone on the ship froze, staring blankly at the colossal shadow that tore through the clouds, eclipsing the sun.
The next second, the enormous black silhouette contracted mid-air, as if crushed by an invisible hand. A blinding burst of flame flashed across the sky—and the dragon vanished.
A black-haired man descended silently, landing on the deck beneath the main mast. His bare feet touched the planks without a sound. He was tall and well-built, with a sculpted, powerful physique. Traces of lava-like, dark red patterns still pulsed faintly across his skin, slowly fading away.
Amid the heavy scent of blood and salt, the air now carried a sharp tang of sulfur.
Damian Thorne scanned the deck. Shackled captives knelt near the railings. Crewmen armed with swords stood frozen mid-motion. And at the center stood a middle-aged man with his hands still on his hips—his face pale, his body trembling.
"Who's in charge here?" Damian asked. His voice wasn't loud, yet it cut effortlessly through the crash of waves and the howl of the wind. "Step forward."
Every head turned at once toward the middle-aged man. Leonor felt his knees weaken. His mouth went dry. He had seen it with his own eyes—a massive dragon transforming into a human in midair. The sheer impossibility of it left his mind numb.
He forced his stiff legs forward, managing two shaky steps. His lips curled into something that tried to resemble a smile but looked more like pain.
"M-My lord… esteemed lord," he stammered, bowing low. "What can I do for you?"
Damian ignored the man's trembling tone, studying him with the detached calm of someone inspecting a tool.
"Where am I?"
"Slaver's Bay, my lord," Leonor answered instantly, words tumbling out like loose coins. "The nearest city-state is Astapor."
Damian's expression didn't change. "Who rules Westeros right now?"
Leonor blinked, confused by the question. Why would a creature like this care about kings across the Narrow Sea? But he dared not hesitate. He dug through his memory, recalling what he'd heard from dockside gossip.
"The last I heard, Westeros just crowned a new king," he said quickly. "Viserys… Viserys the First, I believe."
Viserys I.
Damian's eyes flickered. The House of the Dragon era, he thought. A small, amused glint crossed his gaze. So I've landed during that time… I wonder if the Velaryons here are still oddly dark-skinned.
He brushed the thought aside. His face hardened again.
"This ship," Damian said, his voice calm but firm, "is now mine. I am requisitioning it."
He looked slowly around the deck. "Any objections?"
The words hit Leonor like a bucket of ice water. His expression collapsed into pure dread.
"My lord!" he choked out.
Around them, the crew—half-paralyzed by fear—exchanged uneasy glances. Some gripped their weapons, knuckles white. None dared make the first move. The man before them radiated something far beyond mortal power.
Leonor fell almost to his knees. "My lord, we'll do whatever you command! Anything! But this ship—it belongs to the Qohor family. We're only their merchants. If we lose it, the family will enslave all of us, our wives, our children—please, my lord!"
Damian listened, eyes narrowing with faint impatience. His gaze swept across the deck again. The sailors, though bowing their heads, had started shifting their feet—subtly forming a loose circle around him.
He smirked.
"You're all looking for death."
The world seemed to freeze for a heartbeat.
Then, a blinding sphere of fire erupted where Damian stood. The explosion sent men sprawling, the deck tilting from the shockwave. The tall, bare figure was gone.
In his place, a deafening roar split the sky.
A black dragon burst upward through the inferno, its vast wings stirring a hurricane. The storm of air made both ships shudder violently, their masts groaning as ropes snapped like strings. Crewmen stumbled and fell, looking up in horror at the monstrous figure that blotted out the heavens.
Two enormous, golden eyes glared down upon them—cold, vertical pupils gleaming with detached cruelty.
The next instant, streams of white-hot dragonfire rained from the sky.
The flames struck precisely—licking at sails, decks, and cabins. The ships ignited instantly, yet the fire didn't spread wildly. Instead, under Damian's control, it coiled and twisted, swirling into two towering tornadoes of flame.
Screams, curses, and prayers mingled into one chaotic symphony before the roar of the fire drowned everything out.
When the last voice faded, the sea boiled beneath twin spirals of fire that reached toward the heavens.
Damian didn't look back. His vast wings flapped once, propelling him forward through the smoky air toward the distant shore—toward Astapor.
---
How exactly was this mission supposed to be completed? he wondered as he flew. Reunite Essos under one name… That's not a quest—it's suicide.
He had no base of operations, no army, no experience ruling so much as a fishing village. Essos was vast, filled with warring city-states, ancient magics, and countless factions.
Conquer them?
And then what? How would I rule them afterward?
His mind spun with possibilities. Should he mimic Valyria's slave empire? Or reinvent a feudal system like Westeros? Should he sire heirs, build a dynasty—a so-called "Dragon King bloodline"?
A hundred questions surged through his mind, colliding and fading one by one.
Finally, he exhaled.
First, complete the mission. Everything else can wait.
---
Before long, a city came into view—its towers and walls built of red brick, glowing faintly under the haze of the setting sun.
Astapor.
The city of the Unsullied, infamous for its slave pits and brutal discipline.
As Damian approached, a wild idea flickered through his mind—a tribute, perhaps, to the cataclysms of another world he once remembered.
A slow grin spread across his face.
He summoned the energy pulsing in his chest. His body ignited again, not with uncontrolled fury but with sharp, deliberate precision. Fire spilled from his mouth, yet instead of scattering, it coiled tightly around him, drawn by invisible air currents he commanded.
A swirling inferno enveloped his form. The winds roared, binding flame and air together into a single massive storm—a burning cloud that surrounded him like a living aura.
From the ground, it looked like a meteor wrapped in crimson fire, streaking across the sky toward the city.
At Astapor's docks, slaves were hauling crates, overseers shouting orders, merchants bargaining over goods. Someone looked up first.
"What is that?" a dockhand muttered, squinting. "Is it… a fire cloud?"
Another pointed with a trembling hand. "No, it's moving! It's coming straight at us!"
The blazing cloud drew closer, the shape within it gradually becoming visible—a vast, winged monster cloaked in flame.
"Gods above…" someone gasped. "It's a dragon!"
Panic erupted instantly. Slaves dropped their loads and fled. Overseers abandoned their whips. Merchants screamed, scrambling for cover. The entire dock dissolved into chaos as the fiery cloud descended.
The air itself grew scorching. The wooden piers began to smoke from the heat even before the dragon reached them.
Then, with an earth-shaking roar, Damian swept low over the harbor, the force of his wings creating a hurricane of wind and flame. Crates, barrels, and people alike were flung into the air. The world beneath him was fire and panic.
From within the swirling inferno, his laughter echoed—deep, resonant, and almost mad.
It wasn't human anymore.
It was the laughter of a god descending upon mortals.
The crimson cloud surged forward, tearing through the sky above Astapor's red-brick towers. The shockwave shattered windows, sent ships rocking violently in the bay, and filled the sky with a storm of ash and fire.
Every person who looked up that day—slave or master, merchant or guard—remembered what they saw: a burning god with wings of darkness, a living catastrophe descending upon the world.
And from the heart of that apocalyptic blaze, Damian Thorne's voice rang faintly through the air—cold, distant, and terrifyingly calm.
---