From high above, the Worm River wound its way into the Bay of Sorrows like a twisted gray ribbon. Damian Thorne soared along the air currents, the flames enveloping his body feeding continuously on his dragonfire as he flew. Behind him, they stretched and coiled, forming a colossal, sky-darkening cloud of fire that trailed across the heavens.
The clouds pressed low over Astapor, as though the sky itself was burning and collapsing.
The city's tranquility shattered beneath a wave of screams. The Good Masters rushed out to the terraces of their pyramids, their toga-like robes adorned with pearls and gems that had lost all luster under the red glow of the firestorm. Panic twisted their proud faces as they shouted for guards whose voices were already drowned in chaos.
Down below, the streets erupted into pandemonium. Frightened citizens scattered like disturbed ants, overturning spice stalls and trampling the bright fruits rolling underfoot. The air reeked of smoke and fear.
Amid the chaos, a few red-robed devotees ran toward the city center. Instead of fleeing, they lifted their arms toward the burning sky and shouted, "Lord of Light! It is a miracle!"
Damian folded his vast wings and dove, his body cutting through the air like a flaming meteor. He roared, a piercing, sky-splitting cry that carried the wrath of an ancient god. The shockwave followed—a physical wall of sound that swept through the city, rattling every window and shattering tiles from rooftops.
His target was the city wall.
When his hind claws struck the battlements, the thick stones cracked and buckled under his weight. The wide wall-top he had expected did not hold; the instant his forelimbs slammed down, the entire section groaned and collapsed, crashing into rubble with a deafening roar.
A cloud of dust and flame erupted, surging into the streets.
The ornate awnings of merchant tents caught fire first, silk curling and blackening in seconds. Crates stacked near the port burst into flame, turning into makeshift torches. The fire raced along the narrow alleys, licking up the red-brick buildings, and smoke billowed thick into the air.
Through the haze, a city guard officer led a squad of Unsullied toward the breach. Their spears gleamed faintly in the firelight, their helmets spiked and featureless, reflecting orange from the blaze.
Damian turned his enormous head. Without a sound, he opened his mouth, unleashing a torrent of dragonfire.
The nearest three-story building vanished in an instant, swallowed by blinding heat. Stone cracked and melted, beams turned to charcoal, and molten brick dripped like candle wax.
To the Unsullied and their officer, it was as though the sun had crashed into the city. The Dragon moved through the burning haze—slow, deliberate, and unstoppable. Each movement of his colossal limbs made the ground tremble.
The Unsullied did not flinch. They quickly formed a phalanx, shields locked tight, spears thrust forward through the gaps. Their discipline held; their silence was absolute.
But the officer and his attendants could not maintain such composure. The suffocating heat rolled over them like an ocean wave. Their armor burned against their skin, and they stumbled backward, choking as though invisible hands squeezed their throats.
From the far end of the street, a servant of a Good Master appeared, dragging along a small squad of guards. He ran breathlessly, eyes wide at the apocalyptic sight before him.
The Good Masters had assumed, upon hearing of the Dragon, that it must belong to a Targaryen—a Dragon King exiled across the Narrow Sea, now visiting Astapor.
When the servant reached the destroyed gate, he looked up at the monstrous creature cloaked in fire. Trembling, he swallowed hard and forced himself to stand straight, shouting with every ounce of courage,
"Dragon King of the House Targaryen! My master, Good Master Grazdan mo Nakloz, invites you to the Great Pyramid! There is—"
His words broke off.
His gaze, drawn by instinct, swept up the Dragon's broad, ridged back. Empty. No saddle. No rider.
A shiver crawled up his spine. His scalp prickled, and all color drained from his face. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground.
This was no man's Dragon.
This was a Wild Dragon.
Under the terrified gazes of the servant and guards, the flames cloaking the Dragon suddenly drew inward, compressing around his body. The light grew dazzling, then condensed in an instant.
From the heart of the fire stepped a tall man.
He had black hair, dark eyes, and sharp, regal features—his face both beautiful and terrifying. Naked, his body bore faint traces of ember-like lines, glowing and fading across his skin.
Damian Thorne surveyed the scene—the collapsed walls, the ruined buildings, the kneeling soldiers—and finally fixed his gaze upon the trembling servant.
"Where are the rulers of this city?" he asked, voice calm but carrying the weight of command. "Valyria has come to collect taxes."
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Inside the Great Pyramid, the heads of Astapor's ruling families were already gathered. They sat in a circle under golden chandeliers, their toga-like robes adorned with tassels, gems, and arrogance. Around them stood their most elite Unsullied guards, motionless as statues.
The servants they had sent to "negotiate" with the supposed Dragon King had not yet returned.
Throughout the world, it was said that after the Doom of Valyria, wild dragons still roamed the distant lands of Essos. But for the Good Masters, such stories were the delusions of fools. Their families, whose estates lay so close to Valyria itself, had never seen one.
The tremors and screams from the city below unnerved them—but beneath their fear, greed gleamed brighter.
When the terrified servant was dragged into the chamber, his clothes were singed and his mind half-broken. Trembling, he repeated the stranger's words.
"Valyria… has come to collect taxes," he stammered.
A corpulent Good Master snorted. "Valyria is dust and ghosts. Have the dead risen now to demand coin?"
"He said," the servant continued, voice cracking, "the Dragon turned into a man."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then laughter erupted across the hall.
"Turned into a man? What nonsense!"
"Perhaps he was drunk on smoke and fear," another scoffed.
"Drag him out and give him a good whipping," ordered Grazdan mo Nakloz, waving his jeweled hand dismissively. "Let him sweat out his delusions."
The servant's pleas faded as guards dragged him away. The Good Masters resumed their discussion, voices low and excited.
"No matter who he is," said a thin, hawk-faced man, "he has a Dragon. That is all that matters."
"Indeed. If he's a Targaryen or a Valyrian survivor, so be it. What we must see is whether his blood can be joined to ours."
"Or perhaps," another murmured, eyes gleaming, "we make him one of us—a Good Master of Astapor."
Grazdan smiled, his fat fingers tapping the armrest. "Imagine it. Astapor, city of Dragons. No king in the world could challenge us."
Their laughter echoed through the hall.
"Prepare a grand feast," Grazdan commanded. "Let this 'Dragon King' see our wealth and sincerity."
Then, lowering his voice, he added, "Hide our best Unsullied behind the frescoes. Bring out the giant crossbows from the warehouse—quietly. Aim them at the banquet hall."
His grin widened. "We will welcome our guest properly. But when the time comes, we'll hold the leash."
The others nodded in grim satisfaction. In their minds, the balance of power was already decided.
Outside, the night sky still burned red. The shadow of the dragon drifted across the city like the promise of judgment. And above the clouds, Damian Thorne watched, silent and expressionless, as Astapor trembled beneath his wings.
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