The air inside the Great Pyramid was cold, carrying the scent of ancient stone mixed with expensive spices and burning incense.
Damian Thorne wore a newly provided toga-like robe. The silk felt alien against his skin—soft, delicate, and strangely constricting. Dozens of Unsullied escorted him through the vast corridors with mechanical precision, their footsteps echoing faintly off marble and obsidian. To the onlookers, it might have appeared a parade. To Damian, it was a performance of submission he tolerated only for the moment.
Towering pillars rose into the dim light, their shadows pooling like ink across the mosaic floors. Behind them, the Good Masters of Astapor gathered upon jeweled divans. Their gazes—sharp, greedy, curious—cut through the gloom, studying him as though he were some exotic beast brought from across the sea.
"Is that the Dragon King?" one voice murmured. "He looks like a barbarian."
"Where is his dragon? I see no dragon," another whispered, uncertain whether to mock or fear.
A guard captain leaned close to a corpulent Good Master and whispered something in his ear. Damian recognized the captain immediately—it was the same officer who had once stood trembling beneath the city wall.
The Good Masters exchanged brief, meaningful glances, eyes glinting like knives.
Through the long ceremonial hall, Damian was led to the banquet chamber at the Pyramid's summit. The chamber gleamed with wealth and arrogance. Walls of red stone were overlaid with beaten gold, and braziers burned fragrant oils. The masters of Astapor sat waiting, their jeweled robes heavy with opulence, their smiles painted with deceit.
Grazdan mo Nakloz, the fattest among them, rose from his seat, his golden bracelets jingling. A servant stepped forward, carrying a silver platter on which lay a loaf of bread and a small bowl of salt.
"We had expected the Dragon King of House Targaryen to arrive," Grazdan began in the Common Tongue. His Ghiscari accent turned every word thick and awkward. "So, we prepared the Westerosi custom—salt and bread."
Damian didn't even glance directly at the platter. His tone was flat, his expression unreadable.
"I am not with the Targaryen."
The smile on Grazdan's face stiffened, but he recovered quickly and gestured with forced politeness.
"Please, be seated."
Damian moved with unhurried confidence and took the empty chair opposite the Good Masters. He sat with one arm resting casually on the gilded armrest, his eyes scanning the hall as though counting livestock. When his gaze finally returned to Grazdan, his voice was cool and direct.
"Are all the great families present?"
"Indeed," Grazdan replied smoothly, leaning back into his seat, the jeweled rings on his fingers clinking together. "Everyone is eager to meet the descendant of a Valyrian Dragon King."
"I am not a descendant," Damian interrupted, his voice quiet but sharp enough to silence the room.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers interlacing across his stomach. His tone remained calm, yet the stillness carried weight.
"I am the incarnation of a dragon. Valyria was merely the first place I set foot in this world. A great will commands me to rebuild the Valyrian Empire."
Every word echoed through the hall, steady as the beat of a war drum.
He was telling the truth—at least in his own mind. The System was that "great will," and his mission was simple: unify every land that once belonged to Valyria. The rules were clear—dominion didn't require armies or treaties. If a city bent the knee, if even one soul recognized his sovereignty, the conquest was counted complete.
As Damian spoke, he felt the currents of air whispering around him, carrying information unseen. Behind the frescoes, he could sense the subtle heat of living bodies—the Unsullied hidden in ambush, holding their breath. From several corners came the cold scent of oiled metal—the ballistas.
The dragon within him stirred. The instincts of fire and flame, of power and wrath, coiled restlessly beneath his skin. This world's petty schemers thought themselves clever, hiding weapons behind painted walls. They had no idea how small they were.
Under the uncertain stares of the Good Masters, Damian reached forward, grabbed a roasted chicken from the banquet table, and tore it apart. Grease dripped from his fingers. Without looking, he tossed a leg across the table.
The chicken leg arced through the smoky air and landed squarely on Grazdan's silk robe, leaving a bright, greasy stain. The hall froze.
Damian tilted his chin toward the meat, his eyes glinting like embers.
"Eat it."
Grazdan's face flushed purple with humiliation. He opened his mouth as if to protest—but when he met Damian's eyes, his defiance died. Those eyes were bottomless, utterly devoid of warmth. He felt the weight of a dragon's gaze upon him, and all his arrogance turned to dust. Trembling, he picked up the oily leg and took a bite, swallowing shame with every chew.
The other Good Masters exchanged uneasy glances. A few frowned, others whispered. One, thinner and sharper than the rest, finally cleared his throat.
"Your Excellency," he said carefully, "we heard you arrived with a dragon. Might we ask where your great beast rests? We have prepared goats in its honor."
Damian finished his meal in silence. He tossed the bones onto the floor, the clatter echoing sharply in the heavy air. Then, dabbing his hands clean with a napkin, he looked up at them and smiled faintly.
"You wish to see the dragon?" he asked softly. "Very well. I shall summon it."
He rose, his movements deliberate, and walked toward the massive bronze doors at the far end of the hall. The Good Masters watched in puzzled silence, some exchanging curious looks, others smirking as though humoring a fool. They thought he would step outside and whistle for the beast.
Damian stopped at the doorway. He turned slowly to face them again, his gaze locking once more on Grazdan.
"You're fortunate," he said simply.
Grazdan blinked, half-confused, still dabbing at his greasy robes.
Then the world erupted.
Blinding white fire exploded from Damian's body, filling the hall with searing light. The temperature surged, melting gold trim and cracking marble. The Good Masters screamed, their jeweled crowns slipping from their heads as a cyclone of heat rolled through the chamber.
In the heart of the fire, Damian's body stretched and twisted. Scales burst through skin; his spine arched and expanded; his bones groaned like mountains breaking. The transformation was fast, violent, divine.
In an instant, the man was gone.
In his place, a colossal black dragon filled the chamber, wings folded tight against the pillars, molten eyes glowing gold like suns.
The masters shrank back in terror, their minds unable to comprehend what they saw.
The dragon lowered its head slightly, exhaling smoke. Its gaze passed over them without recognition, as though they were insects crawling across its claws.
Then it roared.
The sound wasn't made by lungs or throat—it was pure power, raw magic and flame. The entire pyramid trembled under the weight of the roar.
The dragon opened its jaws.
A torrent of white-hot fire poured forth, fanning out in a wide arc.
The inferno avoided only Grazdan and the marble column beside him, sparing a small pocket of space. Everywhere else, death reigned. The Unsullied hidden behind the frescoes vaporized before they could scream. Ballistas melted into pools of slag. Food, silk, and flesh alike turned to ash in the blinding light.
When the flames finally died, the banquet hall was a blackened ruin.
The dragon exhaled once, a satisfied growl deep in its throat. Then the firelight dimmed. Scales retracted. Wings folded inward. In the wake of smoke and ash, the monstrous shape shrank and condensed until the man stood once again—tall, naked, and utterly calm.
Dark red lines, like cooled magma, still shimmered faintly across Damian Thorne's skin.
He surveyed the devastation in silence. Grazdan and a handful of guards crouched behind the scorched column, trembling violently, faces as pale as bone.
One Unsullied, perhaps out of blind loyalty or madness, suddenly charged forward with twin short swords.
"Clang!"
The blades struck Damian's chest—and bent. Sparks burst. The steel glowed red, softened, and began to melt, dripping into puddles at his feet.
For the first time, emotion flickered in the Unsullied's eyes: disbelief.
Damian didn't even bother to look at him. He simply raised one hand and flicked his fingers.
A sharp crack rang out.
The Unsullied's head exploded like a ripe melon, splattering blood and bone across the floor and onto Grazdan's trembling form.
Silence returned, broken only by the soft hiss of cooling metal.
Damian walked slowly toward Grazdan, crouched down, and looked directly into his terrified eyes.
"Lucky man," he said, his tone almost gentle. "I've decided to make you the governor of Astapor."
Grazdan stared up at him, his mind blank. His trembling hand lifted to point at himself, his lips moving soundlessly, unable to form words.
Damian's faint smile didn't reach his eyes.
He rose and turned away, the faint scent of ash following him like a crown.
Above the ruined city, the fires of Astapor still burned, and for the first time in centuries, the shadow of Valyria had returned to the world.
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