The scorched banquet hall reeked of a mixture of roasted meat, charred wood, and sulfur. Smoke curled faintly in the air, carrying the bitter stench of fear. Damian Thorne's eyes swept over the ruined chamber, landing on Grazdan, slumped weakly against a fractured pillar. A dark stain spread rapidly across the hem of his pearl-encrusted toga-like robes, and a faint, acrid smell of urine lingered in the air.
"Governor?" Damian's voice cut through the silence, calm, as though inquiring about the weather.
Grazdan trembled violently, his obese frame writhing on the ground as if trying to rise but failing. His legs, weak and unsteady, forced him to remain kneeling, a pitiful heap of flesh. Tears streaked his face, mingling with snot and soot, his voice quivering.
"My lord… Dragon King… you… you command…"
"That is a fitting title," Damian replied softly, pacing before him. He nudged Grazdan's belly lightly with the tip of his boot, and the man shivered. "Astapor requires only one governor, not a dozen self-important Good Masters."
Grazdan's breath hitched. His mind understood immediately.
"Your will is Astapor's law!" he blurted, swiping at his filth-streaked face. "Those fools, how dare they defy you! Grazdan is ready to cleanse the city of this filth. I will devote everything I have to your command!"
"Very good." Damian's voice was flat, unyielding, stripped of any warmth. "By sunrise tomorrow, I expect all the Good Masters kneeling here. You… go and summon them."
He paused, the calmness in his tone almost a threat. "Tell them that should anyone fail to come, I will personally visit his Pyramid."
"Yes! Yes! I will go at once!" Grazdan scrambled to his feet, crawling in desperation toward the exit of the charred hall.
Damian watched him flee, impassive. Fear was the most effective leash, and the man named Grazdan was now securely tethered.
---
The next morning, the Great Pyramid's main hall was cleared. The air was heavy with smoke, and the smell of scorched stone still hung thickly. A dozen corpulent, richly dressed Good Masters assembled in the center, their faces a mixture of fear, fury, and disbelief. Some whispered nervously, others scowled in frustration.
Grazdan, standing at the head of the hall, sweat streaming down his face, relayed Damian's command. He carefully omitted the most direct threats, but the weight of his fear was evident.
"A Wild Dragon of unknown origin? A man claiming to descend from Valyria?" One master with a braided beard scoffed. "Grazdan, have you lost your mind? Why should Astapor's wealth be handed over to some charlatan?"
"He… he is not a fraud…" Grazdan stammered weakly.
"Enough."
A chill swept through the hall as a cold, commanding voice rang from the entrance. Damian Thorne stepped into the light, dressed simply in a black robe that made his towering figure seem almost inhuman. Behind him, a formation of Unsullied followed silently, their presence a testament to yesterday's shift in power.
"It appears you still misunderstand who stands before you," Damian said, his gaze scanning the room like a predator surveying its prey.
"Who are you truly?" the braided-beard master challenged boldly. "If you are a Targaryen, prove it! If you wish to rule Astapor, show us the strength to compel obedience!"
Damian smiled faintly.
"Strength?" he echoed, voice low, almost playful. Then his eyes lifted toward the towering dome of the Pyramid. "Is this what you desire?"
Before the words fully registered, a blinding white light erupted from Damian's body.
Bones cracked and reformed, muscles bulged and stretched, and a deafening roar of raw power filled the hall. The stone dome above them trembled violently, then shattered under the force. Sunlight streamed through the debris, illuminating the terrified faces of the Good Masters.
Above the ruined dome coiled a colossal black dragon. Its wings folded menacingly against the jagged remains of the ceiling, its molten golden eyes scanning the humans below like they were insignificant insects.
Screams erupted in the hall as masters stumbled backward, some collapsing in terror, soils staining their robes. The Pyramid, once a symbol of unassailable authority, now seemed fragile as sand beneath the dragon's shadow.
"Now, are you convinced?" Damian's voice echoed from the dragon's mouth, carrying the heat of sulfur and flame. The hall vibrated with each syllable.
The braided-beard master's legs gave way. He dropped to his knees, soaked with a mix of fear and humiliation.
"I… we are convinced… Dragon King… we are convinced!"
"Good." The dragon's massive head swiveled, golden pupils fixing on Grazdan. "Governor, inform them of my will."
Grazdan, ashen-faced but forced to stand tall, raised his voice high.
"The Dragon King commands! All Good Masters must surrender their Unsullied! And your slave whips! Immediately!"
The whip was not mere ornament—it symbolized control over Astapor's military might. Surrendering it meant abandoning the last thread of resistance.
Murmurs of reluctance and panic rippled through the room.
"What?" the dragon's voice deepened, a dangerous undertone threading through it. "Does anyone object?"
The gaze of molten gold fixed on a particularly corpulent Good Master, the one hesitating.
In an instant, a thin jet of fire shot from the dragon's maw, grazing the man's head. The flames caused no physical harm but instantly melted a massive stone pillar behind him, the thick stone flowing silently into glowing magma that crept along the floor.
The lesson was understood without words.
"I'll hand it over! I'll hand it over!" the first master cried, throwing a jewel-encrusted whip onto the floor.
Clinking sounds followed. Whips representing the power and military might of more than a dozen masters fell, forming a small, gleaming pile.
Damian's form contracted, light fading as he returned to human shape. He walked to the pile of whips, casually picking one up. He weighed it, testing the leather.
"From this day forward, Astapor's tax rate will be three-tenths," he announced. "All trade must pay tribute to me, to New Valyria."
"Three-tenths?!" A master gasped. "This… this is worse than robbery!"
He didn't finish. The whip in Damian's hand cracked like lightning, leaving a red welt blooming instantly across the master's face.
"Who consents? Who objects?" Damian asked, retracting the whip calmly.
No one dared speak.
---
Night descended. Damian sat cross-legged in the former bedchamber of Grazdan, now empty and filled with the pungent scent of spices. The ruins of the banquet hall and the blackened Pyramid were distant echoes outside. He did not rest. Instead, he meditated, sensing the full breadth of his powers.
The abilities of a dragon extended beyond transformation and fire. Senses heightened, strength multiplied, reflexes faster than any mortal could comprehend—life itself had been elevated to a new standard.
A faint sound reached his ears. Almost imperceptible—a whisper of wind, the subtle movement of something outside the window.
Damian's eyes remained closed. He raised a hand, flicking a finger. An invisible stream of air struck the window precisely. A poisoned dart, previously hidden, changed course mid-air, veering harmlessly into the dark corner outside.
Then, three shadows emerged from the darkness, silent as death. Daggers arced toward his throat, heart, and lower back. These were no ordinary assassins—they moved with perfect coordination, silent and precise, the mark of elite killers.
To Damian, they were slow. He leaned back, evading the dagger aimed at his throat. His left hand shot out like lightning, seizing the wrist of the assassin aiming for his heart.
"Crack!"
Bone snapped. The dagger clattered to the floor. Damian swung it in a deadly arc, opening a thin line of blood across another assassin's neck.
The last, seeing disaster unfold, tried to flee. Damian exhaled softly. A gust erupted like a giant hammer striking the assassin mid-air, sending him crashing into the wall, mangled and defeated.
Three seconds passed. The room was silent.
Damian rose, eyes unreadable, surveying the three bodies.
"Come in," he called calmly.
The door burst open. Grazdan stumbled in, guards in tow. Seeing the carnage and Damian unharmed, his face drained of color.
"My lord! You…" He dropped to his knees, sweat soaking his back.
"The city's security is poor," Damian said, tossing a bloody dagger toward him. "I do not wish to repeat this lesson."
"Yes! Yes! Your subordinate deserves death!" Grazdan kowtowed frantically. "I will purge the city tonight! All their families, all accomplices—hang them in Pride Square!"
"Go," Damian said lightly, like shooing a fly.
Grazdan scrambled away, and soon the cries of troops and the chaos of the hunt echoed through the night.
Damian approached the broken window, surveying the chaos below. Astapor was secured, but a larger vision occupied his mind. The Unsullied were tools, but they could not conquer Essos. He needed mobility, power, and shock—the cavalry of gods.
His eyes swept past Slaver's Bay, across the vast green expanse beyond.
The Dothraki Sea.
The next morning, Grazdan, bloodshot and exhausted, reported the results of the purge. Damian interrupted him with a simple statement.
"Astapor is yours. Eight thousand Unsullied remain under your command. Use them to secure this city in my name."
Grazdan blinked, confusion and awe warring across his features. "My lord… where… where are you going?"
"To find a suitable cavalry for my empire," Damian said. He gave no further explanation.
Stepping to the Pyramid's edge, Damian leaped. Under Grazdan's wide-eyed gaze, his form streaked across the sky, black and swift, cutting toward the endless grasslands of the East.
He intended to meet the Horse Kings, rulers of might and speed, with the presence of a god.
---