The army moved like a black tide, surging steadily toward the jagged outline of the Painted Mountains. Dust rose in waves from the ground, blotting out the horizon and turning the sky into a yellow haze. The march of hundreds of thousands of cavalrymen carried the weight of war, yet even this massive force seemed ponderous beneath the gaze of the ultimate predator in the sky.
High above, Damian Thorne hovered as a colossal black dragon, his golden vertical pupils sweeping over the human army that moved like ants below. A trace of impatience flickered in his gaze. Too slow.
A distance he could traverse in a heartbeat required the army a full day to cover. Hundreds of thousands of mortal men, riding steeds and dragging supplies, could not match the swiftness of a dragon. The scale of their march, impressive though it was, felt cumbersome, almost laughably inefficient.
"Looks like I'll have to get used to remote command," Damian thought coldly.
He could not personally escort the army at every step. Expansion demanded efficiency, and he alone was the guarantor of that efficiency. Wasting days walking alongside mortals was a luxury he could ill afford. His eyes shifted eastward, toward the horizon, beyond mountains and rivers, toward the lands awaiting conquest.
Satisfied that the army's route remained true, Damian's enormous wings flared, tearing through the air with a violent roar. In an instant, he became a black lightning streaking across the sky, vanishing into the distance as if swallowed by the clouds themselves.
Far to the east lay Mataris, the city of monsters. The settlement operated with unprecedented fanaticism and precision.
In a vast clearing, the wizard Alan stood immobile in his black robes, the scorching wind whipping around him. Behind him, a thousand Unsullied soldiers formed a perfect iron line, statues of discipline and menace. In front of him were the people of Mataris: rows of pregnant women with wide, awe-struck eyes, mothers clutching newborns, and hopeful citizens trembling under Alan's scrutiny.
His pale fingers moved delicately, almost absentmindedly, over the bellies of the women and the infants. With every touch, imperceptible black magic seeped into the life within, conducting a cruel and precise screening of their magical aptitude.
"This one—send to the West District. Marked: 'Second Class.'"
"This one—First Class. Needs intensive care."
"Throw this… waste. Not fit."
His voice was quiet, almost melodic, yet it carried authority that brooked no question. Officials hurriedly followed his instructions, sorting the people with methodical precision.
Under Damian Thorne's magical domain, the city had become a veritable treasure trove of magical potential. The residual energies of the apocalypse had left many bloodlines deformed, but to him, these were precious resources. Yet such power came at a price.
They are not like us, Alan thought with disdain. They are flawed, mere parasites on His Majesty's strength. Outside his protection, they are nothing—useless freaks, unfit even for the simplest feats of magic.
But Alan was different. He was a true spellcaster. Even in this magically barren land, he could pry the secrets of life and death, bending the world to his will. And yet, he obeyed the will of Damian Thorne without hesitation.
For the defective, the freakish, the underdeveloped—being able to glimpse even a fraction of Damian's magical grace was a blessing they could never achieve in multiple lifetimes.
"How is the project progressing?" Alan asked, his gaze fixed ahead.
A Mataris official scrambled to his side, bowing deeply. "Your Excellency, the ground has been cleared completely. Foundations are ready. All that remains is the arrival of the Empire's supplies. Once they arrive, construction can commence immediately."
"Very good," Alan said with a faint nod. His eyes scanned the workers, observing their fervor. They labored for a future they could not yet comprehend, unaware that they were helping to lay the cornerstone of an empire that would reshape the world.
From this cursed land would rise the first spellcaster academy of the new empire—a center of power, knowledge, and dominance. Alan allowed a rare, cold smile to brush his lips. Even he, usually so gloomy, could not suppress a flicker of satisfaction.
Meanwhile, far to the west, in King's Landing, tension hung in the air like an approaching storm.
In the Red Keep, King Viserys I paced the chamber, the weight of his crown pressing down on his mind. In his hands, he crushed a miniature black dragon, the symbol of Caraxhu, upon the model of Valyria, scattering fragments across the polished floor.
The raven had brought news of Damian Thorne, the rebellious and dissolute prince who had once delighted in defying his orders. Not only had Damian ignored the King's commands to withdraw from the Stepstones, but he had aligned himself with Corlys Velaryon and the formidable Iron Bank of Braavos.
"You think only of yourself!" Viserys spat in frustration. "What is Targaryen honor to you? What are my orders worth to you?"
A sense of helplessness gnawed at him. No punishment, scolding, or exile could truly bend Damian Thorne. His younger brother would always walk his own path, confident, mocking, untamable. Viserys imagined the contemptuous smile Damian had worn when reading the king's previous commands, and a wave of humiliation and fear surged within him.
He could no longer remain idle.
"Otto."
The King of Westeros drew a deep breath, forcing calm into his voice, though it trembled slightly with urgency. The Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, emerged from the shadows, bowing respectfully.
"Your Majesty."
"I have a task for you," Viserys said, his eyes fierce, his voice hoarse with determination. "You will go to Volantis yourself."
Otto's brow arched. Volantis—the city now under the shadow of the newly risen Dragon King of the East.
"Your Majesty, traveling there now is fraught with peril," Otto cautioned.
"Peril?" Viserys interrupted sharply. "The greatest risk is inaction! Allow Daemon Targaryen and Corlys Velaryon to strap dragons and fleets to the chariots of Braavos unchecked!"
He stepped closer to Otto, eyes burning with intensity. "Listen carefully. The Dragon King of the East carries the blood of Valyria. He is rebuilding an empire. But we need not fight him. Take this letter. Offer friendship. We must join hands, not clash. Show him that Westeros can be an ally, not an adversary."
He extended his arms as though embracing a vision that spanned continents. "Imagine it, Otto! Two true dragons standing at the pinnacle of the world—one in the west, one in the east. Let the petty sea snakes, the moneylenders, the vassals who only meddle behind curtains tremble in our shadow. What power do they wield compared to the might of dragons?"
The study fell into silence. Otto Hightower felt a chill creep down his spine, sensing the dangerous brilliance of a king unshackled by caution. But he said nothing, recognizing both opportunity and danger in the monarch's words.
"A bold vision, Your Majesty," Otto said slowly, carefully measured. "A grand strategy befitting a king."
He extended his hands, awaiting the royal decree. "Please, Your Majesty, give me the letter. I will deliver it, even at the cost of my life."
Viserys allowed himself a satisfied smile. He drew forth a sealed letter, stamped with the royal wax, and handed it to Otto with solemn gravity.
"Deliver it personally. Let him feel the sincerity of the Iron Throne."
"As you command, Your Majesty," Otto said, bowing deeply. The letter felt like a weight of destiny in his hands. Without another word, he departed, the door closing behind him to leave the king alone with his thoughts and his dangerous dream.
Viserys sank into the throne, exhaling deeply, a rare sense of control sweeping over him. For the first time in years, he felt as though he had taken a move that could truly alter the balance of the world.
Daemon Thorne, Corlys Velaryon… soon, you will learn who truly rules the Seven Kingdoms.
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