At the dock of Silk Town, the metallic tang of blood mixed with the salty brine of the sea, lingering stubbornly in the air. The aftermath of the recent battle left a grim mark on the port. Broken masts leaned awkwardly against splintered hulls, and the cries of seagulls were punctuated by the hungry frenzied thrash of sharks, feeding on the bodies of the Braavosi sailors tossed into the water by New Ghis citizen soldiers.
The soldiers worked methodically, almost mechanically, scrubbing decks and removing debris. Their faces were expressionless, revealing neither remorse nor hesitation. Every movement was precise, a reflection of their unwavering discipline and obedience.
Damian Thorne stood at the dock, surveying the scene with an unshakable calm. His voice, crisp and commanding, cut through the noise of the port like a sharpened blade.
"All captured warships—repair every damaged section immediately!"
"Replace all Braavosi flags and raise the banner of our empire!"
The craftsmen moved swiftly. The tattered banners of Braavos were torn down, ripped almost violently from their masts, and replaced with the black dragon king's banner, a symbol of the new empire. It fluttered in the wind, heavy and imposing, a stark reminder to all who saw it.
Nearby, Old Blind and Ni Luo stood silently, clad in black-and-gold general's leather armor that gleamed faintly in the sunlight. Behind them, their army of the living dead moved like shadows, taking control of every intact ship. Each soldier's motion was precise, devoid of life, completely obedient to orders—a terrifying sight for anyone who dared look too closely.
Damian Thorne walked along the dock slowly, his eyes scanning the fleet, measuring its strength, and calculating potential weaknesses.
"Old Blind, Ni Luo," he called.
Both men immediately dropped to one knee, heads bowed low.
"Your Majesty."
"From this moment forward, these ships fall under your command," Damian said, gesturing to the assembled steel forest of vessels. "Under the name of the 'Goltos Navy,' they will serve our empire. Maintain order, and leave no ship untended."
"Yes, Your Majesty," the old man rasped, his voice rough, like gravel grinding against itself.
Ni Luo said nothing, but lowered his head further. For him, rebirth had meant the erasure of individuality and the birth of absolute obedience.
Damian's gaze swept over the undead soldiers. They were perfect instruments—tireless, fearless, utterly loyal. Yet, the numbers were insufficient. His eyes, dark and contemplative, drifted toward the endless sea.
"Next time, we'll need Alando to prepare more of those potions," he murmured, almost to himself.
---
The damp, shadowed warehouse stank of mold and despair.
Daemon Targaryen, once the proud "Prodigal Prince," now resembled a beaten beast, his fangs removed. His hands and feet were shackled with heavy iron chains, forcing him to lean against the cold stone wall. His silver hair was matted with dirt, and dried blood streaked his face. Humiliation clung to him like a second skin.
Around him, his companions suffered similar fates. Corlys Velaryon, the formidable "Sea Snake," sat in silence, his once sharp gaze vacant. His wife, Rhaenys Targaryen, the "Uncrowned Queen," maintained her composure, sitting upright with strict posture, though the tight line of her lips betrayed her inner tension. Their daughter, Lannar, who had once ridden the largest dragon, Vhagar, stared at the door with empty, lifeless eyes. The dragon that had once been their mightiest asset had been lured away by a black monster of unknown power. The glass candle, planted in the center of the house, severed the connection between dragon and rider, rendering even the most fearsome dragon knights powerless.
The heavy iron door creaked open. Sunlight, almost painfully bright, poured into the warehouse. A tall figure stepped inside. Each step echoed with measured deliberation, the sound heavy and deliberate, pressing against the prisoners' hearts.
Damian Thorne approached Daemon, his expression flat, almost indifferent, though a faint undertone of amusement lingered.
"It seems this is our first meeting under such... unusual circumstances," Damian said.
Daemon lifted his head slowly, chains rattling with the movement. He studied the man before him: short black hair, sharp brown eyes, and a face that, though unremarkable in origin, had just toppled the mighty Braavosi fleet and reduced the noble descendants of Valyria to prisoners.
A mocking smile twisted Daemon's lips.
"I never imagined that the so-called 'Dragon King,' the founder of a nation claiming Valyrian heritage, would actually be a Yidi native," he sneered, attempting to wound Damian with the superiority of bloodline—the last weapon at his disposal.
Damian, however, merely laughed. It was a quiet, cold chuckle, dripping with indifference.
"Bloodline?" he said. "Only the weak concern themselves with such things."
He leaned closer, so that only Daemon could hear his next words. "But you… you are indeed a valuable bargaining chip."
Daemon's pupils contracted, a flash of fear and recognition crossing his eyes.
"Your brother, King Viserys," Damian continued softly, "would pay handsomely to reclaim his disobedient younger brother. Isn't that right?"
The words struck like poisoned daggers, revealing every hidden fear and shame Daemon carried. His ambition, his suppressed resentment, his humiliation at being excluded from power—everything was laid bare. His face paled. He opened his mouth to speak, to yell, but no words would come.
Yes. That was what he was now. A prisoner. A commodity. A wretch awaiting ransom from a brother he could never surpass. Powerlessness and humiliation washed over him in a tidal wave.
He shut his eyes, leaning back against the cold stone, abandoning all resistance.
Damian stood straight, observing Daemon's surrender with a faint smile, then turned away without another glance at the nobles who had lost all influence. The heavy door slammed shut behind him, cutting off the last ray of light. Darkness enveloped the prisoners, leaving only the cold touch of iron and the crushing weight of despair.
---
In Lys, the pearly towers glittered in the sunlight, showcasing the wealth and elegance of the free trade city-state. Yet within the city's parliament hall, the atmosphere was as suffocating as a stormy sea.
Acting Governor Lisandra paced nervously, accompanied by several councilors. Their polished boots scuffed the once-lustrous carpet as anxiety gnawed at them. The ship dispatched to gather intelligence had failed to return on schedule, heightening a sense of dread.
"Report!" Lisandra barked as a messenger burst into the hall, nearly tripping in his haste, terror etched across his face.
"Speak!" Lisandra demanded, gripping his collar.
Gasping for breath, the messenger struggled to form words. "Governor… the Braavos fleet…"
Lisandra's heart skipped. "What of it?"
He trembled as he continued, voice quivering, "It… it has been completely annihilated!"
The chamber erupted in disbelief.
"The Braavos fleet?" Lisandra shook the man violently, desperate for clarity. "The Purple Sail Fleet, the pride of Braavos? Are you certain?"
The messenger nodded frantically. "We… we saw it ourselves, though from afar. The sea… it was littered with charred hulls, broken masts, and countless bodies. Governor Bambaro… he… he was tied to the mast of a black warship!"
Shock and horror rippled through the parliamentarians. The Invincible Fleet—centuries-old, undefeated, armed with massive crossbows capable of piercing dragon scales—wiped out in a single stroke.
An elderly councilor slumped, muttering under his breath, "It's over… everything is over…"
"The Black Dragon… the eastern Dragon King… he and his minions destroyed the entire fleet?" Another voice trembled with disbelief.
Lisandra sank into his throne, pallid and hollow-eyed. The truth was unavoidable: even Braavos had fallen. What hope did Lys have against such unstoppable might?
From the council chamber, the news spread like wildfire. Citizens rushed to secure their wealth, laughter in brothels died abruptly, and dockworkers gazed nervously at the eastern horizon, as if anticipating the jaws of a rising leviathan.
Panic, a venom more deadly than any plague, seeped into the very nerves of the city. The once-dazzling pearl of Rees paled beneath the shadow of absolute power.
---