The flame of the obsidian candle flickered quietly before Sidara Naqian's eyes. Its cold light offered no warmth, only a chilling brilliance that seemed to pierce his soul. Within that flame, a calm and commanding voice echoed in both his and Soran's minds.
"What happened."
It was not a question—it was a statement.
Sidara swallowed hard, his throat dry. Forcing himself to stay composed, he spoke clearly and without hesitation. He described the Temple of Grace's conspiracy—the Green Saint's collusion with Meereen's discontented nobles, their secret dealings, the poison, the manticores, and the assassins hidden among the crowds during the celebration. He concealed nothing. Every word was laid bare before that unseen presence.
Beside him, the thousand-man commander Soran sat like a silent stone statue, listening in stillness. His long Dothraki braid hung unmoving over his shoulder, as if the very air around him feared to stir.
The voice fell silent for a long moment. That silence was more oppressive than thunder.
"Sidara," the voice finally spoke again, low and even, yet sharp enough to slice through the still air. "Can you clean it up?"
"Yes!" Sidara nearly shouted, bowing so deeply that his forehead brushed the floor. He spoke as though Damian Thorne himself stood before him. "Your Majesty, please rest assured! The nobles of Meereen will absolutely prove their loyalty to your reign!"
"Soran."
"Yes," the Dothraki replied in a gravelly tone.
"If he fails," Damian's voice continued coldly, "you will take your men and wipe out all those involved—along with their families—from Meereen."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The flame went out.
Sidara Naqian's robes clung to his back, soaked with cold sweat. He knew this was not merely an order—it was a test. A test for him, for the old Meereenese nobility, and for every faction that still dared to think independently under the Dragon King's rule. If they wanted to survive under Damian Thorne, they would have to prove their worth—not through words, but through blood.
---
On the deck of the old blind man's flagship, the sea breeze carried the scent of salt and blood. Groz and his son Zora were forced to kneel before a dark-haired man seated casually in a chair. His posture was relaxed, yet there was something immovable about him—like an ancient mountain carved from shadow.
"Your Majesty," the old blind man said, stepping forward with a reverent smile. He raised his voice in a ceremonial tone, announcing word by word, "Before you kneel the Emperor of New Valyria, Protector of Ghis, the Dothraki, and the Basilisk Isles; Master of the Dothraki Sea; Khal of Khals; Conqueror of Slaver's Bay; the Most High and Most Glorious Landborn Majesty."
He puffed out his chest as he finished the long proclamation, standing proudly as though those titles reflected his own glory.
Damian Thorne gave him a brief, strange glance, neither approving nor rebuking.
Groz and Zora's hearts sank. The Dragon King. The conqueror who had crushed the chains of Slaver's Bay. And now they, unfortunate sailors of New Ghis, had stumbled directly into his path.
"You have a choice," Damian said, his tone flat and unhurried. "Serve me… or live as slaves on my plantations."
Groz turned toward his son, pale and trembling beside him. Then, without hesitation, the admiral slammed his forehead against the deck with a loud crack.
"We are willing to serve you, Your Majesty."
"Good." Damian stood, his dark cloak fluttering in the sea breeze. "Your ships and your men will be returned to you. As your token of loyalty, you will lead my fleet—and together, we will knock on the gates of New Ghis."
Groz raised his head slowly. Around him, the endless sea was filled with Damian's ships, stretching beyond sight, their black sails emblazoned with a crimson dragon. He felt the weight of history shifting—an empire dying, and a new one rising in fire and shadow.
That night, the black flag of New Ghis was lowered, and the red dragon of New Valyria rose in its place.
---
Meereen, Temple of Grace.
The night was as dark as ink, and the Green Saint walked alone through the marble corridors. Her footsteps echoed faintly against the cold stone walls. For days, a heavy unease had gripped her heart. She thought of the cook who had prepared Damian's feast, of the poison she had hidden in the food, and the assassins she had stationed among the dancers.
All of it—every plot, every sin—she had justified in the name of freedom.
This is for Ghis, she reminded herself. For our people, not for the Dragon King. We are the sons of the harpy, not slaves of another tyrant. This is for my father… for all those who died beneath their chains.
She turned a corner and saw several believers approaching, their faces concealed behind gilded harpy masks. Their steps were silent and deliberate.
The Green Saint nodded in acknowledgment.
The next instant, steel flashed.
Several daggers slipped from beneath the believers' robes and plunged into her body. She gasped, eyes wide with disbelief. The blades slid between her ribs, cold and merciless, piercing silk and skin alike. Pain seared through her chest as she staggered back.
"Traitors…" she tried to speak, but blood filled her mouth. That word was her last.
Her lifeless body fell to the temple floor, crimson pooling around her white robes.
At that same moment, a different kind of ceremony was unfolding throughout Meereen and its sister cities.
In the dead of night, masked assassins moved like shadows through the noble districts. They kicked open carved doors, cut throats in silence, and vanished before the screams could rise. The cooks who had taken bribes were found in their homes—stabbed, their families slaughtered beside them.
The purges spread like wildfire.
It was a night of cleansing.
A festival of blood.
A sacrifice offered to the new king.
By dawn, the Temple of Grace had become a charnel house. The Green Saint's followers lay among their victims, and her once-holy sanctuary reeked of death.
---
King's Landing, the Red Keep.
King Viserys I sat slumped on the Iron Throne, a deep headache throbbing behind his eyes. Two unopened letters lay on the table before him.
The first was from Pentos. It spoke of the celebrations in Slaver's Bay—the rise of a self-proclaimed Dragon King who had united Meereen, Astapor, Yunkai, and the Dothraki beneath one banner. It spoke of his fleet, his conquests, and the terrifying rumors that he could take on the form of a dragon.
The second letter came from the Stepstones. His brother Daemon, after defeating the Crabfeeder, had declared himself "King of the Narrow Sea and the Stepstones."
Viserys pressed a weary hand to his temple. From the east came whispers of a new empire—an unknown threat rising beyond the horizon. From the south, his own brother had crowned himself in defiance of royal authority.
A rebellion within.
A storm beyond.
And a throne that drew blood from his every move.
As he brooded, he felt a sharp sting on his palm. Looking down, he saw a thin line of crimson where the Iron Throne had cut him again. Blood dripped onto the parchment below.
"Damn it," Viserys muttered, clutching his wounded hand.
He heard the sound of footsteps and looked up. Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, approached with his usual calm dignity, his expression unreadable.
Viserys's heart tightened with quiet frustration. Ever since the birth of his son Aegon, Otto had subtly, persistently ignored the king's declaration that Rhaenyra was his heir. Again and again, the Hand had suggested—always politely, always indirectly—that the Iron Throne belonged to a man, not a woman.
Viserys knew what Otto wanted.
And the thought sickened him.
As he gazed at the twisted blades surrounding him, Viserys could not help but wonder whether the Iron Throne itself was mocking him—bleeding him for his weakness, for his hesitation, for every choice that would one day shatter his realm.
---