The ramming horns of the fleet pierced the murky waters of Slaver's Bay as Astapor's iconic red-brick pyramids rose on the horizon. The air carried a familiar scent—brick dust mingled with the salty sea breeze, sharp enough to sting the eyes and dry the throat.
The docks had been cleared well in advance. A line of nobles in ornate tokar robes stood waiting, bowing deeply at the front. Leading them was none other than the new Governor of Astapor, Grazdan. The pearls dangling from his tasseled headdress trembled slightly in the wind as he forced a nervous smile onto his plump face.
The heavy anchor crashed into the sea with a resounding splash, sending waves rippling across the harbor. Damian Thorne descended the gangway, his dark cloak trailing behind him. Following close were the silent Alan and the old blind man, his clouded eyes unseeing yet keenly aware.
"Glory to His Majesty, Conqueror of Slaver's Bay, Incarnation of Storms, Lord of the New Valyrian Empire!" Grazdan's trembling voice echoed over the water as he dropped to his knees, forehead pressed against the hot red-brick floor. The nobles behind him followed suit, bowing low until their foreheads touched the stone.
Damian said nothing. His cold gaze drifted across the mounds of tribute stacked along the dock—boxes of silk and spices, casks of wine, and chains of slaves with hollow eyes. The mere weight of his silence made Grazdan's back break out in sweat.
"All of these," Damian finally said, his voice calm yet commanding, "send them aboard."
He let his gaze pass over Grazdan and fall on the fleet behind him—ships that had just survived a bloody battle and now floated in eerie silence.
"Old blind man."
"Yes, Your Majesty." The old man stepped forward, tall and thin, but standing as straight as a spear.
Damian gestured toward several large wooden crates nearby. "Distribute the uniforms. From this day forward, you are no longer pirates."
He paused, a faintly cruel smile tugging at his lips.
"You are the High Gothos Navy."
The lids of the crates were pried open, revealing rows of new uniforms glinting in the sunlight—black leather armor embossed with dark gold markings along the shoulders and cuffs, each accompanied by a heavy black cape. They weren't just garments; they were the first step in erasing one identity and forging another.
The old blind man personally handed the first captain's uniform to his former second-in-command. The man took it gingerly, running his rough fingers over the hard, smooth texture of the leather. His face showed hesitation, pride, and confusion all at once. Soon, every ship captain received a similar uniform. They stripped off their torn, foul-smelling clothes and clumsily donned their new attire.
When the old blind man put on his own set of custom general's armor, he instinctively touched the hilt of the sword at his waist. An old, forgotten sensation stirred within him—not passion, but a cold hunger for command. He turned toward a bronze mirror. His gray-streaked hair, his cloudy eyes, and his black-and-gold armor made him look like a general risen from the depths of hell.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, the transformation was complete. The pirates who had once sailed under no flag now stood in disciplined ranks on their decks, cloaked in black and gold. They were no longer the chaotic rabble of the Basilisk Isles—they were the first official navy under the Dragon King's rule.
---
Below deck, the air was thick with the smell of herbs, preservatives, and faint traces of blood. Alan sat at his workbench, lit by the dim glow of an oil lamp. Before him floated an eyeball in a glass jar filled with a murky green liquid. It had once belonged to Drake—the man who had taken Alan's own eye.
He worked with obsessive precision, grinding rare powders into fine dust and carefully sprinkling them into the jar. The liquid bubbled and hissed, small tendrils of steam curling upward. The eyeball rotated slowly within, the veins along its surface fading as the pupil deepened into a dark, obsidian black.
After a final surge, the liquid stilled. The eyeball floated, perfectly preserved—realistic, yet unnervingly hard, like a polished gemstone.
Alan smiled faintly. Using a clean piece of silk, he lifted the eye from the jar, wiped it dry, and—without hesitation—pressed it into his empty socket. A sharp sting followed, then a deep, crawling warmth. The new eye settled perfectly, as though it had always belonged there.
He slowly opened both eyes.
Just then, the old blind man entered the cabin, intent on discussing supply transfers. But when his milky eyes adjusted to the dim light, he froze. Alan was staring directly at him—both eyes gleaming, one with a faint unnatural light.
"Master Alan…" the old man rasped, his voice trembling. "You… you have another eye?"
Alan's lips curled into a cold smile. He touched the corner of his new eye with a blood-stained fingertip. "This one belonged to Drake," he said softly. "He took mine. So, I took his."
The old man's face paled. His stomach twisted, as though a nest of snakes writhed inside him. Muttering an excuse, he turned and left in haste.
When the door shut behind him, Alan remained alone in the flickering light. For a moment, nothing moved. Then a faint green glow flickered within his right eye—the eye that had once been Drake's.
"These eyes…" Alan murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. A faint smile ghosted across his lips. "They allow me to see more clearly."
---
That night, atop Astapor's great pyramid, the city's largest hall stood illuminated by rows of burning braziers. The heat shimmered in the air, and only two people occupied the vast chamber.
Damian Thorne sat upon a throne carved from obsidian, his chin resting on one hand as he listened in silence to Grazdan's lengthy report.
"…Your Majesty, in accordance with your command, the Temples of Grace in Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor have all been cleansed. The old priests who defied your rule, and the noble families who supported them, have been removed—root and branch. They are now dust upon the wind."
Grazdan's voice was rich and practiced, almost theatrical, his tone swelling with self-satisfaction.
"We, the noble houses, have unanimously resolved to found a new Temple of Holy Grace," he continued eagerly. "A temple that shall reject the false harpies and preach the one true doctrine: loyalty to Your Majesty, and devotion to the New Valyrian Empire!"
Damian remained silent. His expression did not change. He simply tapped the armrest of his throne, the soft, rhythmic sound echoing in the grand hall. Grazdan's confidence faltered.
The governor's words trailed off, and a nervous sweat formed on his brow. He bowed deeply again, then motioned toward the guards by the door.
Moments later, a young girl was led inside.
She looked no more than eighteen, with the classic features of Ghiscar descent—amber skin, long black hair woven into intricate braids, and large obsidian eyes filled with fear. A thin gauze dress clung to her graceful form.
Damian's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her.
Grazdan immediately fell to his knees, pressing his head to the marble floor. "Your Majesty," he stammered, "this is my youngest daughter, Linara. She has long admired Your Majesty's strength and divine rule. I humbly beg that you grant my family the supreme honor… of serving you more closely."
The hall fell silent. Only the hiss of burning candles filled the air.
Damian said nothing, merely looking from the kneeling noble to the trembling girl. The air grew heavy. Grazdan began to shake, sweat dripping down his temple. His heart pounded like a drum.
Then Damian spoke.
"Stay."
Just one word. Cold, indifferent—yet for Grazdan, it was salvation.
His eyes lit up with gratitude, tears spilling freely as he bowed again and again. "Thank you, Your Majesty! Thank you!" His voice cracked with emotion. After several deep kowtows, he backed away slowly and exited the hall.
Outside, the night air struck his face, cool and sharp. Only then did he realize his robe was drenched with sweat. He drew in a long, shuddering breath, his chest heaving with relief.
He looked up at the moon hanging over Astapor's red pyramids. The city was silent. The Dragon King's banners fluttered above every spire.
A smile crept onto Grazdan's lips.
From this night onward, he thought, if his daughter could bear even one child—boy or girl—then the name Grazdan would never fade from history. His family's future was secured. Their loyalty, immortalized in flesh and blood.
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