The red-brick training ground of Astapor reeked of sweat and dust, the heat shimmering in the air like rippling waves of molten glass. The cries of young boys echoed across the yard—thousands of shirtless teenagers locked in savage, mechanical combat under the unrelenting crack of their instructors' whips. Their eyes were hollow, their movements rigid and repetitive, like puppets programmed only to kill and obey.
"Your Majesty, this is the cornerstone of the Empire's future!"
Governor Grazdan mo Nakroz followed closely behind Damian Thorne, his broad, bejeweled body draped in a pearl-studded tokar. A sycophantic smile curved his thick lips as he gestured toward the mass of sweating bodies.
"There are currently four thousand reservists in training, all chosen from the finest youth in the city. Within three years, they will become your most loyal Unsullied!"
Damian said nothing. His cold gaze drifted over the rows of young, lifeless faces. It was impossible to tell whether the Dragon King was pleased or disgusted.
"I've heard," he said at last, his tone even, "that the citizen soldiers of New Ghis are trained to the standards of the Unsullied… but they are not castrated."
The governor froze. Cold sweat formed on his brow. "Your Majesty, that— that was merely a poor imitation," he stammered. "Without castration, one can never purge the weakness of human nature. Such men will never compare to the true Unsullied!"
Damian stopped walking. Slowly, he turned his head toward Grazdan.
That calm, unblinking gaze pierced deeper than any sword. It made Grazdan feel as if every deceitful thought in his heart was laid bare.
"This batch," Damian said softly, "will be the last."
Grazdan looked up, his face drained of color. "Your Majesty… these men— the Unsullied— they are the foundation of Astapor!"
"Foundation?" Damian chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. "Soon, New Ghis will become part of the Empire. Astapor's foundation should not be a group of mutilated slaves. It will be soldiers—citizens—trained to serve the Empire with loyalty and reason."
Grazdan's thoughts scattered. New Ghis… part of the Empire?
He suddenly understood the meaning behind Damian's words—the endless expansion, the conquests yet to come. The Dragon King had no intention of stopping.
Fear and revelation struck him at once.
"As you command, Your Majesty," he said, lowering his head until it nearly touched the ground. His trembling voice carried both reverence and terror. "Everything in Astapor will obey your will."
---
The Fall of New Ghis
Far to the south, in the youngest of the three great cities, New Ghis lay under a suffocating silence.
From the top of his family's pyramid, Zora mo Gorgor surveyed the conquered city sprawling beneath him. The streets that had once thrived with merchant caravans and ivory palaces were now lined with corpses and the black banners of the Dragon King.
The city had fallen almost without resistance.
When Zora's fleet—reeking of salt, blood, and death—appeared in the harbor, the citizen militia broke like frightened sheep. The so-called defenders of New Ghis crumbled the moment they saw the pirates who bled black blood and laughed at death.
Even the mighty war elephants, the city's pride, had been trapped in their own stables before they could be unleashed.
Thanks to the influence of the Gorgor family, the occupation was swift and decisive.
The nobles—those once arrogant lords—bowed faster than anyone, racing to kneel before the inevitable victor. Within days, the City-State Parliament of New Ghis voted unanimously to pledge allegiance to the Dragon King of Slaver's Bay, Emperor of the New Valyrian Empire.
Standing atop the bloodstained pyramid, Zora gripped his baton of command tightly. For the first time, he tasted real power—raw and addictive.
He knew this was only the beginning.
"Send the orders," he said, his tone like steel. "Disband the militia, seize the treasury, and prepare the offerings. Before the grand celebration begins, I will sail to Meereen and present the loyalty of New Ghis to His Majesty."
---
The Silent Fleet
Days later, a richly adorned merchant vessel cut through the calm waters en route to Meereen. Around it sailed a fleet unlike any other—their sails black, their decks silent.
These sailors never slept, never ate, and never spoke. Their pallid gray eyes reflected nothing but the sun's glare.
This was the newly forged Gogothos Navy—a fleet of the living dead.
Inside the captain's cabin, Damian Thorne reclined upon a bed draped in silk, while Linara, the young daughter of Grazdan, knelt beside him, carefully peeling a purple grape. Her slender fingers worked deftly, removing the skin in a single smooth motion before offering the translucent fruit to his lips.
Damian accepted it without expression, his eyes fixed beyond the porthole—at the ghostly fleet drifting across the waves.
The dead made perfect servants. No hunger, no fear, no fatigue—only obedience.
Linara stood in silence, her heart pounding. Her father had told her this was the highest honor— to serve the godlike man who ruled from flame and blood. But what she felt was not reverence.
It was terror.
The aura surrounding Damian Thorne made her soul quiver.
The ship rocked gently, and Damian's thoughts began to drift. His eyes closed as he contemplated the next phase of his conquest.
Slaver's Bay was his. But the land was poor—its wealth chained in flesh and dust. The ancient Valyrian conquests had scorched its soil and drained its life. The olives and vineyards that once flourished were now long dead.
This land could serve as a springboard—but never the heart of an empire.
His mind turned to the map of Essos.
Qohor. Volantis. Qarth.
Each name echoed in his thoughts like a heartbeat.
"Qohor has the secret to reforge Valyrian steel," he mused quietly. "Its smiths could restore the weapons of my ancestors. Volantis—the First Daughter of Valyria—rich, ancient, symbolic. And Qarth… the key to the gates of the world, the bridge between east and west."
Three paths, each leading to a different kind of power.
His lips curved faintly. The decision would shape the destiny of his Empire.
From outside came a knock and the muffled voice of a guard.
"Your Majesty, we have arrived in Meereen."
Damian opened his eyes, sharp as obsidian. "Understood."
---
The Throne Room of Meereen
The Great Pyramid's throne room shimmered with sunlight filtering through tall, narrow windows. The light scattered like gold dust upon the polished marble floor.
Damian Thorne sat upon his obsidian throne, one hand resting under his chin. Though he had returned to land, a faint unease lingered—the phantom sway of the ship beneath his feet.
Moments later, a royal guard entered briskly and knelt.
"Your Majesty, the Volantis delegation has arrived. They await your command."
Damian raised a brow.
"Volantis? They're quick."
He had yet to decide which city to strike first, but it seemed fate—or fear—had brought one of Valyria's proud daughters to his feet.
A slow smile crept across his face.
"So, the Eldest Daughter of Valyria comes to me on her knees," he murmured. "Let us see what manner of tribute she brings."
He rose from the throne, his black cloak rippling behind him like living shadow.
"Prepare the hall," he said, his voice calm yet commanding. "I will receive them shortly."
His words echoed through the empty chamber, vast and resonant—like the voice of destiny itself.
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