The air of Meereen was thick with the sweet, heavy scents of roasting meats, exotic spices, and the tang of fresh bread. From the harbor to the city center, the streets had never seen such life, energy, or chaos since the Dragon King's arrival.
For days, the three city-states of Slaver's Bay—Meereen, Astapor, and Yunkai—had joined in a single grand celebration, a carnival so grand it rivaled the most legendary festivals in southern Essos. Merchant ships from every Free Trade City lined the docks, their sails painted with sigils, flags, and banners. The slave trade, a dark artery of the region, had reached unprecedented turnover, surpassing the previous year's record in a single month.
The traditional titles—Wise Lord of Yunkai, Good Lord of Astapor, Great Lord of Meereen—were now relics of the past, swept into history. Every ruler and noble now bore a single identity: Imperial Nobles of the New Valyrian Empire.
To show their loyalty to Damian Thorne, the city's newly crowned Emperor, the nobles had opened their granaries and wine cellars. Mountains of food and barrels of fine wine were carried to every square, distributed freely to citizens. Even the lowest slaves, who had once been treated like living tools, were granted a brief respite: their stale, meager rations replaced with fresh bread, roasted meats, and fruit.
The city had become a carnival. Squares were filled with performers, acrobats, and jesters, their drums and gongs clashing with the cheers of the people. And in the midst of it all, the newly appointed Green Saint, a young, fervent woman, walked through the crowds. Her followers handed out cloth adorned with the black dragon emblem, distributed food, and preached the doctrines of the New Valyrian Empire.
For a moment, the citizens forgot the horrors of the recent bloody purges. The echoes of screams had faded; replaced by laughter, music, and applause.
Beneath the Great Pyramid of Meereen, the central square had been cleared. A scarlet carpet, imported from Myr, covered the stones, stretching from the base of the pyramid to the end of the plaza. Delegates from Pentos, Braavos, Volantis, Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr waited alongside nobles and representatives of the free folk of the three city-states. All eyes were fixed upward, toward the throne at the summit of the pyramid. Curiosity, awe, and unease mingled on every face.
Suddenly, the sky darkened.
A massive shadow swallowed the square. A sudden, violent wind lifted the scarlet carpet, making it flutter like a living thing. Murmurs and cries erupted among the crowd.
"What is that?"
"Look! Look at the sky!"
A roar exploded from the clouds above, so deep and powerful it seemed to hammer through stone, shaking the chests of all who heard it. The sound carried the weight of ancient terror, reverberating in bone and soul alike.
Moments later, a massive dragon tore through the cloud cover. Its scales were jet black, glimmering like obsidian, wings spanning tens of meters. Its body alone measured over fifty-five meters, and its presence pressed on the air itself, freezing the hearts of all below.
"Dragon! It's the Dragon King!"
Gasps and shouts spread like wildfire. The Braavosi emissaries paled, stepping back instinctively, while the Volantis delegation leaned forward in awe. Their leader, an elderly archon, trembled slightly, his eyes alight with something bordering on fanatic worship.
The dragon hovered, stopping less than thirty meters above the square. Its wings churned the air into a hurricane, making even the strongest stand unsteady. For a heartbeat, everyone expected it to land in the center of the square.
But then, impossibly, the massive body began to shrink midair. Bones cracked and reformed, the air itself whistling in protest. A flash of fire erupted—and in an instant, the dragon was gone. In its place stood a young man. Black hair framed his sharp features, brown eyes steady and commanding.
He descended silently to the end of the scarlet carpet, his black-and-gold suit perfectly tailored, fitting him as though he had been born to wear it.
He looked across the square. Calm, controlled, and impossibly powerful, his gaze was like a deep pool that made the hearts of all who met it race involuntarily.
"Welcome, everyone, to my Meereen," he said. His voice carried clearly, steady and authoritative, yet it did not need to be loud to command attention.
At that moment, a young general of the New Ghis Legion stepped forward. His armor gleamed in the sunlight, the insignia of loyalty etched into its black metal. He knelt deeply before the Emperor.
"Your Majesty!" he shouted. "The New Ghis City-State Council and all its citizens pledge eternal loyalty to you, Emperor of the New Valyrian Empire, Conqueror of Slaver's Bay!"
The young man was Zora mo Gorgor, son of Groz, and his voice carried over the silent square.
"From this day forward, New Ghis will become an integral part of the Empire! For the Empire!"
Dozens of New Ghis representatives knelt in unison.
"For the Empire!"
Silence swept across the plaza.
New Ghis had surrendered. Entirely. Slaver's Bay—along with its surrounding islands and city-states—was now united under Damian Thorne.
The faces of the envoys from the major Free Trade Cities shifted subtly.
Volantis's delegation studied the scene with a mix of respect and unease. A united Slaver's Bay was powerful enough to make the so-called "Eldest Daughter of Valyria" pause. The Braavosi emissary's hand subtly brushed the hilt of a concealed short sword, a reflexive gesture born of caution.
A madman. A dragon-wielding madman with ambition beyond reason.
Even the emissaries of the Three Daughters Kingdom exchanged uneasy glances, the urgency of their mission now underscored by the sheer force of Damian Thorne's rising empire.
Damian's dark eyes fell on Zora. A faint smile curved his lips.
"Very good," he said. Then, turning to face the delegations with a playful tilt of his head, he continued:
"Everyone, please take your seats."
Hidala Naqian, understanding the Emperor's intentions instantly, stepped forward. A retinue of high-ranking officials followed. With impeccable courtesy, they guided the envoys into the banquet hall beneath the Great Pyramid.
The grand celebration was about to begin.
The hall shone brilliantly, gilded and adorned with banners, yet the true spectacle remained outside. High above, the dragon—now a magical transformation of Damian Thorne himself—circled low, moving with terrifying grace. Each pass drew thunderous cheers from the crowd.
"Long live the Dragon King!"
"Long live the Empire!"
The noise entered the banquet hall through cracks and windows. Some delegates shifted uneasily, their faces tightening as if the sound itself threatened to choke them.
The Braavosi emissary tried to maintain composure, picking at a plate of roasted meat, yet his mind raced. He remembered the dock upon arrival—the newly built warships, the sailors aboard them, pale and rigid like statues.
The Undead Navy… he whispered under his breath, his throat tight with fear.
He recalled ancient legends of Valyria: wizards binding the souls of dead slaves to labor in the mines of the Fourteen Fire Peaks, condemned to endless toil. The idea of Damian Thorne wielding such sorcery sent shivers down his spine.
An ambitious dragon whelp, with blasphemous magic… Braavos must not allow him to threaten our safety.
On the other side of the hall, the delegations of Volantis and the Three Daughters Kingdom kept their distance, their old feuds silently simmering beneath the grandeur.
In a quiet, inconspicuous corner, Alan sat stiffly. He wore a black wizard's robe, stark against the luxurious surroundings. Without Qichuan Luo nearby, the crowded hall made him uneasy. His instincts screamed to return to his laboratory aboard the ship.
A voice beside him broke the silence.
"Master Alan?"
Alan turned. A man in the lavish attire of Qarth approached, lips tinted an unnatural blue.
The wizards of Qarth… drug-addled and flamboyant, Alan thought, recognizing the figure instantly. He raised his glass slightly, a neutral gesture of acknowledgment.
The wizard's eyes widened, his excitement barely restrained.
"It is truly you! Master Alan! Since your departure from Qarth, no news reached us. The Undying Palace even feared you lost at sea. I did not expect to find you here!"
"I have joined the Dragon King's army," Alan replied evenly, his tone stripped of emotion. "I now serve as his advisor."
The wizard's mouth opened, closed, and opened again, struggling to contain his awe. Around them, the banquet hall roared with life, the outside dragon circling relentlessly, and the future of Slaver's Bay—and beyond—hung on Damian Thorne's dominion.
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