The tips of three thousand spears glimmered coldly beneath the blazing midday sun.
On the tall, colorful brick walls of Meereen, the air was suffocating—heavy and silent, like the stillness inside a tomb.
Three thousand Unsullied stood shoulder to shoulder along the battlements, motionless as stone statues. They were the last pride of Meereen, the final wall between the city and ruin, and the greatest source of confidence for its Great Lords.
Behind them, tens of thousands of slave soldiers and freedmen waited in tense silence, clutching a mismatched array of weapons—rusted spears, chipped swords, farmer's scythes hastily reforged for war. Fear etched every face.
Atop the great pyramid, several of Meereen's most powerful lords stood in their embroidered robes, holding long telescopes imported from Pentos. They scanned the endless horizon, waiting for the Dothraki horde to appear.
"A pack of savages who only know how to howl on horseback," scoffed Zach zo Glaze, the fattest and richest of them all. His jowls quivered with disdain as he lowered his telescope. "Let them come. Our walls and our Unsullied will teach them what true power looks like."
The other lords murmured their agreement, puffing themselves up with hollow confidence, as if victory had already been written in the stars.
Then—
"What's that?" shouted a soldier suddenly, pointing to the sky.
At first, it was nothing more than a black speck against the blue heavens, circling lazily above the horizon. Some thought it was a bird—a hawk, perhaps, or a giant eagle from the mountains.
But the speck grew rapidly. Too rapidly.
Within moments, it was no longer a dot but a shadow, vast and growing, spreading wings that swallowed the sun. The sunlight dimmed as if night itself were descending.
And then they saw the eyes—two orbs of burning gold, blazing like twin furnaces of molten metal.
A fear older than memory gripped every heart on the wall. It was not the kind of fear born of reason, but the primal terror of prey realizing it stands before a predator of another world.
A shriek—long, piercing, and utterly alien—tore across the sky. The air itself seemed to rip apart.
"Dragon!" someone screamed, his voice cracking. "It's a dragon!"
Panic spread like wildfire.
Slave soldiers dropped their weapons and ran, stumbling over one another in their desperate flight. Chaos erupted across the wall. Even the Unsullied—those men bred to know no fear—wavered, their disciplined ranks trembling ever so slightly.
The black dragon descended slowly, circling above Meereen.
Its wings were enormous, each beat stirring violent gusts of wind that sent banners whipping and dust swirling through the air. The creature's scales were like plates of obsidian, reflecting the sun in shards of dark light.
On its back rode a lone figure—Damian Thorne.
He did not attack. Not yet.
Instead, he glided in slow circles, his shadow passing over the pyramid, the slave market, and the terrified faces of every Meereenese below. It was as though Death itself had taken flight, gliding silently above their heads.
The pressure of his presence alone was enough to make grown men fall to their knees.
The air grew heavy.
Soldiers collapsed where they stood, trembling uncontrollably. Some soiled themselves. Others clutched their hearts as if to keep them from bursting.
The Unsullied did not retreat—but even they were pale beneath their helmets, the tendons in their hands bulging white as they clutched their spears.
"Hold your ground! Hold it!" a Meereenese commander shouted, his face ashen. He raised his curved scimitar and, in a desperate attempt to restore order, cut down two soldiers who tried to flee. "It's just a beast! If it bleeds, it can die!"
Mad courage—or madness itself—flashed in his eyes.
"Load the ballistae!" he roared. "Bring it down!"
All along the inner walls, concealed panels of painted stone and bronze swung open with heavy thuds. Behind them lay Meereen's last and greatest weapons—the heavy ballistae.
Massive wooden frames reinforced with steel, each the size of a siege tower, groaned as teams of men cranked their winches. The sound of turning gears—harsh, metallic, relentless—echoed through the city.
Bolts as thick as a man's arm were loaded into place. Their barbed heads gleamed in the sunlight, sharp enough to pierce iron.
"Ready!"
"Fire!"
The commander's roar vanished beneath the shrieking twang of bowstrings.
Dozens of giant bolts shot skyward, whistling through the air like thunderbolts. The sky itself seemed to split under their assault.
Every soul on the wall held their breath.
This was Meereen's last hope—the courage of mortals against the wrath of gods.
But in the heavens, Damian Thorne moved.
The dragon rolled, impossibly graceful for its size. Its wings tucked slightly, body twisting with terrifying speed. Most of the bolts screamed harmlessly past, cutting through empty air.
Then one struck.
It hit true—slamming directly into the dragon's belly, the softest part of its armor.
"Hit!" shouted the commander, triumph flaring in his eyes. The soldiers cheered wildly, a glimmer of hope igniting amid the terror.
But that hope lasted less than a heartbeat.
Instead of blood, a sound like the strike of a smith's hammer rang out—clang!—sharp and metallic.
The bolt shattered on impact.
Splinters of steel and ironwood rained down in a glittering arc. The dragon's black scales remained untouched, not even scratched.
The cheers died instantly.
Silence fell—cold, absolute, crushing.
The commander's grin froze. His jaw slackened. The blood drained from his face until he looked like a corpse standing upright.
Even the Unsullied faltered.
The old soldiers stared in mute horror. A veteran with hair as white as bone dropped his spear. It clattered on the stone with a hollow echo.
"Oh gods…" he whispered, voice trembling. He sank to his knees, shaking uncontrollably. "What are we fighting…?"
High above, Damian Thorne turned his dragon in a slow, predatory arc.
The provocation had angered him.
He opened his mouth, and the sound that came forth was not a roar—it was a cataclysm. The very air trembled.
The shockwave smashed against the walls of Meereen, cracking mortar and stone. Soldiers clutched their ears as blood poured from their noses and mouths. Many fell unconscious on the spot.
And then, without mercy, Damian gave the order.
The dragon's chest heaved. Deep within its throat, a terrible light began to grow—a dull red at first, then blinding gold, then a molten white so bright it hurt to look at.
It was like watching a newborn sun form before their eyes.
The commander looked up, frozen in place. His lips moved soundlessly. The soldiers manning the ballistae stared too, their minds refusing to comprehend what they were seeing.
And then the world ended.
A beam of pure destruction lanced down from the heavens, engulfing the section of wall where the ballistae had been mounted.
It made no sound—only light.
The wall did not crumble; it melted.
Bricks, bronze, and flesh all vaporized in the same instant. The great ballistae turned to molten slag before they could even burn. Every man upon the wall was erased, reduced to drifting ash.
Silence followed.
A terrible, reverent silence.
The dragon's flame faded, leaving behind a wound in the earth—an enormous, glowing trench of molten stone that still hissed with heat.
What had been Meereen's proudest defense was now a gaping hole, the edges glowing orange like the rim of a forge.
Smoke and ash spiraled upward into the air.
The soldiers who remained alive on the wall stumbled backward, their courage utterly gone. Some dropped their weapons and fell to their knees, sobbing uncontrollably. Others simply stood, staring blankly, their minds broken.
The Great Lords atop the pyramid had gone pale as marble.
Zach zo Glaze's telescope fell from his trembling hand. "No…" he whispered, his lips quivering. "No fortress can withstand… that…"
From above, Damian Thorne looked down upon the chaos with cold, unreadable eyes.
The dragon let out a slow, rumbling breath, steam rising from its nostrils. The air itself shimmered with heat around him.
This was not merely war—it was judgment.
The old world of masters and slaves burned before his gaze.
And as the terrified city of Meereen trembled under the shadow of his wings, Damian's voice rolled through the heavens, amplified by the power that bound him to the beast.
"Bow," he said, his words calm, almost gentle—yet every syllable struck like thunder.
"Bow to the new order."
The people of Meereen, shattered and broken, fell to the ground. Thousands knelt in the streets, their cries lost in the roaring wind.
Above them, Damian Thorne hovered astride his dragon, framed by the smoke and fire of their dying city.
The conqueror had come.
And death had taken to the skies.
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