Volantis, within the Black Wall.
A grand banquet filled the halls of the palace, yet the atmosphere carried an undercurrent of tension that belied its appearance of celebration. The long, intricately carved ivory table groaned under the weight of exquisite dishes, roasted meats glistening with honeyed sauces, and wines imported from the far reaches of Essos. The air was fragrant with rare spices, incense, and the faint tang of expensive perfume from the assembled nobles.
Yet the three archons—Rios of the Tiger Party, and Talion and Lannas of the Elephant Party—sat stiffly, their smiles strained, eyes flickering with unease behind carefully maintained composure. Across from them, the delegations from Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor were seated with calculated elegance, led by the newly appointed Governor of Meereen, Sidara Nachen.
Sidara did not raise the golden cup before him. He merely observed the Volantene nobles, his dark eyes calm yet piercing, as if the weight of the New Valyrian Empire itself rested in his gaze. Each glance from him felt like an unspoken command, suffocating in its authority.
"His Majesty has returned to Astapor to assemble the Imperial fleet," Sidara said in a low, measured tone, yet the hall was silent enough that his words carried clearly to every corner. "All matters concerning the alliance will be discussed between our delegations and the three consuls. The Emperor's will is absolute—it cannot, and will not, be compromised."
Rios, beads of sweat forming at his temples, inclined his head quickly. "Of course, of course! Volantis will be the Empire's most loyal ally, Your Excellency."
Talion and Lannas exchanged glances, their eyes reflecting bitter resignation. They knew that from the moment the black dragon descended beyond the Black Wall, Volantis—the so-called Eldest Daughter of Valyria—had lost its freedom to choose. Their city, once mighty and proud, had been humbled in an instant.
The news of the alliance spread like wildfire. From the bustling ports of Volantis, along trade routes and shipping lanes across Essos, the story of the New Valyrian Empire and its Dragon King ignited awe, fear, and cautious calculations in every major city.
In Pentos, governors stayed awake through the night, reviewing fleets and fortifications. In Braavos, the Sea Lord ordered all vessels to suspend journeys to the disputed lands. Even in the forge halls of Qohor, where the ancient techniques of reforging Valyrian steel were whispered like holy secrets, discussions of the Dragon King's rise and the Volantene alliance overshadowed every other concern.
The New Valyrian Empire was rising from the ashes of Slaver's Bay, its foundation built on absolute force and unrelenting ambition. And now, it was reaching out its tendrils toward the lands that had been mired in conflict for centuries. All eyes turned to Essos' contested territories, where the balance of power was about to be redrawn by fire and blood.
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Stone Steps Islands, Bloodstone Island.
In a simple stone fortress perched on the jagged cliffs, the scent of spilled wine and burnt meat hung heavy in the air.
Daemon Targaryen, newly crowned King of the Narrow Sea and the Stepstones, stood over a toppled wooden table, his bloodshot eyes blazing. Dornish red wine mixed with grease and ash from the barbecue drenched the floor beneath him. His fists clenched as he seized Captain Velaryon, shaking him violently.
"The New Valyrian Empire? The Conqueror of Slaver's Bay?" Daemon's voice was hoarse, a growl of pure fury. "A bastard of unknown origin dares to call himself Dragon King? He dares to provoke the Targaryens?"
A few days ago, Daemon had been basking in the triumph of his own conquest. Now, this news struck him like a thunderclap, shattering his calm and igniting an unquenchable rage.
"Calm yourself, Damon."
A steady, measured voice interrupted. Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, emerged from the shadows. His face bore the pale pallor of old wounds, but his eyes were as sharp and calculating as ever. He waved the trembling captain aside and regarded Daemon coolly.
"Anger will solve nothing. This 'Dragon King' is not a fool. He is capable, yes—but he is also a tool, and we must treat him as such."
Daemon released the captain with a scoff, stepping back. "You mean he slaughtered all those fat pigs in Slaver's Bay? Or do you mean he frightened Volantis into submission?"
Corlys approached a large map pinned to the table. His finger traced the waters between Tyrosh and Myr. "No. He is now the primary threat to the Kingdom of the Three Daughters. Stronger, faster, and more ruthless than anything we have faced. If he moves westward, it will upset the entire balance of power."
Daemon's breathing slowed. The fiery rage that had filled him gave way to icy calculation. He realized the truth in Corlys' words immediately.
"So… we watch from the sidelines while others burn?"
"No," Corlys said, his eyes sharp and precise as a blade. "The Three Daughters' Kingdom is likely in chaos. They will have to fend off the Dragon King and protect their own borders. That is when they will turn to us, seeking relief. And when they do… they will pay dearly for it."
Daemon's eyes gleamed with renewed malice. He grabbed a barrel of wine and drained it, the crimson liquid spilling over his silver hair. "You are right," he said slowly, the cruel edge in his voice returning. "If the Kingdom of the Three Daughters fails to offer sufficient tribute… then they, and that false Dragon King, will be fed to the flames!"
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King's Landing, Red Keep.
In the opulent yet oppressive hall of the Iron Throne, King Viserys I gripped two secret reports from Essos, his forehead slick with sweat. Each word pierced him like a poisoned needle.
One detailed the celebration in Slaver's Bay: the crowning of the Dragon King, his ability to transform into a full-grown dragon, and the audacious proclamation of the New Valyrian Empire. The other described the alliance between the Empire and Volantis and their inevitable march toward the disputed lands.
"Your Majesty," said Otto Hightower, his calm voice a measured counterpoint to the king's mounting tension, "this is not merely a provocation—it is a direct threat to the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms."
Viserys waved his hand, exhaustion etching deep lines into his face. He knew it was a threat, yet his power was fragmented. Daemon Targaryen, his cousin, had taken the Stone Steps Islands and declared himself a king in defiance. Nearly all of the Targaryen family's dragons were in the hands of the Velaryons.
His ambitious cousin Rhaenys, riding her dragon Melias, controlled Tidemark. Their daughter Laena commanded Vhagar, while their son Lannino rode Sea Smoke. Dragons that had once been concentrated under the Iron Throne were now scattered across Essos, their loyalty divided, their power fragmented.
Viserys' gaze swept the empty throne room. He felt a deep, gnawing powerlessness, the weight of the Iron Throne pressing against his chest. He realized that the family must be united—or risk losing everything. The dragons must be concentrated, controlled, and bound to the authority of the king.
"Otto," he said, voice low but steely, "send ravens to Driftmark. Summon Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys, and Ser Laenor to King's Landing immediately."
Otto's eyes widened for the briefest moment, then comprehension dawned. The king's intention was clear.
"It is time," Viserys continued, his voice steady, yet charged with determination, "for the blood of the Targaryens and Velaryons to unite once more. Every dragon must be bound to the Iron Throne. Only then can we face what comes from the east."
The shadow rising from Slaver's Bay, the Dragon King Damian Thorne, now stretched across Essos like a storm, chilling the complacent king to the bone. Viserys' eyes hardened with unprecedented resolve.
The game had begun. And the board was wide, with players moving silently in shadows, their claws ready to strike.
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