A purple-sailed vessel, its hull moving as silently as a ghost, sliced through the dense mist that shrouded the lagoon.
Unlike other ships that docked at Ragmonger's Wharf, this one bypassed the main harbor entirely. It glided directly into Purple Harbor, a secluded port used only by Braavos' local vessels. The city itself lay shrouded in early morning fog, its canals eerily quiet, as though sensing the presence of an unseen power approaching.
Within Neptune's Palace, the seat of authority for the city-state, the atmosphere was as heavy as iron. The old Sea King, despite his frail body and a chronic illness that had left him bent and weak, sat upright on a simple throne forged from weirwood and dark iron. His skin hung in folds like aged parchment, yet his eyes, sharp and piercing, betrayed a mind still alert and unyielding.
Before him gathered the most powerful councilors and watchmen of Braavos. Each descended from ancestors who had once been slaves under the Dragonlords of Valyria. Their faces were grave, for the news they brought could not be ignored.
"Speak, Trio," the Sea King's voice was dry, low, and heavy with fatigue.
Trio Nennaris, leader of the returning delegation, bowed low. His face was pale, and his voice quivered slightly as he addressed the king.
"Your Majesty… Lords of the Council… Slaver's Bay has entirely changed hands."
He recounted the events at Meereen in painstaking detail: the three-day celebration, the crowning of the New Valyrian Empire, the appearance of the Dragon King, and the astonishing alliance formed with Volantis.
A stunned silence filled the chamber.
"Transformed… into a dragon… a black dragon over fifty-five meters long…" muttered one council member, his words barely audible, trembling with fear.
"This is impossible!" another exclaimed, rising from his seat, his face pale. "The dragons of Valyria, the magic… all of it should have perished in the Doom! This must be a trick, some deceit of that madman!"
"I saw it with my own eyes," Trio said calmly, though his voice carried the weight of the terror he had witnessed. "The shadow of the black dragon covered nearly the entire square in Meereen. Its presence… was suffocating. The very air seemed to freeze beneath it."
The councilors' murmurs died in the wake of the next revelation.
"And… he commands necromancy."
The word struck like a thunderclap. Even the Sea King, slouched and frail, straightened in shock.
"The High Gothos Navy," Trio continued, swallowing hard. "The soldiers in that fleet… they have no heartbeats. They do not tire. They are… the dead, resurrected by the Dragon King's magic. Zombies."
A single drum of disbelief echoed through the chamber. Then came the uproar:
"Necromancy?!"
"The Valyrian bastards… they've returned!"
"The Dragon Kings are demons, desecrators of life!"
The councilors' fear quickly transformed into deep, visceral hatred. These men and women were descendants of slaves, their families having once endured the whips and blood rituals of Valyria. Generations of fear and resentment flowed through their veins.
Legends spoke of ancestors forced to toil eternally under the sunless peaks of the Fourteen Fires, resurrected by Valyrian wizards to serve without rest, condemned to a fate worse than death. That legacy now found its echo in the magic of Damian Thorne, the Dragon King of the New Valyrian Empire.
The Sea King coughed, a sharp, rattling sound, then gestured for silence.
"This self-proclaimed Dragon King of the land will, without question, set his sights on the Kingdom of the Three Daughters," Aquaman said, his tone regaining composure, though his eyes were icy cold. "Once he consolidates the disputed lands, Braavos will be directly in his path."
A young councilor, barely containing his anger, stood abruptly. "Your Majesty, we cannot sit idly by while death marches toward us! Mobilize the Iron Bank's financial resources. Hire every mercenary band, every sellsword, and strike before he becomes unstoppable!"
"Foolish!" snapped an elder keykeeper, his voice trembling with anger. "Dragons and Dothraki cavalry do not care how many mercenaries you amass. They will be nothing but lambs to the slaughter!"
"So what do you propose?" the young councilor spat. "Do we grovel and beg mercy from a slave's conqueror?"
"That is enough!" the Sea King's voice thundered, silencing the room. His cloudy eyes swept over the councilors, each one suddenly aware of the gravity of the situation.
"Dragons are invincible," he said. "But the Dragon King in human form… is not."
A hush fell over the council. Every mind understood the meaning instantly.
"The Faceless One," Aquaman continued, emphasizing each word. "If Damian Thorne declares war on the Kingdom of the Three Daughters, the Faceless One will act. I will pay any price… but only the head of the Dragon King in human form will suffice."
The councilors nodded grimly. This, they knew, was Braavos' last and deadliest card.
"Yet even this may not be enough," Aquaman added, his tone shifting. "We require an ally. One that possesses a dragon of their own."
"The Targaryens of Westeros?" one councilor muttered, frowning in disgust. "They are Valyrian too. How can we trust them?"
"Exactly!" another councilor shouted. "They could collude with the new Dragon King. Their loyalties are as fractured as ever!"
The Sea King leaned back in his throne, weary but unyielding. He knew convincing these men, blinded by centuries of fear and hatred, would be no easy task.
"Times have changed," he said slowly. "The rise of Damian Thorne threatens even the Targaryens. There is a way to ensure their sincerity…" He turned to the Iron Bank's chief keykeeper. "Unless half of the Iron Throne's treasury is transferred to the Iron Bank for safekeeping, Braavos will pledge allegiance to no dragonlord."
The council fell silent. Measuring trust with wealth was very Braavos indeed, and no one dared to argue.
---
Meereen, a hidden laboratory outside the city.
The pungent aroma of formaldehyde mixed with herbs hung heavily in the air. Alan, wearing a leather apron stained with dark blood and chemicals, studied his latest creation with rapt fascination.
Before him stood a living shadow, a mass of constantly shifting darkness. Its humanoid form was slender and humanoid, yet its limbs ended in sharp, knife-like projections. Featureless, insubstantial, and barely tethered to reality, it seemed poised to dissolve into nothing at any moment.
This was Alan's new masterpiece: a Shadow Assassin, born from the fusion of Shadow Binder techniques and necromantic arts. Designed to blend with darkness itself, it could slip unseen into any environment and strike with lethal precision.
However, the creature was inherently unstable. Too far from a source of potent magical energy, and it would collapse into nothing.
"I must report this to His Majesty," Alan murmured, pulling out a black glass candle. He channeled a fragment of his magic into it. A thin, blue flame ignited silently at its tip.
Soon, Damian Thorne's calm, commanding voice resonated in his mind.
"What is it?"
"My Lord… my great majesty," Alan's voice trembled with excitement. "I have created a new servant: an assassin that can merge with the shadows themselves."
He detailed the Shadow Assassin's abilities, its potential, and its inherent instability. Damian's eyes narrowed, a hint of appreciation glimmering within.
"This Yasha wizard never ceases to impress," Damian remarked. "His ingenuity rivals that of the greatest mages I have known."
Alan's heart leapt. "Dying in Your Majesty's service is my greatest honor! But… to stabilize this creation, it requires a trace of your divine power. May I beg your grace to grant it?"
"As you wish."
The moment Damian's words fell, the flame atop the glass candle flared violently. A torrent of pure, sulfur-scented magic surged along the spiritual bond and flowed into Alan's body. He groaned, a mix of pain and ecstasy, as the power revitalized his being. The Shadow Assassin, touched by this divine energy, solidified. Its form stabilized, its presence became tangible, and it now exuded an aura of lethality that was impossible to ignore.
"Thank you, Your Majesty!" Alan bowed deeply, pressing his forehead to the stone floor.
---
The Kingdom of the Three Daughters, Myr.
When news of Volantis' alliance with the New Valyrian Empire arrived, chaos erupted among the councils of the three free cities.
"Shame!" bellowed the Lord of Myr, slamming his wineglass onto the floor. "Those spineless Volantenes! How dare they kneel to a new Dragon King!"
"How do we respond to the fleet bound for the Stone Steps Islands?" Rees, the Archon of Myr, asked, face pale. "Daemon Targaryen still waits for us there!"
"Impossible!" shouted the Tyrosh High Lord. "We are under attack on two fronts! If Volantis moves, we cannot possibly defend ourselves!"
The room descended into chaos. Financial and material resources had already been exhausted in prior campaigns, yet now a greater shadow loomed from the east: Damian Thorne.
At last, the Grand Prince of Myr called for order. His voice, calm and commanding, cut through the clamor.
"We act separately. First, send envoys immediately to Slaver's Bay, bearing the most generous gifts. Whatever the cost, we must seek to placate the Dragon King and dissuade him from expanding westward."
"Second," he continued, "dispatch another delegation to Sunspear. Our prior plans to strike at the Stepstones must be adjusted. A greater threat now requires their cooperation."
He paused, a flush of humiliation on his face as he issued the third, reluctant step.
"And third… if diplomacy fails, we must seek assistance from King's Landing itself."
A chorus of disbelief erupted. "The Iron Throne?!" cried Lys's Archon. "We would have to bow to the Targaryens—and pay an unimaginable price!"
"Better than extinction," roared the Lord of Myr. His eyes hardened with determination. "The Kingdom of the Three Daughters will never relinquish the disputed lands we claimed at such cost!"
Every delegate in the room understood that the coming days would test their courage, strategy, and survival. Shadows were rising in the east, and the era of the Dragon King had begun.
---