The colossal obsidian statue emitted a deep, resonant rumble that echoed throughout the entire workshop.
Its massive face—crafted in Damian Thorne's own likeness—stared down with cold, divine indifference, as though a god were judging his creations.
Damian withdrew his magic, the last traces of shimmering power fading from his fingertips. The residual warmth clung to the statue's surface like a heartbeat.
The matter of Mataris had come to an end.
This city of distortion, once twisted and broken, was now reborn under his magic of order. The foundations of the new Obsidian Academy were laid, and from here, Allan would oversee its future.
"Your Majesty."
Allan's voice emerged from the shadows. He stepped forward and bowed deeply, his posture humble and reverent.
Behind him, a blurred mass like melting ink writhed in silence. The darkness shifted and split into multiple afterimages before recombining—an abomination caught between shadow and flesh.
"The Shadow Assassin you requested has been fully modified," Allan said, his tone laced with restrained excitement. "Using that Faceless Man as material, the results were… far beyond expectation."
Damian's golden eyes narrowed as he observed the creature.
The Shadow Assassin had no defined form, only a twisted silhouette of pure darkness. Yet, the killing intent radiating from it was far more potent—more refined—than that of the Faceless Man it had been created from.
"Come."
Damian extended his hand, his tone calm and absolute.
At once, the shadow beneath his feet expanded, spreading like a living void. The blackness rippled, deep and endless—a bottomless pool of night.
The assassin, as though recognizing its true master, lunged forward and plunged into Damian's shadow, vanishing instantly.
"Allan," Damian said quietly, turning toward the light beyond the workshop, "the matter of the Kingdom of the Three Daughters must now be concluded. I need to make an appearance there—to calm the people—and then…"
He paused, a faint smile curving his lips.
"…then I will go to Westeros. It's time for the two great dragon-rider families to sit down and talk."
Allan bowed low, his head almost touching the floor. He dared not speak.
Outside, the city's people had gathered in the square, gazing up at the newly completed colossal statue with awe and devotion.
Under their watchful eyes, Damian's body began to shift.
His bones cracked, sharp and rhythmic. Black scales erupted from his skin. Muscles expanded with terrifying force, and the air around him rippled with primal energy.
In the next instant, a black dragon—seventy meters long, magnificent and terrible—stood where the man had been.
A wave of draconic might burst outward, a pressure so overwhelming that the entire city seemed to tremble.
One by one, the people fell to their knees, their voices rising in unison:
"His Majesty the Emperor!"
The dragon's gaze swept over them, cold and distant.
Then, with a thunderous flap of his wings, Damian rose into the sky.
The gust of wind that followed tore the ground apart, lifting dust and stones into a swirling hurricane. The black dragon soared higher, shattering clouds as he ascended—until only a shrinking silhouette remained against the heavens.
---
Volantis — Within the Black Walls
Inside the heart of the ancient city, Daemon Targaryen sat silently upon an ornate chair, his eyes hollow and distant.
Across the room, Rhaenys Velaryon paced restlessly, her long silver-white hair swaying with every agitated movement.
Beside her, Rhaenys Targaryen stood still, outwardly calm—but the deep furrows in her brow betrayed her tension.
They were prisoners now. Their dragons, their pride, their freedom—all stripped away.
For dragon riders, this humiliation was worse than death.
Then, without warning, the sky darkened.
A pressure like a storm front pressed down on the city.
BOOM!
A colossal black dragon crashed onto the palace plaza, shattering the flagstones. Cracks radiated outward like spiderwebs, and the shockwave knocked over braziers and shattered windows.
Daemon and Laena jolted upright, their faces pale.
Rhaenys's pupils shrank.
That dragon—its scales darker than night, its presence suffocating—was the same monstrous creature that had crushed their own three dragons.
The beast's body began to shrink, scales melting into flesh as the great wings folded inward. From the shifting light stepped a tall figure in a dark cloak—Damian Thorne.
He approached slowly, each step echoing with power.
"Targaryen. Velaryon."
His voice was calm, yet it carried the weight of command.
"Your vacation is over. I will escort you to the Kingdom of the Three Daughters, and afterward, I shall personally visit Westeros to negotiate your ransom with Viserys."
Daemon opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Once, he had been proud—a dragon rider, a prince of fire and blood. But standing before this man, this creature, his pride had long since turned to ashes.
"Where is Corlys?" Rhaenys asked suddenly, her voice hoarse. "My husband—where is he?"
Laena's eyes filled with worry, searching Damian's expression.
Damian chuckled, a low, cold sound.
"The Sea Snake's ransom will be paid by the Velaryon family themselves."
His gaze flicked over the two women, sharp and assessing, like a merchant inspecting goods.
"I can't think of anything on you that would move me."
Rhaenys's face went pale. She forced herself to stand tall, fighting to keep her dignity.
"Corlys's nine great voyages made the Velaryons the richest in the realm," she said tightly. "We can pay any ransom you demand."
Damian's eyes glinted.
"A dragon rider disdains mortal gold."
His tone was ice.
Rhaenys fell silent.
From the depths of his gaze, she saw no greed—only calm detachment. To him, gold meant nothing. Power was its own reward.
"Take them away," Damian ordered.
At once, two squads of guards stepped forward—one composed of the silent, steel-disciplined Unsullied, and the other of Tiger Cloaks, warriors with tiger stripes tattooed across their faces.
They said nothing, only acted.
Daemon, Rhaenys, and Laena—names that could shake kingdoms—were now reduced to captives, ushered toward waiting carriages like lambs to slaughter.
Their procession moved through the streets of Volantis, watched by silent crowds, and made its way to the port where ships awaited to carry them to Tyrosh.
---
Lys — The Fallen City
Once known as the City of Love, Lys was now draped in shadow.
At the port, countless warships bearing black dragon banners crowded the harbor, their masts forming a forest of iron.
When Damian descended from the skies, silence fell over the city.
Hercris, commander of the Volantine combined fleet, knelt immediately, trembling with fervent devotion.
"Your Majesty!" he cried.
He raised two scrolls high above his head.
"These are the full inventories of all wealth seized from Lys and Tyrosh, as well as the census of all artisans."
Damian took the scrolls and glanced through them.
The wealth listed could have driven any mortal king mad with greed—but to him, it was just numbers.
The second scroll interested him far more.
"Technology," he murmured, "is the foundation of empire."
He looked up. "Hercris."
"Your subordinate is here!"
"Of the confiscated wealth, keep thirty percent and distribute it among the combined fleet and every Qohor soldier who fought."
Hercris's body shook with gratitude, tears welling in his eyes. It was an unimaginably generous reward.
"Another fifteen percent," Damian continued, "goes to Zola, for his army's efforts."
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
"The remainder shall go to the imperial treasury."
He tossed the parchment back to Hercris and gave his final order in a tone both calm and absolute.
"From this day forward, you are Governor of Lys, responsible for all military and political matters within the Kingdom of the Three Daughters."
Hercris slammed his forehead to the ground.
"Hercris pledges eternal loyalty to Your Majesty!"
Damian's gaze drifted to another figure behind him—a middle-aged man with a fearful, submissive expression.
This was Lysandro, the former acting governor of Lys. It was he who had surrendered the city's gates in exchange for mercy.
"Lysandro," Damian said evenly.
The man flinched and dropped to his knees. "Y–Your Majesty!"
"You are clever," Damian said, his tone unreadable. "Hercris is a soldier; he needs a deputy who understands the city's workings. That role will be yours."
Lysandro froze, then his eyes widened with disbelief and relief.
He had not only survived—he had been promoted.
"Thank you, Your Majesty! Thank you!" he cried, kowtowing repeatedly, his forehead striking the stone with hollow thuds.
Damian looked down at the two men kneeling before him—one a loyal soldier, the other a pragmatic opportunist.
It was exactly the balance he desired.
The loyal were rewarded.
The cunning were useful.
The disobed
ient… became dust.
As the sun set over the Narrow Sea, the black dragon banner of Damian Thorne fluttered above Lys, declaring to all who beheld it—
This city, once the jewel of the east, now belonged to him.
give my full efforts to you all make happy but you guys did not support me even in small ways. im very exhausted.🫠more chapter available in p@tréøñ(Atoki_29)