The envoy's declaration struck King's Landing like a massive boulder hurled into a still pond. Ripples of shock spread through every corridor, courtyard, and whispering servant's passageway of the Red Keep. News traveled swiftly—first to the guards, then to the stewards, and soon to the ears of nobles scattered across the castle. Before long, it reached the council chamber where the ruler of Westeros sat upon the legendary Iron Throne.
Viserys I Targaryen listened, his brow deeply furrowed, as his Hand—Otto Hightower—delivered the report with unusual stiffness.
"Your Majesty," Otto said, his voice betraying a trace of unease, "envoys from the East have arrived. They bring word that His Majesty the Emperor will personally visit King's Landing within the next few days."
Silence struck the council chamber like a hammer. Not one of the gathered nobles dared breathe too loudly. Everyone exchanged glances—some fearful, some incredulous, some outright panicked.
The Dragon King from the East.
Damian Thorne.
The man whose growing empire had consumed the entire Kingdom of the Three Daughters in mere months. The one who captured the entire Braavosi fleet as casually as picking fruit from a branch. That man was coming to King's Landing?
Viserys exhaled slowly. "Let them in," he commanded, voice calm yet carrying a weight of buried anxiety.
Moments later, the doors opened. Two envoys strode in—not dressed like the merchants or diplomat-princes of Essos, but in stark black silk adorned with embroidered golden dragon heads, fierce and elegant. Their posture was upright, their steps measured, their expressions utterly composed. They did not bow in the elaborate Westerosi fashion; they merely inclined their heads respectfully.
"Greetings to the King upon the Iron Throne," the leading envoy said. His Common Tongue was flawless, his tone neither humble nor rebellious. "His Majesty Emperor Damian Thorne will soon arrive in King's Landing to negotiate the ransom of Prince Daemon Targaryen and the dragonrider captured beside him."
The murmurs that followed were barely restrained.
Daemon Targaryen—rogue prince, warrior, rider of the ferocious red dragon Khorakshyu—was someone else's prisoner. For many, understanding this was more painful than hearing of an army's defeat.
Viserys gripped the throne's armrest tighter, the cold metal grounding his spiraling thoughts. "My brother, Daemon… how fares he?"
The envoy answered immediately. "His Royal Highness is in good health. His Majesty the Emperor has offered all captives courtesies befitting their station."
The word "courtesies" carried a sting. It was almost mocking, though the envoy's tone never wavered.
Viserys inhaled deeply. He needed information—and control.
"How," he asked, narrowing his eyes, "do you maintain contact with His Majesty the Emperor, who resides far across the Narrow Sea? Raven messages require weeks. Surely you did not receive word instantly?"
A test.
If their communication was slow, Viserys still had room to maneuver.
But the envoy reacted in a way no one expected.
He looked confused—almost pitying.
"Contact?" he echoed. Then he reached into his robe and retrieved an object.
He set it gently upon the table.
A candle.
Black as night.
Carved from a single piece of obsidian, twisted like a serpentine spine, humming with a subtle, unsettling aura.
A glass candle.
Grand Maester Runciter gasped so sharply it echoed against the stone walls.
His wrinkled face drained of color; his eyes widened to a size their age had long forbidden. His hands trembled uncontrollably. It was as if the foundation of everything he believed in had cracked beneath him.
"A… a true Valyrian glass candle…" he whispered, more to himself than the room.
The legends of the Citadel spoke of such artifacts—tools used by ancient Valyrian sorcerers to communicate across continents, conjure visions, or even influence dreams. None had worked in centuries. The maesters had insisted the magic had died with the Doom.
Yet the envoy held one as casually as if showing an ordinary taper.
The envoy frowned at the maester's reaction, clearly bewildered.
So the rumors were true, he thought.
The Targaryens of Westeros have truly fallen into decline… They do not even know how to use their own ancestral relics.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Viserys stared at the candle, then at his Grand Maester's trembling figure. A storm churned behind his eyes. The envoy's simple demonstration had revealed a truth more terrifying than armies or dragons.
The East did not merely possess power.
They possessed the lost magic of Valyria.
After the envoys departed, the council chamber remained cloaked in an oppressive heaviness. Viserys dismissed all ministers except Otto and Runciter.
"Is it real?" he asked, voice hoarse, nearly cracking.
The Grand Maester nodded shakily. "Your Majesty… the ancient records are clear. That is a genuine glass candle. A relic of lost Valyrian sorcery."
Otto's expression tightened. "This means Emperor Damian Thorne commands the very heritage House Targaryen lost centuries ago. True Valyrian knowledge."
Viserys said nothing for a long time.
At last, he descended from the Iron Throne, running his fingers along one of its steel blades. The coldness comforted him even as it pricked his skin.
"This is not merely a threat, Otto," Viserys finally murmured. "This is an opportunity."
Otto blinked. "Your Majesty?"
"The Targaryen bloodline can no longer rely on dragon dreams and fading dragons." His voice grew firmer with each word. "We need true magic. We need the power our ancestors once held. If we ally with the Dragon King of the East—perhaps even bind our bloodlines—it will strengthen the Targaryen dynasty immeasurably."
For a king known for peace and compromise, this hunger was new. The realization of just how small his kingdom was compared to Damian Thorne's empire ignited a fire of ambition—and desperation.
By nightfall, rumors of the glass candle and the new Valyrian Empire's magical heritage spread like wildfire across the Red Keep. Informants dispatched messages in all directions. Lords whispered. Servants gossiped. The entire Seven Kingdoms would soon tremble.
Meanwhile, high in the sky beyond King's Landing, a black speck cut through the clouds.
Damian Thorne soared at impossible speed, wings slicing through the wind. Sonic booms crackled behind him like rolling thunder. The coastline of Westeros appeared beneath him, rugged and wild.
Just as he angled toward the capital, the air shifted. A subtle ripple—an airflow disturbance—reached his sharp senses.
Another large flying creature… a dragon?
His golden slit pupils gleamed with interest. With a single powerful beat of his wings, he veered toward the source.
Below him stretched an endless, glittering blue sea. Between the waves and the sky flew a dragon—sleek, small compared to the monstrous titans of old, but elegant and agile.
Its scales shimmered pearlescent gray, reflecting silver light. It circled above the water, hunting.
Then it folded its wings and dove—
A silver spear streaking toward the sea.
It pierced the surface cleanly, sending water exploding skyward. Moments later it emerged with a massive fish thrashing in its claws.
Damian hovered far above, unseen, studying it with detached curiosity.
Grey Ghost, he recalled.
A wild dragon of Dragonstone—untamed, independent, difficult to predict. The maesters barely recorded its existence.
As Damian watched, the small gray dragon suddenly stiffened—
It sensed him.
Its head snapped up, golden eyes widening with primal fear.
Then it fled, darting away with remarkable agility, vanishing into the distant mist.
Damian's lips curled slightly.
A simple glance had sent a dragon running.
So that was Grey Ghost…
He turned his attention toward King's Landing.
Westeros was not ready for the power descending upon it.
Not even close.
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