The vast fleet slowly glided into the bottomless harbor of Volantis.
The towering sails blotted out the sun, casting sprawling shadows across the cheering crowds gathered on the docks. Even their thunderous excitement seemed muffled beneath that living canopy of canvas and wood.
"Long live the Dragon King!"
"The Emperor of New Valyria!"
"Lord of Storm and Flame!"
The roars of tens of thousands rolled like a tide through the air, spreading from the harbor to every street and square in the ancient city.
Volantis—the proud eldest daughter of Valyria—was now welcoming her new master with the most fervent and humble devotion.
The flagship came to rest at the pier. The gangplank fell with a heavy thud.
The first to disembark were not noblemen but a group of pale-faced, seasick Dothraki. The nomads who once ruled the boundless grasslands with their horses were now trembling from their first encounter with the "kindness" of the sea. Many of them staggered as they walked, clutching their stomachs, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear at the endless water surrounding them.
Dhaka, their war leader, suppressed his nausea, cracked his whip against the dock, and bellowed hoarsely,
"Stand straight! Don't shame His Majesty!"
His roar was quickly drowned by the cheers of the Volantenes. The citizens cared little for the discomfort of these horsemen from the plains. Their eyes were fixed on the flagship—on the colossal dragon-shaped figurehead at its prow.
They had heard the stories.
Not long ago, a terrifying dragon war had erupted over the Narrow Sea.
Three dragonriders of House Targaryen—Daemon, Rhaenys, and Laena—had joined forces, commanding three legendary dragons, including the colossal Vhagar, the oldest of them all. Together, they had sought to slay the mysterious "Dragon King of Slaver's Bay."
But the battle had ended in utter humiliation for the Targaryens.
Prince Daemon Targaryen had lost a hand and fled. His dragons had been gravely wounded.
And the proud Lysian fleet of the Kingdom of the Three Daughters—thousands strong—had been annihilated, their ships turned to molten wreckage by a storm of platinum dragonfire.
The Targaryen myth had been broken.
And now, the people of Volantis stood face to face with the man who shattered it—their true and unrivaled Dragon Lord.
At the forefront of the welcoming party stood Tiger Archon Rios and his two rivals, the Elephant Archons, Talion and Lannas. Behind them gathered the city's nobles, each adorned in silks and jewels, their faces painted with trembling reverence.
When Damian Thorne appeared at the bow of the ship, dressed in black and gold armor, the crowd's frenzy reached its peak.
He didn't need to spread his wings or breathe fire. The calm weight of his gaze alone carried more power than any dragon's shadow.
Rios stepped forward and shouted in a booming, trembling voice,
"Welcome, Emperor of the New Valyrian Empire! Conqueror of Slaver's Bay! Lord of Storm and Flame—His Majesty Damian Thorne!"
At once, every noble in sight—Tiger and Elephant alike—dropped to their knees. The dock became a sea of bowed heads.
Damian's expression remained calm, unreadable. His sharp eyes swept across the kneeling nobles, then fell on Dhaka and his Dothraki.
"Take them to the camp. Let them rest," he said quietly.
"Yes, Your Majesty!" Dhaka barked, thumping his chest. With the help of the Tiger Robe Army, he led his weary riders through the city gates toward the sprawling camp outside Volantis.
Only then did Damian turn back to Rios.
"Rise."
"Thank you, Your Majesty!" Rios exclaimed, standing upright, his excitement barely contained.
"Your Majesty, a palace has been prepared for you within the Black Walls. Tonight, Volantis shall hold the grandest banquet in your honor!"
Damian inclined his head slightly and began walking down the gangplank.
Wherever he stepped, the kneeling crowds parted like a receding tide.
None dared to raise their heads.
For the people of Volantis, victory was no longer a hope. It was destiny.
---
King's Landing, the Red Keep
Far across the sea, King Viserys I Targaryen sat trembling in his solar, his face ashen. In his hands was a freshly delivered report from Pentos.
"Impossible," he whispered hoarsely, shaking his head. "This is absolutely impossible…"
His voice cracked with disbelief.
"Three dragons… Daemon, Rhaenys, and Laena's Vhagar—the mightiest since Balerion the Black Dread! Three Targaryen dragons, defeated?"
The words tore at the last shred of pride he held for his house. The foundation of Targaryen power—the dragons themselves—had been unshakable, eternal… until now.
The parchment in his hands trembled violently.
If a man in the East could slay fleets and dragons alike, what would stop him from turning his gaze toward Westeros?
Panic seized his chest like a cold fist.
The door opened. Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, entered alongside Queen Alicent.
Viserys's bloodshot eyes darted toward them, wild and desperate.
"I want to tame a dragon," he rasped suddenly.
Both Otto and Alicent froze.
"I want a dragon of my own!" Viserys's voice rose, burning with madness and fear. "I will not sit here helpless while another Dragon King rises beyond the Narrow Sea!"
"Your Grace!" Alicent cried, rushing forward to grip his arm. "What are you saying? You're the King of the Seven Kingdoms! Taming a dragon is too dangerous—you could be killed!"
Otto bowed deeply, his face grave.
"The Queen is right, Your Grace. You haven't ridden in years. Your health is… fragile. Should something happen, the realm would fall into chaos."
They weren't merely worried for his safety—they feared the collapse of their power if Viserys died.
"Accident? Loss?" Viserys roared, slamming the report onto the table. "The true disaster is already here! Can't you see? A Dragon King who fought three dragons at once—and won! His ambitions won't end at Slaver's Bay!"
Otto's calculating mind flickered behind calm eyes. He let the king's fury settle before speaking in an even tone.
"Your Majesty, perhaps things are not as dire as they appear."
Viserys glared at him. "Not dire? You call this not dire?"
"Consider this," Otto said carefully. "The Dragon King—Damian Thorne—defeated the Lysian fleet. His next move will likely be against the Kingdom of the Three Daughters. This is a war among the Easterners—a conflict between Volantis and the Free Cities."
He paused, letting the reasoning sink in.
"We do not need to involve ourselves."
Viserys froze. His breathing slowed.
Otto's words slithered into his mind like balm.
Yes… this was their war, not his.
The Iron Throne had enough burdens.
Why should Westeros bleed for the squabbles of foreign powers?
Slowly, the wild light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a feeble kind of rationality.
"If… if Damian Thorne only wants the disputed lands," he muttered, half to himself, "then perhaps… I can yield them."
His voice softened, reason reshaping fear into self-justification.
"After all, it was the pirates of the Three Daughters who murdered my uncle. House Targaryen has no reason to defend them."
His lips curved into something that resembled relief.
"Yes… yes, that's right. The Targaryens can coexist with this new Dragon King…"
Otto hid his contempt behind a mask of obedience.
He bowed low, his voice smooth as silk.
"Your Majesty is wise."
It was, in truth, the best possible outcome for him.
As long as Viserys lived—weak, indecisive, and afraid—the realm would remain stable. Otto's influence would remain unchallenged.
If war came, everything could crumble.
As for Daemon on the Stepstones, or the doomed Kingdom of the Three Daughters…
Their fate no longer mattered.
---