Inside the Great Pyramid of Meereen, Damian Thorne sat upon the obsidian throne, his fingers tapping intermittently against the smooth armrests. His brown eyes, calm yet sharp, were fixed on the empty hall before him. The silence of the throne room was profound, almost oppressive, as though the air itself was holding its breath.
He was waiting.
As agreed, Majo was leading the rested Khalasar back to Meereen, where they would be outfitted with newly issued equipment from the New Valyrian Empire. The army's return was imminent, but until then, Damian remained alone in the hall. Waiting, however, had a way of amplifying even the smallest sense of anticipation.
On the surface, the hall seemed utterly still. Yet beneath the throne, Damian's shadow occasionally rippled at the edges, as if something restless stirred within it before settling again into eerie calm. Those were the Shadow Assassins, the army of silent killers that Alan had created.
These deadly entities, sustained by Damian's immense magical power, lurked unseen, ever ready to strike at threats before they even materialized. They were invisible guardians, a secret force that made the emperor's personal safety absolute. Damian allowed himself a rare hint of satisfaction as he observed the rippling shadows.
My creation, yes… perfect.
A sudden burst of hurried footsteps echoed from the hall entrance, breaking the quiet monotony. Damian raised a brow and tilted his head toward the sound.
It was Ilaria.
She moved with a mixture of haste and excitement, lifting her skirts slightly to avoid tripping. Two maids followed closely behind her, struggling to match her pace. Damian's gaze lingered on her, slightly puzzled. This woman, normally so composed and cautious, now seemed almost uncontainable.
By the time she reached the foot of the throne, her breath came in short gasps, and her cheeks glowed a delicate pink. Her purple eyes shone with a brilliance that Damian had rarely seen, sparkling with both excitement and joy.
"Your Majesty…" she breathed, a subtle tremor in her voice betraying the depth of her emotion.
Damian leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. "What has you so joyous?" he asked, his voice calm yet commanding.
Ilaria took a deep, shuddering breath, as if gathering every ounce of strength in her body to speak. Then, with a mixture of relief and exhilaration, she finally said:
"I… I'm pregnant!"
For a moment, the hall seemed to freeze. Even the shadows beneath Damian's throne paused, as though the world itself acknowledged the weight of her words. Damian's gaze softened slightly, his brown pupils steady, as if he had already anticipated this.
Then, as if responding to an instinct he alone could feel, an invisible magical aura spread outward from him. It poured over Ilaria like molten mercury, enveloping her completely. Her body stiffened briefly, then warmth flowed through her, gentle and comforting, centering itself on her abdomen.
Though she felt a spark of nervousness, it was overshadowed by overwhelming joy. Damian closed his eyes, his senses stretching into Ilaria's body. There, a faint spark of life glimmered, an ember of power that mirrored his own.
It seems my essence can indeed be passed down through generations… he thought.
He had long wondered if his abilities could create heirs, but the aloof system he had once queried had never offered an answer. Now, he had his proof.
When Damian opened his eyes again, his expression had softened. Rising from the throne, he descended the steps and approached Ilaria. Gently, he lifted her chin and stroked her cheek, his touch firm yet tender.
"That is a blessing," he said, his voice calm, unwavering, yet filled with undeniable certainty.
Tears welled up in Ilaria's eyes. Trembling, she grasped his hand and pressed it to her cheek. Her voice broke as she whispered through sobs, "Yes… Your Majesty… our child…"
To her, this child was more than an extension of herself—it was a lifeline, a symbol of security and continuity in a world that could be as cold and unforgiving as the pyramid that now enclosed them.
Damian pulled her gently into his arms, resting his chin atop her head as he patted her back. "From today onward, your security level is elevated to the highest grade," he declared. His voice, once soft, now carried the icy precision of authority. "Someone, attend!"
A personal guard stationed at the palace gate appeared instantly, bowing on one knee.
"Spread the word," Damian commanded. "Create a new post for Ilaria and Linara: 'Lampbearer.'"
"The Lampbearer?" the guard asked, puzzled.
"They will carry unlit glass candles at all times, following their master closely," Damian explained. But his words were not meant solely for the guard. As he spoke, the shadows beneath his feet quivered again. Two solid forms emerged, gliding silently toward the shadows of Ilaria and Linara waiting outside, merging into them and vanishing.
With the glass candles as both coordinates and magical relays, the Shadow Assassins could maintain their maximum efficiency, ready to eliminate any threat before it reached the women.
The guard bowed deeply. "As you command, Your Majesty."
"Furthermore," Damian added, his eyes narrowing, "the news of Ilaria's pregnancy is classified as the empire's highest secret. Any leak will result in the elimination of the individual and their entire family."
The guard's voice was almost reverent, tinged with fear. "Yes, Your Majesty." He knew better than to doubt the emperor's resolve.
After all preparations were made, Damian looked down at Ilaria, holding her gently. "Rest assured. Protect your child. You have done the empire a great service."
Ilaria nodded fiercely, her heart swelling with security. From that moment, she and the child within her would become the empire's most guarded secrets.
---
Meanwhile, in distant Volantis, unrest stirred. Word of the alliance between Damian Thorne, the Dragon King, and the city's leaders spread like wildfire. The "Eldest Daughter of Valyria" had been drawn into the New Valyrian Empire, and the city erupted in a mixture of awe and elation.
The Tiger Party, once vocal proponents of military expansion, celebrated openly. Outside the recruiting office, long lines formed daily. Young men, eager for recognition, veterans, seeking redemption for past shame, and even freedmen whose families had suffered under previous regimes—all signed up eagerly.
They had confidence. Unmatched confidence.
Once, Volantis had dominated the Kingdom of the Three Daughters, its authority uncontested across Essos. That era ended when the Targaryens' Dragon King had descended from the skies, obliterated their fleets, and shattered their armies. The humiliation still lingered in the bones of every Volantene.
Now, a new Dragon King had arrived—Damian Thorne, more formidable and ruthless than any Targaryen. He was the self-proclaimed Emperor of the New Valyrian Empire.
Not only did he possess a dragon capable of reducing the world to ashes, but he commanded an iron-blooded army that had already conquered the entire Slaver's Bay.
For the citizens and nobles of Volantis, this was a chance to reclaim lost honor, to walk in the shadow of Valyria's legacy, and to trample all who opposed them.
Inside the black walls, in the private residence of Tiger Party Governor Rios, a secret council convened.
"Governor Hidara has conveyed His Majesty's intentions. The first shipment of military supplies will arrive at the port shortly," Rios said, eyes blazing. "His Majesty commands total readiness. Our target: the Kingdom of the Three Daughters."
An elder noble hesitated. "But… the Targaryens…"
Rios sneered. "Viserys I lacks a dragon of his own, and his brother Daemon is stranded on the Stepstones, chasing pirates. What could they possibly do to impede us?"
"His Majesty is the true descendant of Valyria," another noble added with fervor. "The rightful Lord of Dragons!"
"Yes!" a general slammed his hand on the table. "We have waited too long. Now, the blood debt owed to Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh will be repaid, with interest!"
The secret chamber buzzed with the raw intensity of vengeance and the fervor for war.
Under the shadow of Damian Thorne, Volantis—long dormant—had opened its eyes, its sharp fangs bared once more. A storm was gathering, one that would soon sweep across the western coast of Essos, leaving no enemy unscathed.
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