The golden-yellow dragon unfurled her wings against the vast blue sky.
Each powerful beat was graceful and controlled, her scales shimmering beneath the sun like molten gold. Below her stretched the ancient capital—King's Landing—its red roofs, winding streets, and towering walls slowly shrinking into a tapestry of stone and smoke as she climbed higher into the heavens.
Upon her back sat Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne.
With her silver hair streaming wildly behind her and her hands firm around the saddle straps, her silver-lilac eyes reflected the city she was destined to rule. For a long moment, she allowed herself to savor the sight of the Red Keep below—its pale stone walls glowing with royal authority.
Pride filled her chest.
This was her city.
This was her sky.
Not far from her flew another dragon.
Where Syrax moved like a swan, the second dragon hung ominously in the air like a living mountain.
Its scales were pitch black, absorbing every ray of sunlight that touched them. Its enormous wings did not appear to flap at all—instead, they merely remained extended, steady and terrifyingly unmoving. Invisible currents of power gathered beneath its colossal form, generating a swirling force that kept it aloft without effort.
It did not fly.
It ruled the sky.
Upon this dragon's back did not sit a rider.
It bore no saddle.
No reins.
No chains.
The dragon itself was its own master.
And within its molten-gold vertical pupils burned an intelligence not meant for mortals to witness.
This was Damian Thorne.
The shadow of his dragon's wings fell across Syrax—and across Rhaenyra's heart.
She swallowed.
Though she would never admit it aloud, the presence beside her weighed heavily upon her pride as a dragonrider.
"Look…" she called out, forcing her tone into something light and confident. "This is Syrax's speed."
Her voice echoed faintly through the rushing winds.
Damian Thorne did not answer.
His gaze remained fixed on the horizon, expression indifferent, eyes glowing like molten stars trapped within obsidian. To him, Syrax's flight was not impressive.
It was slow.
Painfully so.
If not for the woman beside him—his so-called fiancée by arrangements older and colder than affection—he would have already torn through the sky and vanished into the horizon like a comet.
Silence fell between them.
An uncomfortable silence.
Rhaenyra could feel it growing heavier by the second. His presence was not impatient… nor angry.
It was worse.
It was dismissive.
As if her existence was merely tolerated.
As if her flight alone was a courtesy extended by something far greater than a man—or dragon.
Finally, his patience ended.
"Where is God's Eye?"
The voice that echoed inside her head was not sound.
It did not travel through the air.
It manifested directly within her mind—deep, heavy, and vibrating with the weight of ancient authority. Each word carried the texture of grinding stone and bending iron, like continents colliding inside her skull.
Rhaenyra gasped sharply.
Her mind went blank.
This was the first time he had spoken to her in this form.
Not as a man.
Not as a prince.
But as a being beyond mortal understanding.
Her dragon screamed beneath her.
Syrax's wings wobbled.
Her flight path shuddered.
She felt it—an instinctive terror deep within her blood, an ancestral scream from dragonkind itself.
That creature beside her was not merely stronger.
It was higher.
Above bloodlines.
Above scales.
Above nature itself.
"Th—that way!"
Her arm shot out, pointing shakily toward the northwestern horizon.
Before she could say anything else—
"Hold on tight."
The voice returned.
Cold.
Final.
Then the world vanished.
A violent surge exploded from Damian Thorne's dragon as it unleashed its power.
The air itself screamed.
An invisible vortex formed around his massive body, expanding outward like a shockwave—but instead of destroying Syrax, it enveloped her. Wrapped her.
Trapped her.
Dragged her along.
The sky shattered.
BOOM—
A sonic explosion tore through the clouds as both dragons transformed into streaks of impossible speed, black and gold light ripping across the heavens toward God's Eye.
"AHHH—!"
Rhaenyra's scream was ripped from her throat.
Crushed.
Scattered to nothing by the wind.
The pressure slammed her into Syrax's saddle with brutal force. Her ribs screamed in protest. Her vision darkened.
The sky no longer felt like air.
It was a storm of blades.
Wind slashed against her skin like invisible knives, tearing at her clothes and stealing the breath from her lungs. If not for Damian Thorne's barrier protecting them, she would already have been reduced to shredded flesh.
Syrax shrieked in agony.
Her pride as a fast flier disintegrated instantly.
This was not flight.
This was annihilation masquerading as movement.
She could no longer even flap her wings.
She was a leaf carried by a hurricane.
A tear split the clouds before them.
They plunged through.
Far ahead, a vast body of water rapidly expanded into view.
God's Eye.
But before Rhaenyra could even register its enormity—
Another city emerged.
Towering.
Black.
Monolithic.
Volantis.
---
At the heart of Volantis stood a colossal tower forged entirely from black stone.
No decoration.
No windows.
Only raw authority.
The Black Tower.
At its peak, artisans scrambled with golden tools and trembling hands. Suspended between massive arcane cranes, a three-meter-wide sphere of black obsidian slowly descended into position.
When it finally settled into the waiting cradle—
The tower hummed.
Light vanished into the obsidian orb.
Not reflected.
Not bent.
Devoured.
Near the tower's base stood the magistrates of the Elephant Party and Tiger Party, along with nobles from within the Black Wall.
Their gazes were filled not with pride…
But fear.
Reverence.
And unspoken obedience.
A lone elder stepped forward.
His hands shook as he held a twisted black candle carved from ancient crystal.
A glass candle.
With a single breath, he pressed it against the rune carved into the tower's surface.
And activated it.
Buzz—
A wave of power erupted across Volantis.
Not fire.
Not light.
But will.
Every soul in the city froze.
From nobles to slaves.
From merchants to soldiers.
They all felt it—
A vast, icy presence washing through their spirits.
As if something ancient and infinite had glanced at them.
In the sky above the city's edge—
Two eyes burned.
Molten.
Endless.
And then—
Gone.
"Your Majesty…"
The Elephant Party magistrate collapsed.
Kneeling.
His forehead smashed against the earth.
One by one—
Thousands followed.
Like wheat before the scythe.
In the shadows, a group of traveling bards erupted into wild fervor.
"This is a miracle!"
They shouted.
"This is the grace of the Emperor!"
They ran into the streets, chanting hymns of conquest and divine order.
"Believe in Him!"
"Worship Him!"
"For every hundred souls—gold awaits!"
The faith of Volantis was forged not with scriptures…
But with fear, awe, and coin.
---
Far away…
In Mataris.
The City of Monsters.
Aran paused mid-sketch.
His dark eyes lifted.
"…Volantis… the node is active."
A small smile pulled across his face.
Beside him, the foundation of a vast academy sprawled across the ground—its walls forged from obsidian harvested from old Valyria.
Children sat nearby.
Cross-legged.
Eyes closed.
Training.
Receiving power from a source they could not comprehend.
In another secluded area—
Pregnant women were bathed in gentle magic.
Their unborn children shaped by the Empire itself.
Aran re
turned to his designs.
"With the road repaired…"
"Mataris will become the Empire's first magical blade."
And the Emperor's will would carve the world anew.
---
High above the world—
Two dragons streaked like falling stars.
And Rhaenyra Targaryen finally understood—
She was no longer flying beside a man.
She was flying beside a god.