A strange aroma of porridge wafted through the temporary military camp set up in the port district of Tyrosh. The air was thick with the mingling scents of sea salt, sweat, and damp wood, but that peculiar fragrance overpowered them all—an odd, medicinal sweetness that made some wrinkle their noses and others sniff curiously.
At the center of the camp, Niro stood before a massive iron cauldron, his expression cold and unreadable. He poured the last few drops of a pale green potion from a glass vial into the bubbling mixture. The potion hissed as it touched the boiling surface, sending up a plume of greenish steam. In an instant, the grayish-white porridge within turned a disturbing shade of light green, as though it had absorbed the very essence of some poisonous moss.
Beside him, Old Blind Man, a shriveled figure with a long, crooked spine and clouded eyes, reached into the pot with a massive wooden spoon. He stirred it slowly, methodically, the liquid sloshing thickly with a sound like mud being churned. Bringing a small sample to his nose, he inhaled deeply, his cracked lips curling into a rasping grin.
"Ah… this is the color. This is the taste," he croaked, his voice as rough as stone grinding against stone. A few soldiers standing nearby shuddered at the sound. His laughter followed—dry, hoarse, and unsettling, like the rattling of bones in an empty chest.
Niro, however, did not so much as blink. His sharp eyes turned to his personal guard standing at attention nearby.
"Go," he ordered curtly. "Tell the auxiliary troops to assemble for their meal."
The guard saluted and hurried off. Within moments, the once-languid camp stirred into motion.
From across the port, a tide of men began to gather. These were the Tyroshi mercenaries, fierce but undisciplined fighters who had been forcibly reorganized into what the Qohor navy mockingly called the "Qohor Auxiliary Army." Their armor was mismatched, their weapons nicked and rusted, but their eyes gleamed with the restless energy of men who had survived too many battles and trusted no one.
Since their incorporation, Niro had imposed strict food control upon them. Every soldier received two bowls of thick porridge and a hard piece of black bread daily—nothing more. Those who dared to complain learned quickly that the Qohor navy's discipline was not something to test.
So when word spread that food was being served early, and perhaps even extra portions were available, the men were quick to line up, bowls in hand, their boots scraping against the packed dirt as they jostled one another. The smell of the strange porridge filled the air, its earthy tang mixed with something metallic and unfamiliar.
"Next! Get your food and move along!"
The Qohor naval officer ladling the porridge barked at them as though driving livestock. His voice cracked through the line like a whip. "Don't stand there gawking!"
The mercenaries shuffled forward one by one, accepting the steaming green porridge into their bowls. They dared not argue, though whispers rippled through the ranks.
After a while, one of the men—braver or perhaps just more foolish than the rest—held up his bowl and frowned.
"Sir… this porridge, why's it green?" he asked, his tone uncertain.
The naval soldier didn't even glance up. "It's a specialty from the Basilisk Isles—green moss porridge," he said sharply, his spoon clattering against the cauldron. "Keeps off the plague and the island miasma. Without it, any of you idiots thinking of making your fortune there will rot before you reach the shore."
The explanation, though absurd, sounded convincing enough. The men had all heard of the Basilisk Isles—lands of exotic spices, hidden treasures, and lethal diseases that devoured the unprepared. If this foul-looking porridge could truly protect them, then perhaps it was worth swallowing.
Their doubts faded, replaced by a mix of curiosity and greed. They began to eat. The first spoonfuls were hesitant, but soon, hunger overcame hesitation. The porridge tasted oddly sweet at first, then bitter, leaving a lingering numbness on the tongue. Within minutes, thousands of men were devouring it, licking their bowls clean, some even fighting for the last dregs.
When the final ladle scraped the bottom of the cauldron, Niro turned to Old Blind Man, whose milky eyes reflected the flickering firelight.
"It should take effect by tonight?" Niro asked in a low voice.
The old man's lips twisted into a sinister grin, showing yellowed teeth.
"It should," he rasped.
"Then," Niro said, his tone indifferent, "no need to prepare dinner."
Old Blind Man chuckled. "They won't be eating again."
---
Meanwhile, in Meereen…
The streets of the liberated city thundered with jubilation. Cheers echoed off the stone walls, and drums pounded as if the very heart of Meereen beat in celebration. Word had spread like wildfire—the Kingdom of the Three Daughters had fallen. The last stronghold of resistance had been conquered in the name of the Empire.
For the first time in years, the people of Slaver's Bay looked toward the horizon and saw hope instead of chains. The once-starving city now dreamed of full bellies and golden fields. The fertile lands of the conquered kingdom promised not only sustenance but prosperity.
In every street and courtyard, wealthy merchants and nobles brought out barrels of fruit wine and baskets of honey cakes. Sweet aromas filled the air as people shared food and sang songs of praise for their Emperor. The sound of laughter and the clinking of cups carried across the city like a tide of relief.
Children ran barefoot through the streets, waving crimson flags. Women tossed flower petals from balconies. And everywhere, one name was spoken with reverence—Damian Thorne, the Dragon Emperor who had united the east and brought the slave cities to their knees.
Inside the palace, far removed from the noisy celebrations, the mood was gentler yet equally intense.
---
Within the Palace Chambers
Ilaria sat on a cushioned divan near the balcony, sunlight bathing her in warmth. Her hand caressed her visibly swollen belly, the curve of new life beneath her fingers. Her violet eyes shimmered with a serene glow, filled with the tenderness of an expectant mother.
Beside her, Linarra, her lady-in-waiting and distant cousin, sat quietly, though her posture was tense. Her gaze occasionally drifted toward the horizon, where the faint outline of ships glimmered in the bay.
Suddenly, the glass candle on the ornate table beside them flickered to life. Its pale blue flame shimmered and then steadied, glowing like captured moonlight. The two women froze.
Then, a calm, commanding voice filled the room—not through the air, but directly within their minds.
> "I will return to Meereen within the next few days."
The voice was unmistakable—deep, resonant, filled with quiet authority.
Damian Thorne.
> "This time," the voice continued, "I will remain until the child is born."
When the flame faded, silence fell once more. Ilaria sat motionless for a heartbeat before joy blossomed across her face. Her entire being seemed to glow with happiness. She turned to Linarra, her hand reaching out to grasp the younger woman's fingers.
"Did you hear, Linarra?" she said softly, her tone trembling with emotion. "His Majesty is coming back. And he will stay for a long while."
Linarra nodded, though her smile was faint and forced.
Ilaria's expression shifted subtly, her tone taking on a quiet gravity. "This is our chance, Linarra—your chance," she said. "You must conceive during this time. You must."
The words were gentle but carried an undeniable edge. "When the palace grows, when more and more women surround him, opportunities like this will vanish. You understand what I mean."
Linarra's heart clenched. Ilaria's words were like a whisper of poison—soft but sharp. Every syllable pressed upon the insecurities that had long haunted her.
She remembered the letter she'd received weeks ago from her father, far away in the east. Every line of it had been filled with expectation—and pressure.
"The family's future depends on you. Secure your position beside the Emperor. Do not fail us."
The memory of those words burned behind her eyes. Her family's honor, their survival in this new empire, rested upon her shoulders. And here, in the harem of the most powerful man alive, there was only one path to true security—a child.
Her hands tightened in her lap. Beneath her sleeves, her nails dug into her palms until she felt the sting of blood. The pain focused her mind.
She drew a slow breath, her gaze lifting to the pale blue sky visible through the balcony archway.
Her thoughts crystallized into a single, unwavering vow:
This time… no matter what it takes… I will bear His Majesty's child.
The light streaming in through the windows glinted in her eyes like the reflection of a blade. Somewhere deep within her heart, ambition and desperation fused into a single flame.
Outside, the city of Meereen roared with joy. But within the palace, beneath the golden banners of the dragon, another kind of fire was beginning to burn—one fueled not by celebr
ation, but by desire, fear, and the endless struggle for power that shadowed the empire Damian Thorne had built.
more chapter available in p@tréøñ(Atoki_29)