The soft hum of the train thrummed beneath Clara's feet as she reclined in the private carriage, a glass of amber-colored wine in her hand. Outside, the perfectly aligned rails cut through the sprawling landscapes of Londonium, and soon they would vanish into the shimmering tunnel that connected the city to the White House—the center of power. Daenerys Targaryen was safely tucked away in another carriage ahead, her paperwork finalized, her new life in Eden already beginning. Clara smiled to herself, pleased with the smooth execution.
It hadn't taken much to persuade the poor girl. When you knew what people needed—freedom, security, or love—it was easy to lead them where you wanted. And now Daenerys was just where she needed to be, willingly brought under Eden's control. The real game had only just begun.
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Mark's temporary office in Londonium's Governor's Palace was nothing like the stark and minimalist White House office he preferred. This one was grand and overbearing, filled with statues of Mark, paintings of Clara, and a long, high table decorated with elaborate flowers and intricate carvings. Clara hated the décor—it felt gaudy, almost as if the palace itself was a parody of power. She chuckled under her breath as she pushed the heavy oak door open without knocking.
Mark was seated at his desk, as always perfectly composed, dressed in dark, immaculate clothes that seemed to absorb the light. His focus was locked on a translucent display hovering above his desk, his hands tapping commands in rapid sequence. The faint light from the interface flickered across his sharp features, giving him an ethereal glow.
"Knock, knock," Clara sang softly as she glided into the room, closing the door behind her. She held her arms wide in a playful gesture, her glass of wine dangling between two fingers. "Your favorite mother has returned—with excellent news, I might add."
Mark glanced up, his expression calm but with a flicker of warmth in his eyes. "Mother."
Clara sauntered to the desk and placed her wine glass down with a deliberate clink. "Daenerys is on her way to the White House. Everything went smoother than expected. Honestly, that poor thing was so easy to convince, it almost felt cruel." She leaned in closer, her voice carrying a conspiratorial whisper. "Now, what happens to her charming brother and his scheming little friend?"
Mark's fingers hovered above the display for a second before he swiped it aside. "Viserys and Illyrio will be dealt with." His tone was cold, as if discussing something as trivial as the weather. "They have no further use to us."
He activated a separate panel and, without hesitation, sent a short transmission. A message for Orin, brief and precise: Commence the operation.
Clara raised an eyebrow, the amusement in her gaze tinged with curiosity. "What will the Inquisitors do with them?"
Mark's reply was flat, emotionless. "Viserys will burn in the public eye—a symbol of instability and failure. Illyrio will vanish quietly, though he'll wish for a quicker end. Varys… he requires something more delicate. He still has uses, though not in the way he expects."
Clara swirled her wine, savoring the rich aroma before taking a sip. "You've always been thorough, darling."
Mark gave a faint nod of acknowledgment but returned to the topic that truly mattered. "As for Daenerys," he continued, his voice low but filled with purpose, "her blood is essential. It has to be given willingly—no coercion, no force. Only then will it unlock the potential we need."
Clara tilted her head, a knowing glint in her eye. "So, this is about the ritual after all?"
Mark leaned back slightly in his chair, clasping his hands together as if assembling the pieces of a complex puzzle in his mind. "Yes. Her blood, willingly offered, combined with the energy from the approaching comet, will allow us to bind the Dothraki gods. Without their protection, the Great Grass Sea will no longer be sacred territory. We can breach it, claim the land, and turn it into farmland—enough to sustain Eden's future expansion."
Clara arched an elegant brow. "And all this because terraforming the Red Waste takes too long? You've always been impatient."
Mark allowed himself a rare smile, though it was tinged with exhaustion. "Not impatient, practical. The Red Waste is a dead zone, and creating life from nothing is... complicated. Even I can't build an ecosystem from scratch overnight."
Clara chuckled softly, setting her wine glass aside. "So the Dothraki gods will be bound, and the sacred land will be ours."
Mark nodded. "If the ritual works, we'll have control over the most fertile plains in Essos. No more dependency on risky trade routes. No more rationing food or expanding our terraforming operations beyond capacity."
He paused, his expression darkening slightly. "But meddling with gods is dangerous. The Valyrians knew that better than anyone. They were powerful enough to banish most gods to the spirit realm, but it cost them their empire—and eventually, their lives."
Clara gave him a sly smile, resting her chin on her hand. "At least the Valyrians didn't go down without a fight. They played with fire and almost mastered it. That's more than we can say for most."
Mark's eyes glinted. "And we'll do more than they ever could. We're not just binding gods—we're rewriting the rules of this world."
Clara sighed dreamily. "Such ambition. You make me proud, Mark."
Mark gave her a small, indulgent smile before turning back to his interface. "With Daenerys' blood and the comet's energy, we'll bind the gods and breach the Grass Sea. It will be farmland for Eden. And by the time anyone realizes what we've done, it'll be too late."
Clara tapped a finger against her lips thoughtfully. "And what about the old gods? They destroyed the Valyrians in the end."
Mark's expression didn't change, but there was a glint of something dangerous in his eyes. "If they come for us," he said softly, "we'll fight them too. And this time, we'll win."
Clara grinned, her heart swelling with pride. "Oh, darling. You do make life interesting."
She rose gracefully from her chair and kissed Mark lightly on the top of his head, her lips lingering for just a moment. "Well, I'll leave you to it. Don't forget to take a break, though—dance with me sometime."
Mark gave a faint, amused huff. "Later, mother."
Clara winked as she made her way toward the door, her steps light and carefree. "Don't work yourself to death, darling. We've got an empire to build."
As she slipped out of the room, Mark returned to his display, already calculating the next moves in his grand design. Somewhere, on a train bound for the White House, Daenerys Targaryen hurtled toward a fate she could never have imagined.
And in the shadows, Orin's Inquisitors prepared to tighten their grip on Viserys, Illyrio, and Varys—securing Eden's future, one ruthless step at a time.