The air of Volantis mingled with the salty sea breeze and the decadent scent of wealth.
Damian Thorne stood on the top floor of the palace, overlooking the vast city below. The gears of war were turning precisely according to his will, producing a deep, rhythmic roar that was pleasing to the ear.
Information flowed to him like a constant stream of water.
The Dothraki vanguard, led by Dakar, had driven deep into the borders of Myr like a red-hot iron spike. Countless villages had been reduced to scorched earth amidst raging flames and endless wailing. The defenders of the Kingdom of the Three Daughters huddled behind their city walls, trembling in fear.
The Gothos Navy—a fleet composed of the living dead and pirates—was under the command of the old blind man and Nero. Like a pack of hungry sharks, they brought bloody storms to the Summer Sea, strangling the maritime lifelines of Lys and Tyrosh completely.
Outside Volantis, the newly reorganized Tiger Cloak Army, the citizen soldiers of New Ghis, and the heavily armored war elephants formed a solemn, disciplined formation. They waited patiently for the black tide of cavalry that was about to sweep in from the east.
Once the 130,000 Dothraki riders arrived, this land known as the Disputed Lands would be plowed flat—reborn through fire and blood.
Damian was very satisfied with this.
He had long since transcended the limits of mortal marchers. For him, the true art of conquest lay in commanding from afar—seeing every move, every life, every death through divine perception. Efficiency, precision, inevitability—that was what an empire's expansion should look like.
War, after all, was nothing but a grand game of chess.
And he was the only player.
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The summer sunlight scattered across the sea, turning its surface into a glittering expanse of sapphire.
On the flagship of the royal fleet, Otto Hightower stood at the bow. The sea breeze tugged at his robe, embroidered with the Hightower's emblem—a tall white tower crowned by a flame.
An alliance with the rising Dragon King in the east… could friendship with a Targaryen bring peace?
A faint, almost invisible sneer touched Otto's lips.
This journey might bring unexpected benefits—to the Hightower family, and especially to his grandson, young Aegon.
If… that troublesome Rhaenyra could somehow be married off to that barbaric ruler in Slaver's Bay, the matter of succession to the Iron Throne would cease to be a problem.
The thought came and went in a flash.
Otto quickly dismissed it. Rhaenys Targaryen had been lesson enough—a princess married abroad who returned with dragons and fleets only sowed chaos.
But what about the newborn Princess Helaena?
A marriage alliance with the Dragon King of the East, in exchange for stability and power… now that seemed like a worthy bargain.
Otto's mind churned with calculations, plotting how to turn the king's will into a victory for his own house.
At that moment, a burst of panicked shouts and the blare of horns shattered the calm of the sea.
"Ser! Pirates off the port side!"
A Hightower knight stumbled into the cabin, pale-faced and shaking.
Otto frowned, irritation flaring. He hastily drew the longsword from his belt—a weapon meant more for ceremony than battle—and gripped it tightly.
He strode to the deck. What he saw froze his blood.
A massive, black-sailed fleet cut through the mist like a pack of wolves. At the forefront stood an old man with milky white eyes, his face expressionless. It was as if those sightless eyes could pierce through the sea fog and stare directly into Otto's soul.
On the waters below, a massacre had already taken place. Several merchant ships flying the three-headed serpent flag of Tyrosh were riddled with holes, their sails ablaze and their decks littered with corpses. The smell of blood mixed with burning pitch filled the air.
"Take everything valuable! Hurry up!" the old blind man rasped. His voice was hoarse, as though ground by sand. To him, such scenes were far too familiar to stir emotion.
A lookout slid down from the mast and shouted, "General! A fleet flying the Targaryen banner ahead!"
"Targaryen?"
The old blind man's dry lips pulled back into a twisted grin, revealing yellowed teeth.
"Are they that dissolute prince's men—Daemon Targaryen's, perhaps? Hah! Then they've come to die." He laughed harshly. "His Majesty was just saying he couldn't find a dragon. Seems one has flown right into our nets."
Handing off the cleanup to his deputy, the old man personally led more than ten elite warships forward. They sliced through the waves like black blades, encircling the Westerosi ships that bore the crimson three-headed dragon.
"Tell the men," he growled, his smile widening, "I want their blood drained and their bones to adorn His Majesty's throne!"
Otto Hightower gripped the railing tightly, staring at the fast-approaching ships.
They were unlike anything he had ever seen in Westeros—sleek, predatory hulls painted black, carved with snakes and skulls, their sails patched and torn. They bore no noble sigils, only savage, twisted totems that danced wildly in the wind.
These were no ordinary pirates.
"Ser…" a servant stammered beside him, voice trembling. "Look at their ships' design… this must be the infamous Gothos Navy—the fleet of the Dragon King of Slaver's Bay!"
Otto's heart sank like a stone.
The purpose of his voyage was to meet the Dragon King—but he had never imagined he would encounter his most feared servants this way.
The flash of crossbows from the enemy decks and the mad howls of sailors made resistance impossible.
Taking a deep breath, Otto forced himself to stay calm.
"Raise the royal envoy's banner!" he ordered. "Tell them I am a messenger from the Iron Throne!"
He could only hope the other side would at least listen before killing them.
A small boat was lowered into the waves. The trembling envoy held the flag high and rowed toward the oncoming fleet.
Moments later, a colossal black warship loomed near, casting a shadow over Otto's vessel. At its bow stood the old blind man, white eyes gleaming faintly.
The envoy's voice wavered as he relayed Otto's message. The old man listened, then let out a low, rasping laugh that sounded like an owl's cry in the night.
"The king's envoy? On his way to see our Lord?" he said mockingly.
Turning his cloudy gaze toward Otto, he seemed to look straight through flesh and bone.
Otto fought to maintain his dignity, lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders—the proud Hand of the King of the Seven Kingdoms.
After a tense pause, the old blind man gave a curt wave.
"Well then, since you are His Majesty's guest," he said with a grin, "follow us."
He sent out a squadron to "escort" Otto's fleet, encircling it in a loose but inescapable formation.
As the ships began to move, the old blind man leaned on the railing, grinning. "Lord Hand of the King," he rasped, "you should be grateful you met me first. That lunatic Nero's fleet is right behind us. If it were him who found you, he'd have chopped your ships to splinters and fed your men to the fish."
Otto's face darkened further. He said nothing.
The ships moved on in silence—black sails against blue seas, the sun glinting off the bloodstained water as the fleets of two worlds drew closer under the Dragon King's shadow.
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