The dull thud of the ship's hull striking the dock jolted Otto Hightower out of his reverie. The endless days of sailing were finally over—they had reached Volantis.
He stood and stepped out of the cabin. A wave of smells rushed over him at once: the sharp tang of the sea, the exotic sweetness of foreign spices, and underneath it all, a faint, metallic hint of blood.
The docks were no longer the chaotic, noisy place he remembered. In their place was a suffocating order. Rows of black-armored soldiers marched in silence, their movements mechanical and precise. Their breastplates bore no noble crest, only a crimson-painted harpy glaring out like a blood-soaked omen.
Otto's eyelids twitched. His fingers instinctively tightened around the scepter of the King's Hand.
He could not forget what he had seen days earlier, when their fleet had stopped to replenish fresh water. The memory alone was enough to make his stomach twist and his heart freeze.
They had docked at a coastal town—one that had already been reduced to ashes. The devastation was beyond the comprehension of any Westerosi noble. There were no cries, no pleas, not even the wailing of the dying. Only silence.
Heads had been severed and mounted on sharpened stakes. From the beach to the heart of the town, mutilated bodies lined both sides of the path, forming a road paved with death.
Worse still, some of the corpses weren't completely dead. Otto could swear he saw a hand twitch, a throat convulse. The stillness was broken only by the faint rattle of dying breaths.
The Gothos officer who escorted him—a burly man with a deep scar running across his face—had explained the scene with an almost boastful tone.
"This," he said with a grin full of yellowed teeth, "is the masterpiece of Lord Nero."
"Lord Nero," the man continued, "looks gentle enough. But it's his madness and cruelty that made him master of the Basilisk Isles. None can match his sword arm there. If he hadn't spent every coin he stole on perfumes and silks, half his men wouldn't have deserted him—and his fleet would be even greater."
Otto still remembered the moment he met this infamous man.
Nero had been dressed in the finest Qartheen silks, his body perfumed with an aroma so rich that even the Hightowers of Oldtown could scarcely afford it. His skin was pale, his lips bloodless, and his long, slightly wavy hair framed features that were almost unnaturally beautiful.
He had smiled at Otto as he peeled a piece of fruit with a silver knife, his voice soft and cultured.
"Lord Hightower," Nero said, his tone almost musical, "the beauty of order is born from the complete destruction of chaos. Look outside—how quiet and tidy everything is now."
His gaze flicked toward the "forest" of corpses beyond the window. There was no hint of emotion in his eyes—only a detached satisfaction, as though he were admiring his own art.
Otto had felt a chill rise from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.
If one of Damian Thorne's generals could be so monstrous, what kind of man ruled over them all?
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The palace of Volantis, once the proud seat of the Tiger Archon, now radiated a new kind of grandeur—majestic, but cold as iron.
The tiger banners had been replaced by a black flag bearing a crimson dragon. Hundreds of Unsullied stood in absolute silence, guarding every corridor, every gate. They were like living statues carved from obsidian, their stillness alone a deterrent stronger than steel.
Led by an Unsullied, Otto walked through endless corridors that seemed to stretch into darkness. Finally, the doors of the main hall opened.
Inside, Damian Thorne sat casually upon a throne carved from black stone. He wore a robe of deep black trimmed with gold. His hair was short, his eyes a sharp brown, and his expression calm to the point of indifference.
He did not look like a conqueror or a monarch. He looked like a man studying a chessboard—one already halfway to checkmate.
"Hand of the King, Lord Otto Hightower," announced the Unsullied guard.
Otto bowed low, keeping his composure. "Your Majesty."
"Please, sit."
Damian's voice was calm—neither warm nor hostile—but it carried the unyielding authority of someone accustomed to obedience.
Otto sat, then produced a sealed letter from his robe. "This is a letter from King Viserys the First, addressed to the Dragon King of the East."
Damian didn't immediately take it. His gaze lingered on Otto, curious, assessing.
To Damian Thorne, Viserys was a weak monarch—sentimental, naive, and blind to the ambitions surrounding him. A man too gentle for the world he ruled. How could such a king dare to reach out to him now, at the height of war?
At last, Damian extended a hand. The black wax seal of House Targaryen cracked cleanly under the flick of his finger.
He unfolded the parchment and began to read.
Otto watched him carefully, searching for any flicker of reaction on that unreadable face. But Damian's expression remained calm—too calm. He looked as though he were reviewing a simple trade agreement.
Then, slowly, a small curve formed at the corner of Damian's mouth.
It was not mockery. It was the smile of a man who had found something… intriguing.
He chuckled quietly. The sound echoed in the great hall, soft but chilling. Otto felt his pulse quicken.
Interesting, Damian thought.
So the timid king still has a trace of dragon's blood after all.
The contents of the letter were far beyond what Damian had expected.
Viserys began by reaffirming House Targaryen's intention to remain in Westeros and refrain from interfering in the affairs of Essos. He expressed gratitude—not concern—that two Valyrian powers now ruled their own realms.
It was humble, diplomatic, and cautious—yet it also drew a clear boundary.
But what truly caught Damian's attention was the proposal that followed.
Viserys offered a bond between their bloodlines: the newborn Princess Helaena would be given in marriage to Damian's house.
As dowry, she would bring with her two dragon eggs—precious beyond measure. Once she came of age and claimed a dragon of her own, she would travel east to join Damian's empire.
The final lines of the letter were veiled, but Damian understood them perfectly. Viserys hinted that, should Laenor Velaryon of Driftmark meet an unfortunate end, the marriage of his heir, Princess Rhaenyra, could be reconsidered.
The future of Westeros, Viserys implied, might one day be shared—ruled—by the descendants of both Dragon Kings.
Damian lowered the parchment. His smile deepened.
"Your king," he said softly, "is far more perceptive than I imagined."
Otto's heart skipped. He bowed his head slightly. "His Majesty has always believed the blood of the dragon should not be turned against itself."
"Well said."
Damian rose from the throne and stepped down slowly. Each movement carried a weight that pressed against the air itself.
When he stopped in front of Otto, the Prime Minister of the Seven Kingdoms suddenly found it hard to breathe. A suffocating pressure radiated from Damian's very presence, as if the room itself bent around his will.
Otto's palms began to sweat. For all his decades of political mastery, for all the power he'd wielded behind the Iron Throne, he had never felt so utterly powerless.
"Your Majesty simply hopes," Otto managed to say, forcing his voice to remain steady, "to establish lasting friendship between the Targaryens and the Dragon King of the East."
"Friendship?" Damian murmured, a faint smile returning to his lips. "Perhaps."
He placed a hand lightly on Otto's shoulder. The gesture was almost gentle, but it carried a terrifying authority.
"Viserys's proposal is… interesting," he said quietly. "I accept this gesture of goodwill."
He turned away, walking back toward the throne. His tone remained calm—yet the weight behind his words was absolute.
"As for the Sea Serpent," Damian continued, "since he stands in my way, I will remove him. But not for the sake of the Targaryens—for the sake of my empire."
His voice, though soft, echoed through the vast hall like the toll of a bell. There was no doubt, no hesitation—only inevitability.
Otto remained frozen in place, his back drenched in sweat. He dared not move, dared not even breathe too loudly.
The meeting that could decide the fate of two continents was over.
Damian Thorne, the Dragon King of the East, had made his move—and Otto realized, with a deep, sinking dread, that he might have just delivered Westeros into the jaws of something far greater than dragons.
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