There was a subtle haste in Otto Hightower's steps.
As he emerged from the cold, echoing halls of the magnificent Volantis palace, the humid air of the eastern city struck his face like a wave. Only then did he realize that his back was drenched in cold sweat.
What had Viserys promised?
The question slithered through his mind like a venomous serpent, coiling tighter with every heartbeat.
An ambitious Eastern Dragon King. A newly forged empire overflowing with slaves, soldiers, and gold. Would such a man truly withdraw his forces simply because of a letter or a few hollow words of diplomacy?
Impossible.
Otto's lips tightened as he walked down the marble steps. Images of his daughter Alicent, his grandson Aegon, and the newborn Helaena flashed before his eyes. Everything he had built—the delicate web of alliances, the future throne of his bloodline—could all unravel if this monstrous empire from Essos decided to set its gaze upon Westeros.
"Lord Hand?"
The quiet voice of his attendant snapped him back to the present.
Otto inhaled sharply, suppressing the storm of thoughts that churned within him. His face returned to the calm, stern composure befitting the Hand of the King.
"Give the order," he said curtly, his voice hoarse but firm. "Replenish all provisions immediately and inspect the ships. We set sail for King's Landing without delay."
The attendant bowed and hurried off.
Otto stood there for a moment, staring toward the dark waters of the Rhoyne, its surface glittering beneath the morning sun. A heavy sense of foreboding settled in his chest. He had to return—he had to see the chessboard of Westeros with his own eyes. Somewhere deep in his gut, he knew: his meeting with the Dragon Emperor might have invited unimaginable consequences upon the Seven Kingdoms.
---
The Eastern Front Burns
As Otto's fleet prepared to depart, the fires of war were already spreading across the southeastern expanse of Essos.
The Kingdom of the Three Daughters—a proud confederation of merchants, pirates, and slavers—was beginning to pay for its arrogance in blood.
The city of Myr, closest to the new empire's borders, and several surrounding towns near Volantis had become visions of hell within mere days.
The Dothraki vanguard, led by the fierce Dakar, swept across the plains like a black storm. Wherever their hooves thundered, smoke and screams followed.
Their raids were swift and merciless.
Luxurious silk carpets were trampled into the mud. Marble fountains were shattered beneath the kicks of warhorses. The wealthy nobles of Myr—too slow or too proud to flee—were dragged from their beds in the dead of night. Their fine jewelry and embroidered robes were stripped away and replaced with cold, iron slave collars.
The air was thick with terror.
Cries of women and children mingled with the wild, ecstatic shouts of the Dothraki. Thousands were bound together with coarse ropes and driven across the plains like cattle. They would be paraded as trophies of the empire—sold in the slave markets of Volantis, or sent to toil in the vast military camps that stretched beyond the Painted Mountains.
The Kingdom of the Three Daughters, shocked and enraged by the barbarity, finally rallied its combined forces.
The Myrmen, renowned craftsmen and engineers, unveiled their prized weapons—rows of Myrish repeating crossbows, capable of releasing volleys of deadly bolts that turned the sky into a storm of steel.
The lords of Tyrosh, in turn, emptied their coffers and promised freedom to any slave who would fight for them. In total, fifty thousand men—slaves, mercenaries, and noble officers—gathered on the border. For the first time, their banners stood side by side, a wall of defiance before the encroaching horde.
Yet Dakar was no fool.
From a distant ridge, he gazed down at the glittering line of fortifications—crossbows gleaming under the sun, shields interlocked, war drums echoing through the valley.
He spat in the dust.
"Charging headlong is death," he muttered, his scarred lips twisting into a grin.
He knew his strength. He knew his men.
The Dothraki were not made for sieges or lines—they were born for chaos.
Under his command, the great host scattered into dozens of smaller raiding bands, flowing around the enemy's strongholds like a river splitting into a hundred streams.
Each night, another caravan vanished. Another supply camp went up in flames. Another isolated fortress awoke to find its gates painted with blood.
Dakar's raids became a dance of death that the disciplined armies of Myr and Tyrosh could neither predict nor counter.
---
The Siege of the Sea
Farther south, the city-state of Lys was facing its own nightmare.
The Gogothos Navy, commanded by the cunning duo of Old Blind and Nilo, had turned the surrounding waters into a graveyard of burning masts.
Their ships—swift, black-sailed, and utterly ruthless—cut through trade routes, ambushed merchant vessels, and left entire harbors in ruin.
The Lyseni Governor, Bambaro, stood helpless on the ramparts of his coastal fortress, watching the horizon burn red every night. Under his desperate orders, the fleets of Lys gathered to form a great blockade—an iron wall meant to protect what remained of their precious island nation.
But no wall could keep the sea itself at bay.
To the Empire of Damian Thorne, the Kingdom of the Three Daughters was nothing more than a trapped beast, cornered and bleeding.
A fat pig surrounded by wolves.
It could only squeal and thrash in vain, while the predators slowly tore it apart piece by piece.
---
The Throne of Obsidian
High above Volantis, on the terrace of the rebuilt Black Palace, Damian Thorne sat upon his throne of black stone.
One arm rested lazily on the armrest, his other hand propping up his chin. Below him, the ancient city stretched wide and silent—its streets orderly, its people subdued, its new order taking shape under his unblinking gaze.
On the obsidian table beside him, a strange candle burned.
Its flame was not red or gold, but a pale, ghostly white that shimmered like frost. The air around it warped and shimmered as though reality itself bent to its will.
It was one of the fabled glass candles—a relic of lost Valyria. Through its eerie light, Damian could reach across vast distances, seeing and hearing those who served him on the farthest battlefields.
He spoke softly, his voice carrying into the glow.
"Dakar. Report."
The candle's light pulsed, and a deep, rough voice answered through the ether—brimming with savage pride.
"My lord! The fat sheep of Myr hide behind their walls and bleat like frightened children. Their villages burn, their caravans are mine. My warriors feast every night upon their spoils!"
Damian smiled faintly, his golden eyes reflecting the flickering light.
He tapped the armrest lightly with his fingers. "Good. Keep them hungry, but don't let them choke on their own victories."
"Nilo," he said next. "What of the seas?"
A calm, almost melodic voice answered—a sharp contrast to Dakar's roar.
"Your Majesty, the trade routes of Lys have turned into floating graveyards. Otto Hightower's fleet was guided safely through the blockade under my 'escort.' As ordered."
"Excellent."
Finally, Damian called, "Ma Zhuo. The main host?"
A third voice emerged—steady, measured, and calm as still water.
"Your Majesty, the Imperial Army is advancing through the Painted Mountains without incident. Discipline remains intact, and morale is high."
The reports came one after another. Each commander spoke with confidence. Each front advanced as planned.
Everything was unfolding exactly according to his design.
The empire's war machine moved with mechanical precision—unstoppable, inevitable. The combined armies of Volantis and Slaver's Bay now stood poised at the border, facing the desperate coalition of the Three Daughters.
Soon, the hammer would fall.
---
The Weight of Stillness
For a moment, Damian simply listened to the faint hum of the glass candle. Then, with a flick of his fingers, the flame winked out.
The hall plunged into silence.
He leaned back against his throne and closed his eyes.
Everything was progressing perfectly. The empire grew stronger by the day. His armies advanced without resistance. His enemies crumbled like sandcastles before the tide.
And yet—he felt nothing.
No thrill of conquest, no surge of triumph. Only an endless, suffocating boredom.
This was the curse of absolute control.
He felt like a grandmaster forced to play against children, every move predictable, every outcome already decided long before the first piece was touched.
He had planned every step. Every enemy action, every ally's hesitation, every contingency—it all lay within the palm of his hand.
All that remained was to wait.
To wait for the Dothraki to finish devouring the flesh and blood of the Three Daughters.
To wait for the Imperial legions to cross the mountains and reach the next front.
To wait for the Academy of Sorcery to produce its first generation of spellcasters.
Everything would come in time.
But time itself had become the enemy.
Damian gazed out over the city once more. From this height, Volantis looked small—its rivers like silver veins, its people like ants crawling beneath his feet.
Power. Dominion. Order.
He had achieved them all.
And yet… the waiting gnawed at him, hollowing him out from within. Even for one who possessed a long and near-immortal life, waiting was the most exhausting form of torture.
The empire moved. The world trembled.
And Damian Thorne—Emperor of New Valyria, Lord of Dragons, and Conqueror of Essos—sat alone upon his black throne, drowning in silence.
Waiting.
Bored out of his mind.
---