The sound of sturdy boots striking the cracked soil of the Witch Plains echoed in rhythmic unison—a deep, thunderous cadence that rolled like distant drums of war.
The phalanx of New Ghis citizen soldiers advanced in perfect formation, their lines a moving forest of steel. Their discipline and precision rivaled even the legendary Unsullied. Marching beside them, the Tiger Cloaks bore fierce tiger-striped tattoos across their faces, eyes glimmering with savage intent and bloodlust.
At the core of this formidable army stood two hundred heavily armored war elephants—towering beasts that moved like walking mountains. Every thunderous step made the ground tremble beneath their weight, scattering dust into the air.
The citizen soldiers gripped their spears tightly, their gazes as sharp as blades. Their destination lay ahead—Rees's stronghold in the Meseros region, the first bastion the new empire would strike in its campaign to carve into the heart of the Kingdom of the Three Daughters.
---
Myr Border —
The air was thick with tension and gunpowder.
Along the frontier, the coalition forces of Slaver's Bay and the Tiger Cloak Army stood opposite the Myr defensive line. Both sides waited, the silence between them heavy enough to crush.
In the distance, a vast column of dust rose from the horizon—like a storm devouring the plains.
Ma Zhuo stared ahead, his expression cold and resolute. Behind him stretched a sea of Dothraki cavalrymen, their banners fluttering in the wind. The arrival of one hundred and thirty thousand riders had shattered the delicate balance of the battlefield.
"No one can stop the will of Kaa," Ma Zhuo murmured under his breath, the words half prayer, half prophecy.
Under his command, the engineers from Volantis and Slaver's Bay worked furiously, assembling massive siege engines. These were newly designed catapults—light yet devastatingly powerful—built according to the blueprints drawn from the visions and strategies of Damian Thorne himself.
Farther north, near Byros, Dakar and his raiders swept through the heart of Myr like wolves among sheep, leaving behind only ash, terror, and silence.
The noose of war was tightening around the neck of the Kingdom of the Three Daughters from every direction.
---
The Coast of Lys —
The sea had turned into a cauldron of blood and fire.
The Volantis fleet, seasoned and ruthless, moved like an experienced butcher at work—methodical, efficient, and merciless. Each volley of ballista bolts and flaming projectiles tore through the Lys fleet's defenses, turning proud warships into burning pyres adrift on crimson waves.
"Quick! Circle around! Break their line from the rear!"
The old, blind commander of the Gogothos Navy barked the order, his hoarse voice cutting through the chaos. His fleet, grim and relentless, began maneuvering wide across the sea—hoping to strike the enemy from behind.
But their surprise attack met an unexpected obstacle.
From the mist, another fleet appeared, its sails painted in bright stripes of red and blue—the banner of Tyrosh.
"It's the Tyroshi!"
"That old dog Bambaro called them too!"
Governor Bambaro of Rees stood on the flagship's deck, his face pale, his palms slick with sweat. Yet despite his fear, his eyes burned with desperate resolve.
"Release the ravens! All of them!" he shouted to his attendants. "Send word to Braavos! Tell them I've received the message from the Stepstones! Tell them to hurry—now!"
There was a glimmer of wild hope in his eyes.
If the Braavosi fleet arrived in time—if they combined their might with the remaining ships of the Kingdom of the Three Daughters—they might yet crush the Volantis fleet in a single decisive blow. Then, the flames of war could spread across the Narrow Sea itself—straight to the gates of Volantis.
Bambaro clung to that thought like a drowning man grasping driftwood. In despair, he prayed for a miracle.
---
At Sea —
The Tyroshi fleet prepared for battle. The commander's voice rang out across the decks.
"Ready crossbows! Loose!"
A black cloud of bolts filled the sky and descended on the advancing Gogothos fleet. Screams echoed as dark figures fell across the decks, struck by arrows.
A cheer rose among the Tyroshi sailors—brief, triumphant.
But it died almost instantly.
The fallen figures—those who had been pierced through the chest and throat—began to rise again. Their movements were jerky, unnatural, their eyes vacant. The arrows protruding from their bodies didn't slow them down—they simply kept moving forward.
A chill ran through the Tyroshi ranks.
Then came the sound of roaring waves and breaking wood.
The ships of the Gogothos Navy surged forward at impossible speed, as if driven by an unseen force beneath the sea. Their prows cleaved through the water, slamming straight into the heart of the Tyroshi formation.
No hesitation. No fear. No retreat.
Their oars were manned by tireless rowers—the living dead.
"Boom!"
The collision sent splinters of wood flying as entire hulls cracked apart. The impact echoed across the sea like thunder.
On the deck of his flagship, the old blind commander's pale face split into a chilling grin. Raising his sword, he pointed it toward the enemy line.
"Board them! Let them taste death!"
Grappling hooks soared through the air, clanging onto Tyroshi hulls. The ships were dragged together, smashing side by side. Then the undead surged forward—screaming, snarling, a tide of corpses spilling across the decks.
The clash began.
---
The Tyroshi soldiers screamed as they fought to repel the invaders. But no matter how many arrows or blades they drove through the enemy, the corpses would not fall. Even impaled or decapitated, they crawled, clawed, and bit until their foes were shredded to pieces.
"Monsters! They're monsters!"
Their cries dissolved into panic.
Amid the chaos, Ni Luo moved like a phantom. He leapt onto the deck of the Tyroshi flagship, twin blades glinting in the moonlight.
"Clang! Clang! Clang!"
Each slash was precise and deadly. The silver gleam of his swords wove through the air like a storm of death.
One flash—and an officer's head spun through the air, trailing blood like a comet.
Another swing—and three soldiers fell in unison, their throats opened in perfect, symmetrical lines.
Ni Luo's face was expressionless, his eyes cold and empty. He was death incarnate, moving through the living.
Each motion was clean, efficient—without mercy, without hesitation. He did not tire. He did not bleed.
He harvested life as if reaping wheat.
---
"Water ghosts—into the sea!"
The old blind commander's order came sharp and low.
Without hesitation, dozens of undead sailors leapt overboard. The water closed over them without a sound.
They didn't need to breathe.
Beneath the waves, their pale forms glided like shadows. In their skeletal hands, they carried chisels and hammers—their task simple: cripple the enemy's ships from below.
Moments later, the first explosions of splintering wood echoed from beneath the Tyroshi fleet. Hulls shattered, keels cracked, and one by one, proud ships began to list and sink into the blood-soaked sea.
Above deck, the old blind commander drew his sword. His movements were sharp, his strikes unerring. Each thrust pierced a heart, each swing split a throat. There was no flourish—only precision and inevitability.
Every enemy he cut down stared at him in disbelief, as if unable to accept that their death could come so suddenly, so efficiently.
They had thought they were fighting men of flesh and blood.
They were wrong.
They were fighting death itself.
---
The ocean became a slaughterhouse.
The air was thick with the stench of blood and burning oil. The cries of the dying mixed with the crash of waves and the screech of gulls overhead.
Blades clashed, wood splintered, and bodies fell into the crimson tide.
The Tyroshi fleet was collapsing—devoured piece by piece.
Governor Bambaro's desperate hope shattered as his ships burned around him. He stood frozen, staring into the inferno, realizing too late that the Braavosi fleet would never arrive in time.
The Gogothos Navy—driven by the will of Damian Thorne—had unleashed something far beyond human warfare.
It was a storm of corpses, a tide of vengeance, an army that neither rested nor feared.
As the last Tyroshi ship began to sink beneath the waves, the blind commander sheathed his sword and turned toward the horizon. His lips curled into a faint smile.
"Let them tell their gods," he murmured, his blind eyes glinting with strange light, "that the sea belongs to the Empire now."
Behind him, the undead roared in unison—a sound more terrifying than thunder.
The waves closed over the wreckage. The flames hissed out. And the once-proud Tyroshi fleet vanished beneath the blood-dark waters of the Narrow Sea.
The Kingdom of the Three Daughters had lost another arm.
And the Empire's tide continued to rise.
---