The Great Pyramid of Meereen—its throne room towered like a mountain of stone and shadow.
Upon the obsidian throne sat Damian Thorne, his chin resting lazily on one hand, eyes glimmering with faint amusement as he regarded the delegation from Volantis assembled below. The flickering torchlight reflected in his eyes like twin molten stars, revealing no warmth—only depth and danger.
Beside the throne stood Hidala Nachkar, silent and still as a statue. Her amber eyes swept over the visitors from the "First Daughter of Valyria," cold and calculating. The faint clinking of her armor was the only sound in the tense air.
The Volantene delegation had come as two faces of the same city—two factions locked in endless rivalry.
The first was a fat man, his frame bursting with wealth, his neck and fingers glittering with gold and silver ornaments. His smile was oily, his movements exaggerated, a born merchant who understood the art of flattery. He represented the Elephant Party, and behind him shuffled servants burdened with heavy chests.
He bowed deeply, his words syrupy and servile.
"Great Dragon King, Conqueror of Slaver's Bay—Volantis offers you her sincerest respects."
The slaves behind him pried open the chests. Inside gleamed crystal-clear glassware of exquisite craftsmanship, shining like frozen tears, and barrels of deep red wine, its aroma thick and sweet as blood.
Next stepped forward the second envoy—a tall, lean man draped in a perfectly tailored black silk robe. His face was sharp, his movements restrained, and his eyes were filled not with awe, but scrutiny. He represented the Tiger Party.
Unlike his corpulent counterpart, he did not kneel. He merely inclined his head slightly, his tone firm, his gaze locked upon Damian Thorne's striking, almost inhumanly regal features.
With slow precision, he accepted a long, narrow wooden box from his attendant and presented it with both hands.
"Your Majesty," he said solemnly, "this is the Tiger Party's offering to the true Dragon King."
The box was opened. Upon a cushion of red velvet lay a Valyrian steel short sword, its black rippling blade alive with subtle light. A ruby glimmered in the hilt like a drop of molten flame. The hall's dim candles danced upon its surface, casting faint reflections that seemed to whisper of old blood and conquest.
Damian Thorne regarded the sword in silence, then spoke, his voice calm yet carrying the quiet authority of one used to obedience.
"Tell me what you want."
The words, though simple, fell like iron. The temperature in the throne room seemed to drop several degrees. Even the flames trembled.
The Elephant Party's representative shuffled forward hastily, mopping sweat from his brow.
"Great Dragon Lord," he began, his tone thick with fear, "Volantis lives and thrives through trade—especially the… slave trade. It is the city's lifeblood. We humbly beg Your Majesty not to disrupt this golden flow."
His words hung heavy in the air, tainted by greed and anxiety.
Damian's lips curved into the faintest of smiles—a blade's edge disguised as courtesy. His gaze slid to the Tiger Party envoy.
The man met his eyes boldly, a spark of zeal burning there.
"Your Majesty," he declared, voice ringing through the chamber, "you are the new Emperor of Valyria—the living incarnation of the dragon! The Targaryens have long betrayed our heritage. They cower in the West, consorting with savages! The pirates of the Three Daughters mock the glory of our ancestors!"
His tone grew fervent, almost worshipful. "We, the Tiger Party, would form an alliance with you! Together, we will cleanse the disputed lands and raise the Dragon Banner once more over every city of the Freehold!"
When he finished, the hall fell silent.
Then—Damian laughed.
It was not loud, yet it rolled through the room like distant thunder. The sound made both envoys stiffen, uncertain if they had pleased or doomed themselves.
Finally, Damian's voice cut through the stillness, calm and absolute.
"Regarding trade, speak with Hidala. She speaks for me in all matters of commerce. I trust she will give you an answer you find… acceptable."
The fat man exhaled in visible relief and bowed deeply to Hidala, his face plastered with false gratitude.
Damian's gaze then returned to the Tiger Party envoy, and his tone shifted—deeper, heavier.
"As for your alliance… after the celebration, I will visit Volantis personally and speak with your three Triarchs."
He leaned forward slightly, the golden fire in his eyes catching the envoy's breath.
"My arrival," he said softly, "will be the only answer you need."
The words fell like a hammer blow.
The Tiger Party envoy blinked, stunned—and then broke into a trembling smile. To have the Dragon King himself promise a visit was no mere courtesy; it was divine recognition.
"Volantis will await Your Majesty's arrival with the highest honor!" he said reverently.
The delegation withdrew, guided by servants to their quarters to await the grand celebration. Their footsteps faded into the echoing vastness of the throne room.
Silence reclaimed the chamber.
Hidala approached the throne and knelt.
"Your Majesty," she reported softly, "Dhaka has completed the purge of the manor lords. The first batch of armor and weapons from the Logistics Corps is enough to fully equip his ten thousand men."
"Excellent." Damian nodded slightly. "Have Dhaka bring the others to change attire for the feast. And… the Basilisk Islands—have they been cleared?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," Hidala replied. "The last strongholds have fallen. Reconstruction of Gogossos can now be discussed."
At that name, a flicker of unease crossed her eyes. She hesitated before continuing.
"Your Majesty… Gogossos is said to remain cursed. The plague and rot of that land never truly died. It is unfit for human settlement. And to rebuild a city-state there would demand vast resources—"
Damian's gaze sharpened, cutting her words short. He smiled, thin and knowing.
So that's it.
She feared losing the profits of the slave trade. Gogossos, once the rival of Slaver's Bay, could rise again—and with it, threaten Meereen's hold on power.
"You think I plan to send the living there?" he asked quietly.
Hidala froze, her blood turning cold.
"New Gogossos will not thrive on the trade of flesh," Damian continued, his voice deepening, each word infused with a chilling conviction. "It will be my bridgehead toward Sothoryos—the empire's eye and blade gazing into the unknown."
He stood from the throne. The black and crimson cloak that hung from his shoulders rippled like a living shadow.
"As for the plague…" A faint, cruel smile touched his lips. "You are right—living men would perish there."
His eyes gleamed like molten metal.
"But my soldiers do not fear death—or disease."
Hidala's heart clenched. She understood at once.
The undead army—the silent legions that obeyed only Damian's will.
He intended to rebuild a city of the dead upon cursed soil. A necropolis under his command, impervious to rot or fear.
The realization made her tremble, yet a spark of awe flared within her. Madness and genius intertwined.
Damian's gaze swept across the hall.
"Gogossos shall rise again," he declared softly. "Its walls will be of bone and black stone. Its citizens shall never sleep, and its sentinels shall never rest. They will guard the routes for me… until the empire's shadow touches the edge of the world."
Hidala bowed deeply, her voice barely steady.
"As you command, Your Majesty. I will begin preparations at once."
---
Basilisk Islands — Death Island.
The waves crashed against the black reefs, spraying foam the color of ash. Once, this had been the last stronghold of the pirate lords who plagued the islands. Now, it was a graveyard.
Through the drifting mist, Ni Luo moved like a phantom. His twin blades flashed silver in the moonlight, carving through flesh and air with equal ease. To his enemies, he was the god of death incarnate.
Two heads spun skyward, eyes still frozen in terror. Dark blood splattered the sand—but instead of spreading, it clotted midair, congealing like tar.
Behind him, thousands of undead pirates, armored in rags, surged forward wordlessly. Their roars were soundless, their eyes hollow, yet they tore through the living like a tide of corpses.
The slaughter was swift and one-sided.
Steel clashed for only minutes before the last screams died. The living's blades barely scratched the undead, but the undead's weapons ripped through flesh like parchment.
When silence returned, the air reeked of salt, blood, and decay.
Ni Luo wiped his blades and sheathed them. Not a drop of blood stained their surface.
He surveyed the field—a carpet of corpses and kneeling prisoners trembling before him. His expression was unreadable.
"Gather the captives," he ordered coldly.
From the shadows stepped a former cook, now hollow-eyed, clutching a stained ladle. Ni Luo tossed him a half-empty vial of dark green liquid.
"Add this to the prisoners' food," he said. "Make them a pot of heart-warming porridge."
The cook nodded mechanically and turned away, shouting orders. The prisoners screamed as they were dragged off, their cries swallowed by the restless sea.
Ni Luo didn't look back. The killing was done.
He stepped into his cabin aboard the silent ship. Within, the air smelled faintly of silk and perfume. He stripped off his blood-streaked armor and replaced it with a robe of soft Pentoshi silk, its deep blue shimmering in the lamplight.
Outside, the undead army gathered in formation, their hollow eyes reflecting the pale moon.
The Empire of the Dead was taking form—one island, one corpse at a time.
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