The gates of Myr were shattered under the relentless charge of giant war elephants. Wood splintered and stones flew in all directions, raining down on the city walls with a deafening clatter.
"For Kaa!"
Dakkar raised his bloodied arakh high, his roar almost lost amidst the deafening cries of tens of thousands of Dothraki cavalrymen thundering behind him. The hooves of their horses struck the cobblestones like drumbeats of death, crushing the last remnants of Myr's pride. The Dothraki poured into the city like a black tide, scimitars flashing, eyes gleaming with unrestrained ferocity. Every street, every square, became a theatre of chaos. Screams and cries echoed through the once-exquisite artisan city, turning the bustling markets and winding lanes into rivers of terror.
Close behind the Dothraki, the Unsullied marched with mechanical precision. Their armor clinked softly in unison, their steps a deadly metronome that cut through the chaos. Their mission was simple yet absolute: control, contain, and preserve what was valuable for the Empire.
"To the Artisan District! Block all roads! Protect the Empire's assets!" barked an Unsullied commander in Valyrian, his voice sharp and cold.
Orders as heavy as stone. The Unsullied did not waver. They ignored fleeing civilians, looting merchants, and burning homes. Like an intricate war machine, they carved the city into grids, cutting off pockets of resistance and enforcing the Emperor's will.
The Tiger Robe Army followed in their wake. Smiling, bloodied, and unflinching, they were the Empire's sharpest instruments, responsible for eliminating any who dared resist.
"The Emperor has commanded!" a Tiger Robe officer roared as he severed the head of a mercenary who had lifted a weapon in defiance. Hot blood splattered across his armor, staining the tiger-striped cloth in deep crimson. He stepped over the corpse and shouted at the citizens who cowered in the streets, their eyes wide with terror.
"Kill anyone bearing arms! Kill anyone who resists!"
The message was delivered with ruthless clarity.
The Dothraki continued their plundering, looting the mansions of wealthy merchants and nobles, dragging gold, jewels, and women from homes as spoils of war. But when they attempted to storm the workshops where craftsmen labored, they were met by the cold, unyielding spears of the Unsullied.
"No entry here," the Unsullied warned, their voice void of mercy.
Any Dothraki who challenged the order felt the tip of a spear pierce their throat within a heartbeat. Their corpses were discarded, a grim warning to others. After several such bloody lessons, even the fiercest warriors learned to respect the zones marked by black dragon banners.
Craftsmen and their families were gathered under the watch of the Unsullied and escorted to the most fortified section of the city. From their windows, they saw their homes burning, their city descending into chaos, yet they themselves were untouched, given food and water. Confusion and fear mingled in their hearts; the rules of survival had shifted overnight.
The estates of the wealthy—merchants, nobles, and influential figures—were now under strict guard by the Tiger Robe Army and the Slave Bay Coalition, awaiting judgment from the Emperor. Docks, granaries, vaults—all key points of Myr were seized within hours. The city had been broken, its defenses shattered.
---
Volantis.
Inside the Black Stone Palace, Damian Thorne sat calmly upon the obsidian throne. A herald knelt before him, reporting the latest conquest.
"Your Majesty, the city of Myr has been captured this morning. Dakkar and Majol's cavalry have cleared the remaining pockets of resistance. The Unsullied have secured all registered artisans, and the Tiger Robe Army is liquidating the properties of wealthy merchants and nobles."
Damian leaned lightly against the throne's armrest, his fingers tapping the black stone with quiet deliberation. The soft rhythm echoed through the empty hall, the only sound breaking the silence.
"The capture of Myr was expected," he said, voice calm and deliberate.
"Pass on my orders," he continued, eyes narrowing slightly as he regarded the herald.
His words were quiet but carried the weight of thunder:
"All wealthy merchants and nobles in Myr shall surrender their lands, workshops, ships, and ninety percent of their wealth within three days. These assets will fund the expenses of our army."
The messenger shivered, nodding with a mixture of fear and reverence.
"And if there is resistance?" he asked hesitantly.
"The Tiger Robes will instruct them in the proper way to comply," Damian said casually. "Additionally, compile a new register of all craftsmen, detailing their skills and families. The Unsullied will oversee them fully; no other forces may interfere. Their expertise and labor will now serve the New Valyrian Empire."
"As you command, Your Majesty," the herald said, bowing and hurrying out.
Damian's gaze shifted to the massive map spread across the table. The thorn in the Kingdom of Three Daughters—Myr—was removed. Its fall left the rest of the kingdom vulnerable, defenseless against a decisive strike.
"It's time," he murmured to himself.
---
The Emperor's will moved swiftly. The combined fleets of Gothos and Volantis set sail once more, their sails still stained with the blood of the Braavosi. Crewmen's eyes gleamed with anticipation of victory, plunder, and glory.
Their target was Rees, the jewel of the Kingdom of Three Daughters, and the city's fall was imminent. A small boat detached from the fleet, bound westward for Westeros, carrying a land-born messenger tasked with delivering the Emperor's edict to Viserys Targaryen on the Iron Throne.
The news of war spread like wildfire. The main fleet of the Kingdom of Three Daughters had been annihilated along the disputed coastline. Thousands of Braavosi warships, along with their dragon-piercing crossbows, had been obliterated off the shores of Lys.
Daemon, the so-called "Prodigal Prince" of the Targaryen dynasty, and the Velaryon dragon knights were now prisoners of the Eastern Dragon King. The city of Myr had fallen within a day, its defenders crushed and the city reduced to submission. Rees itself was encircled, its fall a matter of days.
Each report landed like a hammer on the collective nerves of the known world. Tyrosh, a city famed for mercenaries and pleasure, trembled in panic. Wealthy merchants and nobles abandoned estates, properties, and lovers alike, fleeing to what they hoped would be safer city-states.
Governors and princes across Pentos, Norvos, and Qohor held sleepless councils, horrified by the rise of an empire in the East they could neither understand nor oppose. Damian Thorne's army did not require his personal presence; the forces under his command were enough to annihilate the Kingdom of Three Daughters.
The greatest terror, however, was the fall of the dragons. The world had anticipated a spectacular clash: the legendary Targaryen dragon riders against the Eastern Dragon King. Instead, the outcome was nightmarish. Rumors spread that the three Targaryen dragons, along with their riders, had been defeated as if they were chickens, unable to resist the might of Damian Thorne's forces.
After centuries of silence across Essos, the title of 'Dragon King' had returned to dominate the world—not under the Targaryens, but under Damian Thorne.
The known world trembled. The age of the New Valyrian Empire had begun, proclaimed in blood and fire, heralding a new era that no one would dare ignore.
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