Sothoryos Continent, Basilisk Isles, Tear Island
Tear Island was a place of layered, blood-soaked history. During the height of the Old Ghiscari Empire, the harpies of Ghis had established colonies here. Later, the Valyrian Dragonlords transformed the island into a massive processing center for the slave trade, warehousing Naathi and Sothoryos natives before shipping them across the world.
After the Doom of Valyria, the islands fell to pirates. Yet, even the most cold-blooded corsairs only dared to occupy the outer fringes. They spoke in hushed, fearful tones of the interior—specifically, the city known in High Valyrian as "High Sothos," which translates roughly to "Redemption of the Exiled."
In the days of the Freehold, High Sothos was where the Dragonlords sent their most depraved criminals. Rumors persisted that the Blood Mages stationed there used these convicts for horrific experiments. Because the physiology of Sothoryos natives was "unnatural"—their unions with outsiders producing only stillborn monsters or twisted chimeras—the Blood Mages saw the continent as a vast, living laboratory. They sought to forge a new breed of "Ork-like" slave: strong, low-intelligence, and perfectly obedient.
Jon had learned of this place through the blood-magic scrolls recovered from Visenya Targaryen's hidden chamber. To him, High Sothos wasn't just a ruin; it was a potential goldmine of lost magical technology.
The Stench of Blood Cove
"This place reeks of rot. These pirates are practically begging for a plague," Jon remarked, stepping onto the pier of the pirate stronghold known as "Blood Cove." The air was a thick, acidic soup of human waste, spoiled salt-pork, and unwashed bodies.
"My apologies, Lord Aegon," Salladhor Saan said, covering his nose with a silk handkerchief. "Blood Cove is the only deep-water port on Tear Island capable of holding our fleet. We need this base if we are to move the 'cargo' from Pterodactyl Point."
Jon nodded. He didn't blame Salladhor; the pirate-turned-admiral was a pragmatist. "Very well. We take it. Who is the master here?"
"A man called 'Head' Kass," Salladhor replied. "A Myrish half-breed who likes to turn the skulls of his enemies into wine cups. He fancies himself a King."
"A King of filth," Jon said coldly. "Let's see how his skull looks on a pike."
The March of the Dead
Jon reached into the void and drew forth a gnarled, ugly artifact—the "Zombie Staff." During his time at Pterodactyl Point, he had harvested enough necrotic energy to craft several of these. In a land where manpower was scarce and the environment lethal, the undead were the perfect labor force.
As Jon chanted the incantation, the space around the pier began to ripple and tear. The very fabric of reality seemed to bruise as grey, rotting hands thrust through the spatial cracks.
One by one, the zombies stepped into the sunlight. They were silent, their flesh tattered and their eyes glowing with a faint, malevolent light.
The pirates of Blood Cove, who had been jeering and sharpening their blades, froze. Their arrogance evaporated, replaced by a primal, soul-shattering terror.
"REEE-AAUGH!"
The zombies let out a collective, raspy shriek—the signal for the slaughter.
"HELP! SAVE ME!" a pirate screamed, dropping his cutlass and sprinting toward the interior. "MONSTERS! THE DEAD ARE WALKING!" another wailed, losing all sense of reason.
The morale of the "Blood Cove" garrison didn't just break; it vanished. Jon's zombies weren't ordinary corpses; their claws dripped with a paralytic toxin. A single scratch was enough to send a pirate collapsing into the mud, helpless as the undead swarmed over him.
The Siege of the Great Keep
"Salladhor! Have your men round up the survivors. Release any Naathi you find, but keep the Sothoryos natives in the pits for now—we'll release them once we relocate," Jon commanded.
To finish the job, Jon drew upon his Magestones to summon three Cyclopes. The massive, one-eyed giants loomed over the wooden structures of the pirate town. They didn't need swords; Jon signaled for them to uproot the massive wooden flagpoles of the harbor to use as clubs.
The "Great Keep" of Blood Cove was a reinforced timber fortress behind a high palisade. From the third-story balcony, "Head" Kass peered through his Myrish tube, his face turning a sickly shade of grey.
Kass was a man who had clawed his way up from being a slave in Meereen to a Pirate King through sheer brutality. He had always been proud of his numbers—three thousand cutthroats. But now, those numbers were a liability.
He watched in horror as the Cyclopes used their makeshift clubs to sweep through his ranks like a farmer clearing wheat. Where the giants smashed, the zombies followed, paralyzing the wounded and dragging them into heaps.
"By the Goddess of Lust..." Kass whispered, the Myrish tube slipping from his trembling fingers. "That isn't an army. That's an apocalypse."
The Great Keep's gates groaned as the first Cyclops began to batter the wood. The era of the pirates was ending; the era of the Blood Dragon had arrived.