-Essos. Myr-
Cyrus read the latest report detailing the Triarchy's condition. Vast shipments of supplies from Achaemedia had already arrived—grain, stone, timber, and metal—all flowing into the cities he had once burned. Under his orders, irrigation channels were dredged and reforged, aqueducts rebuilt, and the scars of war patched with relentless precision. Farming fields were tilled anew, houses raised from the ashes, and roads restored to their former order.
Beyond mere restoration, he had decreed the birth of new works: bridges spanning the ravaged rivers, fresh settlements to house the migrants from the east, and the redesign of several major cities to hasten the empire's great project of syncretism.
Yet true integration would not come swiftly. Cyrus knew it would take decades—perhaps generations—of measured migration, careful temple building, and the slow weaving of monuments before the people of these lands would call themselves Achaemedian. And even now, the border skirmishes with Volantis showed no sign of easing.
Volantis, however, was not his next design. The Volantenes were a people drunk on their own delusions of racial divinity, blind to the rot festering beneath their marble towers. Their society held no fractures deep enough for rebellion to bloom. Still, in time, the Hydra would work its quiet sorcery—turning whispers into storms, and storms into ruin.
In the wake of the Triarchy's collapse, Cyrus had moved quickly to fill the vacuum. Old lords and merchant councils were stripped of their authority, their empty seats now occupied by Achaemedian bureaucrats. New governors were appointed, loyal and precise, while a draft for the realm's administrative division was already taking form beneath his seal.
As before, the Triarchy would remain divided into three grand provinces: the Praetorian Prefects of Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh. Each prefecture would in turn be divided into smaller provinces, governed by appointees of the Concilium Status, and advised by lawmakers of the Lex Administratum—a system as orderly and unyielding as the empire itself.
Cyrus leaned back, fatigue pressing against his temples. War was one trial; governance another altogether. He reached for his cup, taking a slow sip of wine as his gaze fell upon the towering pile of documents awaiting him at the edge of the table.
It was a list of candidates for the Praetorian offices and several bureaucratic appointments.
Cyrus took the parchment into his hand, scanning the names one by one. The list was long—filled with men and women of diverse origins, each bearing their own merits and peculiarities. Scholars, governors, accountants, priests—an assortment of minds shaped by both ambition and loyalty.
"It will take a while," he murmured, setting the document aside before lifting his cup once more. The wine lingered on his tongue when a knock came at the door.
"Enter," he said softly.
The door creaked open, revealing a servant pushing a wheeled tray stacked with parchments and bound volumes.
"My Caesar, these are the compiled results of our surveys," the servant said as he laid the collection upon Cyrus's table. "We have also completed the first draft of the new code of laws for this land."
Cyrus raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"Finished already?" he asked, taking the uppermost volume in his hand.
"Tribodian assembled it, my lord," the servant replied.
That drew a faint smile from Cyrus. "The House of Capodocia has ever proven itself a cradle of fine lawmakers."
He opened the book, eyes scanning the neat columns of script. The codex was elegant in its simplicity—built upon the foundations of the old Triarchic statutes but refined through the clarity of Achaemedian thought. What had once been a labyrinth of conflicting decrees and merchant edicts was now woven into a coherent doctrine.
Cyrus recalled the chaos of the Free Cities' governance—dozens of councils, hundreds of overlapping charters, and laws so contradictory they often annulled themselves. Once, nearly fifty tomes of regulations had plagued their courts. Now, under his reform, only one Codex Primus and eight supplemental volumes would remain—a single body of law, ordered, unified, and imperial.
"List Tribodian in my recommendation letter," Cyrus said, his eyes never leaving the open codex. "Write down his full accomplishments—every reform, every statute he has drafted in service to the Empire."
"By your will, my Caesar," the servant replied with a deep bow.
"Also," Cyrus continued, finally closing the book and leaning back, "has the Adamantium Cylinder been completed?"
"It shall be ready by tonight, Caesar."
The reply drew a faint, satisfied smirk from Cyrus. "Excellent. Prepare for the ceremony."
He set the codex aside and rested his fingers together. "It is time for the Essosi to learn how the Achaemedians govern their people. Each recipient of the Tablets shall be honored—with food, and silver. Make certain it is done publicly."
"By your will, Caesar." The servant bowed again before departing swiftly.
Cyrus remained seated for a moment, the quiet of the chamber filled only by the soft rustle of parchment. He reached for another report—its seal marked with the sigil of the Imperial Engineers. Breaking it open, he skimmed through its contents.
It detailed the progress of the Royal Roads: the arteries of empire. Every major route had been charted, and construction pressed forward day and night under the supervision of automata and guild-engineers. Three hundred kilometers were already complete, spanning the newly conquered Triarchic lands, binding city to city with the precision of Achaemedian order.
Beneath the report, another section detailed the progress of the aqueduct and the great works now underway. After several days of surveying the region's geography, Cyrus had resolved to expand and perfect what remnants of Valyria still endured. With vast resources and legions of automatons from his homeland—alongside forty thousand men drawn from his army—he would raise splendor upon the ashes of the Freehold.
The new aqueduct, stretching over seven hundred and twenty-nine kilometers, would weave through the conquered lands, feeding every major city with a steady flow of water.
Further south, immense canal works along the River Rhoyne were being excavated to redirect its waters into an artificial lake still under construction. At its heart, Cyrus had ordered the building of a grand dam—its purpose twofold: to generate power for a Terramagic Forge and to provide the surrounding provinces with a self-sustaining supply of fresh water through a vast subterranean distribution network.
With this abundance of water—and the resulting access to steam and raw energy—the foundations of industry could truly awaken. Automated mills, enchanted foundries, agricultural complexes, and shipyards would soon rise in concert, each fueled by the rhythm of the Imperial design.
According to projections drawn from Achaemedian analogies and precedent, the project would take nearly a decade to complete. Yet Cyrus saw beyond the span of years; in his mind, he was already walking through the completed marvel, where water, magic, and steel flowed as one.
"A reasonable development," Cyrus remarked with a faint smile. "Tell me—has our Remembrancer arrived at the Red Keep?"
"I heard they are expected to reach Blackwater Bay by this evening, my lord," the servant replied.
Cyrus hummed thoughtfully, a glint of amusement flickering in his eyes. "Killing two birds with one stone, then," he mused. "I suppose what I have built here will make for a most fitting wedding gift."
_________________________________________________________________________________________
-Westeros. King's Landing. Red Keep-
Dalia read through the papers in her hand—letters written in her brother's unmistakable style.
Each line filled her with quiet joy. The war had ended; construction and social welfare now blossomed in its wake.
"Just like him, whenever he goes to war," she murmured with a faint smile. Like every Emperor before him, her brother was not merely a conqueror, but an architect of civilization.
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
"Enter," she said softly.
The door opened, revealing a Custodes. He stepped inside, bowed, and spoke with solemn precision.
"Princess, His Grace summons you."
"I see," Dalia replied, her tone calm and measured. "Escort me."
With her Custodians in attendance, she followed the summons. Even before entering the hall, Dalia could hear the voices within—courtly chatter, half-murmured conversations about her brother's triumphs and the empire's glory. She could not make out every word, yet it was enough to fill her with pride.
Dalia gave a nod to the Kingsguard at the door. He returned the gesture before stepping forward to announce her arrival.
"Princess Dalia Alargon has arrived," he declared.
With quiet grace, Dalia entered the chamber.
"Princess," King Viserys greeted her with a cordial smile. Yet Dalia could sense something beneath the warmth—curiosity, perhaps unease. Otto Hightower stood slightly inclined toward the king's side, as if ready to whisper counsel at a moment's notice. Beside them stood a man draped in the silvery-blue banner of Achaemedia. The pendant of a hand clasping a pen upon his chest marked him unmistakably—a Remembrancer.
"Princess," the Remembrancer greeted with a respectful bow.
"King Viserys," Dalia began, her tone diplomatic and poised, "it seems my brother's messenger has already reached you. May I take a seat? I imagine this conversation will be a long one."
"Of course, Princess," Viserys replied, gesturing toward a nearby chair. "I wished to address the news your emissary brings."
"And what is it you wish to ask, Your Grace?" Dalia said evenly.
Viserys exhaled softly, his tone balancing intrigue and fatigue. "Your servant here has presented me with a metal cylinder inscribed in a tongue none of my maesters can decipher. Along with it came five chests—gold, and carved from the finest wood I have ever seen. We inquired about their meaning, but the servant claims no knowledge of their contents or purpose."
"May I read it, Your Grace?" Dalia asked.
He nodded. Dalia motioned gracefully to her attendant. The servant stepped forward, carrying a small chest in his hands.
Dalia took the cylinder, her fingers tracing its cool, flawless surface. With a single glance, she recognized the engraved script—the Nevirian tongue, but not as it was spoken today. This was the High Nevirian, the sacred language of her forebears, older than the empire itself.
No wonder the Remembrancer couldn't read it. Even among Achaemedia's scholars, only a handful could decipher such ancient script. To the maesters and courtiers of Westeros—or to the remnants of the Triarchy—it would be utterly alien.
Her brow furrowed as she turned the cylinder in her hands. Why would you do this, brother? she thought. Why spread your law—your will—through the oldest of tongues?
"Princess?" Otto Hightower's voice broke her reverie, cautious and probing.
She composed herself instantly, lowering the cylinder with measured grace. "Nothing, my lord," she replied, her tone serene. "This language is ours—the root of Nevirian, once spoken in the old royal courts. Yet this particular script belongs to our ancestors—it is beyond ancient."
A murmur spread through the chamber. Even Viserys leaned forward slightly, intrigued.
"So," Dalia continued, "to render it directly into your Common speech is... difficult. Its meaning lies not only in words, but in the structure of law, oaths, and divine command."
Viserys's expression hardened, though curiosity still glinted in his eyes. "Then tell us, Princess," he said, his voice steady. "What does it say?"
"Very well." Dalia simply stated. Her eyes studied each of the words on the tablet.
"I am Cyrus Alargon, Caesar Despotes of the Imperial Light, Co-Emperor and Co-Autocrat of the Achaemedians, Lawful Prince of the Aderita Bloodline, Patron of the Guilds and Secondary Keeper of the Arcane Gates, Commander of the Legions and Auxilia, and Viceroy of the Emperor upon Earth.
By God's name and grace, by the divine fire of Universalism, it bestowed responsibility upon my house and me to rule my subjects wisely. In the name of my father, Odrin II Alargon, Emperor Augustus, Basileus Autokrator of the Achaemedians; Father of the Fatherland and Father of the Universal; Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Faith; Keeper of the Arcane Gates; Lord of the Colossus of Dawn; Protector of the Leviathans and of the Sea-Ways; Guardian of the Aderita Bloodline; President of the Lex Administratum; First of the Concilium; Supreme Judge of the Tribunal; Imperial Commander of Legions and Fleets; Patron of the Arts, Safeguard of the People, and Preserver of the Sacred Orders.
It has become my duty to march my army upon the Triarchy, blessed by the grace of every known god. I took up my lordly place in the royal palace amidst rejoicing and happiness. The Golden Mandate, a great noble duty, would be established for me, a magnanimous heart of one who loves Myr, Tyrosh, Lys, and I would daily attend to be their steward.
By the grace of all living beings, every man and woman shall rise as masters of their own fates. I sought the welfare of the cities in the Achaemedian realm and all its sacred centers. As for the citizens, no one shall impose a corvée that was not the gods' wish and not befitting them.
May all the gods whom I settled in their sacred centers ask daily
With this mandate, given by the gods and honored people of my care, I shall build this land in marble and gold, and its soil shall be flourished with food and water.
Thus, brick by brick, I shall create a new realm where gods and people rejoiced."
Dalia lowered the cylinder and exhaled softly. Though her translation differed slightly from her brother's intended phrasing, it was enough to convey his message.
Silence descended upon the room. No one dared to speak—a hush of awe and uncertainty hung thick in the air.
"Remembrancer," Dalia finally said, her calm voice cutting through the stillness. "Open those chests. I would see what my brother has gifted to King Viserys."
Her words stirred the gathered courtiers to life.
"By your will, Princess." The Remembrancer bowed, signaling to his entourage.
A group of attendants stepped forward, straining slightly as they lifted the heavy chests closer to the center of the hall. The sound of metal clasps and grinding hinges echoed faintly as the first lid was raised.
Inside lay a trove of gold bars, each one refined to immaculate purity and stacked with deliberate precision.
The bars gleamed under the chamber's light, casting warm reflections that danced upon the faces of those present. A faint shimmer of enchantment seemed to hang in the air, as if the metal itself radiated divine favor. Dalia's eyes moved over them, sharp and calculating. She did not need to touch the gold to recognize its worth—pure Achaemedian mintwork, flawless and unmistakable
"Alpha-class golds... Brother," Dalia whispered, her voice soft but tinged with disbelief.
"Gold bars," King Viserys murmured, his tone uncertain.
"Not ordinary gold bars, Your Grace," Dalia explained, stepping closer to the open chest. "These are Alpha-class ingots. Forged by our alchemists, they are worth several times more than common gold. Each bar carries a latent magical property that strengthens any construct in which it is used."
She raised her sleeve, revealing a slender bracelet of glimmering gold adorned with a small red stone."For example," she continued, "this bracelet keeps me warm. The stone acts as the source of heat, while the gold channels it evenly across my body."
Before anyone could respond, the Remembrancer motioned to his attendants, and another chest was opened. The air itself seemed to still as the lid rose.
Inside lay a set of full-plate armor and swords—their sheen unmistakable.Not mere steel, but Valyrian Steel.
"Valyrian Steel…" Viserys breathed, his voice a mix of awe and suspicion. "Bring me one of those blades."
An attendant presented it to him with both hands. The King took it carefully, testing its balance. For a moment, the light of the chamber danced along the rippling dark metal.
When Viserys felt its weight, his hands trembled."This quality... this quality," he muttered. "It's impossible."
Dalia's eyes narrowed slightly, recognition dawning in her tone."Another Alpha-grade..." she murmured under her breath.
"Princess..." Viserys' voice faltered as he looked at Dalia, disbelief etched upon his face. "My ancestors were proud people — wielders of magic, masters of dragons. Valyrian steel was their eternal masterpiece. But this..." He trailed off, glancing back at the sword gleaming in his hands. "Even though we have purchased your Beskát steel before, I have never seen its like."
"Alpha-class materials," Dalia replied calmly, her tone carrying a quiet pride, "are the purest form of any substance. They are the pinnacle of our refining craft — the point where matter itself is made flawless. Through arduous process and precise artifice, we recreate Earth and its essence into perfection. From such purity, wonders can be born."
Viserys looked down at the blade once more, its dark mirror reflecting his uncertain eyes. "Perfection," he murmured, almost reverently.
"Open the next one!" the King commanded suddenly, breaking the heavy silence.
The attendants obeyed. As the lid of the third chest lifted, its contents drew a very different sort of awe. Instead of gold or steel, the chest was filled with books — bound in fine leather, embossed with foreign glyphs, their craftsmanship immaculate.
An Archmaester stepped forward, his curiosity piqued. He took one of the volumes carefully, flipping through its delicate pages. His brows furrowed, then his eyes widened. Several moments passed before he managed to speak.
"This book…" he said slowly, voice trembling with astonishment. "From what I can discern… it claims that our sun is the center of the… Sol System?"
"Indeed," Dalia replied with a measured smile. "I am certain these volumes were sent by my brother as a gesture of cultural exchange — a sharing of our knowledge with your realm."
Though the Archmaester's excitement was palpable, it did little to stir the rest of the court. Dalia, noticing their waning curiosity, motioned gracefully toward the next chest. "Open it."
The lid was lifted, revealing not treasures of gold, but a collection of peculiar constructs. To the Achaemedian princess, the sight brought a quiet sigh. What her brother offered here would be deemed commonplace in the Empire — yet to the Westerosi, they would seem like relics of the gods.
"But still…" she murmured softly, half to herself.
Inside lay a box-like metal device, its surface inlaid with intricate cogs and a circular face of shifting rings. Beside it rested a delicate glass chalice, its stem traced with fine silver veins, and finally a large crystalline vessel, adorned with gold filigree that shimmered like captured sunlight.
"My brother has chosen to gift you some of our finest craftsmanship," Dalia announced, stepping closer to the table. Her tone carried both pride and a hint of amusement. "This metal construct is called a Mundimator. It is capable of measuring and counting nearly everything within our world — height, depth, air pressure, magical currents, even the world's magnetic field and the rhythm of its rotation."
As she spoke, Dalia pressed a small button on its side. The machine answered with a soft hiss, its inner mechanisms coming alive. Cogs whirred, rings rotated, and the faint hum of energy filled the air.
"Now, I shall attune it to Westerosi time," she said, turning a series of small dials. The Mundimator responded with precision, its hands beginning to spin rapidly before settling in opposite directions. A faint golden glow traced numbers upon its circular face — one through twelve, perfectly illuminated.
Then, slowly, the long hand aligned with one, while the short hand rested upon two.
"Two hours past midday," Dalia announced softly.
King Viserys could only stare. Words failed him. The device before him was unlike anything he had ever seen — nor had he read of its like in any Valyrian record or ancient tome. Though he could not grasp its full workings, he knew instinctively that such a creation could reshape the balance of the world.
Dalia's gaze turned toward the final chest — the largest and most ornate of them all. Its surface gleamed crimson, framed with the same mysterious metal the Achaemedians called dwemer-forged. Even before she moved, she seemed to know what lay within.
"Now, for the elephant in the room," she murmured. Then, lowering her tone, she added, "I will open this one, Your Grace."
Viserys gave a silent nod. The lords and courtiers leaned forward, their curiosity tempered by unease.
Dalia stepped to the chest and placed her hand upon an engraved circle at its center. The moment her fingers touched the metal, she whispered — a prayer, a command, or perhaps a message carried through blood and faith.
"Brother… they must now witness us."
A low hum answered her words. Cogs within the chest began to turn, the sound swelling into a whir of intricate precision. Then, with a thunderous click, the entire construct came alive.
Panels unfolded, gears locked into motion, and a gust of wind burst from within, scattering parchment and banners alike. Light spilled across the chamber in golden arcs — and before the astonished eyes of Westeros' king and council, the machine revealed its purpose.
They watched in awed silence as the chest unfolded into majesty.
The chest unfolded, its inner light spilling across the chamber. Within lay a gleaming golden egg, encrusted with jewels that shimmered in the torchlight. At its heart rested a large emerald, cut so precisely that it seemed to breathe with its own living glow.
Dalia drew closer, her expression composed, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of recognition. She knew well that this was no ornament, no simple treasure — but another marvel of her brother's making.
With delicate fingers, she touched the egg's surface. Instantly, light flared from within — green and gold intertwined, dancing like firelight through glass. The quiet whir of hidden gears rose into a low, resonant hum that filled the hall. Courtiers flinched, startled by the sudden motion, but the Achaemedians among them remained calm, their eyes fixed with quiet reverence.
Then, from the halo of light, a shape began to form.
At first, it was mist and brilliance — then lines, wings, and a piercing gaze.
"An… eagle," Otto Hightower murmured, his voice faint with awe.
The projection towered above them — a majestic bird wrought of light and metal, its feathers glinting like sunlit bronze. It spread its wings wide, casting luminous shadows upon the walls of the throne room.
Dalia's voice was soft, almost wistful. "Our House bears the sigil of the twin-headed dragon, golden and black. Yet this eagle… it holds a deeper meaning."
She turned her gaze toward the emerald light, her tone solemn, almost reverent.
"Long ago," she continued, "before the rise of my forefathers, there was a mighty empire that stretched across large part of our continent.
"Its legions were once unchallenged, their Emperor almighty," Dalia said, her voice carrying softly through the hall. "They built civilizations and forged order in the chaos of the ancient world. For milennia, their tongue became the lingua franca of our continent. Yet, in time, even that glory dimmed. The empire fell — three hundred years before Emperor Tyber began his wars of unification."
She stepped closer to the luminous projection, her eyes reflecting the gold and emerald glow. "Our birth city, Versepolis, now stands upon the bones of that fallen realm. It was their capital — their heart. When our Founder rose, he took up their mantle, restoring what was lost. He wove their forgotten wisdom with the cultures of a hundred peoples, and under his banner, we rose higher than even they had dreamed."
Before them stood the mechanical eagle, now fully formed — a marvel of gold and steel. Steam hissed softly from vents along its flanks, its chest pulsing faintly with heat. The twin ruby eyes whirred as they focused, scanning the gathered court with a measured, almost sentient gaze. That stare alone — sharp and unyielding — spoke of command, of empire, of dominion.
Then, with a metallic shriek and the rush of air, the eagle spread its wings. Each feather moved in perfect harmony, clockwork precision meeting grace. When it rose into the air, the sudden gust sent candles flickering and robes rippling through the chamber. Gasps rippled through the crowd — even the King himself could not disguise his awe.
Dalia bowed her head slightly. "I believe that is all, Your Grace," she said, her tone warm but dignified. "I trust my brother's gifts are enough to show the Empire's goodwill — and our desire for friendship, not conquest."
________________________________________________________________________
King Viserys watched in silence as each chest was opened — and with every unveiling, his fascination deepened into disbelief. Gold beyond reckoning. Armor finer than even the Valyrian blades of old. Knowledge that upended all his understanding of the world.
Nothing in the histories of Valyria — not even in its proudest age — compared to this.
Nothing.
He felt it then, an uneasy awe prickling beneath his skin. The wealth and marvels before him were not mere gifts; they were declarations. Proof that the world he thought he knew was far larger — and that the Empire across the Narrow Sea stood higher than he'd dared to imagine.
Books, he thought. Books speak truer than gold. And if what lay within those tomes was real — if their sun truly circled not the world but the heavens — then their knowledge was beyond fathoming.
"Princess…" Viserys began, his voice catching in his throat. "Did my proposal…"
Dalia turned toward him, her expression serene, unreadable beneath the faint glow of the mechanical eagle still circling above.
"We have considered it, Your Grace," she said softly. "The Emperor has agreed. His terms will arrive within a few days. I pray," she added with the faintest curve of her lips, "for the union of our houses."