-Westeros. King's Landing. Red Keep-
Rhaenyra watched the spectacle before her. Riches from Essos and Achaemedia are being poured as a gift to House Targaryen. She has heard tales of Lord Corlys Velaryon's journey, which brings luxury to House Velaryon, making them the richest house in Westeros, second only to the Targaryens in political power.
However, now that the story is incomparable to the genuine spectacle before her. When she witnessed the Achaemedian gift in her father's court a few days prior, she immersed herself in many aspects of Achaemedian culture and its mechanisms.
As she read each page, each word she understood drew her deeper into Prince Cyrus's homeland.
She slowly took in a view of their culture. Even though they're an over-centralised culture and bureaucracy, some of the newly conquered territories retained a high level of autonomy and are a testament to the Empire. Yet, this tribute system intrigued her.
How is it not? In Westeros and even Old Valyria, tribute must pay heavy taxes, and slowly, as they are weakened over time, they will be assimilated into the realm. But the Achaemedian taxed so little and gave much.
A small chest of gold will be repaid handsomely with dozens of luxuries, from gold to Beskat Steel and from a small trinket to master-crafted items. Achaemedia also rebuilt their land, siphoning land to their will to serve its native needs.
This doesn't make sense to her.
Indeed, the conqueror must serve their conquered and raise their vassals' feet with a greater purpose. But to a nearly independent realm. It was unthinkable.
But it also explains the loyalty of the Achaemedian people to their sovereign.
"This is my gift to your realm, Your Grace. All of these riches are yours to have. This is our gratitude for our trade and good intentions." Dalia declared, inviting applause from every westerosi noble.
Yet for Rhaenyra, this spectacle has a deeper intrigue than a simple sway or gifts. She speaks of trade, yet when she tried to gather as many rumors as possible, she found out that the Achaemedian commodities had crushed many local merchants' goods, forcing them to join the Achaemedian trading company.
Some council members from the Small Council express their concern about this situation. Moreover, Otto Hightower, who possessed the richest trading city in Westeros. However, her father dismissed him.
This led her to question another trading house.
"Princess Dalia, I want to discuss another shipment of our silk trade." Corlys Velaryon approached Princess Dalia, who smiled at him.
Might be the Nine Voyages really taught him something that Westerosi traders don't know.
"Hail Prince Cyrus Alargon. Conqueror of the Triarchy. Crown Prince of the Achaemenian Empire." A herald's voice cut through the chatter, drawing all eyes to the chamber doors.
The doors opened. Cyrus stood framed in the archway, robed in deep red silk embroidered with gold threads in mosaic patterns. A golden laurel crowned his white hair. His smile was radiant. Lorensians shared the same pale, sharp beauty as Valyrians, and Cyrus wore it with easy charm.
"Hail Caesar!" The Achaemenian envoys raised their hands, voices thick with pride.
"Hail, my people." Cyrus's smile held as his gaze settled on Rhaenyra. She returned it.
"Princess." He approached slowly.
"Should I call you Caesar now?" Rhaenyra grinned.
"No need. Not until you've learned our customs. Then it might be appropriate." Cyrus matched her grin.
"I didn't take you for sharp-tongued, my prince."
"And I didn't take you for open-minded, Princess." He chuckled. Rhaenyra's lips pressed tight.
"I never thought a foreign prince would spar like this."
"Nor did I expect the She-Dragon to be so quick with words." Cyrus held her eyes. "I like it."
Rhaenyra flushed. Cyrus chuckled softly.
Cyrus took a goblet from the table. "Want to toast?"
"An offer of apology?" She raised an eyebrow.
"Perhaps." He lifted his wine.
"Glory to our Houses." Rhaenyra clinked her goblet against his before drinking.
"Glory to our houses." He drank.
A Kingsguard's voice boomed through the hall. "Presenting His Grace, King Viserys Targaryen, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!"
King Viserys entered and took his seat on the Iron Throne. "Prince Cyrus Alargon. Your campaign has cleared the Narrow Sea. Gold and silks now flow freely into Blackwater Bay. By the grace of the Seven, we honor you." His smile was warm but weary.
"Those pirates earned their fate through folly, Your Grace. I merely delivered it. Consider it a gift to your realm." Cyrus bowed slightly.
"Indeed." Viserys tilted his head. Cyrus returned the nod.
"My lords, ladies, and honored Achaemenian guests," Viserys announced, "our alliance is forged in Valyrian steel. I have spoken with the Achaemenian Emperor. Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen will wed Prince Cyrus Alargon."
A ripple of whispers spread through the hall. Westerosi lords exchanged uneasy glances. A septon's hand tightened on his crystal. Achaemedia was a land of strange gods and stranger machines—a power too vast to ignore, yet too foreign to trust. Heresy to the Faith, but undeniable in its wealth.
"I feel honored, Your Grace." Prince Cyrus's voice cut cleanly through the murmurs of the hall. "If my father, Emperor Augustus Basileus, has agreed to this arrangement, then I accept this union—for the sake of our realms."
The Achaemenian nobles erupted in approval, voices raised without restraint. His sister beamed openly beside him. Across the hall, Rhaenyra's mouth fell slightly ajar, violet eyes wide with shock.
"My lords, ladies, and honored guests," King Viserys proclaimed, rising from his seat, "I have ordered a grand tourney to celebrate this betrothal—and the coming birth of my queen's child. I invite all worthy knights to compete, that our bonds with our Achaemenian allies may be strengthened in steel and honor."
For a heartbeat, silence ruled the hall. Then thunderous applause broke forth, rolling like a storm against the stone.
"Your father understands timing well, Princess."Cyrus turned toward Rhaenyra, his words snapping her free from her thoughts.
"My prince… does this mean that we are—"
"Nothing here is illusion, Rhaenyra. I am your betrothed."His smile never wavered.
"Don't tease me."
"Very well." His tone softened, though the glint in his eyes remained. "But know this—your father is not the only ruler who plans several moves ahead."
She frowned, unsettled. "What do you mean?"
"My victory over the Triarchy earned me a Triumph in Achaemedia. A celebration that lasts weeks." He spoke as if reciting a fact of governance. "Emperor Travian once marked his conquests with three hundred and twenty-three days of feasts, games, and free wine."
Rhaenyra searched his face for exaggeration and found none. The certainty in his voice weighed heavily upon her, loosening truths she had thought unmovable.
"That must be a marvel to behold."Rhaenyra replied evenly, though the wonder in her eyes betrayed her restraint.
"Indeed." Cyrus inclined his head slightly. "Alongside that spectacle, he raised dozens of wonders of immense scale across Achaemedia—many of which still stand to this day. The records say he spent nearly fifty million gold in that single year." A faint smirk touched his lips. "Like a golden gamble, it returned threefold."
Her breath caught.
"If you wish to see Achaemedia," he continued, voice low and assured, "I will show you the full measure of Emperor Travian's glory."
"Do you think my father would allow it?" she asked earnestly, her amethyst eyes bright with unhidden excitement.
"I can speak to him."
That was all he said, yet it was enough.
They lingered together after, speaking softly, drawing glances from nobles and servants alike. Golden eyes met amethyst, neither eager to look away, as if the world beyond them had thinned.
From across the hall, King Viserys watched.
Intrigue flickered behind his calm expression. This union pleased him. Everything he had learned of Achaemedia spoke of a realm at its height—yet still growing stronger with each passing decade. If House Targaryen was to endure another century, this match was bold, even brazen, and certain to unsettle his council.
Yet Viserys felt no doubt.
Perhaps this, too, was the favor of the gods upon his House.
_____________________________________________________________________________
-The King's Solar. Earlier this evening-
King Viserys had summoned him—alone. That alone marked the matter as grave.
Cyrus had already envisioned dozens of negotiation paths before crossing the threshold, each branching into concessions, delays, and veiled refusals. Years in the Achaemedian court had honed him for this moment. Kings rarely spoke plainly when bloodlines and futures were at stake.
When he entered, he found Viserys seated upon the Iron Throne, though his posture lacked its usual stiffness. One shoulder sagged slightly, the crown resting heavier than it should. It was an intentional openness, Cyrus noted—vulnerability offered as invitation. Yet the crimson of House Targaryen, rich and regal as it was, could not rival the imperial purple and gilded laurel Cyrus wore, draped with the pastoral sigils that defined his station.
King Viserys was a good man.
But not a strong king—at least, not in Cyrus's estimation.
"King Viserys," Cyrus greeted, inclining his head with practiced diplomacy.
"Please, have a seat." The king gestured warmly, though the strain beneath his smile betrayed the weight on his mind.
"You certainly know how to awe your vassals," Cyrus said lightly, allowing a measured compliment to soften the air.
Viserys chuckled. "I suppose that is my one true specialty." The humor faded almost at once. "I wished to speak with you about Rhaenyra's future."
Cyrus nodded, his expression unchanged. "Ah. Then this concerns my father's condition, I presume."
"Indeed." Viserys exhaled, fingers tightening briefly around the arm of the throne. "Eight years… eight years as your father's ward."
"Achaemedia does not open herself to those who have not lived within her," Cyrus replied evenly. His gaze never left the king's face. "Our customs, our disciplines, even our expectations of power are… alien to Westeros. You may read of them, hear accounts from envoys, but those are only fragments."
He paused, letting the implication settle.
"It would be no different from House Targaryen before the Conqueror crossed the Narrow Sea."
"It will risk her legitimacy," Viserys said at last, his voice slow and heavy, as if each word weighed upon him.
"Your Grace's wife is with child," Cyrus replied calmly. "That alone will placate most of the lords. Blood quiets ambition—at least for a time. But Rhaenyra must learn the realm she is meant to co-govern." His tone remained even, almost instructional. "Achaemedia is not merely another kingdom across the sea. Its lands are vaster than Essos and Westeros combined, its peoples more numerous, its cultures layered with centuries of refinement and conflict. Our ethnicities are many, our traditions older than most crowns here. And they are proud."
He watched closely as Viserys faltered.
The king's fingers twitched against the throne's arm. His eyes widened, just slightly, as the scale of what Cyrus described pressed down upon him—not as threat, but as inevitability.
"But I cannot make her leave for that long," Viserys insisted. The resolve in his voice cracked at the edges, revealing the father beneath the king. "She is my daughter."
"Then very well." Cyrus inclined his head, the smile on his lips tightening into something more deliberate. "I will speak with my father. He is a benevolent emperor, after all."
Viserys released a breath he did not realize he was holding. The tension eased, replaced by something closer to curiosity. "If that matter is settled," he said slowly, a faint smile returning, "perhaps you might indulge me. Tell me of your Triumph."
Cyrus's expression brightened, pride gleaming openly now. "It is an ancient tradition—older even than Achaemedia itself. In its earliest form, it marked the return of a general who had utterly broken his enemy. The people would gather, the city would open its gates, and the victor would be celebrated as the embodiment of the state's strength."
He paused, savoring the memory. "Now, it honors not one man alone, but all who contributed to a great victory. Soldiers, engineers, administrators—every hand that carried Achaemedia forward."
"I wish I could see such a thing," Viserys said quietly.
Cyrus met his gaze. "If fate truly favors us, King Viserys, perhaps one day you will."
______________________________________________________
Otto Hightower did his utmost to read the Achaemedians gathered near him. They were alien—utterly so. Not merely because of their impossibly advanced inventions or their strange, precise movements, but because of what they represented. To the eyes of House Hightower, they were barbarians wrapped in gold, heretics clad in silk and steel.
They absorbed the cultures of the lands they conquered. The gods as well. Not replacing them outright, but folding them together into a single, engineered unity. A blasphemy masquerading as tolerance.
How could gods be united? How could barbarians be trusted?
And yet, these same people burned old orders to ash and raised something new atop the ruins—stronger, richer, unyielding.
"Otto."
The familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts.
"Brother," he replied slowly, turning to face Hobert.
Hobert Hightower studied the hall with a measured gaze, though his eyes lingered on the Achaemedians longer than courtesy demanded. "This feast is lively," he said. "Too lively. But I imagine, for a man in your position as Hand, there are matters here that burn brighter than wine and song."
Otto inclined his head slightly. "The King and their sovereign appear to have reached an understanding concerning the Princess," he said with care. "It is said they wish Princess Rhaenyra to serve as their Emperor's ward—for several years."
Hobert's mouth tightened. "Troubling," he said flatly. "A royal princess sent across the sea to a land of barbarism and heresy."
"Your assumption mirrors my own," Otto replied, though his tone lacked conviction.
"Their riches have blinded the court," Hobert continued, disdain sharpening his voice. "Their customs are disturbing. Parading prisoners through the streets. Public executions turned into spectacle. Worshipping the very gods they claim to have crushed and reordered." He spat lightly to the side. "And to imagine such a culture taking root upon our shores."
Otto did not answer at once.
He had watched the Achaemedians closely—listened to their envoys, studied their histories, observed their discipline. Where Hobert saw only sacrilege and excess, Otto saw structure. Intent. An empire that did nothing without purpose, not even mercy.
Silence settled between the brothers.
Otto's gaze drifted back to the foreign nobles, their strange attire, their calm confidence amid a hall not their own. His conclusions, shaped by observation rather than doctrine, had begun to diverge sharply from his brother's.
Their Empire was built by conquest and the universal embrace of anyone different from them. Creating a solid foundation yet remaining fluid enough to be reformed by successive generations of emperors. My lord, you need to be careful.
The maester's words had been enough to grant Otto a broader vision of the Achaemedians. Caution alone, he realized, might no longer suffice. Their conquest of the Triarchy—and more importantly, the swift establishment of order after such bloodshed—spoke volumes of their capability. Empires did not endure on spectacle alone. They endured through systems, discipline, and foresight.
"Brother," Otto said at last, lowering his voice, "if I may advise you—so long as their prince remains here, we cannot afford any action that might cost us dearly."
His eyes never left Hobert's face, measuring the reaction.
"If the Princess truly does leave Westeros," Hobert replied, a thin smile forming on his lips, sharp as a blade, "I want you to use your leverage."
"Of course, brother… of course," Otto answered evenly.
Hobert returned to the feast soon after, his demeanor shifting effortlessly into warmth as he greeted the Achaemedians with practiced charm. Otto remained where he was, scanning the hall with deliberate slowness. His gaze searched past foreign nobles and golden automatons until it found his daughter.
"Alicent," Otto called.
"Father," she replied, lifting her head after taking a delicate bite of lobster from her plate.
"Are you enjoying the feast?" he asked, his tone gentle, almost indulgent.
"Of course, Father. It is a king's feast, after all," Alicent said politely. "And the Achaemedian delicacies truly live up to their reputation." A faint smile touched her lips.
"Perhaps their country does as well," Otto replied mildly. Then, after a pause, "Daughter, I wish to speak with you."
Alicent blinked, momentarily puzzled. "Of course, Father."
He gestured for her to follow. Without another word, Otto led her away from the din of music and laughter and onto the balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay. The night air was cool, the dark waters stretching endlessly below. As the doors closed behind them, Alicent felt her composure waver.
Otto's expression hardened, the warmth gone.
"What is it you wish to speak of, Father?" she asked. Her voice was steady, though a faint crack betrayed her unease.
"What do you think of the prince?" Otto asked softly, barely above a whisper.
Alicent hesitated, then answered truthfully. "He is kind. Beloved by his people. A capable war leader—and a skilled administrator." Her eyes gleamed faintly as she spoke, caught by her own words.
Otto studied her carefully.
"You seem to admire him," he said at last.
"I only repeated what they told me, Father."
Otto inclined his head slightly, drawing in a measured breath. "They are foreigners, Alicent. Your tutors would know the proper answer to that."
At his words, Alicent's gaze slowly fell to the stone beneath her feet.
"Their customs are indeed… brazen. Unthinkable, at times," she said quietly, her eyes widening as the thought settled. "But, Father, they have brought us wealth. Oldtown's trade has grown, and so has our fortune. I believe it would be unwise to… offend them."
"Your sentiment is noted, my daughter," Otto replied calmly. "Yet they have arrived not only with gold, but with their knowledge—and their faith. That is what troubles me. The Prince embodies his people all too well." His eyes remained vigilant, tracking every movement nearby, ever wary of unseen threats.
Before Alicent could respond, Otto lifted a hand, signaling her to stop.
"I hope you are enjoying the night, Prince Cyrus. Princess Rhaenyra." Otto bowed with practiced respect.
Alicent, startled, quickly followed her father's gesture.
"Peace, my lord and lady," Prince Cyrus replied, raising a hand in greeting. A composed smile rested easily upon his face.
"If you wish to spend time alone with your betrothed, my prince, we shall take our leave," Otto offered smoothly.
Cyrus shook his head with graceful ease. "There is no need, Lord Otto. I have heard much of your wisdom as the King's Hand. I would be honored to hear the Seven Kingdoms described through your eyes." His gaze shifted briefly to Alicent. "And Lady Alicent, you are my future wife's closest companion. I would not dare disturb such a cherished bond."
His tone was courteous, his smile unwavering.
Yet Otto recognized it instantly.
There was something else behind that smile.
"And what of King Viserys, Prince Cyrus?" Otto asked carefully.
"I have promised to answer all of His Grace's questions once this feast has ended," Cyrus replied evenly. "For now, I merely asked permission to speak with one of his most trusted companions."
The sincerity in his voice caught Otto momentarily off guard.
"Very well, my prince," Otto said, bowing once more as he carefully gathered his composure.
Rhaenyra soon moved to Alicent's side, the two beginning a quiet exchange of their own. Yet neither truly disengaged; their attention lingered on the measured conversation unfolding between Cyrus and the Hand of the King.
"What do you think of the Seven Kingdoms, Prince Cyrus?" Otto began, his voice steady, carefully neutral.
"Ancient," the Caesar replied without hesitation. "Rich in culture, layered in faith, and burdened by memory. In many ways, it mirrors Achaemedia in its earliest age—before unity tempered chaos."
"I hope our land has provided you with a memorable spectacle, my prince," Alicent added gently, her tone warm but observant.
"Indeed, Lady Alicent. Very much so." Cyrus inclined his head in approval. "Westeros stood divided for thousands of years until the Targaryens arrived astride their dragons. That moment reshaped history. Such ruptures—rare, violent, decisive—often herald futures far greater than what came before. Achaemedia is no different."
"My prince," Rhaenyra interjected, unable to restrain her curiosity, "how does Achaemedia fare under my father's kingdom, in your eyes?"
Otto sharpened his focus at once, listening intently for what would follow.
"A few centuries ago," Cyrus began, "an Achaemedian scholar by the name of Heros Barbatus proposed a theory that ignited fierce debate across our academies and courts alike. His work was titled Civilizations and Their Natural Cycle." He paused briefly, allowing the name to settle. "Drawing upon records spanning thousands of years and countless empires, he argued that all societies follow a repeating pattern—birth, ascent, stagnation, and collapse. Whether by natural disaster, war, or internal decay, none are exempt."
He continued without hesitation, his tone calm yet authoritative. "Barbatus observed that the larger and more diverse a civilization becomes, the more vulnerable it is to this cycle. His conclusions were refined across generations, tested, challenged, and ultimately accepted. Today, they are foundational knowledge among Achaemedia's highest scholars and officials."
Cyrus met Otto's gaze directly. "My father ensured this understanding would not remain confined to elites. It is taught openly—within every imperial university—so that governance may anticipate decay rather than be consumed by it."
At that moment, Otto felt his skepticism collide headlong with his accumulated knowledge. Much of Westeros, after all, had remained unchanged for thousands of years. Yet on reflection, perhaps that constancy was itself an illusion. Each kingdom had merely consolidated its own traditions in isolation, allowing culture to harden rather than evolve. Before Aegon's Conquest, it was rare for commonfolk to migrate beyond their native regions. Mountains, customs, and loyalties formed invisible walls, preserving difference as much as division.
The Iron Throne itself was a new experiment—an unprecedented attempt to bind these disparate cultures into a single political body. Even now, that unity was shallow, provisional, and fragile.
"Spreading such knowledge…" Alicent asked carefully, concern plainly written across her face, "…would that not be dangerous, Prince Cyrus?"
"Initially, yes," Cyrus answered without hesitation. His expression brightened, not with arrogance, but with confidence born of certainty. "But that is precisely where Achaemedia's greatest strength reveals itself. We are not bound by tradition—we command it. We adapt. We do not fear altering even our most sacred beliefs when necessity demands it. The Achaemedia of our Founder's era would be unrecognizable to one living under my father's reign."
"Valyria did not change," Rhaenyra said slowly, confusion knitting her brow. "Yet it endured far longer."
"Indeed," Cyrus agreed. "But from what I have gathered across Essos, Valyria's endurance rests upon fragile pillars. Dragons, rigid hierarchy, and a vast system of slavery. Their Freehold ruled through decentralization—power divided among forty families—while maintaining dominion through racial supremacy and near-absolute control over subject peoples."
He paused, letting his words settle.
"They survived by balancing magic and oppression. But such a system is inherently brittle. Remove slavery, or magic, or the dragons themselves, and Valyria would collapse under its own weight. Dependence on irreplaceable forces is not stability—it is delay."
Around them, courtiers and nobles listened in rapt silence. Bewilderment flickered in some faces, fascination in others. Even those who disagreed could not deny the clarity of his reasoning.
"I never imagined you to be a scholar, my prince," Rhaenyra blurted, the words escaping her before she could restrain them.
"My father ensured I received the finest education my realm could provide," Cyrus replied simply.
Otto studied him anew before speaking. "Westeros stands at a crossroads. You will one day be the husband of Princess Rhaenyra. I expect that the wonders of your nation will soon leave their mark upon this land."
"Indeed," Cyrus said calmly. "King Jaehaerys laid a foundation strong enough to unify Westeros. It falls to the next generation to refine it—strengthen it—and reshape it for what is to come."
For a fleeting instant, Otto caught the glint in Cyrus's eyes—sharp, calculating, unmistakably alien. A mind that did not merely observe history, but dissected it. The sensation sent a chill down his spine.
"Lady Alicent," Cyrus said smoothly, turning to her, "would you care to accompany us to the food table?"
"Of course, my prince," she replied, inclining her head as she followed.