Word had reached King's Landing of armies massing in Suthos for war. For several moons now, the Red Keep had buzzed with activity as Imperial delegates came and went. The announcement by Princess Dalia of Emperor Odrin II's planned assault on the Triarchy had sent ripples through the Targaryen court, culminating in King Viserys summoning an emergency council meeting - with the foreign princess in attendance.
Though tradition balked at allowing outsiders into the Small Council chambers, the gravity of the situation demanded the princess's presence. When Dalia entered, the assembled lords regarded her with carefully schooled expressions that barely concealed their unease. The tension in the room was palpable, thick as the morning fog on the Blackwater.
"Princess Dalia," Viserys addressed her, his customary warmth notably absent. Yet the princess's serene smile never faltered.
"Your Grace." She offered a respectful bow. "My lords."
"Princess," Otto Hightower began, his sharp eyes studying her like a maester examining a curious specimen. "We require further clarification regarding your empire's planned military actions so near our shores."
"Of course, Lord Hand," Dalia replied, her voice as smooth as silk. "Might I be seated?"
Viserys gestured to a Kingsguard, who swiftly brought forth a chair. "You may, princess."
The Princess took her seat near the King and his Hand. Her calm demeanor slowly seeped into every man in the chamber, quieting breath and thought alike. Viserys, uneasy beneath her composure, swallowed hard before speaking.
"Princess," he began, his voice tight. "You may proceed."
"Very well, Your Grace." Dalia inclined her head in acknowledgment, her gaze sweeping across the room, measuring each man in turn. "Some days past, pirates in service to the Triarchy raided our ships. They made off with treasures meant to be gifted and traded with you and your realm, Your Grace. Worse still, the attack created a bottleneck in our trade with the Seven Kingdoms. In that single, ruinous event, we lost five million Gold Crowns—equivalent to twenty million gold dragons. Among the stolen goods were exotic trinkets and contraptions, dangerous if mishandled. Worse yet, they may now serve to empower our enemies."
At her words, a chill passed through the council. The wealth lost alone matched the annual revenues of the Iron Throne. And worse still was the unspoken truth creeping into each man's thoughts: this was but a fragment of Achaemedia's trade.
If one trade route—merely a sliver of their commerce in Suthos—could generate such wealth, then what truly lay behind the veil of their empire's power?
"You declared war to reclaim these treasures, I presume, Princess?" Lord Corlys Velaryon's voice was measured, though it bore a flicker of intrigue. "Though I struggle to see why it warrants such a drastic response."
"Indeed, Lord Corlys," Dalia replied. "But to strike merely at their pirate proxies would be folly. The Triarchy would simply arm another. Delay, regroup, strike again. The Empire has decreed that this threat must be cleansed, root and stem."
"And for such an endeavor," Otto Hightower pressed, his keen eyes narrowing, "how great a host has the Empire mustered, Princess?"
Dalia paused briefly, recalling her father's words. "As relayed in my father's letter—eighty thousand men from our auxiliary legions, two hundred and twenty ships, twenty dragons... and five Dwemer airships. That is the core of our invading force."
A heavy silence fell. The numbers alone were staggering—but numbers could lie. It was the presence of dragons and airships that stirred something deeper. Dread. Wonder. Power.
This was not an army of men. It was a force of nature.
Viserys leaned back, his posture slackening as the truth settled into him. Twenty dragons. Such a sight had not been seen since the doom of Valyria, save in whispered tales and ancient songs. No lord in Westeros, not even his own House, could muster such power. It was the might that had once carved empires and sundered continents.
"Princess," Corlys said slowly, his brow furrowed. "Eighty thousand men transported by only two hundred and twenty ships." He paused. "Airships?"
"We possess greater and more sophisticated vessels than you may be accustomed to, Lord Corlys," Dalia replied at once. "And as you may have heard, my lord... the names of those ships speak for themselves."
A ship flying through the skies—it was a concept unthinkable, not only for the men seated in the chamber, but for the world itself. Dragons, at least, had wings. They were beasts of nature, granted flight by the gods or some cruel twist of magic. But ships? Ships belonged to the sea. To claim they could soar above the clouds was to speak of madness.
Yet the Princess had spoken, and she did not appear mad. She spoke of wonders wrought by mortal hands—wonders on a scale no man in the room dared imagine.
"I hope you do not jest, Princess," Viserys said, his tone cutting, though uncertain.
"My Empire is built upon power and precision, not folly," Dalia answered calmly. "There is no place for jest, Your Grace. The fleet will arrive within a fortnight. If you wish to witness the war firsthand, I may be able to arrange it—with my brother's blessing."
Viserys opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. He found no words. Some part of him—perhaps the same part that once dreamed of Valyria's splendor—yearned to see it. To watch dragons wheel through the skies and enemies turned to ash beneath their flame. The child in him longed for glory. The king in him, however, saw only danger.
"I wished to see it myself, Princess." Viserys stated in awe.
The lords gathered held no such wonder. Their silence was steeped in unease. Behind their eyes, Dalia glimpsed flickers of greed, ambition—and most of all, fear.
The might of Achaemedia was no secret. Across Sothoryos and beyond, their Empire was spoken of in the same breath as doom and divinity. Forged in conquest, tempered by emperors of godlike wisdom, Achaemedia stood above kingdoms, above dynasties. The invasion force, impressive as it seemed, was but a ripple in their vast ocean of strength.
A pity, she thought. Had her father permitted even a single Legion to join the campaign, all of Essos might tremble and bend the knee.
"Princess," Otto Hightower interjected, his voice measured and deliberate, "in the spirit of good faith—and to ensure that your Empire's intentions continue to serve both our realms—I propose we send observers. Discreet, of course."
"I am of one mind with the Lord Hand," said Corlys Velaryon, his voice carrying more weight than most. "A force of such size and... novelty may unsettle our bannermen. This is a delicate hour for the realm."
The murmur of agreement spread through the chamber, quiet but firm.
Dalia inclined her head, her voice as smooth as ever. "Then we are of one accord, my lords. Very well—I shall relay your request to my brother."
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-Dalia's room-
The Princess took a rest in the Red Keep's guest room. Her eyes were slowly gazing at the letter on her table. It was her brother's, came a night ago.
The letter bore the Crown's intentions with chilling clarity. Once the Triarchy was reduced to ash, the Imperial army would carve new puppet governments from its remains—provinces aligned to the ethnic divisions of their inhabitants. In this way, their strength would remain fractured, their loyalty uncertain, while the Empire ushered in rapid assimilation.
Long ago, Cyrus I had laid the foundation for this vision. Through syncretism, he bound together the knowledge of races, regions, creeds, and faiths—an amalgam that birthed the superior civilization of Achaemedia. That legacy had endured, reinforced by Emperor Tyber's doctrine of Nevirian exceptionalism. For over two thousand years, the Empire had stood upon this bedrock—iron-willed and unyielding.
Dalia turned her gaze to the fireplace. Winter crept ever closer in Westeros, chilling the halls and the spirit alike. But her brother's forces were forged of fire and steel, and soon the Triarchy would burn. That would be a sight worth seeing.
Without hesitation, the Princess cast the letter into the fire. The flames caught at once, devouring parchment, seal, and wax. The blaze rose, flickering tongues of red licking the air—and then it grew. An inferno unfurled within the hearth. A face emerged from the heart of the flame, followed by a body. Details sharpened. Nostrils flared, lips curled, eyes sparked.
"You called at the right time, Sister," said Cyrus, the fire shifting with his words.
"What? Sipping tea in your chambers again?" Dalia asked, a hint of amusement in her tone.
"You could say that," he replied flatly. "What do you need, Sister?"
"The Westerosi accepted your request," Dalia answered, watching as his fiery expression shifted.
"That was... unexpected."
"Who can blame a king obsessed with the shadow of his kin's legacy and an ambitious court to match?" Dalia shrugged, bemused.
"Dragons, magic, and even simple enchantments are treated as relics here. This is a land where magic came to die, all because a desperate race fled their conquerors," Cyrus scoffed. His voice was edged with mockery, and his lips curled in a sly smirk. "It poisoned the very veins of this world."
"But it gives us an edge," Dalia countered, smiling faintly.
"Indeed. What we need is shock and awe. Very well. I'll inform Father." He paused. "Good night, Sister."
With that, the inferno receded. The hearth settled back into its gentle glow, tame once more.
"Good night... Brother," Dalia whispered into the empty room. Her voice was low, almost tender. But the longing was plain in her tone.
"Why does he always do that?" she murmured, her face twisting in irritation. And yet, the expression quickly softened. Her golden gaze lingered on the charred remains of the wood.
Her radiant eyes dimmed. Her spark withdrew, as if something vital had been taken from her.
"Why can't I say it?" she breathed, her words soft, fragile laced with sorrow.
Her chest ached. Yet her mind commanded calm.
"Another time... Another time," she whispered to herself with quiet kindness.
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-Uthos. Achaemedia. Versepolis. Royal Port-
The Royal Port of Versepolis stood as one of the seven great ports of the Empire. With a capital city swelling to a population of eight million, the endless churn of production and commerce moved through its arteries in vast quantities. Here, beneath the shadow of marble towers and imperial mandates, merchants and citizens from every corner of the Empire converged—representing dozens of races, bound not by blood, but by the Achaemedian ideal of civilization and the unyielding authority of the Golden Mandate.
At its heart stood the port's capitol—a towering structure of white marble, rising 250 feet into the sky. Carved with paramount precision and adorned with intricate reliefs and ornamentation, it served as the beating bureaucratic heart of the harbor. Its great hall was alive with sound—voices calling out in half a dozen tongues, papers rustling, boots clattering against stone. Merchants queued to register their goods and confirm their shipping manifests, while minor nobles and trade stewards negotiated contracts in hushed, urgent tones.
Through this ordered chaos wove a lone servant, scrolls clutched in his arms. He moved deftly through the crowd, slipping past groups of traders, dockworkers, and inspectors. He passed a cluster of dwarves, arguing animatedly over their manifests and the profitability of certain southern markets.
A moment later, he found himself caught between travelers from the Empire's northeast—men and women of the Dwemer holds, the pale-eyed Falmer tribes, the hardy Northerners, and, if memory served, the elusive Songborn—those whispered to be world-singers. His gaze caught one among them: a woman of haunting beauty, her skin pale as moonlight, her eyes jade-green and far too still. There was something inhuman in that gaze, something that shimmered just beyond sight.
It was thanks to her people—those who walked the deep paths of the world—that the Empire had unraveled the secrets of the world's veins. Through them the Psijic teachings, the fusion of magic and reason, Dwemer machination, and the advancement of the craft guilds across Achaemedia are the main bodies that took the most benefit.
The servant pressed on.
At last, he reached the second floor and made his way toward a heavy door at the far end of the corridor. Without hesitation, he opened it and entered.
He bowed low.
"My prince."
"Ah, Julius. I've been expecting you," said Cyrus, seated behind a heavy desk, his fingers stained with ink, parchment spread before him in precise stacks.
The servant, Julius, stepped forward and placed the scrolls beside the Prince's seat. Cyrus picked one up and unrolled it, his eyes scanning the contents with a cold, calculating gaze.
"So," he said at last, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, "the logistics have been fully loaded."
He reached for another scroll, but as his eyes moved down the parchment, the smirk faded into a thoughtful frown.
"What is it, my Prince?" Julius asked, approaching with a tray bearing two goblets and a dark-glassed bottle. He poured the wine into the Prince's goblet first, then filled his own.
Cyrus took the cup and drank deeply. The crimson liquid slid down his throat with a sharp, lingering bite. It chilled him—but not unpleasantly.
"Red Tears?" Cyrus asked, his gaze drifting to the bottle.
"Your tongue is sharp as ever, my Prince," Julius replied, though he clearly expected more.
"They say the Hydra reported Velaryon ships have been raided." Cyrus set the scroll aside and took another sip. "Westeros will be all the more eager now."
"It seems so, my Prince." Julius nodded. Then, after a pause: "Though I wonder—do we owe them some favor?"
"Stolen goods?" Cyrus offered dryly. The corner of Julius's mouth lifted in amusement.
"Gold recovered makes for a fine gesture," the Prince added.
He reached for another scroll—this one stood out: white parchment with silver corners, marked with the seal of Versepolis's Stratagos. It made his brow rise slightly.
"What news, my Prince?" Julius asked, eyes narrowing with interest.
"It's from the Stratagos," Cyrus said, voice casual. "The battle engines have been installed, fresh from the forges. The auxiliaries have been armed and organized."
"Indeed, Warmaster," Julius said, a teasing lilt in his voice.
"I'm not Warmaster—yet," Cyrus scoffed, returning the scroll to the table. He withdrew a small leather-bound notebook from inside his coat and began to write.
Julius watched in silence as the Prince scribbled, his expression sharpened by intense concentration. That notebook had gained a sort of mythos. Some whispered it held the secrets of the Empire—strategies, wisdom, even dangerous truths.
Julius had always found it curious that someone of such unfathomable knowledge would still bother to write things down.
He looked down at the map spread across the Prince's table—a detailed rendering of western Essos and the eastern coast of Westeros. At its center, the Triarchy stood marked in three distinct hues: Lys, jewel of the exotic south; Myr, city of craftsmen and lore; and Tyrosh, ever hungry for gold and power.
"A pity," Julius said softly.
"Because they will burn?" Cyrus replied without inflection. Then, after a pause: "Indeed. It is a pity."