Craghas Drahar, Prince Admiral of the Triarchy, had received his orders directly from the highest echelons of power. He found them baffling.
A declaration of war—from the Achaemedia Empire.
The name alone stirred unease, both in Craghas and among the magisters. Knowledge of this so-called empire had first arrived through a small flotilla of merchant ships drifting in from the Sunset Sea. And then, they came—fleets of ships so vast and strange in design they seemed conjured from myth. They docked at every port in the Free Cities, bringing with them riches and exotic goods the likes of which the world had never seen.
Craghas was among their foremost traders. And he could not lie—every single item they brought was a luxury beyond comprehension: impossibly intricate metal contraptions, spices rarer and richer than saffron, steel harder than Valyrian steel, and artifacts that defied explanation.
Magical—without question.
Essos was no stranger to sorcery. But never before had Craghas seen such marvels. Staffs that spat fire. Garments that could turn blades. Soulless machines that obeyed command. Weapons capable of flattening land and boiling the sea.
He had seen them firsthand—though not by invitation. One of his pirate detachments had once raided an Achaemedian ship. It was a mistake.
The sea had burned with immortal flame. Lightning had torn vessels apart. Ice and fire danced in harmony as ships were destroyed. Then came the metal humanoids—mockeries of men, carved of steel and fire, who incinerated his crew with weapons of incomprehensible precision.
It was power of a scale unseen since the days when gods supposedly walked the earth.
Yet many magisters sought to suppress this knowledge. Craghas, born and forged in the currents of intrigue, understood their fear—and their reasoning.
Still, he knew this war was founded on a lie.
Yes, he had raided one of their ships. But nothing was stolen, no blood was spilled on their side. The declaration of war was based on a technicality—an excuse.
And yet, the claims made by their so-called Warmaster were disturbingly precise. The accusations were logical, supported by documents, facts, and implications impossible to refute—and equally difficult to disprove.
But one line in the letter unsettled him more than any other.
The Achaemedia Empire not only declared when and where they would attack—they also requested that the Triarchy evacuate its most populated cities, to minimize civilian casualties.
No kingdom, no empire in this world did that.
They were meant to conquer, to burn, to plunder.
But this one... this one was different.
An enigma.
"Admiral!" a soldier shouted from above. "We've spotted ships—several miles off!"
"What colors? What structure?" Craghas barked, eyes sharpening.
"It—It's massive," the soldier stammered. Fear crawled into his voice. His hands shook, his face turning ghostly pale.
"What do you see!?" Craghas shouted, voice edged with both rage and rising panic.
"Ships... dozens—no, hundreds. By the gods..."
The man was trembling, barely coherent.
Craghas surged to the railing, snatching his far-eye. "Fool," he growled as he set the lens to his eye.
What he saw froze his blood.
Hundreds of ships, blackening the sea. Each one was the size of his largest galleys. Dozens were even larger. And at the center—he counted them—twenty-four, maybe twenty-five ships stood apart from the rest.
They were colossal.
Not ships, but floating fortresses of steel and wood, crafted with artistry that defied reason. Their hulls bore complex ornamentation, and strange weapons protruded from their decks—terrifying contraptions his men had only described in whispers after the last encounter.
But these... these were larger. These were meant to kill.
Then he saw it.
In the heart of the fleet, towering above the others, was a single vessel—perhaps ninety feet wide, a leviathan forged of iron and fury. It bore no sails, only arcane spires and weapons of monstrous size. It moved as though it ruled the sea itself.
Craghas slowly lowered the far-eye. His mouth hung open as he drew a long breath, heart pounding in his ears.
"Admiral?" a voice called—timid, trembling.
"We need... we need to clear the front. Those ships will—"
His words were cut short.
An explosion thundered behind him. His knees buckled. He spun on instinct.
One of his ships had burst into flame. Screams rose with the smoke as fire engulfed the deck.
Another explosion—then a bolt of blue lightning crashed from the sky, splitting a galley clean in half.
Craghas scrambled for the far-eye again. He found it.
One of the massive enemy ships—its weapon, a monstrous variant of the scorpion—was venting smoke. Reloading.
Then the real bombardment began.
Dozens of the same weapons unleashed their fury. Lances of lightning, spheres of molten metal, and volleys of flame screamed across the waves.
The entire front line of the Triarchy's fleet was torn apart in seconds.
Craghas could only watch, frozen. Ships broke in half. Men were thrown into the air like dolls. Fire rained from the skies. Water boiled beneath the iron rain.
It was not a battle. It was annihilation.
His ears rang. The world went mute. Men shouted around him, their mouths wide in terror—but he heard no sound.
Then came the shockwave.
An explosion nearby hurled him backward. His spine struck the mainmast. He collapsed to the deck, breath stolen.
Splinters of wood embedded into his armor. His vision blurred. His limbs twitched.
Smoke, fire, and ash choked the air.
"Admiral!" one of his men cried out, gripping Craghas's arm, trying to lift him to his feet.
"What are your orders, sir?!" another shouted over the chaos.
Craghas steadied himself, blood pounding in his ears, smoke stinging his eyes. He looked around at the devastation—the shattered masts, the bodies, the sea aflame.
"This... Tell the fleet to close the gap!" he bellowed, voice booming across the deck. "If this onslaught continues, we die out here! Close formation—now!"
His men scrambled, frantically waving flags and sending up signals to the rest of the fleet. It was not the wisest decision, but it was the only one he had left. If they could tighten their formation, close the distance, and land a decisive blow, perhaps the Triarchy's army on land would have time to prepare.
The bombardment did not slow.
Balls of steel, arrows of crackling lightning, torrents of unnatural fire—all rained down like divine punishment. His fleet was being torn apart, ship by ship. But then—mercifully, impossibly—they drew into range.
"Archers, ready! Boarding parties prepare!" Craghas roared.
Then, without warning, the enemy ships opened their bows.
They spat fire—not arrows, not oil, but pure flame, unnatural and ravenous. It surged forward like the breath of a hundred dragons, melting steel, incinerating wood, and vaporizing men.
Craghas watched in mounting horror. He turned to the man beside him and seized his shoulder.
"Signal the reserve fleet to withdraw—regroup—and strike from another front!" he ordered, urgency dripping from his voice. "The rest of us will try to bypass the fire!"
It was suicide. But it was all they could do.
Even as their numbers dwindled, some of the ships managed to break through the inferno—scorched, shattered, but still moving. They reached the enemy line.
"Boarding action!" Craghas bellowed.
Triarchy marines scrambled, leaping from their battered ships onto the enemy decks, ropes and hooks flying. They had reached them. They had reached them.
And then—they died.
The moment their boots struck the foreign decks, they were cut down. The soldiers of Achaemedia were unlike anything Craghas had ever seen. They wore armor black as obsidian, forged of alien metal. Their shields gleamed with runes. Their weapons shimmered with cold and lightning. And they moved—in formations, in rhythms, as if performing a dance of death.
There was no chaos. No panic. Only precision.
Essosi warriors, famed across the Free Cities for their bravery and ferocity, were slaughtered like lambs. There was no contest. Only butchery.
And when resistance was spent, the Achaemedian sorcerers stepped forward—clad in robes that billowed without wind, their eyes alight with unnatural flame. With bare hands, they conjured torrents of fire, reducing Triarchy ships to ash and memory.
"Dragons!" a Lyseni man screamed, pointing to the sky.
Craghas turned.
On the horizon, where his flank was meant to hold, dragons descended—great and terrible, their wings blotting out the sun, their fire scorching the waves.
They were not illusions. They were not shadows. They were real. Titans of flame and scale. Mirrors of the Valyria of old.
And in that moment, Craghas Drahar understood.
Doom had come for him.
Now it was the Achaemedian forces who boarded his ships. But they did not storm forward with wild cries or bloodlust.
They advanced in tight formation, shield to shield, marching like a wall of iron. No gaps. No mercy.
Craghas's men fought back, but they were disorganized, panicked, broken. One by one, they fell. The invaders moved with mechanical precision, cutting down soldiers with frightening efficiency. It was not a battle. It was an execution.
And then they came for him.
The Admiral of the Triarchy drew his sword. His face was bloodied. His legs wavered. But he stood his ground.
He would not die on his knees.
The nearest enemy lunged—and Craghas swung his blade with a final cry.
But darkness claimed him.
_________________________________________________________________________________
-Westeros. King's Landing. Red Keep-
Rhaenyra savored the wine from Achaemedia. Red Tears, it was called. Gods, it was the finest wine she had ever tasted. The sharp, rich flavor spread across her tongue, warming her chest as it lingered. And she enjoyed it all the more, sharing the moment with two of her closest companions.
"What a fine wine, I must say, Princess," Alicent said brightly, her smile full of delight.
"The best red grapes, grown in the southern cliffs of Averon, fermented with an intricate process known only to a handful of vintners," Dalia explained with a smirk of quiet pride, lifting her goblet. "I heard a single bottle of this takes twenty years to make."
"Twenty years?" Rhaenyra blinked, her tone caught between awe and disbelief. "By the gods… how much does one bottle cost?"
"Five Gold Crowns," Dalia said, as though it were nothing.
Rhaenyra burst out laughing. "That's fifteen Gold Dragons, Princess Dalia!"
"I hope we can taste it again someday," Alicent said, swirling the dark crimson liquid in her goblet.
"Don't worry. I brought a supply with me," Dalia replied. "My brother adores this wine. He once spent a fortune filling an entire cellar with it."
"So this is the Prince's favorite?" Rhaenyra asked, her interest piqued.
"Indeed. He fell in love with it—madly so."
"I imagine the Prince has excellent taste in craftsmanship," Alicent added, raising her goblet in admiration.
Dalia nodded thoughtfully. "He has many tastes. Some refined, some... strange. He's made brilliant reforms, led wars on the frontier, yet sometimes he disappears for a week, lying alone on some grassy field he bought for himself. No servants, no guards. Just silence. Sometimes wandering, sometimes just... still."
She trailed off, her expression dimming for a moment.
"I hope the Prince finds peace, Princess," Alicent said gently.
"He's always been a thoughtful man," Dalia said with a soft chuckle. "Brilliant, yes, but distant. But don't mistake him—he's kind. Deeply so. Sympathetic to a fault. I hope I haven't made him sound... strange."
"Don't worry, Princess," Rhaenyra said with a gentle smile. "Sometimes, people have their secrets. It doesn't make them any less noble."
"Suppose you're right, Princess." Dalia smiled, pouring herself another cup. "He bears the name Cyrus, after all."
"Cyrus I Alargon." Alicent spoke the name with measured tone. "A mighty name to live up to. But if he is truly his namesake, I doubt the Empire will be disappointed."
"In Achaemedia," Dalia said with a sly smile, "no Emperor bearing that name has ever fallen short. My brother will not be the first." She raised her cup. "Shall we toast, my ladies?"
"For our prosperity," Rhaenyra declared, lifting her goblet high.
"For our prosperity," Alicent and Dalia echoed in unison. Their cups clinked gently, and they drank.
A moment of quiet passed, only the soft flicker of the braziers and the sweet lingering taste of Red Tears between them.
"Speaking of your brother," Rhaenyra said, her voice calm but curious, "how goes the war?"
Dalia rested her goblet in her lap. "I'm not certain. The last letter came three days ago. They should be near Essos now—perhaps they've already met the Triarchy in battle."
Before they could continue, the door opened with a soft creak of steel hinges. In stepped a Custodian—an armoured figure clad in gleaming gold, his presence so overwhelming it seemed to fill the chamber like smoke. Where Dalia saw routine, the Westerosi saw dread.
The man was a living monument, a statue given motion, and he carried with him the weight of command.
"My Princess. Ladies." The Custodian bowed with mechanical grace, his voice deep and sonorous.
"Something the matter, Lord Trajan?" Dalia asked, calm but curious.
"The Caesar Despotes has summoned you," Trajan replied.
At that, Dalia's expression brightened, golden eyes gleaming with restrained joy.
"Then I shall attend him shortly, Lord Trajan." She turned toward her companions. "Would you like to come?"
"If you are inviting us, it would be rude to decline," Alicent answered, ever proper.
"I second that," Rhaenyra added, rising gracefully.
Together, the young women made their way through the keep toward Dalia's quarters. The Custodian followed in silence, his footsteps echoing like a war drum behind them.
"Princess," Rhaenyra began carefully, "this Caesar Despotes—who is he, exactly?"
"Ah. My brother, Cyrus," Dalia explained. "The Custodians speak in Nevirian court tongue. Caesar Despotes is the title given to the heir and co-Emperor of the Empire."
"Co-Emperor?" Rhaenyra asked, frowning slightly at the unfamiliar concept.
"Imagine your Hand of the King—but granted absolute veto in court matters. There are always two emperors: the reigning Emperor, and the Caesar Despotes. However, the co-Emperor may only enact his power through the Emperor's mandate." Dalia spoke with measured clarity. "My brother was granted such a mandate, which allows him to implement reforms freely. That is his right."
"A fascinating structure," Alicent murmured. She had been raised under the weight of the Faith of the Seven's teachings, where a king's rule was divine and solitary. The idea of shared power unsettled the bones of that dogma.
"Perhaps one day, I'll invite you both to see it yourselves," Dalia said with a wistful smile, though something in her tone was distant, uncertain.
"We would be honoured," Rhaenyra replied.
Upon entering Dalia's chamber, the two Westerosi women were met with a strange and wondrous sight. Dozens of unknown devices lined the room. One, a metallic sphere with intricate rings, spun rhythmically around a crimson crystal core. Another, a golden cube inscribed with ornamental sigils, shimmered faintly with an inner light. And last, a towering tube bristled with cables and levers, humming with dormant mechanism.
"New gifts from home?" Rhaenyra asked, stepping closer.
"Indeed. My father has ordered me to remain in Westeros for a longer period. So I had my other belongings brought here," Dalia said, moving to a polished console at the far end of the room. With a gentle press, the device stirred. A long mechanical arm unfurled and began to write—fluid, delicate strokes, more like calligraphy than script.
"A standard letter… He must be very busy now," Dalia murmured, watching the message unfurl. Her initial excitement dimmed a touch.
The girls waited in silence as the message was completed and ejected from the machine. Dalia picked it up and read, her eyes scanning each line with a practiced precision. And then—she smiled.
"What is it?" Rhaenyra asked, unable to contain her curiosity.
"My brother has triumphed," Dalia said, her voice bright with pride. "The entire Triarchy fleet has been destroyed. They've laid siege to Lys. The breach has been made—they have the upper hand."
The room fell silent.